LAS Challenge #5
Oct. 7th, 2010 11:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
glasslogicStory Title: Fate Noir (LAS Prompt #5 - 1st Person POV)
Name: glasslogic
Pairing: some interest Sam/Dean - not related
Disclaimer: I have
no rights to any of the copyrighted characters/material in this fic, and I make no profit from it.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 986
Warnings/Spoilers: None
This story is for the SPN Last Author Standing challenge, one prompt a week, one story per prompt, one author voted off each cycle until only one is left. Stories must be between 100 - 1000 words. No betas allowed, voting is completely blind.
I have never in my life written 1st person POV *grins* So this was a very interesting experiment. Experimentation was why I signed up for the LAS, so it's great that I'm actually getting to play around. When the prompt posted I almost used my skip because, well, things I haven't done I generally haven't done for a reason, but then I was watching The Lady From Shanghai, which is film noir, and started thinking about Dean in a long trenchoat and a 1940's suit, lighting a cigarette while leaning against a crumbling brick facade down some dingy city street in the rain... I used to really like old detective stories *wistfully*
It was dark in the city and a storm was brewing. Gusting wind howled down the street outside my office and the staccato click of heavy raindrops had started a mournful dance against the window pane. I was minding my own business, thumbing through a stack of unpaid bills when trouble walked in, dressed in scuffed shoes and a cheap suit.
The jangling bells on the front door found me sliding a hand into the desk for my pearl handled revolver. A little flashy, but she was an effective trophy. I would have named her for the man I took her from, but the revolver was a lady, a lady with an attitude. Besides, it wasn’t some muscle bound tough standing in my doorway. Instead it was a young man with striking hazel eyes, tousled hair, and a face you’d expect to find on an altar boy; the kind of face that got taken advantage of in a town like this …or suspended suspicion long enough to plant a knife in your back. I’d been planning an evening with a fifth of whiskey and my case files, but found myself willing to be distracted for a good cause, or at least one that was good looking. I lit up a cigarette and leaned back to enjoy the view.
“Are you Dean Smith? Detective Dean Smith?” my guest asked in a husky voice. The timbre made me shift in my chair.
I leveled him an appraising look. I’d been trapped by the snare of a pretty face before, and liked to think I’d learned something for my pains.
“The department and I had a parting of ways awhile back. I’m a private dick now.” I tapped a sarcastic finger along the top of the desk plaque displaying that information.
He paid little notice. Like a pit bull with a postman, he focused on my face. “My name is Sam Winchester. John was my father.”
Self preservation instincts momentarily faltered. John. He’d once been my partner, alternating roles between mentor and friend. I’d known he had a son. He’d bitched sometimes, about the boy he’d raised; a boy who he said snubbed the family business for a west coast college. His tone was different when the liquor was strong, but that was his personal matter and I’d hardly paid any mind. I might have been more attentive if I’d known the kid looked like this. He certainly didn’t take after his old man.
John’s unsolved murder was at the center of the controversy that had landed me in my present circumstances. Unless you had a taste for criminal enterprise, carrying a badge had never quite lived up to its hype. The whole police department stank with the rotten sweetness of corruption. You either learned to hold your nose, or you left. I chose to get out while still breathing. John may not have been given the option. He had made enemies and knew where bodies were buried. No one claimed surprise when he ended up dead.
“I didn’t have anything to do with John’s death, kid. If you’re here to demand answers then you can go right back out that door. I haven’t got a damn thing to say about what happened to your father, regardless of what some reporters think.”
The kid’s face was all earnestness and determination. And fear. Something big had driven him here. “This has nothing to do with media vultures. My father said that if I ever needed anything, I could trust you.”
“Trust me with what?” I was suspicious.
He pulled something out from beneath his coat and laid it on the desk in front of me.
“Christ,” I muttered. “John’s journal. The cops ripped that house up looking for this thing after they found the body. Where did you get it?”
“It was sent to me, anonymously. It doesn’t make any sense to me, but it has to have something to do with his murder! The police had their chance to solve it three years ago,” he added somberly, “I suspect they didn’t try very hard. But he trusted you with his life, said you were the best cop he’d ever seen. Will you help me?” His eyes were pleading, but underneath the desperate vulnerability there was a calculating glint I found intriguing.
Releasing a final puff of smoke, I leaned forward, grinding out the cigarette in a filthy ashtray. I already knew I’d take the case, but not for any reason my dead partner would have approved of. Part of me did want to know what happened to John. I felt I owed him that. I’d never told anyone about a copy of the journal that he’d shoved into my hands just hours before his body was found. He’d promised an explanation later, but later never came. His cryptic entries had proved useless in developing new leads, but if the attractive young man in my office wanted to hire me to accompany him while he figured that out, I wasn’t inclined to argue.
“I don’t do charity work, even for the sake of old partners. I get twenty-five dollars a day plus expenses.” Considering his clothes I expected him to balk at my fee. I had a counter offer ready, but the strange smile that curved his lips held nothing of refusal. Something tightened low in my stomach as he agreed.
“That sounds fair for a man of your ...reputation. Can we start tonight?”
I nodded towards an empty chair. Through the window behind me, lightning cracked, and the answering thunder made the whole building shake.
