Fic: Sand Outside An Hourglass (1/1)
Title: Sand Outside An Hourglass
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Edward Mars, Kate Austen, Azazel, Bela Talbot, Charles Widmore, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Christian Shephard, Esau, Lucifer, Jacob, War, David Shephard, Danny Carter, Jack Shephard, James "Sawyer" Ford, Crossroads Demon, Missouri Mosely, Miles Straume
Word Count: 1,000
Summary: How two worlds collide (or: ten drabbles depicting various ways that Lost and Supernatural could possibly overlap). For hopelessfangirl, who requested “Undead and Supernatural Crossovers” at The lostsquee 2010 Lost Summer Luau. Spoilers through 6.17 - The End; Spoilers through 5.22 - Swan Song.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For hopelessfangirl: these might require suspension of disbelief more often than not, as I’ve taken liberties with both fandoms to make them happen, but with the overlapping themes (and casting choices), the ideas just kind of presented themselves, and I ran with them. Hopefully, they’re to your liking :)
Sand Outside An Hourglass
She’s with a TSA agent who can’t handle her, but he knows she’s not going to try anything; the kid looks too much like that poor boy in Iowa for her delicate sensibilities.
He smirks, runs his hands one last time beneath the spray before the sensor kills the flow; he doesn’t reach for the paper towels, just runs wet fingers over his face, watches his reflection in the mirror.
It takes a second for the yellow to fade from his eyes, but fade it does; second nature, now.
There’s a reason he was in Iowa. S’real close to Kansas.
--------------------
Her documents are fake, forged; she can be anyone, do anything.
She hasn’t had a reason to use her actual passport in years, now; hasn’t been home in longer.
She watches the Thames, breathes in the cool air as she waits; hears footsteps over the sounds of the city - faint, far - and tenses, tightens, puts on a smile.
“The funds you require have already been transferred,” comes the gruff introduction from behind her. She grins, genuine now; turns and hands the rabbit’s foot to her buyer.
“I hope whatever you need the luck for is worth the trouble, Mr. Widmore.”
--------------------
What most people don’t know about Oceanic 815 is that it crashed after exactly forty minutes in the air.
Some people noticed, other people didn’t; it was a trick of the light, for some, premature jetlag for others. It was whatever it needed to be, besides the truth. The man in the middle of the jet with the black eyes - there was nothing wrong.
It’s what takes them down - they make excuses, they accept absurdities as truths, from electromagnetic bursts to the whims of an Island deity no one ever sees.
After they crash, it promises: no survivors. Never again.
--------------------
“Godforsaken rainforest,” Dean’s mumbling; Sam’s told him that’s not the accurate classification of their current location at least four times already, so he doesn’t bother again. “Has he even caused any trouble?”
“His son’s pretty spooked.”
“And that was enough for you, huh Sammy? Just pick up and ship out to Craphole fucking Island in the middle of god knows where?”
Not exactly. The place had been in his visions, his dreams. They’re supposed to be here.
He doesn’t tell Dean that.
They find the coffin between the trees, salt and burn like always.
Christian Shephard’s gone for good, now.
--------------------
He regains consciousness; he’s deep in the Cave, bathed in gold with the tang of blood on his tongue. He can’t breathe, but it doesn’t matter, he’s not concerned.
If he was a different man, he’d say he felt the touch of something divine, something evil and wrong - the shadows and the light are one here, like perfection fallen into dust.
The Bringer of Light expelled to Darkness, to Dusk.
There’s a roar, and the ground disperses below him like so much ether; Esau breathes, chokes on smoke - everything is gone before he can scream.
After, his eyes blink black.
--------------------
David loves his father, his mother - loves this life, whatever it is. It’s not easy, and it’s far from perfect, but he’ll take it, even if he knows it isn’t his.
It’s in the way that his parents interact - not like old lovers, but like old friends who never let anything come of it, of them. It’s in the way there aren’t any baby pictures of him, anywhere. When he asks, he’s told someone will dig them out later, show him.
They never do.
More than anything, though, it’s in the way he dreams of a Girl in his Wall.
--------------------
“Mr. Noel Gallagher?”
