Disclaimer: Characters and premise of 'Supernatural' belong to Eric Kripke and his posse. The people and world of 'Stargate: SG-1' aren't mine either.
A/N: In the same 'verse as 'No Such Thing' and 'Still Free'. Set mid-season 4 in Stargate SG-1, which corresponds to mid-season 2 of Supernatural (I'm pushing SG-1 up to 2006 / 2007 in this timeline, rather than moving SPN back.)
Summary: Evil comes in many forms. And it doesn't need to be believed in to exist. Stargate:SG-1, Supernatural crossover
SIGNS AND WARNINGS
Twelve, thirteen – good. Daniel skimmed one hand over artifacts crated and labeled for transport back to the SGC. Now where's –
"And the amulet is the last of it. Here you go, Dr. Jackson."
"Thanks, Liz," Daniel returned the redheaded Private's smile, depositing the small box atop a stack of equipment. "That's everything?"
"Checked and double-checked. We're ready to head back out." Heaving a sigh, the SGC's resident specialist in antiquities and museum display swiped a sleeve over her sweating forehead. "S'hot out here."
Daniel adjusted the brim of his boonie, gazing out across the open, overgrown square that had once been a courtyard marked from the tread of hundreds of feet. Mesoamerican roots, definitely, from the structure of the temple and surrounding architecture. Though all the buildings were constructed from an unknown metal alloy and some sort of translucent equivalent Finley had jokingly named flexi-glass for its ability to bend, there was no mistaking the layout. It's nearly identical to Machu Picchu.
Except for the part where all the metal reflects the heat.
"P5M-K58, land of sweet sunshine." Major Tony Wexler, five foot nine of stern humor and whipcord muscle, tossed Daniel a grin as he reached for the mike on his shoulder, "John, Finley. You finished up in the temple?"
"Sweaty sunshine's more like it," Liz murmured under the crackle of the walkie-talkie.
Daniel grinned.
" – Stargate soon. Wexler out."
Liz leant against the crates, digging fingers into damp auburn strands. "We're headed out, sir?"
"Right on schedule," Tony agreed. Daniel watched as brown eyes flicked over the equipment, moving on to scan the open court; the week of surveying and picking over the empty city had been quiet, but Wexler never let his guard down. "Major Carter's eager to start playing."
"She's not the only one," Liz smirked. Daniel followed her nod back to Finley Lehmann, rounding the silvery corner of the main pyramid complex and gesturing broadly. The deep baritone was audible even from twenty yards away, but – I can't quite . . .
"What's he saying?"
"Your guess is as good as mine, Cunningham," Tony grunted. Amusement played about his mouth, crinkling the skin at the corners of brown eyes as he checked his weapon once more. "Something about electromagnetic frequencies?"
"And electromagnetic radiation," Daniel added, remembering Sam's excited lecture. "The preliminary samples of the pyramid alloys show that they have been primarily engineered to withstand high exposure to ultraviolet and gamma rays."
"The flexi-glass too," a deep baritone broke in. Private Lehmann's teeth shone white against flushed skin; the Irishman's fair coloring had gathered sunburn more quickly than anyone else on SG-5.
"I guess they'd be worried about that, given how damn bright this place is," John grunted. Marine to the core, he adjusted the bill of his own cap and glared at the sun.
Daniel grimaced. He had the long watch last shift. With days thirty hours long and only nine of them spent in darkness, they'd kept to the SGC's time rather than that of P5M-K58. So while it should come out to early morning local time, we're actually into the SGC's afternoon.
"Final check, Eason?"
"Clear, sir," John replied crisply, smile lurking about stern features, "except for the bugs."
Bugs? Daniel blinked. They'd run into their fair share of bio-hazards, local fauna and insect life included . . .
"Report," Tony snapped, mind already there.
"Nothin' big, sir, just a few little crawlies that got Eason's shorts in a twist," Finley snorted. The engineer-turned-metallurgist was scribbling notes into a waterproof notebook that he'd pulled from one pocket.
"No bites, and no hitchhikers," John clarified, shooting a death-glare at Finley.
Daniel powered up the FRED, pulling his pack on and cinching the straps. "That we know of," he added.
Wexley's eyes settled on his two fidgeting team-members. "Decontamination, as soon as we get back," he ordered. "Better safe than sorry."
At that point, though, if we've brought anything back it'll already be in the SGC. Daniel helped Liz heft one of the larger containers; all the while chewing the idea. Janet was right. They really needed to see if they could adjust some of the SGC's off-world measures to be more preventative.
