Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or Firefly/Serenity. They belong to others I'm sure I don't have to name for you. I'm not being paid, or gaining any sort of profit using these characters I do not own, except for the writing experience.
Story rated for language, adult themes, and violence.
Eventual Serenity spoilers. Story based on the second season Supernatural episode 'Born Under a Bad Sign' but only basic spoilers for that. Definite spoilers for season one episode 'Nightmare' and it's attached concept. I don't think it's really required to know Supernatural (they're the definite AU part in this crossover) but some basic knowledge of the premise and the characters would probably go a long way. Set in the Firefly 'verse, so that knowledge is kind of mandatory.
"Dean."
The dark, scratchy voice calling for his attention was ignored. Dean didn't turn from where he was cleaning his guns and studying the blueprints for standard Firefly-class ships.
"Dean." Bobby called again.
"Aren't you supposed to be flyin' this boat?" Dean answered roughly, voice thick. He told himself it was from the pain that sparked white-hot whenever he tried to lift his right arm. It was a bitch to deal with when cleaning guns.
"Do you even know what you're going to do when we catch up to him?"
From anybody else that would have been a challenge, would have raised Dean's hackles and set him off. From Bobby, the words were sad and resigned. He sounded more and more like that these days. Worn thin, probably, like Dean was. Fighting to keep fighting, with John Winchester dead and Sam flipped out and Feds (or worse) hounding their footsteps. Dean had enough just dealing with Sam. Bobby ended up with everything else on his shoulders. Dean would feel guilty if it didn't take so much energy. He'd need that energy for Sam. To fight Sam. To save his little brother from himself.
Dean's shoulder throbbed.
"Kick his ass and drag him back on Rumsfeld kicking and screaming." Bobby didn't answer right away, but Dean felt him shift his weight, relax, acknowledge Dean's attempt at humor and his unspoken resolve to get his brother (his real brother) back, or die trying.
"We're ten minutes out. You should get ready." Bobby's heavy footsteps echoed off the ship's metal grating as he walked away. He paused at the doorway. "Are you sure you don't want me in there with you?"
Dean stayed where he was, right arm tucked into his side, head bowed over the blueprints and his partially reassembled gun. He didn't turn around. "Yeah, Bobby, I'm sure."
Bobby left.
Dean held the gun in his left hand, fingers loose and relaxed, as he waited for the airlock to seal. He'd put it away before– stupid– because he couldn't shoot the Construct to save Sam, because the Construct was Sam, in body if not in mind.
Dean knew better now. The Sam-Construct hadn't hesitated even a moment in shooting him. And guns didn't have to be lethal. Dean would take out a kneecap if he had to; if it meant being able to get Sam back.
Sleep. Be silent. Rescind.
The airlock sealed with a hiss. "Be careful." It was the only thing Bobby said. Dean appreciated that.
Release. Peace. Yield.
"I'll bring him back, Bobby." Dean swore. Next to him, Bobby nodded.
"I'll be waiting. Holler if you need me."
Kneel. Bow. Break.
"Yeah." Dean agreed, but they both knew he was lying. He half expected Bobby would follow him in anyway. He'd been their uncle since they were little, after all. He'd taken them in after Dad died.
But Bobby was worn thin, like Dean was. Dean could only manage moving forward because it was for Sam. Without Sam, there wasn't a reason to move forward. Dean got the feeling sometimes that Bobby felt that way about the two of them, him and Sam. But Bobby would go on if Sam and Dean were gone, would go on even if that life was empty. Bobby survived. It was what he did. And without Sam, Dean would die.
Scream. Cripple. Fall.
Dean held the gun in his left hand, fingers loose and relaxed, as he waited for his mind to settle. Then he brought the gun up and took a step forward. Rumsfeld's airlock door slid open, revealing the short passageway bridging the two ships. Dean took a second step, a third, and he could faintly hear Bobby behind him, hacking the Firefly's airlock systems.
Die.
Dean took another step.
Somnus. Soporo. Abrogare.
The second set of airlock doors opened, and Dean's hand tightened involuntarily around the gun. Another flare of white-hot pain shot through his right side when he forced his whole body to loosen, to give him the speed and freedom of movement he'd need to fight Sam.
Quiesco. Quies. Concedo.
Dean stepped into the other ship's cargo hold, eyes finding not-Sam in an instant. It wasn't hard, considering the other was standing directly across from the airlock and in Dean's direct line of sight. His gun shifted to aim at the Construct automatically, training guiding his arm.
Supplex. Arcus. Solvo.
Then, without thought or decision, Dean's arm fell four inches, pointing the gun away from Construct-Sam's head. Dean tried not to read anything into the fact that he'd done that before he'd noticed the hostage in not-Sam's arms.
Clangere. Abrumpere. Ruo.
She was young. Probably younger than Sam. Her eyes were wild and teary, scared, her hands tied behind her back, feet tied together, dark hair wild and disheveled by the gag pulled too tight around her head. Not-Sam was holding her up by one of her arms, forcing the other in a position that was twisted up and around the back of her torso. It was definitely a painful position, but she gave no sign that she was in any sort of pain. Otherwise, she looked fragile and exhausted, knees not supporting her weight, and Dean could see several vivid bruises coloring her skin. They were recent.
