SPN Fic: Finding Elrond 2/5 + Epilogue
Nov. 15th, 2007 11:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shallowzTitle: Finding Elrond
Author: shallowz
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG13
Characters: Dean, Sam
Warnings/spoilers: Faith, Houses of the Holy, Born Under a Bad Sign (possibly others)
Word count: around 2,400
Disclaimer: This story is based on the characters and premises of many talented people. Essentially, not ours, no profit being made, etc. This is just for fun.
Summary: Sam has a leg wound that won’t heal, and Dean’s inspired by one of his usual resources for finding a cure.
Authors' Note: Happy Birthday,harrigan! This is for you.:) Many thanks to erinruafor betaing this fic!
Part One
Author: shallowz
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG13
Characters: Dean, Sam
Warnings/spoilers: Faith, Houses of the Holy, Born Under a Bad Sign (possibly others)
Word count: around 2,400
Disclaimer: This story is based on the characters and premises of many talented people. Essentially, not ours, no profit being made, etc. This is just for fun.
Summary: Sam has a leg wound that won’t heal, and Dean’s inspired by one of his usual resources for finding a cure.
Authors' Note: Happy Birthday,
harrigan! This is for you.:) Many thanks to erinruafor betaing this fic!Part One
Part Two
It was 3:24 in the morning when Dean pulled the Impala onto the shoulder. He swallowed the last of the now cold Quickie Mart coffee he’d bought some hundred miles back, and tossed the empty cup over to the passenger side floor. His shoulders ached, he had a tension headache, and his eyes were so gritty he had washed them out at the last gas station. While it didn’t seem to help his eyes, the highly chlorinated scent of the water remained, keeping his sense of smell busy.
Being overtired always made his sense of smell acute. Made all his senses a little intense. Fingertips rubbing his eyelids, he grimaced, and would have killed for a long, hot shower.
He was way past tired and moving into stupid.
Twisting his neck from side to side, Dean looked down at the map spread out on the seat beside him. Flipping on the small maglite, he found the last two X’s he had made on the map to mark where he had been and where he expected to be now.
And couldn’t focus even a little bit.
With a growl, he leaned over to the glove compartment to dig out the magnifying glass and held it over the map.
“Hey, grandpa,” came with a soft snicker from the back seat.
Sam would wake up now.
“Don’t make fun of the guy who just drank the last of his coffee with no more in sight for the next 50 miles.”
“We there yet?”
Dean hung his head. Pain meds always did make Sam more of a smart ass.
“Got another four hours.”
“What time is it?”
“About 3:30.”
“Think I could have some more of those stolen goods?”
Dean shot a look over the seat, flashing the light low so it wouldn’t hit his brother in the eyes.
“Yeah, hold on.” Dean scrabbled across the front seat to locate the pill bottle. It was a little early, but Sam’s expression was enough to convey that waiting wasn’t an option.
Twisting around, Dean held the pill out. “Open up, little birdie.”
Sam rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. Dean uncapped a bottle of water and held it to Sam’s mouth. After Sam took a couple of swallows, his hand unexpectedly gripped Dean’s wrist.
“Dude, shaking. What’s up?” Sam demanded.
“Just wired. Got the Big Cuppa at the last stop,” Dean replied recapping the bottle and turning back around. “Strong stuff. It’d even grow hair on your chest, Sammy.”
“My chest is manly enough. Your jealousy is showing. Careful,” Sam chided, head sinking back into the pillows.
“Jealous-?“ Dean’s indignation stopped after hearing another soft snicker, realized where the conversation was heading, and wanted to slam his forehead on the steering wheel.
Straight into stupid.
A soft snore sounded from the back seat.
Dean made note of where he was and where he wanted to be; unaware he was smiling when he eased the car back out onto the highway.
-------
At the end of the Winchesters’ destination, Elliot Walsh waited with no small amount of trepidation and cautious curiosity. He knew he wasn’t ready for another client, but there was something about the caller’s voice that had him saying, “yes, I’ll take look,” instead of hanging up like any reasonable person would after the fallout from his last case. It was going to take a while to get his front yard back in shape.
