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iliaTitle: Catching A Breath [Supernatural Crossover]
Author: Lady Yueh
Characters: Martha Jones, Sam and Dean Winchester.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Doctor Who 3x13
Disclaimer: None of the shows contained within this piece of fiction are my property.
Date Chosen: September 22
Author's Notes: For the Martha Jones Ficathon![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
telling_a_story.
Summary: Martha Jones is sheltered by a pair of brothers and has a day of rest.
“Sam.”
“Dean.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk.”
Those were the sounds that Martha Jones awoke to.
And she’d had to make sure that she was awake. After all, it wasn’t every day one woke up to what sounded like a fight between a pair of sullen children.
But they hadn’t killed her yet and she wasn’t restrained.
She opened her eyes and immediately shot down the “sullen children” theory.
At least the “child” part of it. The pair were definitely in a strop but they weren’t children.
They weren't the Master‘s lackeys either; she would have already been handed over with a pretty bow around her neck if they were. (After all, she‘d become somewhat of a priority.) They also weren't scum, she hadn't been raped or knifed. And she had detected affection in their banter. It reminded her of the kind of quips she had exchanged with Tish and Leo.
Seemed safe enough.
“Where am I?” she groaned.
There was also the fact that she was in no position to go anywhere much less fight her way out of a situation.
The taller of the pair had kind eyes, more than rare in this brave new world, worn clothing (but then again, everybody had worn clothing these days) and long hair held back in a ponytail.
“You’re in Nebraska, what’s left of it anyway,” he told her.
“Wasn’t much to begin with,” the other one cracked.
“Nebraska?” She questioned, somewhat bewildered.
She’d been panicked, some of the Master’s spies a hairsbreadth from trapping her. So, she’d hit the proverbial panic button on the manipulator; the one that catapulted her to a pre-programmed location. But why the hell would Jack program Nebraska, of all places, into his Vortex Manipulator?
“You must’ve taken a harder knock then I thought,” the tall one (and she had to get names, she couldn’t go about referring to them as Tall and Short. If only because it was terribly unoriginal. And didn't that just sound like The Doctor? Dear God, it wasn't contagious was it?) murmured.
“Or,” his companion started sarcastically. “She’s not from around here like her accent says and she really has no clue Nebraska even exists. Not that I blame her.”
“I’m Sam,” the tall one introduced himself, ignoring his cohort. “That’s Dean.”
“Martha,” she murmured.
“Well, Martha. Your ribs are a bit bruised and your ankle is sprained but give it a day or two and you should be fine,” Sam smiled in an upbeat manner.
“Are you a doctor?” She prided herself for not choking over the title.
Dean made a sound of amusement.
“Nope,” Sam denied. “But these days, we’ve had a lot of practice with this stuff.”
“Thanks.” Her gratitude was heartfelt; it had been so long since she’d been faced with such kindness.
“So what are you doing in the middle of nowhere in a country you’re not from?” Dean questioned with suspicion.
“I was on vacation,” she confessed in a whisper.
“So, what? You’re trying to trek across American and make it over the Pond? Don’t be delusional, the only person who has a chance of…” he trailed off and eyes her with speculation.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he breathed.
“What? Dean?” Sam interrupted.
“She’s Martha Jones! Son of a bitch.” Dean laughed.
“No way!” Sam denied. But he grinned as if it were Christmas.
“Well then, Martha Jones. Kick back and get your second wind. Seems like you gotta world to save,” Dean smile was pure charm and she’s reminded of Jack. “Though, a pretty little thing like you might want some help.”
Definitely Jack.
--------
Dean has left the run down room and Sam is tinkering with a rundown laptop.
"How-Why aren't you two in slave camps?" She breaks the silence awkwardly.
Sam flashes her a vague look in an attempt to seem mysterious. "We have our ways."
"Right," she chuckles.
Another moment of awkward silence.
"You two, you seem," she pauses, searching for the proper word. "Happy."
Sam looks baffled.
"When compared to everyone else, I mean. How can you be so nice when the world's gone to hell?" She asks in a rush.
Sam sighs and regards her seriously. "It's always been just me and Dean. Even before this crazy mess." He shrugs. "We've still got each other, we're still alive and there's still hope that we can bring that asshole down. It's enough."
Martha can't help but smile in the face of such a sentiment. How much easier things are to bear when someone is helping you. She's realized how much she'd taken for granted. The support of her family and friends, the knowledge that another person is there to help. She misses it, now that she's alone and on this lonely quest.
"Is the chick-flick moment over yet?" Dean mocks as he returns.
Sam glares.
"Jerk."
"Bitch."
"Boys!"
She can afford a day to rest, catch a breath and bask in the affection these two share.
