Forefathers Part 5
Part of the http://zannes.livejournal.com/5304.html John/Illyria 'verse
Rating: PG Overall (language and nudity)
Genre: Gen - Supernatural/Angel crossover, Humor
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 5...
Illyria had voted for walking over to the library and slaughtering the boo-hag as soon as the library opened, followed by pancakes.
OK, so it was Fred who suggested the pancakes, but the carnage was all Illyria. John had managed to convince her - barely - that killing first thing in the morning was bad for digestion; so maybe they should try the pancakes first and then come up with a killing plan for later in the day, like maybe when it got dark. Fred seemed reluctant to change her strategy, but when he reminded her that the diner had real strawberry syrup, she relented and he kept them out of jail for another day.
“Tonight,” he announced, forking in another bite of scrambled eggs. “She has to leave her skin to feed, so we’ll break in, find it and burn it. She can’t survive without a skin.”
“What’s to keep her from gettin’ another one?” Fred inquired around a mouthful of pancake. “That’s what she does.” She poured another dollop of syrup generously over her breakfast, tongue flicking out to taste the sticky sweetness coating her lower lip. John reached a fork over for a bite and she actually growled, narrowly missing his hand with her fork when she stabbed it into the table.
“Fred!” John laughed, eyes crinkling with amusement as he dropped his fork in surprise. “We had that talk about sharing, remember? And not stabbing people with cutlery?”
“Yes,” Fred agreed, grabbing his fallen fork and shoving in another mouthful. “We discussed it, but I did not agree to it. The pancakes are mine.”
“For someone who doesn’t need to eat, you sure can pack it away,” he commented airily. John pried the fork from the tabletop, frowning at the bent tines before reaching for another off the nearby table. “We’ll have to time it right. Too early and she takes another skin. It’ll have to be just before dawn.”
“That sounds boring,” Fred commented with a pout. “Can I still shoot her?”
John patted her hand consolingly, sneaking a piece of bacon off her plate. “If you see her, you can shoot her.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
They stumbled into the room shortly after dawn, dripping bits of boo-hag all over the avocado shag. “Next time,” John muttered, yanking his blood-soaked shirt over his head, “I’d really appreciate it if you waited to shoot until I was out of range.” He hissed slightly as the fabric slid over a faint reddish burn spanning the length of his arm.
“You said I could shoot her,” Illyria stated clearly, blood and entrails clumped in her hair. She waved at the seeping scratches lining the planes of his lightly furred chest. “Do you need fixing?”
John glanced down at his wounds, rubbing his hand over his belly. “Shower first. I’ll see what needs done later.” He smirked up at her, “After all, not like it’s gonna kill me.” He quickly strolled into the bathroom, the soot and bloodstained jeans tossed out into a heap by the bed.
“I hope you are right,” Illyria commented from her position by the bathroom door, leaving a smear of ichor across the beige wall as she watched his clothing sail past her. “I do not wish to carry your corpse out of the tub as I had to last time you bled out while bathing.” She sniffed dismissively, “It ruined all of the towels.”
John sighed in relief as the hot weight of the water massaged his aching muscles, a thin layer of reddish-black grime collecting in the basin at his feet. He could hear Illyria’s nimble tread on the tiles, counting the seconds before she yanked back the curtain and stepped in before him, blocking the spray with her willowy, blue-tinged form. John sighed with only slight annoyance. “I said I’d wash your hair after I was done. I want my share of the hot water for once.”
“And I wish to get the innards of that creature out of my hair,” Illyria replied. “It smells.”
John rolled his eyes, giving in with soft chuckle as he grabbed for the shampoo, pouring a generous dollop in his palm. With years of practice behind him - first with a pretty, young wife and then with two wriggling little boys - he soothingly worked the soapy rinse in close to her scalp, careful not to tangle the long tresses in his fingers. “Have you thought about my idea of just running you through a car wash after a hunt? Because washing guts out of your hair isn’t as charming a past-time as you seem to think.”
“If you would prefer I stink of corpses when you sleep, then I will leave you to your bathing,” Illyria pointed out with a tinge of triumph to her tone.