Since that phone conversation, he’d called himself all kinds of an idiot. He lived alone. This could be more trouble, and he’d invited it upon himself.
But there had been that something in the caller’s voice.
He’d known that people could and would react badly when things went wrong. His many and varied teachers from around the world had told him that. It didn’t matter the culture; people were essentially the same. There were always a few that could twist and turn anything into something ugly and wrong.
But he had hoped once he had settled into his quiet corner of the world that he could avoid seeing that again. And for the most part, he had.
The last month had brought up his old doubts and fears about the choices he had made. He accepted that he was naturally intuitive, had a good dose of common sense, and had a touch of something that brought people to his door. He was also old enough to know that sometimes it wasn’t enough.
But he’d said yes, and had been vacillating between hopeful and irritable since he’d hung up the phone.
Once again, he stopped himself from ruminating and picking at the loose threads on the fraying cuffs of his sweater. Good or bad decision, he was getting company soon, and if the rumbling sound of a car was any indication, his company had just arrived.
Shoving all negative and troubling thoughts aside, he moved out to his singed front porch for a first glimpse of his visitors. Reminding himself to keep an open mind, he concentrated on why he had said yes in the first place.
The well-kept classic idled up the rough driveway in a manner that suggested care for the car as well as the passengers within. It was the type of car that either made you nervous or drool with envy.
The vehicle eased to stop in front of the house, and Elliot could make out the driver as he turned to look towards the back seat where another figure reclined. The driver’s arm went back to touch the other before abruptly climbing out of the car.
Initial impression of the short haired, leather jacket-wearing man? Driver fit the car.
“Elliot Walsh?”
“Yeah.” He thought he had done an admirable job of hiding his resignation until he saw the man’s eyes narrow.
“I called earlier, name’s Dean Winchester, my brother Sam’s in the back.”
Interested in spite of himself, Elliot found himself moving to the passenger side of the car. Opening the back door, he peered inside.
Sam was tall, taller than his brother, and drugged to his eyeballs. Elliot glanced at Dean, then back again at the brother.
“Gave him some Vicodin to take the edge off.” Dean said mildly.
“Looks like it worked.” Elliot looked at the long, lax body wondering just how to get the young man into his house. The leg looked bad. Bare from the thigh down, a soiled bandage peeked out from beneath the cut-off, worn sweats that had been sacrificed for the ease of caring for the wound. “How do you want to do this?”
“If you’ll take his legs, I’ll get behind him and ease him out.”
Elliot gave a nod as Dean moved to the back door. At Elliot’s touch, Sam’s eyes shot open, his arms shifting into a defensive position. Elliot made a mental note of the reaction, and stayed well out of range of those long limbs while he waited for the wounded man to orient himself.
“Wha-?”
Dean carefully opened the door Sam was resting against and used his body to keep Sam and the pillows from spilling out.
“Well, hey, sleeping beauty, just hang on. We’re getting you out of here.”
Slowly, Sam’s head swiveled around to look at Dean.
“And go where?”
Elliot’s mouth twitched upon hearing Sam’s suspicious tone. Dean just started removing pillows and tossing them into the front seat.
“Where you’re gonna get fixed up.”
“Not an answer.”
“Later.”
“Now.”
“Come on, Sam.”
“Dean.”
A muttered curse.
“This is Elliot Walsh. He’s known as a healer.”
Dead silence.
“Sam?”
“A healer.” Not a question.
“Sam, meet Mr. Elliot Walsh. Mr. Walsh, meet Sam.”
“Call me Elliot since I’m about to feel you up here.” He said dryly, wondering at the eyebrow raise Sam was giving him.
“Elliot Walsh, the healer.” Sam stated carefully, and then did a rather unexpected thing. He laughed.
“Yeah, the irony is a bitch.” Dean agreed.
Ain’t it just?
-------
Dean had a moment of weirdness meeting Walsh. The guy reminded him of the dude that’d portrayed Boromir in the Lord of the Rings movies. Not the character himself. That really would’ve hit the freaky meter out of the park, but the actual guy… whose name he couldn’t remember.
Walsh was a tall, lanky man with longish blond hair, green eyes, and a generous smile in rugged face. Walsh didn’t look at all healerish in his battered sweater and jeans. He looked like a regular guy, no hands raised to the heavens invoking God, and that sold Dean enough that he was willing to take a chance on him.