The brunette turns, quick enough to swing the flop of his hair with the momentum; his features are drawn, his face pale and his eyes wide, wet with the threat of emotion that he’d trying to keep in check, that already shows. Jack knows the look.
“I’m Dr. Shephard,” he says, standard; “Your brother Liam?” The man nods, eager, anxious - desperate. “He’s awake, you can see him now.”
The man in front of him sighs deep, relieved; goes to do just that.
“Your parents like Oasis?” Jack asks, can’t help it; the kid smirks.
“Something like that.”
--------------------
He’s three fucking sheets to the wind, stumbling out of the dive; he’s pretty damn sure there was no one standing in the center of the roads where they cross just a minute ago, but then again, he might’ve missed it.
He looks again, takes in the swell of cleavage and the narrow waist, full hips and red lips, those eyes like coal: no, he wouldn’t’ve missed that.
“Looking for something, sweetheart?” James slurs, wondering how well he can pull off a con, this drunk.
“Naw,” the woman murmurs, coy; kisses him on the cheek. “That one’s on the house.”
--------------------
He’s not sure what the hell he’s doing here; not sure why he’s even bothering. It’s been years, he’s learned to deal with it. He’s learned to adapt.
It takes three months’ worth of pay to cover the bus ticket. He walks a good twenty miles before he ends up on her porch.
He just needs answers, is all. Not help. Not guidance. He just needs to know why.
Miles doesn’t hear the door open; feels sad eyes on him, seated in the round face staring at him from the threshold.
“Oh baby,” Missouri Mosely says, “you need more’n that.”
--------------------
He’s lonely, and he’s tired. He’ll never admit it, but that’s why this place exists - that’s why he’s here, like this.
It’s a distraction; make-believe.
He uses it to watch, keep track. There are endless diversions in the hundreds of windows, little glimpses that never change. He appreciates that, the stability, the constancy. Change has never been kind to him.
He flips through, degree by aimless, endless degree; always ends up in the same place.
When the dial lands at 0°, Jacob grins, Lucifer sneers, and Lawrence, Kansas is painted before him: dull, and grey, and absolutely vital. To everything.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Edward Mars, Kate Austen, Azazel, Bela Talbot, Charles Widmore, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Christian Shephard, Esau, Lucifer, Jacob, War, David Shephard, Danny Carter, Jack Shephard, James "Sawyer" Ford, Crossroads Demon, Missouri Mosely, Miles Straume
Word Count: 1,000
Summary: How two worlds collide (or: ten drabbles depicting various ways that Lost and Supernatural could possibly overlap). For hopelessfangirl, who requested “Undead and Supernatural Crossovers” at The lostsquee 2010 Lost Summer Luau. Spoilers through 6.17 - The End; Spoilers through 5.22 - Swan Song.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Author’s Notes: For hopelessfangirl: these might require suspension of disbelief more often than not, as I’ve taken liberties with both fandoms to make them happen, but with the overlapping themes (and casting choices), the ideas just kind of presented themselves, and I ran with them. Hopefully, they’re to your liking :)
Sand Outside An Hourglass
She’s with a TSA agent who can’t handle her, but he knows she’s not going to try anything; the kid looks too much like that poor boy in Iowa for her delicate sensibilities.
He smirks, runs his hands one last time beneath the spray before the sensor kills the flow; he doesn’t reach for the paper towels, just runs wet fingers over his face, watches his reflection in the mirror.
It takes a second for the yellow to fade from his eyes, but fade it does; second nature, now.
There’s a reason he was in Iowa. S’real close to Kansas.
--------------------
Her documents are fake, forged; she can be anyone, do anything.
She hasn’t had a reason to use her actual passport in years, now; hasn’t been home in longer.
She watches the Thames, breathes in the cool air as she waits; hears footsteps over the sounds of the city - faint, far - and tenses, tightens, puts on a smile.
“The funds you require have already been transferred,” comes the gruff introduction from behind her. She grins, genuine now; turns and hands the rabbit’s foot to her buyer.
“I hope whatever you need the luck for is worth the trouble, Mr. Widmore.”
--------------------
What most people don’t know about Oceanic 815 is that it crashed after exactly forty minutes in the air.
