A/N: I've known about the temporary fix to the updating glitch for days now. I've been hesitant to try it (yeah, chicken might be a better word), but I was talking to SeraphimXII this morning and I decided to heck with it. I hope this gets through. If it does, I'll post updates to other fics this week. Might even post a couple of new fics I've finished. If not, Black Horse and the rest can wait until FFnet resolves this issue.
Second A/N: This chapter was supposed to be Sam's, but I started thinking (which is NEVER a good thing) and my muse said, "What the hell. John's alive in this one." So be it. John's up now. Sam's next.
Oh, one more thing: Bear in mind that once my muse got rolling she decided to twist things up to the extreme, so this is a complete AU of the first five seasons of SPN with Battle as the backdrop. Can't say any more than that right now. There are major character deaths revealed in this chapter, but all is well. You know Winchesters don't stay dead.
Spoilers: For Battle: Los Angeles? None that I can think of.
Disclaimer: Not my characters. Eric's letting me play with them for a while. Also, I don't own Battle: Los Angeles, either. This is for for entertainment purposes, and not for profit.
Part 2: John
Busy day. Picked up some civilians. Turns out two of 'em are cops with their families. There was a lull in the action, I pulled out my FBI tin (name of Matt Cohen) and that was all it took. I'm in charge now. It's funny, I keep thinking I'll look up and see Deacon or the others from Two One, but I know they're not around here. That's my mind playing tricks on me, and I can't afford that bullshit, not now, not ever. I don't like stumbling around in the dark, so this factory will do just fine for the night. I passed out some of the stuff from one of my duffels, Mk2 grenades, two of those Mini Uzis, a couple of Glocks and my spare MP5A3 rifle. Party favors. We've got people around the perimeter, just in case we have visitors.
I'm putting everything I know about these fugs in this journal. Useful intel like sketches, kill points, and the rest. Don't plan on dying out here, but you never know. Sam and Dean have my other journal, and I know it sounds harsh, but I can't think about them just now. They're at Bobby's, and they're safe. I know they are. Must have left my cell in the truck when I got out. I'll call Singer when we get out of the boonies.
Funny thing, I always taught my boys not to go into any situation blind, and this clusterfuck found me, right out there on the I9.
The highway was a parking lot. First bad thing. Then I see civilians running past me, screaming, bloody.
I got out of my truck, went to the back, opened the trunk and started packing three duffels. I could hear ordinance going off in the distance, and the sound made my hackles rise up. Didn't sound like any explosives I'd ever heard before. There was a weird vibration to the sound, and I was pretty sure that shotguns loaded with rock salt just weren't going to cut it this time. I picked grenades, any and everything with a lot of stopping power, like my T2-MK5 assault rifle, and that new Heckler and Koch G3 rifle I just bought. I also had my old reliable, an M16 rifle with A2 style handgrips.
Used the stalled cars as cover until I got close enough. When I poked my head up for a look my mouth nearly dropped open. Damn, I never saw that much boo coo ugly in one place, and that's saying something, even in my line of work. I always taught my boys to research the hell out of everything. Research counts more than luck. I didn't know what I was dealing with here, but these things were killing people.
That pissed me off. They seemed pretty solid to me.
I softened them up with that DefTech 37mm grenade launcher of mine. Aimed for the gas tanks of some of the cars nearby.
Then I went full auto on their asses.
Are these things demons? Doubt it. No black smoke. No black eyes. I'm not even sure they have eyes. Big heads, long thin bodies, and these sonsabitches are tall, too, I'd say seven feet easy. Made a sketch of one we took down. Their weapons are a part of them, fused to their arms. Never seen anything like it. They're not covered with skin either. Looks like bone. Doesn't look like any kind of body armor I've ever seen.
All I know is they're here, and they bleed and they die, just like everyone else.
That suits me just fine.
We're Oscar Mike. Moved out in the morning, so far, so good. Haven't lost anyone yet, and that's a damn miracle in and of itself. The countryside is crawling with these unnatural sonsabitches. I never promised anyone I'd get them out of here. Make a promise like that in combat? Hell no.
Lost six people today. Newcomers. Knew that bastard in that grey pinstripe suit suit was trouble the first time I laid eyes on him. He looked at me and the others like he was smelling a gas leak. I've seen that look before, in small towns. Me and my boys aren't their kind. We're trash, even though we save their sorry asses. I didn't think much of it. Didn't have time. I told the newbies to fall in, do exactly what I say when I say it, and keep their damn mouths shut.
We were crossing an open field, no way to get around it. I was in the trees on the other side when Grey Suit pulls out his cell phone, right in the middle of the field.
