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ozmissageTitle: Drinking Buddies (Or Something Like That)
Characters: Frank, John Winchester
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,260
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Frank knows he’s fighting a losing battle. John Winchester has had the corner market on pain since the day Frank met him.
A/N: For former Queen![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gottalovev who asked for friends. I couldn’t resist an opportunity to write another SPN/Lost crossover. I’m sorry it’s not happier, I was trying to keep the angst at bay, but the muse wouldn’t listen.
The phone rings just once that morning.
Frank can’t bring himself to let go of his warm bottle of Jack Daniel’s long enough to answer, he sits in the dark and listens to the echo of the sharp ring cutting through the silence and then the click of the answering machine picking up.
“Frank, you sorry SOB, if you’re there pick up the damn phone.”
John’s voice is rough, tinged with panic. Frank hauls himself to his feet and stumbles blindly towards the phone.
“I’m here,” Frank mutters drunkenly into the receiver.
“Thank God,” John breathes.
“Don’t thank that son of bitch,” Frank says.
“You’re alive, Frank. That ain’t nothing.”
Frank lets out a bark of a laugh.
“Sure as hell feels like it.”
*
John shows up on his doorstep the next morning, six-pack in hand. Frank knows he looks like shit, he can’t even remember the last time he changed his shirt. It was before the crash, that much he’s certain of.
“You forget what your shower looks like?” John says in greeting before pulling Frank in for a one-armed hug.
“What are doing here, John?”
“Thought you could use some company.”
Frank takes the six-pack from John’s hand gratefully.
“Don’t know about that, but I sure as hell can use the beer.”
The men settle onto Frank’s sorry excuse for a couch and pop their caps. Frank downs half of his beer in one go, prays it’s enough alcohol to keep his buzz from fading. He hasn’t quite prepared himself for what happens when it goes away just yet.
“You wanna talk about it?” John asks quietly.
“Nothing to say. I over slept, my god damn alarm clock didn’t go off and now a good man’s never coming home to his wife. It was supposed to be me, hell, it should have been me. He had people. World could have kept turning without my ugly mug. I can’t say the same about Seth.”
John takes a long draw off his beer and looks sideways at Frank before speaking.
“That’s not true and you know it.”
“John---”
“You listen to me,” John says. “I’m not going to sit here and let you wallow and drink yourself into fucking nothing, you understand me? You didn’t let me, so I’m sure as hell not going to let you. Get off your ass, take a shower and sober up.”
“Get the hell out of my house,” Frank says flatly.
John shakes his head.
“No, sir.”
*
Frank knows he’s fighting a losing battle. John Winchester has had the corner market on pain since the day Frank met him drinking his way through New York. He was too damn drunk to keep a couple of punk ass kids from breaking his nose that afternoon and Frank stepped in, sent them running before he took John back to his place and cleaned him up.
He found out a lot about John that first day. Found out he had a dead wife and two little boys he didn’t have a fucking clue how to take care of and a penchant for carrying an arsenal in the trunk of his looker of a car.
Frank didn’t find out about John’s weird ass job that day. Still hasn’t really, he knows just enough to know he doesn’t want to know the rest. The world’s a scary enough place as it is.
So he shuts his mouth and sobers up enough to satisfy John, even takes a shower without putting up much of a fight. He’s still buttoning his shirt when he wanders back out to the kitchen to find John barking orders into his cell phone. Frank pours himself a cup of coffee and waits until John hangs up before he speaks.
“Your boys okay?” Frank asks.
“Dean’s working a job; it sounds like he’s going to need some help. You going to be alright here, old man?”
Frank chuckles.
“I’ll be fine.”
John’s already heading for the door.
“If you need me---”
Frank nods.
“I got your number.”
*
Two months pass before Frank hears from John again. He’s knee deep in maps, a dozen files spread across his desk when the phone rings. It didn’t take much to convince him something was fishy about that wreckage. And Frank knows if there’s a chance Seth is alive, he’s owes to the man to find out.
