#I had a reverse doodle but.... I'm not sure enough to post it. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

zmediaoutlet · 3 years

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in support of Texas relief, @claraxbarton donated $50, and requested Dean Winchester & Bucky Barnes. Thank you for donating!

to get your own personalized fic, please see this post. (no longer taking prompts)

Curfew to get back to their bunks is 2200 hours but Carlisle's still trying to prove something and so Bucky's still out, too, because hell if he's going to let some jerk from Long Island out-drink a Brooklyn boy. "Think you're gonna fall asleep soon, punk," Carlisle says, grinning wide and loose and his eyes real red, and Bucky raises his eyebrows and knocks the next shot back. He doesn't rise to the punk thing even if he wants to sock the jerk one. See, Steve, he wants to say, but of course Steve's not here. Bucky sucks the inside of his cheek, not feeling the burn anymore after this much—maybe a bad thing—but he waves to the girl leaning against the bar, signaling for another. Becky, is her name, which caused some comment from Carlisle too. She's in a too-short skirt and Bucky knows from when Carlisle got a hand on her ass that she's not too worried about keeping the hemline down, giggling as she leans over and puts the next round on the table. Carlisle pulls her in by the hand, murmuring something in her ear that Bucky can't hear over the jazz from the jukebox but that she hears perfectly well, from how she giggles and leans in, her bosom squishing up and catching Carlisle's attention just fine. Bucky sighs, sits back. Maybe the competition's over, after all. He sips at the next shot instead of downing it, actually tasting the whiskey—crap, but better than he used to be able to afford back home—and ignores how Becky's showing off the top of her stockings, the peek of white thigh above them, and looks over the top of Carlisle's head at the lawyer-type who's been sitting toward the back of the jazz club, this whole time, watching them.

Hat on the table, a beer half-sipped at his right hand. A paper pad open, at his left. Doodling something. Bucky sips at his shot again and Becky's now in Carlisle's lap, her arms around his neck. The bar's emptying out, most everyone from boot camp gone home, and Bucky's maybe got a point to prove but he's tired of this. He knocks back the rest of his shot and then reaches out and takes Carlisle's, and kicks him under the table for good measure. "Hey!" Carlisle said, distracted from sweet Becky's plump white throat, and Bucky said, "Sorry, pal, you forfeit by way of boring me to death," and gets up from the table in a scrape of the chair on the wooden floor, and Carlisle starts to stand up but of course Becky's weighing him down and she says, "Hey, slugger, you're gonna leave me all alone?" and Carlisle's distracted, soothing, long enough for Bucky to walk away, toward the back of the bar, the shot still heavy in his hand. He wants to drink it but he wants something else, too.

Jukebox, in the back. He leans over it, flipping through. Glenn Miller, Gene Autry. He wonders who put on the run of Louis Armstrong—fourth song in a row, by his count—and in the corner of his eye he can tell that the lawyer-type is watching him, from the table right there, and doing a good job of pretending he isn't.

2200 hours. Bucky checks his watch. Ticking closer. He's not the most rule-abiding guy at the best of times but he knows he's been pushing it, with his sergeant, and if he's found out to be back late again then—well, it's latrine duty for sure, if not a full ten miler with all his gear. He sucks the inside of his cheek. Worth the risk? If he's thinking of going to Europe to fistfight Hitler, then what isn't?

"Hey, pal," Bucky says, turning, with this feeling in his gut like running into a fight in a back-alley in Brooklyn—but the lawyer's up, leaving his beer half-drunk on the table, walking past him to the hall where the WCs are. Bucky licks his lips. There's a doodle left on the table, a torn-out page from the guy's pad: some weird symbol that Bucky doesn't recognize, in heavy pencil-marks, sketchy and strange. He frowns, looking over his shoulder, but the door's swinging, and he's—sure, almost. He's gotten that kind of look, before. He's given it.

The hall's empty, but there's another door at the end, frosted glass, EXIT in reversed letters, just closing. An alleyway—well, hell. Bucky's done worse in worse places but the danger of it is leaping in his throat, now. The chances that someone might see, might catch his uniform in the dark, might—but he's a real knucklehead, it turns out, and he's pushing through the door, the glass of booze still clutched in his other hand, and then: the alleyway, and whatever's waiting, and… the lawyer nowhere to be seen.