Walsh’s home seemed to fit the man. The drive was long and the house well away from the road, several miles from the nearest town, and trees hid the two and half story house from anyone driving by. The house itself looked like a candidate for a haunting given how old it must be. While well maintained, the house and its surroundings were isolated and indicated this wasn’t a place for someone who was raising a family or valued social interaction. This was someone who valued his privacy and needed his space.
As far as Dean was concerned, Walsh might as well have thrown out the welcome mat.
Still, Dean didn’t think that the scorch marks on the porch and the turned up yard were a sign that Walsh led a trouble free life. Not that Dean would let some vandalism stop him.
Besides… kinda out of options.
Sam was aware enough to get his good leg under him. With Dean on one side and Walsh on the other, they manhandled Sam up the few steps onto the porch. Sam’s stifled gasp let Dean know that the meds were wearing off. Walsh, in a strangely reassuring non-American accent, was running a smooth commentary about a comfortable bed large enough to fit Sam.
Much to Dean’s relief, the treatment room, which looked more like a nice guest room, was located on the ground floor on the south side of the house. A large window overlooked the backyard and revealed that Walsh must love gardening. Dean appreciated the view. Sam would like it. Give him something better to look at than the usual whacked out motel wallpaper.
And it smelled clean. Didn’t smell of hospital; didn’t smell of hotel. Smelled more of home, and while that particular thought ached, it reaffirmed Dean’s decision to bring Sam here.
“Sam, do you feel up to a shower?” Walsh was asking as they assisted Sam in sitting down on the bed. “The bathroom is through that door. The shower has a stool and a hand nozzle.”
Dean saw his brother perk up at the mention of a shower. With Sam weakening, they had only managed awkward sponge baths.
Seeing Sam’s indecision, Dean urged, “Come on, Sam, I’ll help. It’s not that weird.”
Sam raised a brow.
“Yeah, okay, it is. We’ll make it quick.”
Dean started removing his brother’s shoes, letting him know this was going to happen. Dean knew it was uncomfortable, but while they lived a life of nomads, that didn’t mean they lived dirty. John had instilled the policy that you get yourself clean every chance you got and the same with their clothes. Their possessions were few, but they were well kept, and that had a lot to do with John’s influence.
And seriously, it had been a couple of days since either of them had a shower. That was a couple of days too long. Walsh’s nose hairs were probably curling.
“I’m gonna get our bags.” Dean said, rising and pushing Sam’s shoes out of the way with his foot. “Be right back.”
-------
Sam watched his brother go, and Walsh came forward pulling up a small rolling stool to sit on.
“I’m going to take a look at this leg, all right?” He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows.
Sam nodded and wondered when Walsh had picked up a scissor. Wished his mind would clear enough to track things.
“Jus’ goin’ to cut this off.” Walsh gestured toward the soiled dressing. Sam nodded his consent.
“You all right with being here, Sam?”
“Yeah.” Even feeling as rotten as he did, he still couldn’t get over the humor of the situation. He was so going to be riding Dean over this one. Not all at once. This was an opportunity to be savored. “You all right with us being here?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“You’ve had trouble lately.” At Walsh’s look he elaborated. “Saw the yard and porch. Nice bit of vandalism.”
“A touch.” The healer admitted. “Thought you were too out of it to notice.”
“I’m not dead.” Sam muttered. Who could miss the ripped up yard and fire scorched porch? “Think you can help?”
“Don’t know until I have a look.” Walsh slid the scissor carefully under the bandage. “How long have you had this?”
Sam had to think about that. Think of today’s date, which he only knew because he’d asked Dean, work it back and came up with…
“Going on seven weeks.”
“Long time.”
Forever.
-------
Dean pulled out their duffle bags, but wisely left the weapons in the car except for the few he couldn’t bear to be without. Figured he didn’t need Sam’s lecture regarding the discourtesy of bringing firearms into your host’s house. He wasn’t completely oblivious to the niceties of the civilized world. He just didn’t always agree with them.
