Forefathers Part 4
Part of the http://zannes.livejournal.com/5304.html John/Illyria 'verse
Rating: PG Overall (language and nudity)
Genre: Gen - Supernatural/Angel crossover
Characters: John and Illyria...cameos by Sam and Dean
Summary: John and Illyria meet up in Hell, Lucifer wants Illyria gone because she's annoying him so he hooks her up with John and sends them back to the mortal plane. Hilarity ensues. It's like a buddy cop movie gone bad.
Author's Notes: I owe my soul to my betas lyonie17 and hakirby. They made this readable. Kripke owns the Winchesters and Whedon owns Illyria. Even though there's no sex in this story, feel free to imagine it (I did). John and Illyria have become my secret OTP. They just fit each other. This story is complete, but will be posted in several parts so you don't petrify in front of the computer trying to read it in one sitting. It's the longest thing I've written! The lovely icon belongs to phantomas.
Part 4...
John roared in frustration, pacing back and forth like a caged animal along the edge of the flattened circle he’d created about thirty feet away from the serene figure of Illyria in the center. “I cannot believe you sometimes!” he growled, waving his hands wildly. He kicked at the air, his foot bouncing off the impenetrable barrier that kept him bound.
She sat, unmoved by his ire, carefully cleaning the blade on the pelt of one of the dead werecats splayed at her feet. “There is no need for anger, John. It is merely fact. They are in touch with their primal urges, giving them the advantage in battle. If it came to kill or be killed, they would kill, and therefore survive.”
“No way!” John disagreed vehemently, cupping the back of his head in both hands while tugging on his hair in annoyance. “What about intelligence? Strategy? Planning? It’s man’s brain power that has made him a better and more effective fighter!”
Illyria shook her head, her blue-brown hair flying as she dismissed his notion entirely. “You are wrong, as usual, human.” She slid lithely to her feet, shoulders back and eyes flashing. “The cavemen would win.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sam sipped at his coffee, staring emptily out of the car window as they sped down the interstate, watching the trees flashing by too quickly to count. Dean hummed along with the radio, drumming his hands on the steering wheel in time with the music. “How’d you feel about Colorado?” Dean asked with a flippant grin. “Ski bunnies and hot cocoa by a roaring fire. Something for both of us, ‘cause I know how you love hot cocoa…. How’s that sound, Sammy?”
Sam continued to stare out the window, not paying any undue attention to his brother’s chatter, which was beginning to piss Dean off. He reached over and flicked sharply at his little brother’s ear. “Wake up, Sam! So, if not snow bunnies, what about beach babes…maybe Florida? You could talk with the old people about retirement funds or somethin’ while I have some fun.”
Sam grumbled distractedly, rubbing his ear as he cast a baleful look at his brother. “Dean,” he began hesitantly, “…if cavemen and astronauts got into a fight, who do you think would win?”
Dean arched an eyebrow, glancing over at his brother curiously, before replying with utter seriousness, “I dunno, Sam. Do the astronauts have light sabers?”
“Dude,” Sam scoffed with a derisive snort. “They’re astronauts, not Jedis.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The blue/white-brown/yellow woman flickered like a wandering spirit, sweeping back and forth behind them as John sat next to Sammy in front of the roaring pyre. “It’s so hot, Daddy,” the little boy complained - “Take your brother outside as fast as you can. Don’t look back. Now, Dean! Go!” his father roared, the flames eating away at the house around him - making him laugh and hug the little boy with one arm.
His brother stalked by, stopping to salute sharply, his GI Joe helmet nearly covering his eyes. “Bit too big for you, little man,” his father said, chucking him under the chin. Little Dean giggled - “He wants us to pick up where he left off,” Dean stated with a feverish intensity. “…saving people, hunting things…the family business.” - before turning to spar with the flickering spirit woman, wooden swords clacking rhythmically in the background like billiards. “Warriors raised in blood, John Winchester,” the blue/white woman declared in an eloquent monotone, knighting the giggling young Dean - “It tickles!” his older brother grumbled, pulling up the bandage on his stomach to inspect the sutures. - with the tap of a battle ax on each shoulder.