He stops his work reluctantly to pick up the phone.
“What?” he snaps impatiently.
“Hello to you to, Frank,” John says.
His voice is garbled and Frank has to strain just to make out his words.
“Where the hell are you calling from?”
“That’s not important. I don’t have much time, but I just wanted to let you know I know what you’re doing and it needs to stop. Understand?”
Frank fingers the edge of Flight 815’s flight manifest.
“I can’t do that.”
“Stop digging, old man. If word’s got back to me, then God only knows who else knows what
you’re up to. These people don’t take kindly to being investigated. You don’t want to fuck with them.”
“Is this more of the weird shit you won’t tell me about?”
John laughs.
“It is. Promise me you’ll leave it alone, alright? I like knowing your ugly mug is alive and kicking.”
Frank shakes his head. He can’t stop. But he can lie.
“Alright, no need to get your panties in a twist. I’ll stop.”
“That a promise?” John asks skeptically.
“If that’ll make you feel better. And John?”
“Yeah?”
“Take care of yourself.”
John hangs up without another word. Two days later Matthew Abaddon shows up on Frank’s doorstep and offers him a job.
*
Every minute Frank’s on that damn island he can’t stop himself from thinking John would be a hell of a man to have around in this situation. Monsters, time travel, a fucking disappearing island---Frank files it all away to tell his friend later.
That keeps him going, the idea of meeting up with John in one of the scary, little dive bars he likes to haunt and drinking until neither of them can see straight, the two of them exchanging war stories now that Frank’s got some to share.
He makes it home by January and figures it’s best to keep a low profile until the Oceanic Six hubbub dies down. By the time May rolls around he can’t wait any longer. He calls John’s cell and lets it ring, once, twice, three times---
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end of the line is gruff just like John’s, but it’s not him. Frank wonders if the old bastard changed his number without telling him.
“Is John around?”
There’s a pause.
“You a friend of his?”
“Something like that. Is this Dean?”
“Yeah.”
Frank knows. The kid doesn’t have to say a word. There’s only one reason John wouldn’t answer his phone. Frank feels like he’s been sucker-punched in the gut.
“He’s dead?”
“A couple of days ago. Car accident.”
“I’m sorry, kid. He was…hell, he was just about the best man I’ve ever known.”
“No arguments here,” Dean says. His voice sounds hollow and broken.
Frank says a quick goodbye, hangs up the phone, and walks straight to the nearest bar. He takes
a seat at the back of the place and orders two shots of whiskey.
He raises his glass.
“To old men who don’t fucking listen,” Frank says before downing the first shot.
It’s not much of a eulogy, but somehow he can’t help but think John wouldn’t mind.
Characters: Frank, John Winchester
Rating: PG-13
Words: 1,260
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: Frank knows he’s fighting a losing battle. John Winchester has had the corner market on pain since the day Frank met him.
A/N: For former Queen
gottalovev who asked for friends. I couldn’t resist an opportunity to write another SPN/Lost crossover. I’m sorry it’s not happier, I was trying to keep the angst at bay, but the muse wouldn’t listen. The phone rings just once that morning.
Frank can’t bring himself to let go of his warm bottle of Jack Daniel’s long enough to answer, he sits in the dark and listens to the echo of the sharp ring cutting through the silence and then the click of the answering machine picking up.
“Frank, you sorry SOB, if you’re there pick up the damn phone.”
John’s voice is rough, tinged with panic. Frank hauls himself to his feet and stumbles blindly towards the phone.
“I’m here,” Frank mutters drunkenly into the receiver.
“Thank God,” John breathes.
“Don’t thank that son of bitch,” Frank says.
“You’re alive, Frank. That ain’t nothing.”
Frank lets out a bark of a laugh.
“Sure as hell feels like it.”
*
John shows up on his doorstep the next morning, six-pack in hand. Frank knows he looks like shit, he can’t even remember the last time he changed his shirt. It was before the crash, that much he’s certain of.