"Right," Liz grunted, adjusting her hold and grabbing the small case holding the amulet she had been studying only an hour before.
"Eason, take point," Wexley hefted his P-90, motioning to the south-east. "Lehmann, you've got our six. C'mon, people, we got a wormhole to catch."
"Hurry, Sam!"
Book, big. Sam ducked the flying tome and dodged the vase, scrambling along splintered planks. Painted glass shattered against the wall, raining shards down on him. Where is it, where-the-hell did it –
Slam!
Pain followed a half-second later; Sam shoved at the heavy armchair, squirming out from underneath. Ribs groaned a wounded protest as he panted. Across the room, Dean was having a little more luck batting flying objects away with . . . was that an oar?
"Sam!"
Panic was there – a thin undertone no one else would hear.
"M'okay, Dean," he wheezed. Owww. . . But nothing shifted when he did, no searing pain spiked his chest when he breathed. Bruised. Not even cracked. Lucky.
So move!
Splinters scored searching fingers as he scrabbled across ragged floorboards. C'mon, c'mon –
Cool, smooth steel, out of place against the rust and dust of the dilapidated farmhouse.
Gotcha!
Something crashed against the wall; Sam had a glimpse of his brother slamming a vase and two jars, in quick succession, away from his head. Shovel, not oar. Glass shards sprayed outward from the impacts, digging into the coat on the arm Dean brought up to protect his face. Is that –
Blood.
Hell with this.
Hands strong and relaxed on the trigger, Sam swiveled the shotgun around to bear on the teenage boy glaring at him from halfway up the wall, where he'd been taking out his own rage on others for thirty years.
Then again, if Sam had been OD'd by someone he'd thought of as a friend, who did it just to steal his girl and then went on to have the perfect life – Yeah, I'd be pretty pissed, too.
But Dean was hurt.
BLAM!
Five books, a spoon and two cushions hit creaking boards with a thud.
"Sam?"
He rolled to booted feet, wincing at the pull on protesting ribs. Blood. Dean! "You okay?"
"'M fine." Dean was dabbing at a cut drizzling blood through hair to coat one ear. "What took you so long?"
Sam ignored that; it was just Dean's way of saying I'm okay, really. Rotting wood creaked as he moved toward the basement stairs. "I think the cellar's got a dirt floor."
"Super," Dean muttered. His older brother beat him to the door, shotgun ready in one hand and shovel from the Impala's trunk in the other. Sam crept up on the side, hand inching toward the knob; yanked the door open quickly, letting Dean test the first rickety step.
'70's, drugs, and local kids turning an abandoned farmhouse into a hippy-hole to have fun . . . The place seemed to attract kids no matter the year; and the sudden injuries and rumors of hauntings through the local teenage community had been what had drawn Sam and Dean here in the first place.
Graffiti scrawled across a wall under the beam of his flashlight as Sam followed his brother deeper into the dark cellar.
"Sam. Get the EMF meter out."
His boots hit dirt, and Sam squinted through the darkness. This place is huge . . . For an old farmhouse, he'd expected a small basement, maybe nothing more than a tiny root cellar. Instead, it stretched the length and breadth of the house. Sam untangled the headphones and stuck one in an ear, switching the homemade meter on. Still can't believe he made this.
"Huh." For all the paranormal activity upstairs, the basement was surprisingly devoid of –
Squee!
Two red lights. Not much, but –
Sam crouched, bringing the EMF meter closer to the dirt. Lights across the board. He winced, pulling the headphone from his ear as the squeal increased in intensity and pitch. "Hey. Dean."
A solid presence at his side; black-booted toes just inside the circle of light his flashlight beamed down. "You got it?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah, I think so."
"Sweet."
Sam took the shotgun as Dean's shovel bit into the dirt with a soft thunk. Holding the light, he rummaged with the other hand in the duffel he'd slung over his shoulder before they'd kicked the boarded-up door down. Ammo, paper – probably the exorcisms he'd copied out of Dad's journal – ah. A round canister of salt met his seeking fingertips, and he could feel the smooth plastic case of lighter fluid against the back of his hand. Hooking fingers around both, Sam pulled the items out.
Clink.
Green-gold met his own, a frown on his older brother's face. "That's not even three feet down."
Scraping metal revealed several ribs and a bit of vertebra. Sam swallowed. "No wonder he was so pissed."