“Storm’s a’comin’,” Bobby whispered as the little boy pressed his nose against the motel room window, rain pattering heavily against the glass as if asking to come in, thunder tearing open the very skies above them as his breath misted over the pane, his own reflection nothing more than a ghost trapped in the glass. tap-taptaptap-tap came the secret knock, making the little boy shriek excitedly down the hallway, “Daddy’s home, Dean! Daddy’s home!” tap-taptaptap-tap “Daddy’s home!” tap-taptaptap-tap “Daddy’s home!” tap-taptaptap-tap “Daddy’s home!” tap-taptaptap-tap “Daddy’s home!” tap-tap…
…taptap-tap Sam’s eyes snapped open, the staccato of Dean’s ring on the table ceasing when Sam exhaled breathlessly, “Daddy’s home.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
John sauntered out of the bathroom, towel wrapped loosely around his waist, water dripping freely from his tousled black hair. He began sorting through his shirts, searching for something clean when he heard a series of moans from the corner of the room where Illyria had planted herself in front of the television.
“God, no,” John groaned, closing his eyes and shaking his head in disbelief, having flashbacks to his boys’ teen years. He padded over to stand behind Illyria, barely glancing at the screen to confirm his suspicions.
“Illyria,” he asked calmly, feeling mildly uncomfortable. “What are you watching?”
“Humans mating,” she explained in her usual straightforward manner. “I am not sure I understand it,” she stated. “The male has left and yet the two females continue.”
John’s eyes flicked to the screen and he flushed slightly, clearing his throat in discomfort. “Um…people like different things, Illyria.”
Illyria cast her eyes at his toweled midsection before turning her attention back to the screen. “You seem to like it.”
John coughed again, tightening his grip on the edge of his towel as he faltered, “I’ll…uh…go change in the bathroom,” and he fled like a coward.
Illyria’s lips twitched when she heard the door slam behind him and the shower start up again, calmly flipping back to the cooking program she had been watching.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean pressed harder on the gas pedal, Sam’s eerie silence beginning to get on his nerves. “I don’t know why we have to go see that woman again, Sam,” Dean grumbled, threatening a pout. “She was going to hit me with a spoon!” Deaf to his brother’s complaints, Sam tugged pensively on his lower lip, lost in thought. Dean slouched further down in the driver’s seat, adding, “And I was so looking forward to the ski bunnies.”
“Do you remember how much we loved Batman when we were kids?” Sam asked contemplatively. “We’d take turns reading the comics to each other when we were stuck in the car.”
“Yeah,” Dean replied. “We were kids and he had cool toys. Who wouldn’t love him?” He added with a leer, “Though I always preferred Batgirl - the tight outfit and that motorcycle? Hot!”
Sam chuckled, “I always wondered where all those issues disappeared to. You kept telling me that you had to give them to homeless kids so they’d have something to read.”
“And you totally fell for it until you were nearly ten, Sammy!” Dean laughed openly, reaching over the slap his brother on the thigh.
“Remember when I asked Dad if Batman would go to Hell because he did bad things?” Sam frowned sadly, a lost look on his face.
Dean looked confused for a moment, before replying, “Yeah, he said there was no way Batman would go to Hell because even if he did bad things, he was doing them for good reasons.” His glance slid over to study his brother’s face. “You were a freak of a kid sometimes, Sam.”
“But do you remember what he said after that?” Sam queried pleadingly, his eyes widening. “He said even if Batman went to Hell, he was the kind of guy who could find his way out.” Dean nodded hesitantly, uncomfortable with where this was going. “I’ve been having dreams, Dean. I need to talk to Missouri.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
John sighed with boredom, absently clicking through web-site after web-site, trying to put a hunt together. Even after all these years, libraries still bored him to tears. He’d been thrilled when Sam had shown an aptitude for research, taking to it like a fish to water - one less ponderous task to take up John’s time. Dean had been more like him, preferring the action of hunting to the safety of research. He’d always understood that more, holding entire conversations with Dean while sparring without saying a single word. Sam and he had only words to rely on, words too difficult to parse together to make any kind of sense in the world they had existed in.
For the seventh time in the last half hour, John’s chair started squeaking slowly away from the table, dragging him backwards in small, jerking increments. John grunted with frustration - if he had to tell that damn woman one more time…. Spinning in his still moving seat while trying to stay balanced, he hissed loudly across the nearly empty stacks, “Illyr-Fred!” Come here right now!”
“Ssshhhh!” the elderly librarian hushed, stacking her books a little more forcefully. John tossed her a smile and a mindless wave, eyeing Fred warily from across the room.
Fred - with Illyria looking like she was staking more of a claim on her features with every passing minute they spent here - frowned, moving restlessly away from the doors of the library. “I’m bored!” she whined as she approached him, her heart-shaped face curling into a cute pout. “Let’s go kill somethin’!”
