I was all, "What should I post next?" and you answered and unknowingly gave me an idea to write a Crossover for your birthday. See how tricky I am? (I say that like I had it all planned out in my evil lair and didn't just accidentally make this all work together at the last second).
This was not my first idea for this crossover, as there was meant to be more to it. But when I got to the line at the end here, I knew the story was over. Still, I may someday write more, since there are some scenes I really wanted to get to.
X-Men/SPN Crossover - non-specific to X-Men movie or comic-verse, Logan's POV with Angst, AU, Hurt/Comfort, Gen - Rated PG and 1,253 words.
Logan’s dealing with his own pain, when he finds an injured man in the woods.
Author: The Artful Dodger / dodger_sister
Category: Angst, AU (altered reality), Crossover, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Characters/Pairing: Logan & Castiel
Spoilers: I guess some for various X-Men verses, but nothing any X-Men fan doesn’t pretty much know from birth. This isn’t really movie or comic-based, since it all blends together in my head.
Summary: Logan’s dealing with his own pain, when he finds an injured man in the woods.
Word Count: 1,253 words.
Date Written: 04/25/2011
Disclaimer: “X-Men” belongs to Stan Lee and Marvel. “Supernatural” belongs to Eric Kripke and The CW Network. I am none of those people. I did write this story and it yet here I am still poor.
Feedback: Bring it. dodger_sister / TheArtofDodger@comcast.net
Beta’d: Yes, by the awesome liptonrm, fastest turn around ever, probably helped by the fact that she was in my kitchen. Thanks to her with hearts and stuff!
Author's Notes: So, it was vikingprincess’s birthday. I recently asked my LJ, “Hey, what should I post this weekend?” and she replied, “SPN Crossover!” and then I realized it was her birthday soon. So I was going to write Castiel meets Spike, Xander and Dawn in a post-apocalyptic world. Then I thought instead I’d try Logan and Castiel meet and go on a road-trip. This is neither of those stories. This was how the road-trip fic started and I would have kept writing to the road-trip itself, but when I got to the last line, I knew I was at the end. So perhaps someday I shall write a sequel about what happens next. We shall see. This was great because a) I hadn’t written anything over 1,000 words in months and b) I hadn’t written Logan in years and c) Logan’s voice and Castiel’s voice are distinctly different and yet I think the tone of the story is a good mix of both.
Dedication: vikingprincess, for your birthday, I give you this story. Because you have been an awesome friend to talk to about all things geeky and you rock. Happy Birthday!
Logan had never stayed in one place for long. Didn’t like feeling confined.
“Domesticated,” Scott had said with a smile.
That school had made Logan feel confined, made him want out, want to move and roam and be free.
But the people there had needed him and Logan had liked that.
Sometimes he convinced himself that Jean had needed him too, even if she really hadn’t.
Didn’t matter, she was gone now, wasn’t coming back and as far Logan was concerned, neither was he.
The stretch of road was endless, splayed out before him and he drove with the windows down, hoping the crisp air would help to loosen some of the weight that had settled in his chest since the day they had lost Jean.
Still, he drove on, winding paths and trees on all sides, eyes focused on the road ahead.
It was there, in the middle of nothing but God’s green earth, that Logan caught something else, a sharp slap of an all too familiar scent.
It was human.
And it was dying.
He found the man about a hundred and fifty yards into the deep woods, just kept pushing his way through, following on instinct.
The man was spread out on his back, one leg twisted in a way that made Logan think broken, head lolled to the side. He was stark naked and as pale as Death and Logan knew that whatever had happened here, it had been nothing good. When Logan approached, slowly, with a few gentle, hey bubs, he could see the stuttering breath in the rise and fall of the man’s stomach.
He crouched down, reached out a tentative hand.
“If you can hear me, I’m not gonna hurt ya’,” and then he was pressing his hand to the man’s pulse point. It was weak but existent and there was still color in the man’s cheeks.
“Just…try to stay unconscious while I move ya’. Hurt less.”
Then he was scooping the man up, listening to the soft, nearly imperceptible sound as the bone in the twisted leg made its final break.