Better rude and prepared. That he could live with and often did. And he knew about Walsh’s troubles. Knew what absolute nut jobs so called normal people could be like when things didn’t go as expected.
Turning back to Walsh’s house, Dean felt the world wobble, and he reached out to steady himself on the Impala’s trunk. Too much all night driving, coffee, junk food, and little sleep had left him feeling shaky and disconnected.
“Come on,” he growled, slinging the bags over his shoulder and returning to the house.
Sammy needed a bath.
Never ask if life could get weirder. It always did.
Go to Part Three
It was 3:24 in the morning when Dean pulled the Impala onto the shoulder. He swallowed the last of the now cold Quickie Mart coffee he’d bought some hundred miles back, and tossed the empty cup over to the passenger side floor. His shoulders ached, he had a tension headache, and his eyes were so gritty he had washed them out at the last gas station. While it didn’t seem to help his eyes, the highly chlorinated scent of the water remained, keeping his sense of smell busy.
Being overtired always made his sense of smell acute. Made all his senses a little intense. Fingertips rubbing his eyelids, he grimaced, and would have killed for a long, hot shower.
He was way past tired and moving into stupid.
Twisting his neck from side to side, Dean looked down at the map spread out on the seat beside him. Flipping on the small maglite, he found the last two X’s he had made on the map to mark where he had been and where he expected to be now.
And couldn’t focus even a little bit.
With a growl, he leaned over to the glove compartment to dig out the magnifying glass and held it over the map.
“Hey, grandpa,” came with a soft snicker from the back seat.
Sam would wake up now.
“Don’t make fun of the guy who just drank the last of his coffee with no more in sight for the next 50 miles.”
“We there yet?”
Dean hung his head. Pain meds always did make Sam more of a smart ass.
“Got another four hours.”
“What time is it?”
“About 3:30.”
“Think I could have some more of those stolen goods?”
Dean shot a look over the seat, flashing the light low so it wouldn’t hit his brother in the eyes.
“Yeah, hold on.” Dean scrabbled across the front seat to locate the pill bottle. It was a little early, but Sam’s expression was enough to convey that waiting wasn’t an option.
Twisting around, Dean held the pill out. “Open up, little birdie.”
Sam rolled his eyes, but did as he was told. Dean uncapped a bottle of water and held it to Sam’s mouth. After Sam took a couple of swallows, his hand unexpectedly gripped Dean’s wrist.
“Dude, shaking. What’s up?” Sam demanded.
“Just wired. Got the Big Cuppa at the last stop,” Dean replied recapping the bottle and turning back around. “Strong stuff. It’d even grow hair on your chest, Sammy.”
“My chest is manly enough. Your jealousy is showing. Careful,” Sam chided, head sinking back into the pillows.
“Jealous-?“ Dean’s indignation stopped after hearing another soft snicker, realized where the conversation was heading, and wanted to slam his forehead on the steering wheel.
Straight into stupid.
A soft snore sounded from the back seat.
Dean made note of where he was and where he wanted to be; unaware he was smiling when he eased the car back out onto the highway.
-------
At the end of the Winchesters’ destination, Elliot Walsh waited with no small amount of trepidation and cautious curiosity. He knew he wasn’t ready for another client, but there was something about the caller’s voice that had him saying, “yes, I’ll take look,” instead of hanging up like any reasonable person would after the fallout from his last case. It was going to take a while to get his front yard back in shape.
Since that phone conversation, he’d called himself all kinds of an idiot. He lived alone. This could be more trouble, and he’d invited it upon himself.
But there had been that something in the caller’s voice.
He’d known that people could and would react badly when things went wrong. His many and varied teachers from around the world had told him that. It didn’t matter the culture; people were essentially the same. There were always a few that could twist and turn anything into something ugly and wrong.
But he had hoped once he had settled into his quiet corner of the world that he could avoid seeing that again. And for the most part, he had.
The last month had brought up his old doubts and fears about the choices he had made. He accepted that he was naturally intuitive, had a good dose of common sense, and had a touch of something that brought people to his door. He was also old enough to know that sometimes it wasn’t enough.
But he’d said yes, and had been vacillating between hopeful and irritable since he’d hung up the phone.