Something came down from the sky and lit him up like a Christmas tree. Blew him to bits. Five other people were around him and they didn't get away in time. We laid down covering fire, and the others made it across okay, but it was too little, too late for the rest.
So the fugs have birds now. Damn.
My hands are shaking so much I can't write.
Reached the Chicago FOB early this morning. Good thing, too, 'cause we were nearly out of ammo.
After I left the civilians with the Red Cross I flashed my FBI tin again and that got me in to see this full bird colonel name of Adkisson who laid it all out for me.
The fugs are aliens. Jesus Christ.
While I was in the colonel's office he had the televison on. Damn stupid CNN effect. I rolled my eyes when I heard the reporter talk about "The Grim Reaper." What the hell. Some would-be hero was out there in LA playing hero, and I'd bet good money that this jackass was dead and gone already.
He had a partner. "Einstein." Ego much? Talk about wannabes with a death wish...
"...exclusive footage of the young man known as the Grim Reaper killing an alien soldier with nothing but a Bowie knife..."
I glanced at the screen. Dumb bastard.
I had a clear view of his face. Green eyes, spiky dark blond hair. Dude looked feral. He was happy in his work. He led with his left shoulder as he barreled into the fug, head down. They hit the ground together, and then The Reaper was on top of the thing, stabbing and snarling.
When it hit me who I was looking at, I felt weak in the knees. Good thing I was sitting down, otherwise I would've hit the floor. I couldn't breathe. I felt my lips move. "D-Dean?"
Adkisson frowned. "Agent Cohen? You okay?"
The camera man panned all around. I saw the faces of the Marines there, and...
"Agent Cohen? Something wrong?"
Fuck! I must've said that out loud. "What? No. Nothing's wrong."
"...reliable sources have admitted that these two men are responsible for escorting countless civilians to safety. No one knows their real names, but they were given the nicknames by Marines in the field..."
Adkisson nodded at the screen. "Those two are real movers and shakers. We could use a couple more hard chargers like them around here." He looked at me funny. "You sure you don't know them, Agent?"
"Uh...no. Looked familiar. Thought I did."
I stood there and watched the rest of the broadcast. Los Angeles looked like Hell on Earth.
And my boys are smack in the middle of it.
I told Adkisson that I was headed back out, that I'd appreciate any help he could give me. I think he suspected. I could see it in his eyes, but he didn't say anything.
He didn't even blink when I asked him if there was anything headed for Cali. "Anything you need, Agent."
I leave in two hours. Gonna hitch a ride in a Marine chopper part of the way. As I walked to the armory earlier this morning I heard some of the jarheads say that we've broken their backs, but there are still large pockets of those bastards all around. They're not going down without a fight.
Good. I feel like killing something fugly.
I'm going to LA to get my sons. I don't know what I'm going to do next after that. God, I'm starting to sound like Sam with that emo Dr. Phil crap of his.
If anybody finds this journal, they're probably gonna say that I've lost my damn mind. If it comes to that, well, I'll be dead and gone and I won't be in any condition to worry about it anyway.
I need to talk to someone. Lord, I wish Jim Murphy was here.
I went off the grid while I was working that "woman in white" job. Got a lead on that yellow-eyed bastard, so I went deep. I had to. I knew Dean would go get Sam, and he did.
Sam died three weeks after his girl Jess died in that fire. He was shot and killed on the parking lot of the Pine Tree Gulp N Go down the highway from Singer's place, murdered for the twenty three dollars and change he had in his wallet while Dean was inside paying for gas.
Sam died that morning. Dean died that night.
I was halfway across the country when I got the call. Singer told me what little he knew. Said he could tell by the wild look in Dean's eyes that things were about to get worse. Dean laid Sam out in one of the back bedrooms, did some research on the computer. He ignored Bobby totally, and then he disappeared after nightfall.
He left a note. Told Bobby where he was headed, said by the time he found the note it was be too late for him and that Sam would be back.
That damn stupid kid...
Dean said that me and Sam should go on with our lives, either separately or together. Said that we were both stronger than he ever was.
Come to think of it, I never got around to telling him that he was damn wrong about that.
Dean sold himself at this crossroads nearby. He wasn't given ten years, or even one. I know my boy. I know he didn't try to fight, and he didn't try to run. It was for Sam, y'see. Bobby and Sam found Dean on the parking lot of Lloyd's Bar. His heart was ripped out.
I tested Sam when I showed up at Singer's. Couldn't be too careful about things like this. Sam took it for as long as he could, and after that the fireworks started.
"Where the hell were you, Dad? You couldn't protect Mom. And you couldn't protect us." Sam stepped forward and punched me in the face. Everything went white, but I didn't black out. I just stood there. I let him punch me in the face and the body. I barely felt it. I deserved worse.