“You forget what your shower looks like?” John says in greeting before pulling Frank in for a one-armed hug.
“What are doing here, John?”
“Thought you could use some company.”
Frank takes the six-pack from John’s hand gratefully.
“Don’t know about that, but I sure as hell can use the beer.”
The men settle onto Frank’s sorry excuse for a couch and pop their caps. Frank downs half of his beer in one go, prays it’s enough alcohol to keep his buzz from fading. He hasn’t quite prepared himself for what happens when it goes away just yet.
“You wanna talk about it?” John asks quietly.
“Nothing to say. I over slept, my god damn alarm clock didn’t go off and now a good man’s never coming home to his wife. It was supposed to be me, hell, it should have been me. He had people. World could have kept turning without my ugly mug. I can’t say the same about Seth.”
John takes a long draw off his beer and looks sideways at Frank before speaking.
“That’s not true and you know it.”
“John---”
“You listen to me,” John says. “I’m not going to sit here and let you wallow and drink yourself into fucking nothing, you understand me? You didn’t let me, so I’m sure as hell not going to let you. Get off your ass, take a shower and sober up.”
“Get the hell out of my house,” Frank says flatly.
John shakes his head.
“No, sir.”
*
Frank knows he’s fighting a losing battle. John Winchester has had the corner market on pain since the day Frank met him drinking his way through New York. He was too damn drunk to keep a couple of punk ass kids from breaking his nose that afternoon and Frank stepped in, sent them running before he took John back to his place and cleaned him up.
He found out a lot about John that first day. Found out he had a dead wife and two little boys he didn’t have a fucking clue how to take care of and a penchant for carrying an arsenal in the trunk of his looker of a car.
Frank didn’t find out about John’s weird ass job that day. Still hasn’t really, he knows just enough to know he doesn’t want to know the rest. The world’s a scary enough place as it is.
So he shuts his mouth and sobers up enough to satisfy John, even takes a shower without putting up much of a fight. He’s still buttoning his shirt when he wanders back out to the kitchen to find John barking orders into his cell phone. Frank pours himself a cup of coffee and waits until John hangs up before he speaks.
“Your boys okay?” Frank asks.
“Dean’s working a job; it sounds like he’s going to need some help. You going to be alright here, old man?”
Frank chuckles.
“I’ll be fine.”
John’s already heading for the door.
“If you need me---”
Frank nods.
“I got your number.”
*
Two months pass before Frank hears from John again. He’s knee deep in maps, a dozen files spread across his desk when the phone rings. It didn’t take much to convince him something was fishy about that wreckage. And Frank knows if there’s a chance Seth is alive, he’s owes to the man to find out.
He stops his work reluctantly to pick up the phone.
“What?” he snaps impatiently.
“Hello to you to, Frank,” John says.
His voice is garbled and Frank has to strain just to make out his words.
“Where the hell are you calling from?”
“That’s not important. I don’t have much time, but I just wanted to let you know I know what you’re doing and it needs to stop. Understand?”
Frank fingers the edge of Flight 815’s flight manifest.
“I can’t do that.”
“Stop digging, old man. If word’s got back to me, then God only knows who else knows what
you’re up to. These people don’t take kindly to being investigated. You don’t want to fuck with them.”
“Is this more of the weird shit you won’t tell me about?”
John laughs.
“It is. Promise me you’ll leave it alone, alright? I like knowing your ugly mug is alive and kicking.”
Frank shakes his head. He can’t stop. But he can lie.
“Alright, no need to get your panties in a twist. I’ll stop.”
“That a promise?” John asks skeptically.
“If that’ll make you feel better. And John?”
“Yeah?”
“Take care of yourself.”
John hangs up without another word. Two days later Matthew Abaddon shows up on Frank’s doorstep and offers him a job.
