tigriswolf | On The Spinner's Wheel chp2 - SN/Mag7 crossover

Title: On The Spinner's Wheel
Fandom: “Supernatural”/modern-day “The Magnificent Seven” AU crossover
Chapter: II. Clotho's Thread
Disclaimer: if you recognize ‘em, they ain’t mine
Warnings: spoilers for season 2 “Supernatural.” Rampant abuse of commas. Frequent sentence fragments.
Pairings: none
Rating: PG13
Wordcount: 2010
Point of view: third
Notes: All you really need to know about Vin is… well, nothing. But he’s not an OMC.
More notes: “Clotho” is the Greek Fate who spins the thread of life.

Chapter one: "Lachesis' Measure"

He slips into the Roadhouse whisper-slick, a wraith more than anything else. Ellen looks up at the first scuff of the door and lightnin’ from outside hides his face.

She’s two minutes from closin’ but the flash fades and she sees him: young. Tired. Huge, bruised blue eyes, long blond hair pulled back in a loose pony, slight frame not done growin’ out—could be Jo, Jo been born a boy. Kid couldn’t be more’n nineteen, if that.

Been stormin’ for hours, not lookin’ to settle anytime soon. The place is empty but for her and the kid, Jo off huntin’ and Ash doin’ whatever it is he does in his room. Kid’s soaked to the bone, bedraggled, looks achingly young.

He floats across the floor, eyes takin’ in everythin’: the position of the furniture, the exits, the gun just behind her. He doesn’t make a sound and she rakes her gaze from his hair—not washed in days, not brushed in longer—to his old, worn boots. She returns her eyes to his, but he looks away, sinks onto a stool with a well-concealed wince.

“Can I get you somethin’, honey?” she asks, the mother in her warring with the hunter and winning.

“Water,” he answers softly with a Texas drawl. “Please, ma’am.”

Polite boy. “Bottle or tap?”

He raises his gaze at that. “Don’t matter, ma’am. ’s’long as it’s cold.”

She smiles and gets him a bottle, tells him not to worry ‘bout payin’: last customer of the night always gets somethin’ on the house. She wipes down the bar, sweeps the floor, watches him. He keeps his eyes on his bottle, clings to it like it’s the only anchor he has to the world.

“Got somewhere to be?” she inquires as he finally stands, a good hour after closin’s come and gone.

“No’m,” he says without lookin’ up from the bar.

“Well, then, I got a room in the back.”

His head jerks up and his eyes are fearful, like a caged animal long used to pain—anger curls in her belly, sears through her blood. Someone’s hurt this boy, hurt him real good.

“There’s a nasty storm out there, kid,” Ellen tells him gruffly; he wouldn’t know what to do with concern, with kindness. “I don’t want you drownin’ on my conscience. “

He studies her for a long moment. “What d’ya want for payment, ma’am?” he finally asks resignedly. “I ain’t got much money.”

“We’ll work that out,” she says then strides past him. “Follow me.”

After a long pause, he does.

“Got a name?” She leads him to a far corner of the Roadhouse, a place she figures a newly freed wild thing might feel safe.

“Vin, ma’am,” he replies. “Vin Tanner.”

The name is unfamiliar, not that she expected otherwise. And from the way he said it—without hesitation, the words smooth and sure on his tongue—she knows it’s real.

He’s a slight creature, underfed, scrawny. Weary, wary, and worn, waiting for a blow or harsh word, uncertain of compliments or gentleness. But Ellen can see the strength beneath the fear and pain, can see the predator waitin’ to break free.

She puts him to work tending her bar, helping her with the upkeep of the place. Hasn’t had such handy hand since Bill. Hunters pass through, still, more than ever; she’s thankful for the help. She feeds him good and proper, and he puts weight on his frame soon enough, quits lookin’ like a tiny breeze could topple him over.

And she teaches him a few moves, nothin’ fancy. Lookin’ like he does—them gigantic blue eyes, soft mouth, lithe body—he needs to know how to defend himself, though she suspects she’s too late.

A few weeks after she takes him in, he softly, hesitantly, asks if he can borrow a gun to practice with. She tells him what to do, leads him out back—and he shoots a perfect circle ‘round the bull’s-eye, then a smiley face inside the circle.

“Smart ass,” she laughs and claps him on the back.

He and Ash enjoy each other’s company, far as she can reckon. Vin mainly sticks to himself, though, never starts conversations with any customers.

He’s a good boy, Vin is, shy, quiet. She doesn’t ask about his past and he doesn’t volunteer any information.

About five months after Vin arrives, the Winchesters step back into the Roadhouse for the first time since Sam got himself possessed. They keep to themselves in the corner and Ellen’s about to go ask what they’ll have but Vin beats her to it.

Seems like there’ll be no trouble till Mark Sykes drains his seventh glass of whiskey and loudly demands if she lets no good, freaky murderers in her bar now.

Ellen notices that Vin stiffens soon as the first harsh syllable leaves Mark’s mouth and that Dean raises his head dangerously.

“I think that’s enough for you, Sykes,” she says, reaching for his empty glass; his hand grabs her wrist.

All sound stops. Ellen doesn’t make any sudden moves, just calmly tells him, “Let go of me, Sykes.”

His fingers tighten their grip and she winces. “Bitch,” he hisses. “You’re no better than them killers.” He’s drunk, drunker than she’s ever seen him before, and knows that he’s hurtin’, worried, doesn’t know what he’s sayin’—but that’s no excuse.

Her eyes flicker to Vin, who looks angrier than she’s seen him in the half year she’s known him. He’s still achingly young, but now—now, he’s almost dangerous, too.

None of the dozen or so hunters in the bar are makin’ a move to help her; Sykes is big, almost as big as Sam, and drunk.