Some people noticed, other people didn’t; it was a trick of the light, for some, premature jetlag for others. It was whatever it needed to be, besides the truth. The man in the middle of the jet with the black eyes - there was nothing wrong.
It’s what takes them down - they make excuses, they accept absurdities as truths, from electromagnetic bursts to the whims of an Island deity no one ever sees.
After they crash, it promises: no survivors. Never again.
--------------------
“Godforsaken rainforest,” Dean’s mumbling; Sam’s told him that’s not the accurate classification of their current location at least four times already, so he doesn’t bother again. “Has he even caused any trouble?”
“His son’s pretty spooked.”
“And that was enough for you, huh Sammy? Just pick up and ship out to Craphole fucking Island in the middle of god knows where?”
Not exactly. The place had been in his visions, his dreams. They’re supposed to be here.
He doesn’t tell Dean that.
They find the coffin between the trees, salt and burn like always.
Christian Shephard’s gone for good, now.
--------------------
He regains consciousness; he’s deep in the Cave, bathed in gold with the tang of blood on his tongue. He can’t breathe, but it doesn’t matter, he’s not concerned.
If he was a different man, he’d say he felt the touch of something divine, something evil and wrong - the shadows and the light are one here, like perfection fallen into dust.
The Bringer of Light expelled to Darkness, to Dusk.
There’s a roar, and the ground disperses below him like so much ether; Esau breathes, chokes on smoke - everything is gone before he can scream.
After, his eyes blink black.
--------------------
David loves his father, his mother - loves this life, whatever it is. It’s not easy, and it’s far from perfect, but he’ll take it, even if he knows it isn’t his.
It’s in the way that his parents interact - not like old lovers, but like old friends who never let anything come of it, of them. It’s in the way there aren’t any baby pictures of him, anywhere. When he asks, he’s told someone will dig them out later, show him.
They never do.
More than anything, though, it’s in the way he dreams of a Girl in his Wall.
--------------------
“Mr. Noel Gallagher?”
The brunette turns, quick enough to swing the flop of his hair with the momentum; his features are drawn, his face pale and his eyes wide, wet with the threat of emotion that he’d trying to keep in check, that already shows. Jack knows the look.
“I’m Dr. Shephard,” he says, standard; “Your brother Liam?” The man nods, eager, anxious - desperate. “He’s awake, you can see him now.”
The man in front of him sighs deep, relieved; goes to do just that.
“Your parents like Oasis?” Jack asks, can’t help it; the kid smirks.
“Something like that.”
--------------------
He’s three fucking sheets to the wind, stumbling out of the dive; he’s pretty damn sure there was no one standing in the center of the roads where they cross just a minute ago, but then again, he might’ve missed it.
He looks again, takes in the swell of cleavage and the narrow waist, full hips and red lips, those eyes like coal: no, he wouldn’t’ve missed that.
“Looking for something, sweetheart?” James slurs, wondering how well he can pull off a con, this drunk.
“Naw,” the woman murmurs, coy; kisses him on the cheek. “That one’s on the house.”
--------------------
He’s not sure what the hell he’s doing here; not sure why he’s even bothering. It’s been years, he’s learned to deal with it. He’s learned to adapt.
It takes three months’ worth of pay to cover the bus ticket. He walks a good twenty miles before he ends up on her porch.
He just needs answers, is all. Not help. Not guidance. He just needs to know why.
Miles doesn’t hear the door open; feels sad eyes on him, seated in the round face staring at him from the threshold.
“Oh baby,” Missouri Mosely says, “you need more’n that.”
--------------------
He’s lonely, and he’s tired. He’ll never admit it, but that’s why this place exists - that’s why he’s here, like this.
It’s a distraction; make-believe.
He uses it to watch, keep track. There are endless diversions in the hundreds of windows, little glimpses that never change. He appreciates that, the stability, the constancy. Change has never been kind to him.
He flips through, degree by aimless, endless degree; always ends up in the same place.
When the dial lands at 0°, Jacob grins, Lucifer sneers, and Lawrence, Kansas is painted before him: dull, and grey, and absolutely vital. To everything.