Author: Lady Yueh
Characters: Martha Jones, Sam and Dean Winchester.
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Doctor Who 3x13
Disclaimer: None of the shows contained within this piece of fiction are my property.
Date Chosen: September 22
Author's Notes: For the Martha Jones Ficathon
telling_a_story.Summary: Martha Jones is sheltered by a pair of brothers and has a day of rest.
“Sam.”
“Dean.”
“Bitch.”
“Jerk.”
Those were the sounds that Martha Jones awoke to.
And she’d had to make sure that she was awake. After all, it wasn’t every day one woke up to what sounded like a fight between a pair of sullen children.
But they hadn’t killed her yet and she wasn’t restrained.
She opened her eyes and immediately shot down the “sullen children” theory.
At least the “child” part of it. The pair were definitely in a strop but they weren’t children.
They weren't the Master‘s lackeys either; she would have already been handed over with a pretty bow around her neck if they were. (After all, she‘d become somewhat of a priority.) They also weren't scum, she hadn't been raped or knifed. And she had detected affection in their banter. It reminded her of the kind of quips she had exchanged with Tish and Leo.
Seemed safe enough.
“Where am I?” she groaned.
There was also the fact that she was in no position to go anywhere much less fight her way out of a situation.
The taller of the pair had kind eyes, more than rare in this brave new world, worn clothing (but then again, everybody had worn clothing these days) and long hair held back in a ponytail.
“You’re in Nebraska, what’s left of it anyway,” he told her.
“Wasn’t much to begin with,” the other one cracked.
“Nebraska?” She questioned, somewhat bewildered.
She’d been panicked, some of the Master’s spies a hairsbreadth from trapping her. So, she’d hit the proverbial panic button on the manipulator; the one that catapulted her to a pre-programmed location. But why the hell would Jack program Nebraska, of all places, into his Vortex Manipulator?
“You must’ve taken a harder knock then I thought,” the tall one (and she had to get names, she couldn’t go about referring to them as Tall and Short. If only because it was terribly unoriginal. And didn't that just sound like The Doctor? Dear God, it wasn't contagious was it?) murmured.
“Or,” his companion started sarcastically. “She’s not from around here like her accent says and she really has no clue Nebraska even exists. Not that I blame her.”
“I’m Sam,” the tall one introduced himself, ignoring his cohort. “That’s Dean.”
“Martha,” she murmured.
“Well, Martha. Your ribs are a bit bruised and your ankle is sprained but give it a day or two and you should be fine,” Sam smiled in an upbeat manner.
“Are you a doctor?” She prided herself for not choking over the title.
Dean made a sound of amusement.
“Nope,” Sam denied. “But these days, we’ve had a lot of practice with this stuff.”
“Thanks.” Her gratitude was heartfelt; it had been so long since she’d been faced with such kindness.
“So what are you doing in the middle of nowhere in a country you’re not from?” Dean questioned with suspicion.
“I was on vacation,” she confessed in a whisper.
“So, what? You’re trying to trek across American and make it over the Pond? Don’t be delusional, the only person who has a chance of…” he trailed off and eyes her with speculation.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he breathed.
“What? Dean?” Sam interrupted.
“She’s Martha Jones! Son of a bitch.” Dean laughed.
“No way!” Sam denied. But he grinned as if it were Christmas.
“Well then, Martha Jones. Kick back and get your second wind. Seems like you gotta world to save,” Dean smile was pure charm and she’s reminded of Jack. “Though, a pretty little thing like you might want some help.”
Definitely Jack.
--------
Dean has left the run down room and Sam is tinkering with a rundown laptop.
"How-Why aren't you two in slave camps?" She breaks the silence awkwardly.
Sam flashes her a vague look in an attempt to seem mysterious. "We have our ways."
"Right," she chuckles.
Another moment of awkward silence.
"You two, you seem," she pauses, searching for the proper word. "Happy."
Sam looks baffled.
"When compared to everyone else, I mean. How can you be so nice when the world's gone to hell?" She asks in a rush.
Sam sighs and regards her seriously. "It's always been just me and Dean. Even before this crazy mess." He shrugs. "We've still got each other, we're still alive and there's still hope that we can bring that asshole down. It's enough."
Martha can't help but smile in the face of such a sentiment. How much easier things are to bear when someone is helping you. She's realized how much she'd taken for granted. The support of her family and friends, the knowledge that another person is there to help. She misses it, now that she's alone and on this lonely quest.
"Is the chick-flick moment over yet?" Dean mocks as he returns.
Sam glares.
"Jerk."
"Bitch."
"Boys!"
She can afford a day to rest, catch a breath and bask in the affection these two share.
