Hi all
I know that this fic has been up a while but I want to rework it up a little based on any feedback you would love to get me. I have some big ideas I would love to play out but I want it to be yours as much as mine.
Enjoy and I look foward to your feebdack!
A swirl of colors surrounded me as I strolled down the street. People swathed in scarves and pants and coats rushing through the world, oblivious to anything beyond the two feet around them. I hustled carefully to a low rough stone wall near the bus stop. Perched on the cold rock, I waited for the silver rattling bus to come down the street. In the meantime, I gazed around me, noticing things no one else does and the things people wish no one else did.
The cold seeped through the threads of my knitted gloves so I rubbed my hands together to warm them up. The smell of strong coffee and sweet pastry rolled through the door behind me as the door to the corner coffee shop jingled open. Two strangers strolled out carrying tall white cups pouring steam into the brisk fall air. One was tall with a mane of dark hair and the other had eyes that were never still, constantly watching the comings and goings on the street. They headed towards an old Impala and slid into the seats. A few seconds later the old muscle car roared to life and slowly rolled down the road towards the river docks.
The exhaust plumed into the air as I watched them go down the street. Cars like that didn't often come through this town - especially on a Tuesday. I wondered about where the car was headed and what the man with the restless eyes was looking for. In the midst of my wondering, I heard the familiar grind of the bus pull around the corner. Rubbing my arms and walking towards the creaking metal doors, I thought fondly of the soft well-worn seats that smelled of old cleaning fluid and laundry soap.
Settled into my desk, a cup of strong tea nestled by my keyboard, I reached up to pull the string on my window shades. The cubicles were small and the smell of toner and white out underlay the whole floor, but at least there were a few closets shoved up against the stark glass windows. And I was tucked into one of those gray cloth and cardboard squares.
With enough space for a slim desk, my rickety rolling chair and a two drawer file cabinet, I spent hours of my days clicking and filing and faxing and sending and sorting. Ideas, numbers, information all from somewhere and going somewhere. But not from me and not for me. I often pictured myself as a wire threaded between huge hubs of popping, crackling information; although I touched both ends, I never peeked inside.
I never moved beyond these padded walls. I often wondered if I ever would. Not because I had dreams of a bigger box or more complicated paperwork or more stressful social situations. But because of the window, I would spend more of my day than my superiors would like watching the comings and goings of hundreds of lives across the street that passed under my second floor window. I would follow some until I lost sight of them and then my mind would follow the rest of the story.
Maybe the man in the sharp suit and lime green tie was a foreign ambassador visiting with important information striving to make critical connections for peace. Maybe the young girl carrying bags of groceries was headed to visit her mother on the other side of town; to share stories with her about her adventures on her own. Maybe…
Suddenly my eyes caught the face of some who snapped me back to reality. He was tall and thin with a sharp angular face and eyes that speak more than most people. His shaggy brown hair stuck out in a random yet appealing way. He was walking quickly clad in a long brown coat with black converses sticking out beneath them. The swish of his slim blue suit matched his swift pace as he hurried from one end of the street, where a blue box was nestled on the edge of an alley. It was shadowed but after years of watching that street I was sure I had never seen it before.
I found the man again, still wondering about that box. He was slowing down to watch a group of men clad in black walking briskly on the other side of the street. Although he watched them intently, there was something behind his face that was different, that was other. He was studying them but with caution and intention. He watched them as they turned the corner and then headed back on the path he had been following. He watched and observed and studied intently but unobtrusively.
It struck me that I had noticed two others like me today- people that watched and studied and wondered - but they hadn't seen me.
I sat on the same soapy smelling bus on the way home. The sky was already stained with different shades of purple and crimson and the brisk air was deepening to a stiff bite. I bundled my scarf around my face as I stepped off the bus into the darkening twilight. It was three more streets to my apartment. There weren't as many people out now, not as much to see but not as much to dodge either.
