![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mific posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
stargateficrecShow: SGA/SG1/Supernatural/Cthulhu Mythos
Rec Category: Apocafic
Characters: Dean Winchester/John Sheppard, Rodney McKay/John Sheppard, Sam Winchester, Teyla Emmagen, Ronon Dex, Samantha Carter, Daniel Jackson.
Categories: slash
Warnings: Usual apocafic warnings and Graphic Depictions Of Violence, but no Major Character Death.
Author on DW:seperis
Author's Website: See the AO3
Link: And All the World Beneath on AO3
His body's used to being alert, automatically listening while he cleans his guns, keeping inventory in some part of his mind; what he can replace, what he can't, what he can live without, what he can trade for, fight for, build for himself. The rhythm's always been soothing, a slow trance of automation and habit, maybe too much, maybe too long, when there's a whisper of sound so close he can feel the hairs rise on the back of his neck, a shivering consciousness of something--
He's already on his knees, gun pointed at the thin body posed at the doorway; to his surprise, there's already a gun aimed at him.
There aren't many of Dean Winchester's caliber left anymore.
There are reasons he's still alive.
Dean sucks a breath between his teeth, keeping his finger hovering over the trigger. "Who are you?"
The guy doesn't move; Jesus, can't even tell he's breathing, close as he is, grey-dusted shirt of indeterminate color, grey pants, and the blank look of an animal that doesn't know it's been shot. Dean thinks back; he set salt, set the door. Probably human, then. "Who. Are. You?"
The man licks his lips. From here, Dean can see the almost imperceptible tremble in the gun hand, mind cataloguing the weaknesses like his father had taught him--gaunt cheeks, too-straight stance, but there's something else that makes Dean hesitate to pull the trigger. Human. Human. It's been too long.
Christ, it's been too long. Probably too long for this guy, too. He hasn't shot yet, either, which Dean has to consider a plus.
"Dean Winchester," Dean says slowly. He's been out too long, away from other hunters; groups call attention, and Dean's never liked attention. "You?"
The man doesn't answer; it would be just Dean's luck to finally find people and the fucker doesn't even speak English. "Me llamo Dean?" he tries warily, thinking of Nuevo Laredo only three miles away. His Spanish sucks outside protection spells.
The guy doesn't answer for a moment, and Dean can feel sweat pop up beneath his palm, cold and slick. He doesn't kill humans, people, but a Mexican standoff always ends in someone on the ground, and Dean's not going to be that someone.
"Sheppard," the guy says slowly, like he's not sure how to speak, voice a thick drawl that bleeds Midwest by way of Texas.
Dean can feel the sudden flare of attention like a spotlight, eyes crawling across his body from head to toe. Dean's vividly aware of the dried blood on his jeans, the holes in his shirt that he hasn't bothered to replace, uncut hair, a messy shave after a run-in with a harpy in Philadelphia. The eyes flicker at the scars--his hand, his arm, the long infected and barely healed scrape down the side of his throat, pulsing red and uneven even in the dimmest light. They're the marks of who he is, of what he is, more indelible than his name has ever been.
Slowly, the other man's gun comes down. "I'm--looking for antibiotics."
Rec Category: Apocafic
Characters: Dean Winchester/John Sheppard, Rodney McKay/John Sheppard, Sam Winchester, Teyla Emmagen, Ronon Dex, Samantha Carter, Daniel Jackson.
Categories: slash
Warnings: Usual apocafic warnings and Graphic Depictions Of Violence, but no Major Character Death.
Author on DW:
seperis Author's Website: See the AO3
Link: And All the World Beneath on AO3
Why This Must Be Read: This is one of my absolute faves, a sprawling AU post-apocalyptic road-trip in a blasted, demon-riddled Earth. Seperis weaves the canons together incredibly well, and it's gripping and dramatic, at times horrifying, building to a very satisfying resolution and with great characterization. Highly recommended.
His body's used to being alert, automatically listening while he cleans his guns, keeping inventory in some part of his mind; what he can replace, what he can't, what he can live without, what he can trade for, fight for, build for himself. The rhythm's always been soothing, a slow trance of automation and habit, maybe too much, maybe too long, when there's a whisper of sound so close he can feel the hairs rise on the back of his neck, a shivering consciousness of something--
He's already on his knees, gun pointed at the thin body posed at the doorway; to his surprise, there's already a gun aimed at him.
There aren't many of Dean Winchester's caliber left anymore.
There are reasons he's still alive.
Dean sucks a breath between his teeth, keeping his finger hovering over the trigger. "Who are you?"
The guy doesn't move; Jesus, can't even tell he's breathing, close as he is, grey-dusted shirt of indeterminate color, grey pants, and the blank look of an animal that doesn't know it's been shot. Dean thinks back; he set salt, set the door. Probably human, then. "Who. Are. You?"
The man licks his lips. From here, Dean can see the almost imperceptible tremble in the gun hand, mind cataloguing the weaknesses like his father had taught him--gaunt cheeks, too-straight stance, but there's something else that makes Dean hesitate to pull the trigger. Human. Human. It's been too long.
Christ, it's been too long. Probably too long for this guy, too. He hasn't shot yet, either, which Dean has to consider a plus.
"Dean Winchester," Dean says slowly. He's been out too long, away from other hunters; groups call attention, and Dean's never liked attention. "You?"
The man doesn't answer; it would be just Dean's luck to finally find people and the fucker doesn't even speak English. "Me llamo Dean?" he tries warily, thinking of Nuevo Laredo only three miles away. His Spanish sucks outside protection spells.
The guy doesn't answer for a moment, and Dean can feel sweat pop up beneath his palm, cold and slick. He doesn't kill humans, people, but a Mexican standoff always ends in someone on the ground, and Dean's not going to be that someone.
"Sheppard," the guy says slowly, like he's not sure how to speak, voice a thick drawl that bleeds Midwest by way of Texas.
Dean can feel the sudden flare of attention like a spotlight, eyes crawling across his body from head to toe. Dean's vividly aware of the dried blood on his jeans, the holes in his shirt that he hasn't bothered to replace, uncut hair, a messy shave after a run-in with a harpy in Philadelphia. The eyes flicker at the scars--his hand, his arm, the long infected and barely healed scrape down the side of his throat, pulsing red and uneven even in the dimmest light. They're the marks of who he is, of what he is, more indelible than his name has ever been.
Slowly, the other man's gun comes down. "I'm--looking for antibiotics."
no subject
Date: 2019-04-25 05:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-04-26 10:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-04-25 05:32 pm (UTC)+1
no subject
Date: 2019-04-26 10:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-04-25 08:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2019-04-26 10:49 am (UTC)