"He died for me," Sam moaned. "He made the deal for me."
I couldn't say anything. What the hell could I say that would make any of that all right anyway? So I just stood there, and I let my youngest beat the hell out of me, until finally he collapsed in my arms and cried. I held Sam until all the fight and all the rage and grief came out of him, and then, hours later, Sam and I tended to Dean.
I washed his body down. Wasn't any need for Sam to help me with that. We silently agreed to bury Dean instead. Couldn't stand the idea of salting and burning him. I could tell by the look on Singer's face that he didn't approve.
I didn't give a damn. He tried to talk me out of it, and I didn't listen.
Prepping Dean's body took a day and a half. We cast spells against corruption, spells to safeguard Dean's body so that a hitch-hiker couldn't jump in and drive. We buried Dean in the morning.
Two hours later I hit the road. I knew people, I had favors I could call in. Sam stayed in the grove of trees surrounding Dean's grave. Singer told me the kid didn't come back to the house until the next day. Said he didn't want Dean to spend his first night out there alone.
Sam's death had nothing to do with the supernatural. The bastard who killed him was a petty crook by the name Arness Younger. I caught up with him two weeks later, sent him screaming down to hell where he belonged.
Dean came back a year later, and I don't know why or who is responsible. That's another failure of mine. Nothing worked. Nothing panned out. I went to the crossroads and tried to make a deal. The damn thing laughed. I double-tapped the host in the head, and the bitch demon kept right on laughing.
Months later I got another call, and at first I thought Singer was drunk. I heard that he hit the bottle pretty hard after Dean died, and Sam left on his own hunt for answers. By that time I was good friends with Jack and Josè myself. Even so, I didn't drop everything and go running back. I finally did a week later.
Dean answered the door.
I forgot to breathe. I just stood there like a damn fool. When I whispered "Christo" he laughed.
The sound of his laughter made my insides ache. Did I hug him? Not yet. Dean winked at me. He rolled up his sleeve and stuck his right arm out, and then he nodded at me. I pulled out my silver knife and made a cut on his forearm. Dean didn't even flinch.
Then I hugged the hell out of him.
Sam came back a day later, and we hung around Singer Salvage for a while. I watched Dean like a hawk. He had trouble sleeping. He drank too much, even when I ordered him not to. I didn't like that. He pretended he didn't remember where he was all that time. I could tell he was lying.
This was different from Sam. I could tell Sam really didn't remember anything about his time away.
Dean got the industrial strength bitchface, and Sam pretty much bristled at any suggestions I made. Well, hell. We were back to the status quo.
A month later we all hit the road. Sam and Dean went one way, I went in the opposite direction. We still had a job to do out here, but that didn't stop me from thinking about everything that happened. That damn yellow eyed Demon's probably gone to ground in Hell. He'll come back, up, sooner or later, I know he will, after this is all over, whether humans survive or not, just to see what these squiddy bastards have left.
I'll drive myself crazy trying to figure everything out. Baby steps, you damn fool. One thing at a time.
Sixty minutes to go. I'll finish up here and then I'll take a walk. Stretch my legs, and then get over to the departure point. What with all the activity around here, heavy artillery, gunpowder, wall to wall jarheads, this place feels like home.
That vid of Dean ganking that fug? I gotta admit, that made me smile later. That's my boy. Sam? "Einstein" fits him. They say he figured out ways to trap the fugs. If I said I wasn't proud of both of them, I'd be lying. I'd also be lying if I pretended I wasn't pissed too. They were supposed to have their asses in South Dakota, not Cali.
We'll talk about that when I see them.
Somewhere along the way I stopped thinking of my boys as my soldiers, instead of my sons. Kids are supposed to bury the parents, not the other way around. My sons have died before.
Not this damn time.
Next post? Sam. When? If the site lets me post this, by the end of this week.
A/N: How Dean came back topside is a mystery so far. I may come back to this 'verse later on. Castiel is not in this story, and I have no plans for him to ever show up. He's not the one who pulled Dean out of Perdition, anyway. Things are definitely not what they seem.
A/N #2: John's FBI ID? Matt Cohen is the name of the actor who played young John Winchester on Supernatural.
Military slang (from Wikipedia and other online sources):
CNN effect — fascination or disruption created by extensive, live television presence in a combat zone.
hard charger or hard — term of endearment from a senior to a junior Marine when he or she completes a difficult task, so named for charging through the assignment; or general toughness.
Boo-coo - bastardized French, from beaucoup, meaning "much" or "many".
Boonies - infantry term for the field; jungles or swampy areas far from the comforts of civilization.
Birds – aircraft.
Oscar-Mike - on the move.