As I walked onto the last street before home, a sound I had heard earlier that day met my ears. To the left I looked and saw a dark car rolling slowly through the neighborhood. As they passed under a streetlight I noticed the same dark hair and as he turned, the same crystal green eyes of the man that never stopped seeking.
However, this time, he noticed me. As he caught my eyes, I quickly dropped them and sped towards home. But I noticed the sound of that old car turn the corner and come up the road behind me. My heart started hammering and my pace quickened. The speed of the car didn't change as it crept behind me through the streets.
Three doors down from my own building I pulled out my keys. Fingering through the cluster, I found my home key with a red rubber band fastened around the top. As I jiggled the other keys out of the way, I heard a new sound to the left of the street; a scrape and a rustle. It faded and then reappeared again, closer. Then again and faster this time. My eyes were glued to the dark wooden door with peeling green paint that led into my apartment building. Fumbling with anxiety and yarn clad fingers, I finally yanked the door open and slipped through, closing it sharply behind me. I flipped the two locks at once and continued on to my third floor apartment.
On the second floor, I heard it again, merely feet behind me. Fight or flight turned to fear and every part of me froze. Waiting for something but nothing good I couldn't move - I couldn't breath. How did it follow me? Is it following me? Is this just my imagination running down roads I didn't want to follow?
I heard it again, so close I could feel the air move just behind my left side.
"GET DOWN!" and I dropped like I had been shot. Not a moment too soon because seconds later a ricochet blasted through the narrow hallway. It connected with something inches to my left that disappeared in a puff of screaming gray smoke.
Laying there, breathing like I was drowning, two men hurtled toward me carrying sawed off shotguns and flasks. My fear turned to terror and pure panic. The room went dark as my mind fled consciousness.
I woke to the smell of stale alcohol and burning wood. Coughing, I reached my hand up to rub my nose. That is when I felt my knitted mittens scratch my skin and the last few hours came tumbling into my thoughts like cold water on dry stone. A wave of dizziness caused me to brace myself with my hands behind me as I tried to raise up. Feeling the thin woolen blanket over the hard padded mattress was not a reassuring feeling.
My vision finally cleared and my eyesight adjusted to the dimly lit room. I was alone in a small dirty room furnished with a bed, a peeling old night stand and a filthy, cracked window. There was a door that was halfway open and in the next room was a dingy fireplace where a small but hot fire was stoking. In the light of the fire I could see the outline of two men sitting in rickety wooden chairs, munching on pizza and drinking from long necked bottles.
The two men from the old Impala; I recognized the long haired man. I remembered the puff of smoke in the hallway and them flying towards me. Had they tried to kill me? I wasn't sure since they had warned me first but regardless, they had shot something. And that wasn't something I needed to investigate.
"Do you think she is poisoned?" a smooth voice rolled from the taller shaggier man.
"Nah, just shocked. Either way, that thing is probably coming for her again. Seems to be connected to her in some way. Best have a little chat when she wakes up," the other man spoke in a gravelly deep voice that lilted like the topic of conversation was one they had been over a thousand times.
Thing? Coming for her? Assuming I was the only her in that forlorn little hut, I felt that thrum of fear jolt again. But worse than before because I am not sure what to fear - or rather what not to fear. But I was trapped. I looked around and noticed another door off to the side behind where the men were sitting. Maybe I could slide out of my little room and through that door. I wasn't an athlete but I had a feeling that adrenaline would be enough of an ally right now.
Fearing the loss of my nerve, I shifted and carefully set my feet down . Soundlessly creeping toward the door, I tried to squeeze between the opening when my own clumsiness betrayed me. My boots caught on the edge of a frayed rug I hadn't seen in the shadows and I tumbled into the half open door causing it to slam into the wall of the bedroom.
The two men leaped to their feet, armed with those same guns, eyes wide and searching. When they land on me clinging to the old door trying my best to salvage any grace I had in the situation, they softened. The guns lowered swiftly and a sigh of relief visibly swept their faces.
"Geez! You almost got shot," the shorter deep voiced one snapped.