Vin silently steps forward and Dean smoothly rises to his feet. Ellen first looks at Vin then Dean and shakes her head. This is her mess to handle, since it’s her bar. “Let go of me and get out, Sykes,” she says.

“And what about them Winchesters?” Sykes demands. “You gonna let them murderin’ sons of bitches stay?”

Now Sam’s on his feet and Dean’s slipped through the tables to stand at Sykes’ elbow, though Sykes is too drunk to notice. Vin’s at her side, eyes cold and face stone. Dean grabs Sykes’ shoulder and says, low and quiet and vicious, “Let her go, now.”

Her eyes on Sykes’ face, Ellen can see him wince. His fingers tighten just a bit then release her. “Bar’s closed,” she announces to the room. “Everyone out, right this minute.” She meets Dean’s eyes. “’cept for you boys. Get him out of here then come back for some drinks on the house.”

Sykes struggles a bit but none of his friends come to help him and Dean manhandles him out. Sam looming at his back might keep some of the hunters at bay, Ellen bets, her shotgun in her hands. Once they’re back in, Ellen tells Vin to lock up for the night, Sam fetches their stuff from the table, and the Winchesters settle at the bar, perched on stools.

“Been awhile,” she says, serving them whiskey. Vin leans against the wall, barely in the room.

Dean nods. “That it has,” he replies, sipping slowly.

Sam ducks his head, peers at her through his out-of-control hair. “Ellen, about what happened to Jo,” he starts.

She cuts him off. “Wasn’t you, Sam. I know that. She does, too.” She smiles at him and he straightens up, hesitantly smiles back. “If it helps, I forgive you, though you don’t need it.” And his full smile blossoms, that delighted little-boy grin that brightens the room.

“Who’s your shadow?” Dean asks with a nod toward Vin. “Don’t remember seein’ him before.”

Ellen gives Vin a fond glance and he blushes; she turnes back to Dean. “Vin Tanner. He’s been stayin’ here, can for as long as he wants.”

Dean meets her eyes for a moment, assessing her, before smiling his version of Sam’s grin. “You’re a good person, Ellen,” he tells her softly. “I’m sorry we caused trouble.”

She scoffs. “There was trouble long before you boys showed up.” She refills Dean’s glass and pours her own. “The hunters are takin’ sides, weighin’ and measurin’ what all we know. Your daddy kept you apart for a reason, God rest his stubborn soul. But you have me at your back, Bobby, Joshua—others.”

Dean glances at Sam out the corner of his eye. Ellen busies herself wipin’ down the countertop as they have a silent conversation. Vin starts straightenin’ up the floor and Sam slips off the stool to help, leavin’ Dean to talk with her.

“Send out a message, Ellen,” Dean says, fiddlin’ with his glass. “Sam’s off limits. Gordon was a warnin’—anyone hurts Sam, I’ll find ‘em and kill ‘em.” He raises his eyes to meet hers. “Slow.”

She shudders and nods.

After Dean and Sam leave, Ellen can’t sleep. She calls up Bobby and asks if Sam could really become what Gordon and his cronies claim.

“Anyone can turn, Ellen, you know that,” Bobby says. “But Sam? It’ll take much more to darken him.”

“What happens if he does, Bobby?” she demands, knowin’ the answer ’fore her lips finish formin’ the question.

“Then we can count Dean out, too.”

She can’t sleep so she goes to the main room and grabs a bottle of beer, settles against the bar, and gulps it down. She glances up when Vin shuffles in quieter than any cat she’s ever known. She’d offer him a beer of his own, but he wouldn’t take it, just shake his head with a small smile and say, “No, thank you’m.”

Ellen’s still reeling from seeing them boys again, from talking to Bobby, from learning John Winchester—immortal, invincible—died all those months ago. So she asks, “Where’d you come from, Vin?”

He looks at her with them big ole blue eyes, eyes that call to mind the sky and the ocean, eyes that are full of such pain it steals her breath. “Many places, ma’am,” he answers, not even trying to be pert. “Places I don’t ever wanna return to.”

She’s dealt with hunters for years, with strays beaten down by the world. She’s dealt with broken men, with shattered women, with children made old before their time. And still, it’s never struck her quite this way until now, until Vin.

“Stay as long as you need, Vin,” she tells him, offering a small smile. “Stay as long as you want.”

“Tell me about the Winchesters?” Vin requests, settling on a stool next to her. “Please, Ellen?”

“Alright then,” she says, turnin’ to face him, bottle loose in her grip. “Starts years ago, when Sam was just a baby, tiny lil thing, ‘bout six months old.” She meets his eyes, looks away, towards the wall, rememberin’ John as he told her this story. She slowly goes throughout the whole thing, coverin’ twenty-odd years, unable to stem the flow of words because they’ve built for so long.

He listens silently, waits for her to finish, and then says, “You’ve been good to me, Ellen. Why?” He sounds honestly confused and she wants to track down whoever it is that’s hurt him so bad he can’t comprehend kindness for its’ own sake.

She shrugs. “You needed it, Vin.”

He raises his eyes to meet hers square on. “Thank you.”

Ellen smiles again and reaches out to clap him on the shoulder. “Get some sleep, sweetie. Somethin’ tells me we’ll need it for the comin’ days.”

Vin nods, smiles that sweet, sad smile at her, and slips from the stool, quietly pads across the floor, down the hall. She listens until the she hears the door close and sinks in on herself.

Storm’s comin’, Bobby’d said. Real nasty one. Them boys are right in the middle, Ellen. And they’ll need all the friends they can get.

She sighs. Hasn’t prayed since Bill died, but now… Ellen lowers her head, closes her eyes, and tries to remember how it is a prayer goes.

continued in "Atropos' Cut"