“You’re the soul of giving, Illyria,” John remarked, tugging playfully on her hair. “And looking very patriotic this morning - all red, white and blue.” Illyria glared at him over her shoulder as he chuckled, mortal humor beyond her understanding, the water pooling around their feet still pink with blood. “One of these days, you’re going to have to learn how to wash your own hair, you know.”
Illyria sniffed doubtfully. “If you do not do it, what use are you?”
“Ahhh, yes,” John agreed wryly. “I forgot I was released from Hell to be your personal hairdresser.”
“My Qua-Hazon had the honor of bathing me in the blood of the defeated when I was victorious in battle,” Illyria sagely informed him, turning to face John in the shower to inspect his wounds. “You should feel honored.”
“I do, I do,” John agreed, soaping up his own hair as Illyria poked at the scratches on his chest. “I am blessed among me- Oh, shit! That hurts!” he winced, pulling away from her. Illyria gazed up at him blankly, fingertip coated in blood. “I told you to keep your fingers on the outside of my skin, please. Immortal or not, it hurts when you start poking around in there.”
Illyria blinked at him slowly before saying, “They are deep. Bandages will be useful.” With a calculated toss, she hit him in the chin with her wet hair as she regally exited the shower, dripping a damp path out into the main room.
John rubbed at his aching chest with a slight wince, turning to seek comfort in the hot water before yelping, “Dammit, Illyria! It’s gone cold!”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Do you have any idea where we’re going?” Dean snapped as he turned away from Sam, leaning his forehead against the glass as he gazed out the side window of the Impala through the heavy mist of his own breath.
Sam paused in his usual noisy settling into the car routine, glancing over at his brother with a concerned frown. Sam’s eyes fell on Dean’s usually manic hands resting listlessly in his lap, lying open, empty and surprisingly vulnerable. Sam sighed softly, guilt nibbling at his conscience, before answering, “No, not really. I think we should head southeast and check out that Cusith sighting.”
Dean didn’t respond, still seemingly absorbed with the flickering vacancy on the motel’s sign a few yards away. Sam’s eyes fell to the pale nape of Dean’s neck peeking over the harsh line of his black collar, his hand reaching up hesitantly as a surge of protectiveness suddenly overwhelmed him. At the last moment, Sam clenched his fist and pulled away, his jaw tightening as he held back the torrent of reassurances and apologies that wanted to spill out and fill the solid silence of the Impala.
Their father was out there. There was no denying it. Nothing he could say or do could make Dean feel any better about what they had to do. With sudden firmness, Sam reached over and turned the key in the ignition, the Impala awakening with a muffled roar. “Let’s go. We’ve got work to do.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“A type of hellhound? Really?” John asked in surprise.
Illyria nodded curtly, watching him clean their weapons with her standard placid disinterest. She stood stiffly beside the bed, the tightness in her chest that indicated their bond easing the closer they were situated. “When the Old Ones left this dimension, some of their pets were left behind. They ran feral, mating with whatever they did not kill, or were crossbred by lower level demons to serve their masters. This led to all sorts of half-breeds, such as Black Dogs, Cusiths…some even say werewolves.”
John grunted, sliding the machete from its sheath and eyeing its glittering length for nicks and scratches. “You Old Ones certainly left quite a mess behind for us humans to clean up.”
“You are impertinent for a creature that evolved from the slime I once scraped from my boot heels,” Illyria declared with an arrogant blink.
“You want impertinent?” John asked, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “I’ll give you impertinent.” An oily rag grazed Illyria’s cheek, landing crookedly on her shoulder as he tossed it from his sprawled position on the bed. A tube of cleanser followed, bouncing off her chest. “Pick a weapon and clean it. I’m not your serving boy.”
“No,” she said obliquely, studying the weapons with indifference. “My servants had better manners.”
“So you’re saying we’re hunting some demon’s lost dog?” John asked, biting his lower lip as he dismantled a rifle, laying out the pieces before him with his customary precision. “Great, we’ve become the supernatural Humane Society.”