*
Every minute Frank’s on that damn island he can’t stop himself from thinking John would be a hell of a man to have around in this situation. Monsters, time travel, a fucking disappearing island---Frank files it all away to tell his friend later.
That keeps him going, the idea of meeting up with John in one of the scary, little dive bars he likes to haunt and drinking until neither of them can see straight, the two of them exchanging war stories now that Frank’s got some to share.
He makes it home by January and figures it’s best to keep a low profile until the Oceanic Six hubbub dies down. By the time May rolls around he can’t wait any longer. He calls John’s cell and lets it ring, once, twice, three times---
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end of the line is gruff just like John’s, but it’s not him. Frank wonders if the old bastard changed his number without telling him.
“Is John around?”
There’s a pause.
“You a friend of his?”
“Something like that. Is this Dean?”
“Yeah.”
Frank knows. The kid doesn’t have to say a word. There’s only one reason John wouldn’t answer his phone. Frank feels like he’s been sucker-punched in the gut.
“He’s dead?”
“A couple of days ago. Car accident.”
“I’m sorry, kid. He was…hell, he was just about the best man I’ve ever known.”
“No arguments here,” Dean says. His voice sounds hollow and broken.
Frank says a quick goodbye, hangs up the phone, and walks straight to the nearest bar. He takes
a seat at the back of the place and orders two shots of whiskey.
He raises his glass.
“To old men who don’t fucking listen,” Frank says before downing the first shot.
It’s not much of a eulogy, but somehow he can’t help but think John wouldn’t mind.
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no subject
Date: 7/16/10 03:18 pm (UTC)this fic contains too much awesomeness, I might explode. Frank BFF with JOHN MOTHERFUCKING WINCHESTER? oh my god. yes.
and it's sweet that they have each other's back, but it's not easy because... well nothing can be easy with guys like that. the end ripped my heart out a little ;_;
this is wonderful. and now I look at what I was going to post for you and it's totally inadequate *pouts*
no subject
Date: 7/16/10 03:57 pm (UTC)Promise me you’ll leave it alone, alright? I like knowing your ugly mug is alive and kicking.”
I love this. I love their banter. They're such a perfect ft: two cranky middle-aged guys with too much hanging over their heads. I never would have thought of it, but it WORKS.
Every minute Frank’s on that damn island he can’t stop himself from thinking John would be a hell of a man to have around in this situation.
So true. John Winchester would have made short work of that smoke monster.
God, this was AMAZING. I don't even have the words. I love Frank with all my heart and I loved this little glimpse of him off island living his own life.
no subject
Date: 7/17/10 03:32 am (UTC)And your gift to me was wonderful! It's so nice to see someone do right by Ana. Especially since canon never bothered to. ;)
no subject
Date: 7/17/10 03:34 am (UTC)I'm so glad this worked for you because half-way through writing it I started panicking because I realized I had no idea how to write Frank. It was too late to turn back by then though. ;)
no subject
Date: 7/20/10 09:13 pm (UTC)SPN/LOST CROSSOVER WITH FRANK AND PAPA JOHN.
*flails*
This is awesome. You have both of their voices down and I can totally see these two getting along.
"Every minute Frank’s on that damn island he can’t stop himself from thinking John would be a hell of a man to have around in this situation. Monsters, time travel, a fucking disappearing island..."
Hehe, I love that line. So many times I've yelled demon-repellant tips at the TV while watching Lost and wished Sam and Dean were there to sort everyone out and be like, "Calm down, we got this." ;)
LOVE!
no subject
Date: 7/21/10 04:38 am (UTC)These shows are like destined to meet in grungy bar and then hook up outside in the back alley. I'm alarmed by how often I think up crossovers for them in my head these days.
So many times I've yelled demon-repellant tips at the TV while watching Lost and wished Sam and Dean were there to sort everyone out and be like, "Calm down, we got this." ;)
YES. I especially would have liked to see the boys deal with the disappearing cabin. That would have been so much fun.