Once again, he stopped himself from ruminating and picking at the loose threads on the fraying cuffs of his sweater. Good or bad decision, he was getting company soon, and if the rumbling sound of a car was any indication, his company had just arrived.
Shoving all negative and troubling thoughts aside, he moved out to his singed front porch for a first glimpse of his visitors. Reminding himself to keep an open mind, he concentrated on why he had said yes in the first place.
The well-kept classic idled up the rough driveway in a manner that suggested care for the car as well as the passengers within. It was the type of car that either made you nervous or drool with envy.
The vehicle eased to stop in front of the house, and Elliot could make out the driver as he turned to look towards the back seat where another figure reclined. The driver’s arm went back to touch the other before abruptly climbing out of the car.
Initial impression of the short haired, leather jacket-wearing man? Driver fit the car.
“Elliot Walsh?”
“Yeah.” He thought he had done an admirable job of hiding his resignation until he saw the man’s eyes narrow.
“I called earlier, name’s Dean Winchester, my brother Sam’s in the back.”
Interested in spite of himself, Elliot found himself moving to the passenger side of the car. Opening the back door, he peered inside.
Sam was tall, taller than his brother, and drugged to his eyeballs. Elliot glanced at Dean, then back again at the brother.
“Gave him some Vicodin to take the edge off.” Dean said mildly.
“Looks like it worked.” Elliot looked at the long, lax body wondering just how to get the young man into his house. The leg looked bad. Bare from the thigh down, a soiled bandage peeked out from beneath the cut-off, worn sweats that had been sacrificed for the ease of caring for the wound. “How do you want to do this?”
“If you’ll take his legs, I’ll get behind him and ease him out.”
Elliot gave a nod as Dean moved to the back door. At Elliot’s touch, Sam’s eyes shot open, his arms shifting into a defensive position. Elliot made a mental note of the reaction, and stayed well out of range of those long limbs while he waited for the wounded man to orient himself.
“Wha-?”
Dean carefully opened the door Sam was resting against and used his body to keep Sam and the pillows from spilling out.
“Well, hey, sleeping beauty, just hang on. We’re getting you out of here.”
Slowly, Sam’s head swiveled around to look at Dean.
“And go where?”
Elliot’s mouth twitched upon hearing Sam’s suspicious tone. Dean just started removing pillows and tossing them into the front seat.
“Where you’re gonna get fixed up.”
“Not an answer.”
“Later.”
“Now.”
“Come on, Sam.”
“Dean.”
A muttered curse.
“This is Elliot Walsh. He’s known as a healer.”
Dead silence.
“Sam?”
“A healer.” Not a question.
“Sam, meet Mr. Elliot Walsh. Mr. Walsh, meet Sam.”
“Call me Elliot since I’m about to feel you up here.” He said dryly, wondering at the eyebrow raise Sam was giving him.
“Elliot Walsh, the healer.” Sam stated carefully, and then did a rather unexpected thing. He laughed.
“Yeah, the irony is a bitch.” Dean agreed.
Ain’t it just?
-------
Dean had a moment of weirdness meeting Walsh. The guy reminded him of the dude that’d portrayed Boromir in the Lord of the Rings movies. Not the character himself. That really would’ve hit the freaky meter out of the park, but the actual guy… whose name he couldn’t remember.
Walsh was a tall, lanky man with longish blond hair, green eyes, and a generous smile in rugged face. Walsh didn’t look at all healerish in his battered sweater and jeans. He looked like a regular guy, no hands raised to the heavens invoking God, and that sold Dean enough that he was willing to take a chance on him.
Walsh’s home seemed to fit the man. The drive was long and the house well away from the road, several miles from the nearest town, and trees hid the two and half story house from anyone driving by. The house itself looked like a candidate for a haunting given how old it must be. While well maintained, the house and its surroundings were isolated and indicated this wasn’t a place for someone who was raising a family or valued social interaction. This was someone who valued his privacy and needed his space.
As far as Dean was concerned, Walsh might as well have thrown out the welcome mat.
Still, Dean didn’t think that the scorch marks on the porch and the turned up yard were a sign that Walsh led a trouble free life. Not that Dean would let some vandalism stop him.