Dean grunted, uncovering bones and ragged scraps of cloth crusted with dirt. A few minutes' worth of work showed Sam that the boy hadn't even been laid out – just dumped into the hole, limbs flopping every which-way, and covered over. Decay hit his nostrils, strong with the scent of death. "Ugh."
Dean traded him shovel for salt, pouring white crystals liberally over bones browned with dirt and age. Lighter fluid squirted; matches flared against the basement's darkness. Sam gazed around the basement, saving his night-vision, as flames cast flickering shadows across the spidery space.
Sad.
"What?"
Sam blinked; he hadn't thought he'd said that out loud. "It's sad," he repeated. "I mean, Chris Schumer was just a kid." Eighteen, his brain reminded him. Not really. But Sam couldn't judge off his own experience. He didn't know when he'd stopped being a kid, but by the time he'd hit eighteen, childhood was long over. He knew Dean had tried to let him hang on to it for longer.
Dean's had been over at four.
"Yeah," his brother nodded. The flames were dying down, thin strands of smoke curling through the basement and bone crumbling to ash. Dean's eyes, when they met his, said I know, Sammy. "C'mon," were the words he heard instead. "We're done here."
"Off-world Activation!"
Arms folded, Jack cocked a brow as shimmering blue exploded and then settled, rippling light across the 'Gateroom. And three, two, one -
"Right on schedule," Ferretti crowed, holding out a hand.
I can't believe Wexler got him to the 'Gate on time. Jack dug deep into a pocket. "Jeez, Daniel had to choose today to be punctual?"
"Yeah, well," Ferretti snatched the twenty from him with a cocksure grin, "there's a first for -"
"Tok'ra IDC," the technician announced.
"Wha – Hey!"
Jack smirked, tucking the bill back into his pocket. "You underestimate the power of the archaeologist," he informed the leader of SG-2. "Daniel and his rocks always win."
Schluurp.
"Ahh, Jacob," Jack smiled, working his face muscles a little more than a natural grin would require. Caught the former General's eyes from behind bulletproof glass. "Nice of him to pop by." Sort of. Carter's dad, the latest addition to the Tok'ra, had been doing less ambassador work for the SGC than for the 'peaceful' snakes. And right behind him. . . Crap! "Aldwin."
"Could be worse," Ferretti muttered lowly, as the snakes sailed toward the 'Gateroom door with a bare nod in his direction.
"Yeah?" Jack snapped. Can you say time-travel, Lou? "How!"
"Could be Anise."
And the armbands.
"Thanks," Jack snarled, sending the leader of SG-2 slinking from the control room. Took a breath. Might as well get up to the briefing room before they –
The 'Gate technician picked up a ringing phone, and swiveled his chair after listening for a moment. "Colonel O'Neill? You're required in the briefing room."
"Oh, now what," he groused, headed for the stairs.
Seated at the briefing room table, General Hammond's face gave nothing away. Aaaannnd – no help there. "General," Jack slid into his own seat. "Jacob. Nice of you to drop in."
On the far end of polished oak, Jacob didn't smile. Crap. Please, please don't let them say - "Colonel O'Neill. Unfortunately, we're not here for a social visit."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"Colonel."
Jack took in the stern timbre of Hammond's voice and the General's stern, play-nice-or-else expression. Ah, crap. Here we go.
Cushioned leather gave way; Jack settled back into his chair and arranged his face into something closer to a smile. "So. Jacob. What can we do for you?"
Jacob's eyes flicked to Aldwin, something quick and unsure beaming between them and then quelled.
Muscles fought to tense; Jack didn't let them. What was that?
It was Selmac who spoke first. "There is a situation, which the Tok'ra require the assistance of the SGC to solve. More specifically, we require SG-1."
Isn't there always? "Well, naturally." Jack didn't bother to fake a smile this time.
Selmac, oldest and most unswerving of the Tok'ra, ignored him. "It has come to our attention that the System Lord Olokun has had access to the planet you have designated PX3-972."
Names. They need names. "Ye-es . . . ?"
Selmac's head bowed, and Jacob looked up. "PX3-972 is the planet that was used for the time-travel experiment authorized by the High Council last month."
Jack blinked. Shifted against plush leather again. "Oh. Right." Why don't I like where this is going?
"The success of the time-travel experiment performed demonstrated to the High Council the device's potential as an offensive weapon against the Goa'uld." Unctuous tones carried across the table as Aldwin spoke. "However, an initial defunct in the design required that the primary of the pair of devices used to travel through time be permanently attached to the Stargate itself in order to integrate into the Stargate network."
