Teufelshunde 0/6
Title: Teufelshunde
Rating: R
Genre: Gen, AU
Spoilers: None yet, eventually everything.
Warnings: Minors in jeopardy.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. And that’s probably for the best, really.
Notes: Written for Sweet Charity and the lovely, generous counteragent, who was kind enough to go along with this. This part's on the short side, but there's more to come. Beta'd by indomitable, unsinkable pdragon76. All quotes from Generation Kill by Evan Wright. Art by animotus!
Summary: "Missions are always getting fragged."
Teufelshunde 0/6
"Missions are always getting fragged," Colbert says, resigned. "The mission isn't important. Just doing your job is."
"Under the bed," Roy said.
Teresa gave him the smallest, most bitter salute she could. There was a lot of bullshit that came with being the only woman deputy in Muleshoe, but this was officially the worst of it. The catcalls, the 'little lady' crap, the box of tampons she got every year for her birthday, that was all water under the bridge. The thing she loathed, really loathed right from her guts, was how they treated her like the brat whisperer. Like possessing a uterus made her qualified to handle the kids.
Especially in cases like this. With the domestic disturbances, the kids already knew how to handle it. When your parents beat on each other, you got used to it. When your dad knocked over a liquor store or your mom got picked up for check fraud, that was a little scarier. Assault, drunk and disorderly, DUI's, those came with a little more shame attached and plenty of it to go around. But nobody liked to hear their folks got picked up for homicide. That one followed you around for life and made the bible beater's sins of the father unto the seventh generation look credible.
Girding herself, Teresa got down on her hands and knees and took a look under the bed. Two kids, nestled in on each other. The youngest one couldn't be but a year old. Shit. The older one was looking right at her, and she could tell that she was gonna need to play this right--and not because she was good with kids, but because her daddy was a ranch hand, and she knew what scared animals looked like. And this kid looked like he knew someone was gonna make veal out of him.
"Hey. Y'all come out now. Your daddy's in some trouble."
The desert pan is so hard here, where a few inches beneath the sandy topsoil it's interlaced with vestigial coral from the era when this was underwater...that every inch has to be hacked away with pickaxes, the blade sparking with each blow to the stoney crust.
"Wake up, Sammy. Wake up."
"Mmmgh."
"Now."
Dean half-carried him out of the tiny bedroom, away from the kitchen, and into the hall closet by the door. He'd picked this spot out the first day they got here. Found it, showed Sam, and moved a little stockpile into it. One look at the guy, one, and Dean knew they'd have to use it. The rollers creaked a little in the tracks, but the screaming in the kitchen was picking up, so they were covered. Dean herded Sammy in and shut the folding doors behind them.
"Sit. Good."
He fumbled in the dark, feet sure the tops and backs of old shoes, a few canvas bags, and what he hoped wasn't a cockroach. Or if it had to be a cockroach, at least a dead one. Dean put it out of his mind. He took the broomstick in the corner and laid it out against the roller tracks before putting his heel on it and jamming it into place. It wasn't perfect, but it was good. In the kitchen, a dish hit the wall. Turning back to the corner, he found the half-empty canister of Morton's and the flashlight. He laid the salt against the broomstick and gave the light to Sam.
"Dean?"
Shit. He was awake now. "Yeah."
"What's going on?"
"Sorry. I didn't want to wake you up."
"'S okay. Are they..."
"Yeah."
"Okay."
"Sammy, we're safe in here."
Sam just nodded.
"I mean it. We're safe in here."
"I know."
"Say it. Say we're safe in here."
"We're safe in here."
"The dirt will be better where we're going," Colbert assures his weary men.
Dinah Strickland's funeral was a small affair. Her parents were long dead, as was Mr. Strickland. No children. Didn't attend church. Home care nurse, mostly geriatrics. And not enough money to forgive her eccentricities, not in Llano.
At the graveside, there weren't but a half dozen people. Some folks from the hospital drove out to pay their respects. A Word of Christ preacher from two towns over. And those two young men, the one in a nice suit and the other in his dress blues.
"She shoulda told me," said the soldier.
"She didn't want you to know," said the suit.
"She shoulda told me."
The preacher wrapped things up fairly quickly, all according to the deceased's wishes. He coughed and looked at the boy in the cheap suit.
"Right," the suit said. "Got it."
He'd brought a small stereo with him, sitting beside him on the astroturf of the open grave. Smiling, he hit play.
"It is the springtime of my loving, the second season I am to know."
The preacher flushed underneath his tight collar. The soldier snorted. And the suit started to cry. The preacher leaned over, pulled the thin, nylon cloth away from the gravestone.
Dinah Strickland
"It's just a little rain."
"Just like you wanted," the soldier said.
"Bye, DeeDee," the suit said.
"Let us pray," the preacher said. "Our Father, who art in heaven..."
But the dirt is the same.
Chapter One
All quotes from Generation Kill by Evan Wright.
