Wayward Son
Danny Phantom x Supernatural crossover, meant to take place in the middle of Season 3 for both series. I got my inspiration for this fic from an old tumblr post by the-dapper-demonic-gentleman (who has since deactivated) who waxed poetic on the concept a Superphantom fic where Danny runs away from home and ends up staying with Bobby Singer, not knowing he's a hunter. I've tweaked the concept some, but the core idea is still there. I'll throw the link in my profile if anyone wants a sneak preview for the future.
So here's the first chapter of what seems to be turning into a very long fic. Hope you all enjoy! Comments always appreciated.
Chapter 1
—
Bobby found the boy holed up behind the tool shed, unconscious and bleeding in the rain.
The boy looked young; fifteen or sixteen, thereabout. Judging by the state of his clothes—dirty t-shirt and jeans under a weather-worn jacket—he was likely homeless. His black hair dripped in the rain, long bangs falling over his closed eyelids.
He looked peaceful, untroubled by pain or nightmares, like he'd simply leaned against the shed's rough wall and fallen asleep, cradling his injured arm.
Bobby Singer eyed the gashes decorating the teen's pale skin. He saw four long, ragged marks, like claws had slashed down the kid's forearm. An inexperienced eye might've assumed it was caused by a bear attack, and Bobby might've made that mistake too, if he hadn't seen the ectoplasm.
It was almost gone, rapidly evaporating or washed away by the rain, but splatters of it clung to the boy's clothes. The color had confused Bobby at first; most ghosts he'd encountered emitted gray or black ooze, sometimes tinged with another color, but this stuff was bright green, as if fresh from the source. Still, the consistency—the spectral, wispy translucence that paradoxically seemed sticky to the touch—confirmed his suspicions. This was a ghost's handiwork.
Ghosts. Bobby scowled. He was an old hand at dealing with the supernatural, but usually he had to go out and dig up his own cases. For one to land on his metaphorical doorstep - that was rare. Strange times, nowdays.
Keeping his shotgun at the ready, Bobby scanned his surroundings, but the yard between the shed and his house seemed clear. His EMF had gone eerily silent a couple of minutes ago, even before he'd found the fading glow of an ectoplasm trail that led him to the shed in the first place. Whatever ghost set it off was long gone.
"God dammit," muttered Bobby, lowering his weapon at last and kneeling by the teen. He needed to get this kid to safety before whatever ghost attacked him came back to finish the job.
Reaching out, his fingers brushed the boy's neck, feeling for a pulse.
The boy's eyes flew open.
"Gah!" The kid jerked away from the touch, hands raised in alarm. Startled, Bobby leapt back. The boy wasn't unconscious after all.
Disoriented, the kid cast about, glancing this way and that. His icy blue eyes fell first on Bobby's face, then down to his shotgun. In a panic, he tried to scramble away. "Get back!"
"Whoa there." Bobby threw up his hands to show he meant no harm. "Easy. You're injured."
"I—" caught off guard by the concerned tone, the boy faltered. The distrust didn't fade from his eyes, but as he stared up at Bobby, breathing heavy, his shoulders relaxed a fraction.
"Didn't mean to startle ya. Wasn't expecting to find a kid in my backyard tonight," Bobby admitted.
The teen's tired eyes darted around. "Where…" he mumbled to himself, between breaths, eyes taking in the yard littered with old husks of cars. Past his shadowed eyes, something clicked, and he winced. "…Right. Right." The kid murmured, and sluggishly turned back to Bobby, apprehensive.
"What's your name?" Bobby asked.
The teen stared down Bobby for a long moment, wary and unsure.
"…Danny," he answered at last.
It was a start. "Well, Danny," Bobby set the sawed-off to the side, and was rewarded as tension bled out of Danny's shoulders. "That's a pretty good gash you got there. Mind if I take a look?"
"I'm fine," said Danny, automatically.
"Yeah, sure, and I'm President of the United States," Bobby huffed, unamused. "This isn't the time to play macho, kid. Give it here."
Again, the concern and straightforwardness must've startled the boy—after a brief hesitation, he offered up his arm. "Whatever you say, Mr. President."
Smartass. Bobby took hold of the wrist, gently, and ran his thumb down the length of the first gash.
To his dismay, there appeared to be ectoplasm inside the wound, red mixing with the green. Only spots of it, but still. He'd have to disinfect pretty thoroughly, and keep an eye on it afterwards, to avoid infection.