John grumbled in irritation, moving his chair back where it belonged, “See that drinking fountain?” he said with a growl, waving his hand in the machine’s general direction. “That’s the thirty feet limit. Since you can’t seem to remember that, you’re staying with me.” With that quiet announcement, his arm snaked out, pulling the startled Fred into his lap, barring her exit with an arm on each side, gripping the table before them.
Noting Illyria seeping dangerously onto Fred’s face by the blue tinge leaking from her hairline, John murmured in compromise, “You can kill me as descriptively as you like back at the motel. But I’ve got research to do and you’re making it impossible. Now sit still and we can go hunt something later, OK?”
Fred grimaced in defeat, slumping in prickly disinterest against him, Illyria’s irritation coming through crisply as she stated, “The librarian is staring at us. Can we kill her? She annoys me.”
John glanced over his shoulder at the old lady behind the desk, smiling brightly at her once more as he turned to whisper in Fred’s ear, cleverly disguising it as a nuzzle, “Behave yourself and she’ll go away. We’re newlyweds looking for a house, remember?”
“Not that one,” Fred snapped in disgust. “The other one.” She pointed an imperious finger at the freckled red-head stocking shelves to their left. John rolled his eyes, grabbing at her hand and clutching it against his chest, glancing around to make sure no one had noticed. Unfortunately, the red-head had noticed so John smiled charmingly and shrugged in as inoffensive manner as he could, startled when she smiled back in obvious invitation.
“I just can’t take you anywhere, can I?” he asked Fred teasingly. “You’re worse than Sammy and Dean when they were up past their bedtime.” Fred snorted in annoyance, absently kicking her feet, which meant she was kicking him repeatedly in the shins. John knew it was no accident. He leaned back, amused more by Fred’s - no, this was definitely Illyria’s - growing exasperation than the research he’d been trying to dig through. “Well, Fred,” he stated pointedly. “I heard you were some kind of rocket scientist over in LA. Why don’t you do the research so we can get out of here?”
Fred turned to the computer with a defiant, “Astrophysicist!” before tapping at the keys with a determined grimace. John sat back with the satisfaction of a job well-done, closing his eyes to take a brief nap while Fred perused the information for the next hour or…”Found something!” she chirped. Dammit.
“What is it?” he groused playfully, his interest peaked.
“I don’t know,” Fred declared sharply. “I just found a pattern. It’s your job to figure out what it is.” She crossed her arms over her chest, wrinkling her nose at him in triumph. As he leaned over her shoulder to read the screen, she began kicking him in the shins again, humming a very off-key rendition of….
“The Sex Pistols? You’re seriously humming My Way by the Sex Pistols when I’m trying to read?” John asked, dragging his eyes from the screen in disbelief. He clasped his hand to his face and counted to ten, rubbing the rough bristles of his unshaven cheeks to maintain focus. Fred - no, Illyria…he should just stop using Fred entirely, he realized, especially when she was being such a brat because Fred had always come across as such a nice lady before Illyria started sinking in - seemed determined to make him suffer for caging her on his lap, but it was her own fault for wandering off, he reminded himself, so she deserved what she got.
Fred just started humming louder, eyes narrowing at the poor red-headed librarian skulking in the stacks nearby, Fred’s muscles poised to pounce. John knew his chance when he had it, using Fred’s momentary distraction to hit print. “OK…snugglebug,” John announced, lifting her up bodily with one arm around her waist and twisting her in the opposite direction of the targeted librarian. “Time to head back to the motel.” With his free hand, he snagged the pages out of the printer and began hauling the recalcitrant Fred towards the door, the short red-head peeking curiously around the bookshelf to watch them go.
“What is with all the manhandling?” Fred sputtered indignantly once they cleared the door.
A passing skater-punk gave her an appreciative nod. “Cool blue streaks, lady!” With a thumbs-up, he hopped on his board and disappeared around the corner.
John groaned, grabbing her hand and yanking her into the darkness of the service alley. “You need to calm down…Illyria,” he demanded pointedly, dragging a blue hank of hair in front of her face.
“This relationship has become displeasing,” Illyria announced, tugging her hair out of his hand. “In the beginning you gave me mayhem and bloodshed, and now we are wasting our time with dusty tomes surrounded by mortals telling me to shush.” She blinked in affront, arms crossing over her plated chest. “I do not shush. I am Illyria, God-King of the Primordium, the Shaper of Things!”