Illyria scooped up the rifle’s barrel, using it as a baton in an imaginary battle to test its balance for such a purpose. “The Cusith may have been bred as a pet, but it is not hunting for its master,” Illyria stated, tossing the rifle barrel back on the bed far from its original position. “No babies have gone missing, only their mothers.”
John tried with every fiber of his being to ignore the misplaced piece, but gave in with a sigh and crawled across the spread for it, returning it to its rightful spot by his left knee. Then he did his best to disregard Illyria’s complacent smirk as she monitored his actions. “So we’re only hunting one creature, not two,” John summarized, nodding his head in understanding. “Good thinking, Illyria.”
She tilted her head in his direction, her blue-brown hair swinging loosely. “Was that a compliment? I did not think it possible.”
John laughed openly, his head tilting back with the joy of the sound before he slammed the final clip into place. “I didn’t think it was possible for you to get one, either,” he agreed, still chuckling as he began to pack their weapons away. Illyria snorted, leaning in to help him with the task.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“A Cusith eats what?” Dean asked in surprise.
“Nursing mothers,” Sam explained, glancing up from the laptop. “Usually with Cusith sightings there are missing babies, too, but nothing like that here. Only the mothers disappear.” Sam shoved a few french fries in his mouth and mumbled, “Legend has it the Cusith rounded up nursing mothers to take back to Faerie to feed their children milk, but with the mothers being found mostly eaten, I’m guessing that’s a myth.”
“Hhmmm,” Dean murmured, “No babies? Who knew dogs wouldn’t like human veal?”
Sam snorted, choking on a french fry as he blindly reached for his water. Taking a long drink, he coughed, “You are twisted sometimes, Dean. You know that?” Sam grinned across the table at his brother, relieved to have Dean being Dean again. He knew it was an act, but at least Dean was trying.
Dean smirked back at him, taking a bite out of his burger. “It’s why you love me, Sammy,” he replied, smiling widely with his cheeks stuffed full of food.
Sam rolled his eyes, sinking back in the booth with a contented sigh, hoping they could avoid fate for while and not find their father - because killing him would almost certainly kill something in Dean that Sam didn’t want to see snuffed out for good.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“I miss the city,” Illyria said softly, a hint of confusion on her still face. “Too many mortals, but I…fit in better.” She stared out of the window of the motel room, screened behind the gauze drapes, watching a family loading up their car with an absent curiosity.
John glanced up at Illyria’s frozen figure, the front of her body lit by the setting sun seeping milkily through the curtains, her back fading into the blackness of the room. He rose slowly from the bed to stand behind her, his breath brushing her cheek as he watched the family with her. Illyria continued, “Surrounded by hundreds of thousands and I did not know a single one.” She lowered her gaze, her eyes glinting with annoyance. “Out here, the mortals actually talk at me.”
John reached up, lightly resting his hand on her shoulder, his eyes following the two little boys playing tag in the parking lot as their parents stowed suitcases in the trunk. “We’re still just as lost out here,” he assured her with a hint of sadness. “No one will remember us beyond a couple of days.”
The brown-haired little boy stopped in front of their window, smiling at John with unguarded innocence before his eyes fell on the intimidating figure of Illyria beside him, the boy’s mouth falling open in astonishment. The little boy turned and ran back towards his car, stopping once near the safety of his family, pausing to wave hesitantly at the shadowy figures still standing behind the shaded glass. John waved back solemnly before snapping the heavy curtains closed, leaving the room ensconced in the growing darkness. Illyria tilted her face towards John, studying the tight lines around his eyes before saying, “He will remember you, John Winchester.”
“Maybe,” John murmured softly. “Or will he remember the monster I was with?” John turned his face to hers, smiling gently at Illyria to ease the harshness of his words, and drew her away from the outside world towards the sanctuary of their bed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dean pulled into the lot of the Red Robin Inn, parking in front of the office and punching Sam on the arm. “Your turn…sign us in.” Sam shook his head in disbelief, unfolding his long legs from the car as Dean turned up the radio.