"Second time today then," and I realized it was the first I had spoken all that day. My voice came out softer and shakier than I would have liked and silently I chastised myself for it.
"Yeah sorry about that but to be fair we weren't shooting at you," the other chimed in. My look conveyed my doubt despite my face being outlined by heavy scarves. "Honestly, we were shooting at a ghost." I am not sure if that was supposed to explain the situation or add to my mixed feelings of terror and confusion.
"Ghost?" which came out much stronger and helped bolster my own confidence.
"A ghost. And a nasty one that seems to be pretty strong. We caught sight of it a few days ago and it took us a while to track it," the short haired one explained as he casually set the gun on the floor and picked up his long necked bottle. "We're guessing it is attached to an artifact - clothing, jewelry, a picture, something that is tying it here and seems to be, to you."
I took a few steps back to grope the wall. Solid. Real. Here. I breathed very deeply - mostly to keep from throwing up. Ghost? Attached to an artifact? I was trapped in a rickety old house with two armed lunatics who were prattling on about ghosts like they were teaching a science lesson.
"How are you feeling? You bumped your head pretty hard when you went down," the tall one asked as he stepped toward me. My entire body reflexively hunched back and he froze, extending his hands in a sign a of peace. It was then I noticed the dull pain in the back right of my head. Turning my head slightly; a sharp pain jolted through my neck and I sucked a deep breath in through my teeth.
"Those stitches will need to come out in a few weeks."
"Stitches?" I reached up to run my hand over a raised bump just below my hairline. It was sore but I could feel the lines of thread pressure. Dizziness threatened to take me down again so I pressed harder into the wall. "Why did you take me from the hospital?" I asked staring at the tall one still talking to me.
"Honey those ain't surgeon stitches. That is Winchester handiwork soaked in brandy. Best cure all you will find. Your welcome by the way." The tall one shot his partner a look that conveyed annoyance at his lecture.
"We took you to keep you safe and fixed you up ourselves. I'm Sam, by the way, and this is my brother Dean," he said stepping back toward his seat. "I know this seems like a lot but there is a ghost that seems to be haunting you. And your safest place is here with us." He held a bottle towards me. The entire time he had been talking, I had been edging toward the door. When he set the bottle on the table near him and turned back toward his own beverage, I made a break it.
"C'mon!" Dean shouted as they crash after me. I flew through a mowed-down cornfield heading nowhere but running for my life. I wasn't wrong about the adrenaline but the rest of my body was not complying. A stitch lit up my side as my breathing became a chore. That was when a gray flash flickered in front of me. My labored breathing caught in my throat as my foot caught in a rough corn husk. After I went face down in the brush, I scuttled up to my hands and knees as the gray-white flash blinked and appeared closer to me, right before it exploded again in a haze of white and gray, still screaming. Dean and Sam came up on either side of me, lifting me by my arms, Sam holding a gun that was still smoking.
"Smooth," Dean drawled while flicking those restless eyes around. I felt the flush rise up my neck and cover my face.
"See? Ghost," Sam stated matter-of-factly. I looked at their faces and see nothing - no fear, no surprise, no pity. Turning on my heel, my stomach emptied in the field behind me. Tears started to stream down my face. Dean awkwardly patted my back as I gripped my knees to steady my breathing.
Not sure what to believe or what I saw, my head is spinning. Trying to surface, I clung to this ridiculous conjecture because it was easier to believe than nothing.
"You can shoot a ghost?" I asked wiping my mouth on the back of my mitten and staring at the empty field.
"Rock salt rounds," Dean chimed as he waved the sawed off shotgun in the air. "Hunter's best friend."
"Weellll… I am not sure about ghosts but you can shoot a corporeum for sure," a snappy voice with a well phrased accent lilted out of the shadows at the edge of the forest twenty or so feet away. A figure swaggered into the clearing, hands tucked in pant pockets that were cloaked in a brown overcoat. Because this day wasn't already too much - the interesting man from the street would of course saunter into this scene.
Just as alarmed but much less amused, Sam and Dean flung the business end of their guns towards the stranger.