Abeo.
Dean brought his gun back up. The girl was being held out in front of the Construct, but Sam was far too tall for it to really use her as a human shield.
Abeo.
Die.
Never. Not if Dean had any say in it. He'd die himself before he used that command on Sam. The others, if he had to, Dean would use. It was damn dangerous to try, because not all of the words would work. Each of the children had been programmed differently (Sam had shared a couple of theories on that with Dean, during his lucid periods, but they were worth jack-shit to Dean now), and the parameters of their conditioning varied enough to make subduing one without the correct information risky at best. Dean could only pray he knew enough of the commands to stumble across one that worked on Sam. He could only pick at random.
"Hey Dean. I see you managed to crawl away from death one more time. Welcome to the party, I'm glad you made it." The smile was unpleasant. "How's the shoulder?"
"How about you tell me. You're the one with the freaky psychic powers." Not-Sam pouted a little, but it was a fake pout, mocking, an expression the real Sam would never wear. Especially at Dean. It was too vicious.
It was better than the look Dean had seen in that bar. It was better than staring into Sam's terrified, angry eyes and knowing Sam wasn't Sam but second-guessing himself anyway. It was better than an expression Dean could believe.
"Killjoy." It accused. The Construct coupled it's pout with a put-out tone of voice that came a little too close Sam's. Dean fought to suppress his surge of emotion; pulled on his anger to clear his head.
"Oh, I'm gonna kill something, all right." His cocky, smug smile slid on to his face like a second skin. "And guess what? That something's you, you son of a bitch."
"Manners, Dean. That's your mother you're talking about." A grin slid onto not-Sam's face too, something Dean couldn't quite define to himself, and it seized his heart for some reason. "And be careful. You wouldn't want to hurt your brother, now, would you?"
The mocking formed a lump in Dean's throat that wouldn't go away. At least it wasn't the cold that had seized Dean's chest when he'd faced down not-Sam the first time around. Dean ground his teeth together and grinned, twisting his lips back in a gesture that pulled strangely at the skin on his face.
"If you think that'll work on me twice you're even stupider than I thought you were. This won't hurt Sam one bit."
Dean summoned the words to his mind, picked one, and rolled his tongue in preparation to speak the foreign sounds. But not-Sam's grin hadn't faded, and Dean couldn't figure out why. The Construct had to know what he was going to do, going to say. It should be trying to stop him.
Construct-Sam clicked his tongue and tisked, cutting Dean off.
"Now, now," It mocked, "watch what you say. Words can be oh-so-damaging when they're spoken carelessly." Construct-Sam lifted his free hand and Dean realized for the first time that it was holding a knife. A bad sign, for sure. Dean's focus was slipping. Had slipped. Probably hadn't been there to begin with.
Not-Sam stroked the girl's face with the tip of the blade and cooed at her. "Don't be afraid Lethe, my little water nymph, Dean won't hurt you. But he might make you sleep if he doesn't watch what he says." The girl's eyes widened and her fear became full-out animal panic. By not-Sam's satisfied hum, Dean figured it'd meant to scare her.
"Have you figured it out yet, Dean? Who this one is? What you'll do to her, if you say what you intend to?" At Dean's silence the Construct smiled again. Then he tilted his head to Dean's right, knife idly caressing the girl's neck. "Look over there."
Dean glanced in that direction briefly and saw nothing but a row of crates. Keeping his eyes and gun trained on the smiling Construct, Dean walked slowly sideways to get a view of what was behind them.
What he saw sent a shiver of horror and fear down his spine, and the look on his face when he looked up and made eye contact with it probably reflected that.
Not-Sam started laughing.
The second set of words that Dean thinks are in Latin, and they mean pretty much the same thing as the first set (in the same order). Thus, I'll not go through the translations. If you would like them, however, message me and I'll get them to you. At some point.
Lethe – A Naiad nymph (water nymph) of the river of Forgetfulness and Oblivion in the Underworld. When the dead drank from it they forgot their mortal lives and were freed from the memory of the joys of the living world. There's irony for ya. And yes, that was on purpose.
A/N: I can see that this story has become very popular with just one chapter, so I feel obligated to inform the readers of this story that I am working towards quality and not speed. Even when I feel I have sufficiently finished a chapter I will not post it. I will let it sit a while and then return to read it again. This allows me to catch typos, grammatical errors, and it distances me from the chapter enough that I can ask myself 'Does this say what I want it to say and the way I want it to?' and give myself a frank answer. (I am my own beta reader, and this method is really the only way for me to manage that situation in a way that works well.) Depending on that answer I will revise and edit the chapter, and then leave it to sit again. Repeat. And believe me, it's not perfectionism. I find typos and grammatical errors well into my fourth and fifth re-reading.
I go through an ungodly number of chapter versions doing this, before I feel it's worthy enough to post. You would not believe.
You probably get the picture. My updates will not be rapid and they will not be in consistent intervals. This is the way it will be regardless of whether it's crunch/exam month or not. Though that definitely doesn't help.