They were too many miles from anything, certainly no hospitals, and Logan wasn’t sure the man was going to live that long anyway.
He laid him out in the back of the truck’s covered bed, in the living space with the pile of blankets and the rest of Logan’s life stuffed away in a few duffels. He rummaged around until he found a washcloth and then took some of his drinking water and wet it.
He washed the dirt and mud from the man’s face, scrubbed it softly through his short dark hair.
The man whimpered, moved his mouth in his sleep, but no words came forth.
“It’s okay, bub, I got ya’.”
The man was cleaned up as best Logan could manage, staying clear of the injured leg, and then covered in every blanket he had. His breathing seemed to stutter less and less, but Logan’s biggest concern was that the only color the man had anywhere was in his cheeks.
He ought to drive, try to get them somewhere, but he kept thinking about the man waking up, in the back of some strange truck, in pain and unable to see where he was or who he was with.
He couldn’t bring himself to leave the man’s side.
Ororo had tried to give him a cell-phone when he’d left, less than a week after Jean’s death. Logan had thrown it against a wall.
He wished now that he hadn’t.
The sound of the man’s voice was startling.
Logan jerked from his half-doze, the warmth in the back of the truck having lulled him into sleep.
“Dean,” the man said, and it was less a word than a noise, strangled up and out of him, like something wretched was pulling it from his gut.
The man was still unconscious, sweating and jerking in a state of restless fever dreams.
“Dean,” he said again and he sounded far away, lost and desperate.
Logan didn’t know if he should answer, so instead he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder and left it there until he had settled once more.
He cleaned the man again, slower the second time, not just washing away the sweat but letting the cold cloth work against the fever.
It was then, moving his hand in slow swoops across the man’s chest, eyes watching for pain or injuries unseen, that he noticed the raised scar, ever so slight and yet fully healed.
A strange symbol etched into the man’s skin, like it was carved and burned at the same time. It was barely visible, almost not even there, like it belonged to some long ago time and only this body was left to show it had been real.
Logan briefly wondered what the Professor would make of it, this strange symbol.
He wondered what the Professor would make of Logan washing the sweat from this man with nothing but soft touches and hope.
Especially since not so long ago, Logan had been adamant to the Professor that hope never got you anything, when there was nothing left to hope for anyways.
The sweep of the washcloth across the white mark of the scar brought a soft pained, “Sam,” from the man.
Logan moved away from the area, up and over his shoulder, relaxing in the steady beat of the man’s heart.
He got some water into the man every so often, tiny little drips so as not to choke him.
When the man started pressing his lips together after each sip, dry and cracked and bleeding, Logan would rub a gentle wet finger across them until he opened his mouth and Logan could offer him more.
His tongue would come out, the slightest tip of pink, searching, lapping up every drop.
It was the first word the man said that wasn’t Sam or the fever induced mantra of Dean.
Sixteen hours in, the man finally opened his eyes.
Logan was reading some book Bobby had left in the back of the truck after a supply run. It wasn’t good, something about vampires, but it had been better than watching the slow movement of time by the breath of the man at his feet.
Logan’s head snapped up, because it wasn’t a moan of pain or a ramble of incoherence. It was a question, inflection and tone clearly present.
He was blinking, attempting to take in his surroundings and when he locked eyes with Logan there was nothing but blue and depth, and Logan felt suddenly young and small.
“Dean? Sam?” the man asked again and looked nervous, tongue flicking out to lick his swollen lips.
Logan offered him the water bottle, pressed it to his lips and let him drink his fill.
“I don’t know where Dean and Sam are,” he said, because he knew enough to keep the man calm. “But we’ll figure that out in a bit. I’m Logan.”
“Castiel,” and he was tilting his head, looking at Logan like he was searching for something under the surface.
Logan knew what was under his surface and he didn’t need this man to see.
“You got hurt pretty bad,” he said instead.
The man - Castiel - looked around the bed of the truck.
“Must have been a hell of a fall.”
Yes,” Castiel replied and locked wide unblinking eyes on Logan. “Yes, it was.”