My instincts were screaming at me to walk away while I still could. But as he settled his long, muscular frame into the chair and leaned in close, his musky aftershave sent my senses reeling. I knew it was already too late.
Name: glasslogic
Pairing: some interest Sam/Dean - not related
Disclaimer: I have
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 986
Warnings/Spoilers: None
This story is for the SPN Last Author Standing challenge, one prompt a week, one story per prompt, one author voted off each cycle until only one is left. Stories must be between 100 - 1000 words. No betas allowed, voting is completely blind.
I have never in my life written 1st person POV *grins* So this was a very interesting experiment. Experimentation was why I signed up for the LAS, so it's great that I'm actually getting to play around. When the prompt posted I almost used my skip because, well, things I haven't done I generally haven't done for a reason, but then I was watching The Lady From Shanghai, which is film noir, and started thinking about Dean in a long trenchoat and a 1940's suit, lighting a cigarette while leaning against a crumbling brick facade down some dingy city street in the rain... I used to really like old detective stories *wistfully*
It was dark in the city and a storm was brewing. Gusting wind howled down the street outside my office and the staccato click of heavy raindrops had started a mournful dance against the window pane. I was minding my own business, thumbing through a stack of unpaid bills when trouble walked in, dressed in scuffed shoes and a cheap suit.
The jangling bells on the front door found me sliding a hand into the desk for my pearl handled revolver. A little flashy, but she was an effective trophy. I would have named her for the man I took her from, but the revolver was a lady, a lady with an attitude. Besides, it wasn’t some muscle bound tough standing in my doorway. Instead it was a young man with striking hazel eyes, tousled hair, and a face you’d expect to find on an altar boy; the kind of face that got taken advantage of in a town like this …or suspended suspicion long enough to plant a knife in your back. I’d been planning an evening with a fifth of whiskey and my case files, but found myself willing to be distracted for a good cause, or at least one that was good looking. I lit up a cigarette and leaned back to enjoy the view.
“Are you Dean Smith? Detective Dean Smith?” my guest asked in a husky voice. The timbre made me shift in my chair.
I leveled him an appraising look. I’d been trapped by the snare of a pretty face before, and liked to think I’d learned something for my pains.
“The department and I had a parting of ways awhile back. I’m a private dick now.” I tapped a sarcastic finger along the top of the desk plaque displaying that information.
He paid little notice. Like a pit bull with a postman, he focused on my face. “My name is Sam Winchester. John was my father.”
Self preservation instincts momentarily faltered. John. He’d once been my partner, alternating roles between mentor and friend. I’d known he had a son. He’d bitched sometimes, about the boy he’d raised; a boy who he said snubbed the family business for a west coast college. His tone was different when the liquor was strong, but that was his personal matter and I’d hardly paid any mind. I might have been more attentive if I’d known the kid looked like this. He certainly didn’t take after his old man.
John’s unsolved murder was at the center of the controversy that had landed me in my present circumstances. Unless you had a taste for criminal enterprise, carrying a badge had never quite lived up to its hype. The whole police department stank with the rotten sweetness of corruption. You either learned to hold your nose, or you left. I chose to get out while still breathing. John may not have been given the option. He had made enemies and knew where bodies were buried. No one claimed surprise when he ended up dead.
“I didn’t have anything to do with John’s death, kid. If you’re here to demand answers then you can go right back out that door. I haven’t got a damn thing to say about what happened to your father, regardless of what some reporters think.”
The kid’s face was all earnestness and determination. And fear. Something big had driven him here. “This has nothing to do with media vultures. My father said that if I ever needed anything, I could trust you.”
“Trust me with what?” I was suspicious.
He pulled something out from beneath his coat and laid it on the desk in front of me.
“Christ,” I muttered. “John’s journal. The cops ripped that house up looking for this thing after they found the body. Where did you get it?”
“It was sent to me, anonymously. It doesn’t make any sense to me, but it has to have something to do with his murder! The police had their chance to solve it three years ago,” he added somberly, “I suspect they didn’t try very hard. But he trusted you with his life, said you were the best cop he’d ever seen. Will you help me?” His eyes were pleading, but underneath the desperate vulnerability there was a calculating glint I found intriguing.
Releasing a final puff of smoke, I leaned forward, grinding out the cigarette in a filthy ashtray. I already knew I’d take the case, but not for any reason my dead partner would have approved of. Part of me did want to know what happened to John. I felt I owed him that. I’d never told anyone about a copy of the journal that he’d shoved into my hands just hours before his body was found. He’d promised an explanation later, but later never came. His cryptic entries had proved useless in developing new leads, but if the attractive young man in my office wanted to hire me to accompany him while he figured that out, I wasn’t inclined to argue.
“I don’t do charity work, even for the sake of old partners. I get twenty-five dollars a day plus expenses.” Considering his clothes I expected him to balk at my fee. I had a counter offer ready, but the strange smile that curved his lips held nothing of refusal. Something tightened low in my stomach as he agreed.
“That sounds fair for a man of your ...reputation. Can we start tonight?”
I nodded towards an empty chair. Through the window behind me, lightning cracked, and the answering thunder made the whole building shake.
My instincts were screaming at me to walk away while I still could. But as he settled his long, muscular frame into the chair and leaned in close, his musky aftershave sent my senses reeling. I knew it was already too late.