Bobby huffed, shaking his head. Lucky kid. It was a good thing he'd accidentally holed up in a hunter's backyard. Good thing Bobby'd spent the night in, cleaning his guns, rather than out on a hunt—hell, good thing Bobby had left his EMF on just in case. Or this kid's arm might've gone to rot.
Too many ghost sightings out here, lately.
"So what happened?" Bobby asked, wondering how much the kid knew.
"Oh. It was just—" Danny glanced at his arm, and past the exhaustion, Bobby could see the gears turning behind those eyes, running through a list of options of what might've caused marks like those. "A wild animal. Mountain lion, I think. You know."
"South Dakota is prairie, son. We don't get mountain lions here." Bobby raised an eyebrow.
The kid shrugged. "Some other big animal, then. Didn't get a good look. It's dark, sue me."
Oh yeah, the kid definitely saw the ghost that'd attacked him, alright. It wasn't uncommon for civilians to deflect when they brushed with the paranormal; who would believe the truth? Bobby was mildly impressed by how easily the kid lied, though. Lots of practice, apparently.
That just raised more questions.
"Well, whatever it was, it did a number on your arm," Bobby said, pushing those questions aside for now. He needed to get this kid to shelter, first. And patch him up. The gashes ran deep enough to require stitches, and despite Danny's witty repartee, the sweat on his brow and the unfocused glint in his eyes suggested he wasn't as well off as he appeared. "Let's get inside. I've got some first aid in my kitchen."
The kid balked. He looked like he might refuse, so Bobby was quick to add, "…Unless you'd like me to drive you to the hospital instead?"
"No—"
"Didn't think so." Bobby got to his feet. "Let's move. Can you stand?"
The glare Danny shot him was equal parts exasperated and exhausted, but he seemed aware that Bobby didn't plan on taking 'no' for an answer. Bobby offered a hand, and Danny took it reluctantly, levering to his feet, slipping a little on the wet grass.
"Good." Bobby bent to snatch up his shotgun, eyeing the mud on Danny's jeans. "Come on. I think I might have something dry for you to change into in my attic somewhere."
"I don't need—" Danny took a step forward, then abruptly cut off. His face, already pale, lost the rest of its color, and his lips tightened in pain. He stumbled back, off balance, shoulder grinding into the shed's rough wall in an attempt to keep upright.
Bobby lunged to catch him, slipping a steadying arm under Danny's good side so the boy could lean his weight on him. Through the layers of clothes, Bobby could feel ribs jutting out, practically skeletal—the kid was criminally underfed.
"Maybe see about getting you something to eat, too," Bobby grumbled, wondering if Danny's unsteady feet was due to low blood sugar, blood loss, or most likely, a mix of both.
The kid sagged in his grip, exhausted. Danny let himself be guided forward a few steps before protesting. "Wait," he muttered weakly. "My stuff—"
Bobby frowned, twisting to look at the shed. Sure enough, two foreign items slumped against the wall, close to where Danny had collapsed. A dark purple backpack, as battered and worn as his clothes, had a dented metal thermos shoved in the mesh side pocket. Beside it, an old leather blueprint case—a cylindrical tube of dark brown leather, as thick as Danny's arm and just as long—sat discarded on the ground.
The backpack was expected—any runaway worth their salt needed something like one. But the blueprint case? Not so much. Bobby readjusted his hold on Danny so he could gather both items, curiosity piqued. The leather case rattled slightly when he hefted it, something loose inside, but for the life of him, he couldn't imagine what it was.
Then Danny made the world's most pathetic snatch for the case, and Bobby sighed. "That was sad," he informed the kid. He draped the case's thin leather carrying strap over Danny's shoulder. "There. Happy?"
Danny's shaky grip tightened around the cylinder. "Thrilled," he croaked, deadpan.
Bobby rolled his eyes. At least now he wouldn't have to juggle the case, the backpack, and his shotgun while keeping Danny upright. "Now how bout we stop acting like a pair of idjits and get out of the rain?"
Bobby almost expected Danny to rummage up another excuse, but either Bobby's actions had placated him, or he'd simply run out of energy to argue. Either one was fine with him.
Satisfied, Bobby lead Danny through the maze of old cars parked on his lot, one step at a time, heading for safety of home.