Tense shoulders lifted and dropped. Hesitated, then stretched out a kink. Rubbing a deep muscle ache, Jack stared back. "You superglued the portable Delorian to the 'Gate. And now the Goa'uld control the 'Gate. That's just great."
"It was never our intention that a System Lord would have access to PX3-972," General Carter said softly.
"Oh come on, Jacob!" Jack pushed free of confining wood and leather, stalking toward the glass window overlooking the 'Gateroom. So of course now they need a recon mission into a probable combat situation, to remove their unmovable tin box or disable the damn thing before the next evil – eviler – snake finds out how to go back in time and un-make us all.
"I don't see what this has to do with the Earth Stargate," General Hammond frowned.
"We require the use of the Earth Stargate because of its security under the Asgaard Protected Planets Treaty," Aldwin clarified.
"Really." General Hammond's voice was colder than cracked ice.
General Carter was quiet, knowing how this was going to play out.
"As Commander of this facility, I'm afraid I can't allow that."
Aldwin's head tilted, face symbiote-blank. "We are your allies, and we require your aid -"
"As a matter of fact, you don't," Hammond countered, standing. "Information was never exchanged in regards to the time-travel device you developed before you used it on SGC personnel, without the SGC's knowledge or approval. Now you want us to risk the attention of another System Lord so that you have the convenience of using a protected Stargate, and SGC personnel, to retrieve this device. Under the Earth-Tok'ra Alliance, we are not required to allow such action, and I will not authorize any mission
"Very well," Aldwin said, hissingly furious. Brown eyes flashed with symbiote rage, but the host remained in control. "We will speak to the High Council regarding this breach of treaty."
"There's been no breach of the treaty," Jack tossed back, not bothering to hide his irritation.
"We will see," Aldwin returned. Jack eyed the Tok'ra carefully. Hmm. Angry, but in control. Dangerous. Unlike Freya/Anise, who was more prone to lashing out. "I shall return to Vorash immediately."
"If you feel you must," Hammond returned, more civilly than Jack would have been able to under the circumstances. "You know that you are welcome to rest and refreshment."
Aldwin nodded stiffly. "I must contact the High Council, and I cannot delay."
"Very well." Hammond reached for the phone. "Jacob?"
"I'll stay," General Carter answered, glancing at Aldwin. Selmac blinked up at them, before turning to the other Tok'ra. "Inform the High Council that I will remain to continue negotiations."
"Of course."
Click. "They're ready for you in the 'Gateroom," Hammond directed the words to Aldwin. Then he turned to Jack, with a smile and purposeful glint in blue eyes. "And Colonel O'Neill. Dr. Jackson and SG-5 just returned."
God, it hurts. It hurts!
But she'd had worse, definitely. Remember P3M-164? Natives, with spears and a grudge against pale demons. Especially pale demons with red hair. Liz twisted against tight knots, feeling wetness on both wrists. Pried brown eyes open against the harsh lighting of her own basement.
With all the dangers her team faced off-world, the irony made her want to scream.
Not happening. Earth is supposed to be safe!
But he would be coming back soon, she knew it. The Mountain's security isolated the SGC from the rest of the real world; Liz hadn't heard the news of what the cops thought to be the sudden emergence of a local serial killer until three days ago. God, let me get out of this please and I'll never go anywhere without my Beretta! Locking the doors and windows had been almost useless. She still didn't know how he'd gotten in.
Only that he'd been waiting for her.
Just . . . a little . . . more –
Pop!
Gasping against the pain of a dislocated thumb, Liz wriggled loose first one hand, then the other, careful of the stab wound in her shoulder. Gotcha! Thank you, Colonel O'Neill, for that trick.
No time to waste; slamming the digit back into place, she made short work of the ropes binding ankles to the kitchen chair he'd hauled down into damp concrete confines, and lunged for the stairs. Gotta get out of here!
One hand on the knob, other clamped against seeping pain, Liz paused. Phone? 911? Wouldn't do any good if he'd cut the lines. She didn't have the keys to her car and had no idea where they might be if he'd snagged them after attacking her – she'd just dropped them on the table, and had no time to search. Same goes for my cell. He could be anywhere on the other side of this door; she had no idea how long she'd been out.
Need a weapon.
Some women had trashy romance novels stored in their bedside drawers. Private Elizabeth Campbell of the government installation known as Project Bluebook had a loaded Beretta and extra clip.
And it's closer, now, than the door. The last thing she needed was to be playing peek-a-boo with this nutjob through the streets of Colorado Springs.