“No,” John demurred, dragging her further away from the street while looking for a back way to the motel. “You are Illyria, Deposed God-King, the Pain in My Ass.”
Illyria stopped dead in the alley, teeth showing, as he continued to walk away from her. “I could show you pain you have never dreamed of, human.”
John stumbled as if shot, surprising Illyria as he sagged against the dirty brick wall, his breathing labored and his eyes dark. He huddled there a moment, hunching in on himself as she approached, one hand splayed flat on the brick, knuckles white. With a gruff chuckle, he turned those dark, haunted eyes up to her and breathed, “You forget who you’re talking to,” before pushing himself upright and walking unsteadily ahead. Pressing her lips together to form a thin, blue line, she dropped her gaze to the ground, Illyria melting into Fred as she followed quietly behind him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Things may have been tense, but it was back to business by the time they reached the motel. When they had their spats, John realized early on that since he was stuck in Satan’s invisible hamster ball with Illyria until the end of time, the only way he had to get away from her was by locking himself in the bathroom. After the first dozen episodes, John also realized that 1) he was acting like a child and 2) he was the one stuck in the bathroom while Illyria had cable TV on hand. It was an unfair trade. He couldn’t spend eternity reorganizing the sample soaps and shampoos for entertainment, even if Illyria did annoy him beyond reason some of the time.
John sat cross-legged on the bed, scattering the printouts over the rumpled blue bed linens. He scanned them repeatedly, his mind still unfocused from the squabble with Illyria. He glanced over at her, staring stiffly out the window, the nearly opaque drapes shielding her from outside eyes. She had that curve to her shoulders that rarely anyone was allowed to observe - if allow were even the right term - because she never willingly permitted anyone, even John, to glimpse what she perceived as weakness - even more cuttingly, the terribly human weakness eroding the façade of omnipotence that she so desperately wanted to keep within her grasp. And in that moment, he knew she was sorry, but hadn’t yet the humanity to request his forgiveness…or to even think it may be needed.
“C’mere,” John called out in his most business-like tone, passing her the page he was looking at when she came to stand motionless at the foot of the bed. Her eyes flicked to his with a touch of curiosity before dropping to study the sheet of paper. “What do you notice?”
“A spate of healthy young men die of unexplained circumstances every fifteen years, matching the recent string of deaths that brought us here,” Illyria offered.
“Going back at least one hundred years, “ he added, tapping at the paper with his finger. “The final death is always a recently married man - a wealthy, recently married man - and his bride disappears all the richer for it.”
“So it is the female chattel?” Illyria questioned, sorting through the pictures. “They look nothing alike.”
“Spirit possessions, shapeshifters, it could be anything. We’ll look into it tomorrow.” John stretched languidly, his T-shirt riding up to show his belly as he yawned, falling back on the bed. “I’m beat. Fighting with you, Illyria, is like a three hour run without all the sweating.”
“I do not sweat,” Illyria stated with assurance, looking slightly offended.
John chuckled, rolling off the bed to head for the bathroom. “And I thank God for that.”
He emerged a few minutes later, clad in his usual t-shirt/sweatpants bedtime combo. “Is the heater on?” he questioned, rubbing his arms briskly. At Illyria’s curt nod, he slid under the covers, cocooning himself in their warmth, his eyes peeking over the edge of the bedspread, watching her from his prone position. With only a moment’s hesitation, she flipped off the light and took her usual place beside him, braced like a sentry against the headboard.
John curled an arm around her thigh, clutching it like a life preserver. That’s what she’d become, he’d realized shortly into their sojourn together - John Winchester’s own walking, talking, demon-bred security blanket. If only his boys could see him now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“What the fuck do you mean you think Dad’s alive?” Dean shouted across the kitchen.
Missouri frowned, absently smacking her spoon against her palm. “You know I don’t like that kind of language, boy. Your Daddy raised you better than that.” She smiled at Sam sitting dazedly at the table, patting him on the cheek with a heartfelt sigh. “All I said was that I didn’t know how to tell you boys this, but your Daddy’s not dead.” She glared at Dean meaningfully, “Which is no cause for cussin’.”
“I think it’s a God-damned fuckin’ fantastic reason for cussin’,” Dean scowled from the safety of the doorway. “Our father is dead.” He took a deep breath before muttering, “We watched him burn.”
“How do explain the dreams, Dean?” Sam asked with a hint of sadness. “I’ve been having them for months now, and they all imply that Missouri’s right.” Sam hung his head, his bangs shielding his eyes from his brother. “Dad’s out there.”