Art by animotus
Rating: R
Genre: Gen, AU
Spoilers: None yet, eventually everything.
Warnings: Minors in jeopardy.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. And that’s probably for the best, really.
Notes: Written for Sweet Charity and the lovely, generous counteragent, who was kind enough to go along with this. This part's on the short side, but there's more to come. Beta'd by indomitable, unsinkable pdragon76. All quotes from Generation Kill by Evan Wright. Art by animotus!
Summary: "Missions are always getting fragged."
Teufelshunde 0/6
"Missions are always getting fragged," Colbert says, resigned. "The mission isn't important. Just doing your job is."
"Under the bed," Roy said.
Teresa gave him the smallest, most bitter salute she could. There was a lot of bullshit that came with being the only woman deputy in Muleshoe, but this was officially the worst of it. The catcalls, the 'little lady' crap, the box of tampons she got every year for her birthday, that was all water under the bridge. The thing she loathed, really loathed right from her guts, was how they treated her like the brat whisperer. Like possessing a uterus made her qualified to handle the kids.
Especially in cases like this. With the domestic disturbances, the kids already knew how to handle it. When your parents beat on each other, you got used to it. When your dad knocked over a liquor store or your mom got picked up for check fraud, that was a little scarier. Assault, drunk and disorderly, DUI's, those came with a little more shame attached and plenty of it to go around. But nobody liked to hear their folks got picked up for homicide. That one followed you around for life and made the bible beater's sins of the father unto the seventh generation look credible.
Girding herself, Teresa got down on her hands and knees and took a look under the bed. Two kids, nestled in on each other. The youngest one couldn't be but a year old. Shit. The older one was looking right at her, and she could tell that she was gonna need to play this right--and not because she was good with kids, but because her daddy was a ranch hand, and she knew what scared animals looked like. And this kid looked like he knew someone was gonna make veal out of him.
"Hey. Y'all come out now. Your daddy's in some trouble."
The desert pan is so hard here, where a few inches beneath the sandy topsoil it's interlaced with vestigial coral from the era when this was underwater...that every inch has to be hacked away with pickaxes, the blade sparking with each blow to the stoney crust.
"Wake up, Sammy. Wake up."
"Mmmgh."
"Now."
Dean half-carried him out of the tiny bedroom, away from the kitchen, and into the hall closet by the door. He'd picked this spot out the first day they got here. Found it, showed Sam, and moved a little stockpile into it. One look at the guy, one, and Dean knew they'd have to use it. The rollers creaked a little in the tracks, but the screaming in the kitchen was picking up, so they were covered. Dean herded Sammy in and shut the folding doors behind them.
"Sit. Good."
He fumbled in the dark, feet sure the tops and backs of old shoes, a few canvas bags, and what he hoped wasn't a cockroach. Or if it had to be a cockroach, at least a dead one. Dean put it out of his mind. He took the broomstick in the corner and laid it out against the roller tracks before putting his heel on it and jamming it into place. It wasn't perfect, but it was good. In the kitchen, a dish hit the wall. Turning back to the corner, he found the half-empty canister of Morton's and the flashlight. He laid the salt against the broomstick and gave the light to Sam.
"Dean?"
Shit. He was awake now. "Yeah."
"What's going on?"
"Sorry. I didn't want to wake you up."
"'S okay. Are they..."
"Yeah."
"Okay."
"Sammy, we're safe in here."
Sam just nodded.
"I mean it. We're safe in here."
"I know."
"Say it. Say we're safe in here."
"We're safe in here."
"The dirt will be better where we're going," Colbert assures his weary men.
Dinah Strickland's funeral was a small affair. Her parents were long dead, as was Mr. Strickland. No children. Didn't attend church. Home care nurse, mostly geriatrics. And not enough money to forgive her eccentricities, not in Llano.
At the graveside, there weren't but a half dozen people. Some folks from the hospital drove out to pay their respects. A Word of Christ preacher from two towns over. And those two young men, the one in a nice suit and the other in his dress blues.
"She shoulda told me," said the soldier.
"She didn't want you to know," said the suit.
"She shoulda told me."
The preacher wrapped things up fairly quickly, all according to the deceased's wishes. He coughed and looked at the boy in the cheap suit.
"Right," the suit said. "Got it."
He'd brought a small stereo with him, sitting beside him on the astroturf of the open grave. Smiling, he hit play.
"It is the springtime of my loving, the second season I am to know."
The preacher flushed underneath his tight collar. The soldier snorted. And the suit started to cry. The preacher leaned over, pulled the thin, nylon cloth away from the gravestone.
Dinah Strickland
"It's just a little rain."
"Just like you wanted," the soldier said.
"Bye, DeeDee," the suit said.
"Let us pray," the preacher said. "Our Father, who art in heaven..."
But the dirt is the same.
Chapter One
All quotes from Generation Kill by Evan Wright.
Art by animotus