Sam came back moments later, looking peaked in the dim light of the Impala. “Room 6,” he muttered roughly, his hands hidden in the pockets of his hoodie.
Dean shrugged, driving over to the spot in front of their room, parking next to a hideous orange-red Jeep with floral decals. He slammed the door shut, pausing to whistle at the garish vehicle situated next to his Impala. “What the hell? Scooby Doo stayin’ here?” Dean snorted. “Don’t worry, baby,” he murmured under his breath. “Only makes you look prettier.” With a comforting pat on the Impala’s hood, Dean headed for the room, waiting for Sam to pull out the key. “Get your ass over here, Sam!” he called out, eyeing his brother with impatience when he saw he was still seated in the car.
The blank look on Sam’s face evaporated and he looked almost…frightened? Dean glanced around, feeling uneasy, his hand reaching instinctively for the gun hidden at the small of his back. Sam lumbered up, shushing him, pressing him against the door as he clumsily fit the key into the lock, both brothers spilling into the darkened room.
“Quiet!” Sam whispered loudly, shutting the door silently behind him and tripping over Dean’s feet.
Dean grabbed Sam by the shoulders, unsuccessfully trying to meet his unfocused gaze in the dark before shaking him roughly. “What the fuck is it, Sam? Calm down!”
Sam collapsed on the bed, his breath coming a little fast for Dean’s liking. Dean flipped on the bedside lamp and sat cautiously beside his brother, a light hand falling on Sam’s shoulder. “I almost don’t want you to know, Dean. It’s too soon.” Sam laughed, rubbing a hand across his forehead before pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket and unfolding it in the dim light of the lamp. “It’s the registry for the motel - who signed in, what room they’re staying in.” He passed it over to Dean, Sam’s hand brushing his brother’s in reassurance. “It’s Dad - we’ve found him…and he’s staying next door.”
Dean first glanced at Sam in something like denial before allowing his eyes to drop to the paper in his hand. There was their father’s familiar scrawl, taking over the paper just as his presence had tended to fill a room - always bigger than those surrounding it, as if needing to overwhelm them into submission. Then Dean squinted, seeing it, but not quite believing it. His tongue felt thick in his mouth. “This is some kind of joke, Sam.”
Sam nodded, knowing what his brother meant. “It’s Dad, Dean. It is. That’s his signature.”
“No fuckin’ way,” Dean demurred, crumpling the paper in his hand. “’Cause according to this, our dead father is married.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Winchester,” Sam agreed dully, falling back on the bed before erupting into a subdued laugh. “Dad never was one to do what was normal, was he?” Sam chuckled breathlessly, turning to look up at Dean from his prone position on the bed. “Only he could come back from Hell married, of all things.”
Dean shrugged, his mouth a tight line. “Well, at least we know it’s not Mom.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~
“So what’s the plan?” Sam asked hesitantly. “We can’t just go in with guns blazing like some kind of western.”
Dean slammed the clip into place, his face unreadable. “I have to be sure, Sam. Reconnaissance, then…whatever.”
Dean stalked towards the door, hesitating with his hand on the knob when Sam asked in disbelief, “Reconnaissance? We’re going to follow him? Dad?”
Dean snorted, “Don’t be stupid, Sam. Dad could kick our asses on an outdoors hunt.” He tucked the gun within easy reach in his waistband, flipping the tail of his shirt to hide it. “We approach him where we have the advantage - inside.”
A small smile edged onto Sam’s face. “All that training in small motel rooms growing up did help us with that,” he agreed. “Best indoor tag team duo in the business.”
“One vote in our favor,” Dean pointed out as they stepped through the door, “…do you honestly think Dad would be caught dead driving that…thing?” Dean gestured at the orange Jeep with disgust. “It’s not even black! And it’s got stickers!”
Sam laughed, a surprised burst of sound. “Maybe being dead has mellowed him a little.”
“Or maybe being married did it,” Dean chuckled, trying to hold on for his brother. With a determined breath, Dean raised his hand and knocked sharply on the door of room 5.
TO BE CONTINUED...