FIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIC, FIC FIC FIC.
Apr. 2nd, 2007 01:15 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
redfirecrackerSo apparently, I'm actually writing an SPN / Underworld crossover. I didn't expect it when I discovered it along with the rest of you at the end of part 1, and it seems even more improbable now that it did when I started. Besides, didn't someone else write one of those recently? Or maybe I'm thinking of an SGA / Underworld crossover. Oh, whatever. I get everything so confused, and the fannish hivemind all seems to generate similar stories across fandom lines.
Hm. So, this seems to have decided to take place after the first movie. I haven't seen the second, so who knows what's going to get jossed as I go along.
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2 / ?
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Dean has become a hunter, again, spending six months creating what amounts to an elite death squad for Kraven.
Something in the back of his damaged mind whispers, It’s like the Special Forces of the undead, and he wants to laugh, but there’s no one with whom to share the joke.
Dean doesn’t like to admit it, but he’s lonely.
Kraven treats him like a favorite pet, alternately lavishing Dean with attention and, just as randomly, ignoring him for weeks at a time. He seldom misses a chance to remind Dean of how much he owes to the coven leader, and Dean doesn’t remember enough of anything to make him disagree.
There’s no one in the coven he can trust to be anything other than opportunistic. They’re all too wary of his sudden, meteoric rise to power. Dean is quickly becoming tired of watching his back and his words.
Erica, blond and beautiful, is in his rooms when he arrives that evening. She leaps and clings to the ceiling, hissing and spitting like a startled cat, as Dean enters.
He unholsters his weapons, lays them gently on the table he uses as a desk. “Come down from there,” he says easily. “And you can tell me what you’re doing in my rooms.”
Supernatural reflexes make for a graceful fall, and Erica is standing cautiously on the rich Oriental carpet seconds later. “My lord Kraven desires your presence tonight at his side,” she says carefully. The phrasing she’s chosen indicates that it’s not a request. “I’ve brought your garments.”
Dean turns away so that he can roll his eyes without being seen, and spots the outfit in question. Kraven’s usual sorts of choices: black leather pants, dark silk shirt. There’s a jacket this time, in black velvet, and Dean wonders what the occasion might be.
“I’m to help you prepare,” Erica adds cautiously. She’s one of the few Dean would accept for body services, and Kraven knows it. Dean had to do a good deal of damage before most of the sycophants would leave him be, and there’s no way he would tolerate those who had forced his jaws open and used him publicly before his promotion.
Dean sighs and waves her to the bath to begin her preparations while he stores his firearms. The blades go with him into the bath, just in case, although he doubts that Erica has the nerve to make a power play so dramatic. She craves the attention and approval of their coven leader too much to risk his anger.
The hot water feels wonderful against his chilled skin, and Dean can’t help a sigh of relief. Crouching for hours in the rain and the wind doesn’t cause him the same physical problems that it would a human, but it remains an unpleasant experience.
Erica’s fingers are nimble as she soaps his hair. “Were you hunting Lycans again, Dean?”
He splashes water against his face to buy himself a second of time to think. Her question sounds casual, like chatter with a barber or a clerk, but Dean has learned the hard way to trust no one but himself in this place.
When he’s satisfied that he can make an answer that shouldn’t rouse any suspicions, wherever Erica might run with it, he says, “Yes, I’ve been tracking Lycan activity for my lord Kraven, as he instructed.”
“Oh,” Erica replies. She doesn’t seem too bright sometimes. It takes her a moment to ask, “So there’s to be a war, then?”
Dean makes himself shrug. He’s not certain how much of what he knows is common knowledge, and he won’t betray Kraven by gossiping with a silly girl, even if she is several hundred years older than he is. “I do what I’m told,” he answers shortly.
Erica reaches for the shaving mug and brush and begins to work up a rich lather. Dean was turned with a few days’ worth of stubble and now will forever have to have someone shave him. It’s a shame that one of the few bits of true vampire mythology is the lack of reflection.
She works the foam into Dean’s face and neck, and then reaches for the safety razor that Dean insists she use. He wouldn’t trust anyone with an open blade at his throat, and if he loses enough blood, it can weaken him enough so that he could be easily finished off with an attack to head or heart.
Erica knows enough, now, not to argue with him about it.
The scrape and drag of the razor is soothing, and Dean relaxes, barely paying attention to her words, until something makes him sit up straight in the bath and seize Erica’s wrist. “What did you say?”
She drops her eyes and whimpers in pain. Dean tightens his grip, reminding her without words that he could fracture her bones if he squeezed a little tighter. Erica has always been fragile; this is why Kraven will never bed her and run the risk of weakening the bloodline.
“I said only that in the last war, Lucian almost killed Kraven, but our lord took the Lycan’s life despite his injuries.”
“Lucian,” Dean repeats. The name is like the toll of a great bell, deep within the recesses of his ruined mind. “Who is he, exactly?”
Erica tugs a little, testing his grip and looking panicked. Dean eases his fingers, but doesn’t let go. “You haven’t finished,” he points out. “My lord Kraven will be unhappy.”
The implicit threat loosens her tongue, as Dean had hoped, and as she scrambles with her free hand to finish shaving him, Erica babbles mindlessly. There’s much that Dean doesn’t understand, but then, he can’t remember his own biography, let alone a thousand years of vampire history.