Get the weapon, call for backup.
Two fingers hit the light switch, plunging the stairs into blackness. Liz's heart was pounding in great, shuddering beats that sent a tremor through her whole body; she clenched one shaking hand on the knob, twisting slowly.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. Keep to the shadows.
Liz's back hit the wall, sliding along toward the hallway. Ears intent on the house heard nothing. Either he's quiet as death, or he's gone. Military training assumed the first; the rest of her hoped for the second, unlikely as it might be.
Streetlights angled past sheer curtains, illuminating the hallway leading to her bedroom. No cover.
No noise.
Go!
On swift cat-feet she raced down the hall carpet, wide eyes looking everywhere. Met the corner and froze just outside her bedroom. Careful, careful. Pressed one ear against the door, calming her own breathing enough to listen.
Eased the door open, scanning shadowed corners – and then she was jerking the drawer open, comforting weight sliding into her hand as if made for the curve of her palm. Safety off. Chamber loaded, magazine full, extra clip tucked in one pocket. Thank God.
"Hello, Lizzie."
Dark silhouette blocking her bedroom door; a voice she didn't recognize. Liz braced herself, finger waiting on the trigger. "Get the hell away from me."
"Or what?" A flash of yellowed teeth accompanied the sneer. "You'll shoot me?"
He's playing with me. "Damn right I will."
A low laugh shivered her skin. Liz could almost feel it, like a chill breeze over the cold sweat blanketing her face. "That wouldn't be very polite at all."
"If you make any move toward me, I will pull the trigger."
"Now, now, Lizzie -" One step.
Bam!
The figure staggered; she adjusted for recoil and squeezed the trigger again. Bam! Bam!
Run!
Liz hit the door at a sprint, leaping over the sprawled figure lying half in her room and half in the hall, racing for her front door. Locked!
She ripped free the chain, slamming deadbolt aside and yanking at the handle –
A hand thumped down on her wounded shoulder, ripping her around. Liz slammed back into the door, gulping for breath.
No – he was wearing a vest?
"Bullets, Lizzie? That wasn't very kind." And out of the darkness, his eyes glowed at her.
Finger tight on the trigger, Liz couldn't help it. Over the blast of the Beretta firing over and over, she screamed.
And the African-American male makes victim number four, found three days ago.
"So what do you think?"Gold-flecked emerald scanned the article as Dean sifted through flimsy news-clippings spread out on the motel bed. "This is the fourth death in a ten-mile radius -"
Bangs brushing blue-green, Sam nodded, stretching his arms. Two days had been long enough to let the bruises from their last job rise and start to fade, but he was still stiff. "In the last month. Roughly one a week – and so far there seems to be no connection between the victims. Different genders, ages, ethnicities even. But get this -" Where is it, where is – ah. Shifting one article free of the pile scattered across the motel's table, Sam cleared his throat. "Eyewitness reports confirm the victims' presences at work and family functions up through the day they were murdered. But the coroner's report determines the time of death to be a week before the body was found."
Green eyes blinked; his older brother pulled himself to booted feet and began pacing worn carpet. "In every case?"
"Every one."
"You thinking skinwalker?"
Yeah. "Or possession." Swinging booted feet to the floor, Sam scooped articles together with internet printouts and stuffed everything between yellow manila folds.
"No chance this is zombies, or some kind of corpse reanimation?"
Sam reached for his coffee, pulling a long sip from steaming styrofoam. "No reports of unusual behavior from the victims before their deaths. Families didn't notice anything."
Dean hmphed. One hand rested on closed plastic, silver ring tapping the laptop's exterior. "At least not anything they were willing to give to the presses."
"What do you think?" Sam knew the thoughtful cast lighting green eyes.
His brother moved back from the window, reaching for laundry. "Either way, sounds like our kind of gig."
"It's a couple hundred miles away."
Dean's brows flicked up in a facial shrug; the jeans he was rolling were tucked into a corner of the ancient duffle plopped on the foot of his bed. "Look at the pattern. Bodies dead a week before actually being found dead. Whatever this is has a new victim, probably a new face, by the time it leaves the body to be found. It's already moved on to somebody new – all we can do is try to stop it."
Zipping his own duffel, Sam winced. "Yeah."
"You check us out, I'll load the car?"
"Sounds good," Sam gave the room one last glance for anything forgotten, and pulled the door shut.
At the Impala, Dean was hefting both duffels into the back seat. "Colorado Springs, here we come."