Dean deflated, looking beaten. “Not you, too, Sam. Let Dad rest in peace.” With that, Dean hurriedly left the warmth of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.
Missouri restrained Sam from running after his brother with the light weight of her hand on his shoulder. “Let him go, baby. He’ll be back.”
~~~~~~~~~~~
John was dreaming - one of those dreams where no matter how long or hard he ran, he never got anywhere. He kept looking over his shoulder, seeing nothing, the landscape a dull, monotonous gray mist. Vaguely, he realized most people would find this more in line with a nightmare, but it was practically a Hawaiian vacation after the standard torture dreams that plagued his sleep. John settled in with an almost contented sigh, jogging in the soft flannel quiet as his breathing became more labored.
*thump*
*crash*
*screech*
Screech? his brain sleepily wondered as he tore his eyes open, blinking them stickily. He rolled onto his side, and upon catching sight of Illyria rolling around on the floor with a shadowy figure, reached clumsily for the bedside lamp, turning it on with a feeble slap at its base.
For the split second after the light illuminated the bed in a small circle of pale gold, he saw Illyria pinning what looked like a skinned man - muscles, tendons and veins sculpted in a mobile human form. The light reflected off the waxen surface of the raw, reddened flesh, making it scream in agony before it disappeared in a puff of smoke, dissipating within seconds.
John blinked, his brain still oddly fuzzy, his muscles not working in response to his commands. “Whazzat, ‘Lyria,” he mumbled, trying to point.
Illyria stood gracefully, shoulders still tensed and ready to fight as she scanned the darkened corners of the room. “I do not know. She was slippery.” Illyria crawled onto the bed near him, hands hovering over his prone form. “She was sitting on you…here,” she explained, hand dropping dangerously close to his groin.
John slapped ineffectually at her wandering hands. “How’z sh’ get in?” he asked, trying to get up to look at his salt lines before falling back weakly on the bed.
“I do not know,” Illyria admitted again, turning her head away. “She was…quick.”
John’s head fell back with a thump against the pillow and he giggled drunkenly, “Y’were sleepin’ ‘gin, ‘Lyri.”
“I do not sleep!” she dissented firmly.
“Yes, y’do…’n y’snore,” he added, giggling even harder as he rolled onto his side. “Like a bear. Hear y’sometimes.”
Illyria pressed her lips together, biting back a retort before saying, “She has done something to you.”
“Sleepy,” John admitted, curling against her leg.
Illyria shook him roughly by the shoulder, “Awaken, Hunter!” She glanced around, grabbing an open can of Pepsi off the nightstand before adding, “We have none of your morning beverage. Drink this.” She propped up his head with one hand, spilling soda all over his chin. After managing to get him to swallow most of it, she sat him upright, slapping his cheeks sharply.
“Ow,” John groaned, holding up a hand to stop her. “My head hurts enough already. Stop enjoying yourself so much.” He took another long drink before continuing, “Sugar and caffeine - just what I needed. Thanks, Illyria.”
He sighed, rubbing at his forehead. “So it was a she?” He flicked his eyes at Illyria before asking, “How could you tell?” John chuckled softly at her slight frown. “Got it…so it looks like we’re dealing with a boo-hag - a type of skinless succubus. Less pretty and far less fun for the victim.”
“So it is about sex and feeding?” Illyria snorted. “How very human of it.”
John arched his eyebrow at her. “It doesn’t kill outright - that takes several feedings. But,” he added thoughtfully, “repeated feedings wear out the victim’s heart…which brings us to the young men dying mysteriously. He rubbed at his chest. “I certainly feel winded.”
“It should be easy to find,” Illyria commented. “Skinless humanoids are few and far between in Indiana.”
“It’s like a selkie - it has a skin somewhere. Probably ran back to it when I turned on the light,” John explained, his warm hazel eyes lighting up with excitement. “Grab those pictures for me, Illyria.” When she handed them over, he got to his knees on the bed and laid them out chronologically. “Look at this!” he called out triumphantly, already fidgeting from the urge to start the hunt. “Apparently, the boo-hag takes the skin of the last victim’s bride.”
Illyria purred smugly, blue eyes burning down at the familiar image of the red-headed librarian. “So I do get to kill her after all.”
TO BE CONTINUED...
Author's Note2: The astronaut/caveman debate comes from Angel. Selected bits of dialogue from both Supernatural and Angel have been used in this section.