When he dismisses Erica later, after he is properly prepared and dressed, he thinks that the manor’s library might be a good place to start.
After all, doesn’t every good hunt benefit from some research?
Hm. So, this seems to have decided to take place after the first movie. I haven't seen the second, so who knows what's going to get jossed as I go along.
************************
2 / ?
************************
Dean has become a hunter, again, spending six months creating what amounts to an elite death squad for Kraven.
Something in the back of his damaged mind whispers, It’s like the Special Forces of the undead, and he wants to laugh, but there’s no one with whom to share the joke.
Dean doesn’t like to admit it, but he’s lonely.
Kraven treats him like a favorite pet, alternately lavishing Dean with attention and, just as randomly, ignoring him for weeks at a time. He seldom misses a chance to remind Dean of how much he owes to the coven leader, and Dean doesn’t remember enough of anything to make him disagree.
There’s no one in the coven he can trust to be anything other than opportunistic. They’re all too wary of his sudden, meteoric rise to power. Dean is quickly becoming tired of watching his back and his words.
Erica, blond and beautiful, is in his rooms when he arrives that evening. She leaps and clings to the ceiling, hissing and spitting like a startled cat, as Dean enters.
He unholsters his weapons, lays them gently on the table he uses as a desk. “Come down from there,” he says easily. “And you can tell me what you’re doing in my rooms.”
Supernatural reflexes make for a graceful fall, and Erica is standing cautiously on the rich Oriental carpet seconds later. “My lord Kraven desires your presence tonight at his side,” she says carefully. The phrasing she’s chosen indicates that it’s not a request. “I’ve brought your garments.”
Dean turns away so that he can roll his eyes without being seen, and spots the outfit in question. Kraven’s usual sorts of choices: black leather pants, dark silk shirt. There’s a jacket this time, in black velvet, and Dean wonders what the occasion might be.
“I’m to help you prepare,” Erica adds cautiously. She’s one of the few Dean would accept for body services, and Kraven knows it. Dean had to do a good deal of damage before most of the sycophants would leave him be, and there’s no way he would tolerate those who had forced his jaws open and used him publicly before his promotion.
Dean sighs and waves her to the bath to begin her preparations while he stores his firearms. The blades go with him into the bath, just in case, although he doubts that Erica has the nerve to make a power play so dramatic. She craves the attention and approval of their coven leader too much to risk his anger.
The hot water feels wonderful against his chilled skin, and Dean can’t help a sigh of relief. Crouching for hours in the rain and the wind doesn’t cause him the same physical problems that it would a human, but it remains an unpleasant experience.
Erica’s fingers are nimble as she soaps his hair. “Were you hunting Lycans again, Dean?”
He splashes water against his face to buy himself a second of time to think. Her question sounds casual, like chatter with a barber or a clerk, but Dean has learned the hard way to trust no one but himself in this place.
When he’s satisfied that he can make an answer that shouldn’t rouse any suspicions, wherever Erica might run with it, he says, “Yes, I’ve been tracking Lycan activity for my lord Kraven, as he instructed.”
“Oh,” Erica replies. She doesn’t seem too bright sometimes. It takes her a moment to ask, “So there’s to be a war, then?”
Dean makes himself shrug. He’s not certain how much of what he knows is common knowledge, and he won’t betray Kraven by gossiping with a silly girl, even if she is several hundred years older than he is. “I do what I’m told,” he answers shortly.
Erica reaches for the shaving mug and brush and begins to work up a rich lather. Dean was turned with a few days’ worth of stubble and now will forever have to have someone shave him. It’s a shame that one of the few bits of true vampire mythology is the lack of reflection.
She works the foam into Dean’s face and neck, and then reaches for the safety razor that Dean insists she use. He wouldn’t trust anyone with an open blade at his throat, and if he loses enough blood, it can weaken him enough so that he could be easily finished off with an attack to head or heart.
Erica knows enough, now, not to argue with him about it.
The scrape and drag of the razor is soothing, and Dean relaxes, barely paying attention to her words, until something makes him sit up straight in the bath and seize Erica’s wrist. “What did you say?”
She drops her eyes and whimpers in pain. Dean tightens his grip, reminding her without words that he could fracture her bones if he squeezed a little tighter. Erica has always been fragile; this is why Kraven will never bed her and run the risk of weakening the bloodline.
“I said only that in the last war, Lucian almost killed Kraven, but our lord took the Lycan’s life despite his injuries.”
“Lucian,” Dean repeats. The name is like the toll of a great bell, deep within the recesses of his ruined mind. “Who is he, exactly?”
Erica tugs a little, testing his grip and looking panicked. Dean eases his fingers, but doesn’t let go. “You haven’t finished,” he points out. “My lord Kraven will be unhappy.”
The implicit threat loosens her tongue, as Dean had hoped, and as she scrambles with her free hand to finish shaving him, Erica babbles mindlessly. There’s much that Dean doesn’t understand, but then, he can’t remember his own biography, let alone a thousand years of vampire history.
When he dismisses Erica later, after he is properly prepared and dressed, he thinks that the manor’s library might be a good place to start.
After all, doesn’t every good hunt benefit from some research?