Besides… kinda out of options.
Sam was aware enough to get his good leg under him. With Dean on one side and Walsh on the other, they manhandled Sam up the few steps onto the porch. Sam’s stifled gasp let Dean know that the meds were wearing off. Walsh, in a strangely reassuring non-American accent, was running a smooth commentary about a comfortable bed large enough to fit Sam.
Much to Dean’s relief, the treatment room, which looked more like a nice guest room, was located on the ground floor on the south side of the house. A large window overlooked the backyard and revealed that Walsh must love gardening. Dean appreciated the view. Sam would like it. Give him something better to look at than the usual whacked out motel wallpaper.
And it smelled clean. Didn’t smell of hospital; didn’t smell of hotel. Smelled more of home, and while that particular thought ached, it reaffirmed Dean’s decision to bring Sam here.
“Sam, do you feel up to a shower?” Walsh was asking as they assisted Sam in sitting down on the bed. “The bathroom is through that door. The shower has a stool and a hand nozzle.”
Dean saw his brother perk up at the mention of a shower. With Sam weakening, they had only managed awkward sponge baths.
Seeing Sam’s indecision, Dean urged, “Come on, Sam, I’ll help. It’s not that weird.”
Sam raised a brow.
“Yeah, okay, it is. We’ll make it quick.”
Dean started removing his brother’s shoes, letting him know this was going to happen. Dean knew it was uncomfortable, but while they lived a life of nomads, that didn’t mean they lived dirty. John had instilled the policy that you get yourself clean every chance you got and the same with their clothes. Their possessions were few, but they were well kept, and that had a lot to do with John’s influence.
And seriously, it had been a couple of days since either of them had a shower. That was a couple of days too long. Walsh’s nose hairs were probably curling.
“I’m gonna get our bags.” Dean said, rising and pushing Sam’s shoes out of the way with his foot. “Be right back.”
-------
Sam watched his brother go, and Walsh came forward pulling up a small rolling stool to sit on.
“I’m going to take a look at this leg, all right?” He pushed the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows.
Sam nodded and wondered when Walsh had picked up a scissor. Wished his mind would clear enough to track things.
“Jus’ goin’ to cut this off.” Walsh gestured toward the soiled dressing. Sam nodded his consent.
“You all right with being here, Sam?”
“Yeah.” Even feeling as rotten as he did, he still couldn’t get over the humor of the situation. He was so going to be riding Dean over this one. Not all at once. This was an opportunity to be savored. “You all right with us being here?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“You’ve had trouble lately.” At Walsh’s look he elaborated. “Saw the yard and porch. Nice bit of vandalism.”
“A touch.” The healer admitted. “Thought you were too out of it to notice.”
“I’m not dead.” Sam muttered. Who could miss the ripped up yard and fire scorched porch? “Think you can help?”
“Don’t know until I have a look.” Walsh slid the scissor carefully under the bandage. “How long have you had this?”
Sam had to think about that. Think of today’s date, which he only knew because he’d asked Dean, work it back and came up with…
“Going on seven weeks.”
“Long time.”
Forever.
-------
Dean pulled out their duffle bags, but wisely left the weapons in the car except for the few he couldn’t bear to be without. Figured he didn’t need Sam’s lecture regarding the discourtesy of bringing firearms into your host’s house. He wasn’t completely oblivious to the niceties of the civilized world. He just didn’t always agree with them.
Better rude and prepared. That he could live with and often did. And he knew about Walsh’s troubles. Knew what absolute nut jobs so called normal people could be like when things didn’t go as expected.
Turning back to Walsh’s house, Dean felt the world wobble, and he reached out to steady himself on the Impala’s trunk. Too much all night driving, coffee, junk food, and little sleep had left him feeling shaky and disconnected.
“Come on,” he growled, slinging the bags over his shoulder and returning to the house.
Sammy needed a bath.
Never ask if life could get weirder. It always did.
Go to Part Three
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2007-11-16 11:50 pm (UTC)So - all I'll say for now is that I love Elrond, er, Elliot. And can totally picture him and hear him - and can't wait for more!
no subject
Date: 2007-11-17 03:47 am (UTC)Hmmm...icon?