"Always with the guns. Why always with the guns?" he bemused slowly stretching his hands in front of him to show that he was unarmed. A small silver cylinder glinted from inside his jacket but the brothers didn't seem to notice.
"And who are you?" Dean barked.
"Doctor. The doctor if you like, Dean." The last word caused Dean's eyes to narrow in a way that would have made my skin crawl. The stranger wasn't finished; he half spun his body toward the other brother to add, "And Sam." Now both brothers stared at this aberration through some very hostile eyes. Then he looked at me so he could add, "And Joce." Good thing my stomach was already empty.
"How did you get here? We are seven miles from the town and I didn't hear a car," Sam questioned, stepping toward me protectively.
"You wouldn't have, would you? No car. Just the TARDIS. Though I am surprised you didn't hear her…" he finished lamely glancing back toward the tree line where I could see a square shape that was very similar to that blue box from the shadows in the alley.
"In case you missed it, we have been a little busy when a ghost here," Dean stated sarcastically.
"Corporeum," the Doctor corrected matter-of-factly. "Not ghost, corporeum although the two are remarkably similar given the traits."
Dean scrunched his eyebrows together as he cocked his head to the side.
"Corporeum, like your ghosts, can apparate and disapparate in puffs of smoke. They appear to travel through blinks in space. They react to lead, iron, salt, and quizzically garlic. They attach to articles of importance, something with a psychic imprint they can furrow into. Unlike your ghosts, they are not remnants. They are their own unique, original beings. Given, not beings native to this planet… or time for that matter which makes them all the more interesting. And also unlike your ghosts they are not vengeful or hostile in any way." During this speech he strolled in a short half circle around the three of us and on the last few words looked firmly up over his black rimmed glasses at the two men wielding weapons.
The brothers exchanged looks that oozed with doubt like smoke on the water.
"Right, doctor," Dean chimed. "And we are just supposed to take the word of a man that strolls out of thin air who isn't even American."
"Isn't even human, actually," the Doctor mumbled as he toed some of the husks in a nonchalant way. Color drained from the boys faces but I wasn't sure if that meant they believed him or thought him more cracked than before.
"Not human? What, alien like space ships?"
"Honestly, Sam with everything you have already been through is it really that hard to believe? I've got the knowledge. I've got the ship. Just because I don't have weird feelers doesn't make it any less true," he said looking imploringly, but still ever so arrogantly, at Sam.
"What do you know about what we have seen?" Dean asked, a nearly visible edge to his voice.
"Dean and Sam Winchester. Sons of Mary and John Winchester. Born and raised as hunters of things that go bump in the night. Bringers and saviors of the Judeo-Christian apocalypse. Most recently vessel of Gadreel," he said eyeing Sam "And bearer of the Hand of Heaven," and his eyes rested on Dean with notable pity, like there was so much more he needed to say.
Dean slowly raised the gun back toward this man who knew so much.
"Shoot me if you want. But I'm not gonna die. Alien, remember? Time Lord to be exact. We don't die. We regenerate. New package, same filling."
But Dean didn't lower the gun.
"How do you know this much?" Sam pried.
"Oh, forgot to mention. Space traveller - and time traveller. I have watched variations of your life play out and we will meet again in another time. But for now- we have a job."
No one moved. No one spoke. The only person who seemed to have their fabric of reality intact was the Doctor. The brothers and I were slowly watching pieces of what we believed crumble to dust. For me, basically everything was in smouldering heaps around my ankles. I wanted nothing more than to crawl in the warm embers of what was left of my life, sleep and then wake up at home in my pajamas with my alarm clock jarring me back to that reality.
I pressed my hand to the stitches that were sore thanks to my most recent fall. The pain was like a familiar illness. But it felt solid - real. Which meant this was solid- real. So I did something I had never done before. I stood up straight. I cleared my throat. And I spoke even though I wasn't sure what was going to come out.
"Job?" I questioned fraily. This question, though minuscule in the scheme of this bizarre show, was important. To me.