He turns around, squinting in the mostly-dark. Trash bins, and a cat racing away out toward the streetmouth. Bucky steps forward, looking—wondering if he was seeing things he wasn't meant to be seeing, wondering if his stupid heart was manufacturing things that weren't there, like always—and—there, on the other side of the wooden gate, a glow. A candle? No: a… circle, somehow drawn on the alley wall like with fire. Strange symbols that he can't make out as he gets closer. They're bright but slowly fading and he reaches out, caught by the strangeness. No heat, as his fingers hover over the coal-flames. In the center, one of the symbols looks like a star, and he licks his lips and takes a deep breath and like an absolute knucklehead presses his hand flat against it and then –

"Of course I'm—look, I'm the one who had to haul his ass into the trunk, okay? And he's heavy as hell. So, thanks for sending me out here solo, by the way."

Bucky keeps his eyes closed, trying to keep his breath even. He's waking up slow, not like from a bad dream but from a deep, long sleep, and he hasn't had one of those since before basic—since before Joe moved back into Ma's house—since before he slept over at Steve's, when they were younger and Steve's mother was at the hospital, and Steve was snoring on his half of the bed but Buck was—well, it hardly matters. His head feels queer, memories close to the surface and hurting. He's laying on something soft.

The man starts talking again: "Dude, for the last time—yes, Sam, I'm sure. You know how many History Channel docs I've watched about Cap and the Commandos? There's some kind of federal law that it's all they show at noon on a weekday. Check the insignias from the uniform, I'm telling you. This ain't a reenactor, it's the real deal. Plus there was that Thule sigil still burning on the alley wall." A pause. Bucky doesn't know the half of what this guy's talking about. Thule? What the hell is a history channel? "Yeah. Hey—look, he's—okay. Call me when you find something."

Another pause. There's a shift, fabric rustling, and then a creak of bedsprings. "You want to stop faking? You're not that good at it."

"Says you," Bucky says, but he opens his eyes.

A room, like a hotel or something. Nighttime, from the dim, and a lamp making a pool of light between the two beds. He's on one, laid out on his back, and on the other, when he turns his head: a man, older than him, sitting on the side of the mattress, watching him. Bucky presses his lips together, looking. Not the lawyer type who gave him the slip in the alley and not anyone he's ever seen. The man's looking right back at him, studying his face, and then his eyes go skipping down Bucky's body, and Bucky's still wearing his uniform but he feels—"What's a Thule sigil?" he says, to cover up his reaction, and the man's eyes jump right to his and he grins, like Bucky's some circus pet that just did a trick he didn't expect.

"I think we better start with 101," the man says. Generic accent. Where are they? "Name's Dean. I'm a hunter. Sorry for kidnapping you, but you were passed out in an alleyway and I wasn't sure the cops would know how to handle a guy from 1943 who's—uh, you." He scratches the corner of his jaw—hasn't shaved in a few days, apparently—and then shrugs, and nods at Bucky. "Your turn."

"James," Bucky says. He surprises himself and blinks at the man. Dean. "James Barnes. Probably AWOL from my unit at this point, depending on what time is." Another grin, but this one more natural, and Bucky decides he probably doesn't want to sock the guy one. He starts to sit up but his head—ah. Woozy, the world tilting some, and Dean reaches out quick and grabs his arm, helping pull him upright. It hurts but not like getting punched, or the one time a guy coshed him over the head in an alley fight and he woke up to Steve grimly holding his brains together. More like a hangover but he didn't even have that much to drink. When he's up, boots on the floor, Dean sits back and just looks at him again, all over, and Bucky looks down at himself too like maybe there'll be something interesting to see. It's just him, though, in his uniform a little worse for wear for eating dirt in the alley, but Dean keeps looking at him like…

Dean's spinning something in his hand—a metal rectangle with a shiny glass face. He sees Bucky looking and grimaces, and tucks it into his jacket pocket. "Sorry," he says, "not sure we're ready to do the whole Back to the Future II thing, here," and Bucky doesn't know what that means, either, but then Dean says, "Here's the thing: it's 2013," and Bucky blinks at him and says, "Bullshit."

Dean's eyebrows go high. "Wow," he says, under his breath, "okay, so it really wasn't like the newsreels." Bucky stares at him. "Um," Dean says, and then says, "Shit, Sammy doesn't know everything, hang on—" and he picks up something from the bedside table between them and points it, and then there's a flashbang of color and light and… a man, talking about the stock market, in brilliant color and as vivid as Dean sitting across from him. "Don’t tell your pals in the unit about Wolf Blitzer, I don't want to create a time paradox or something where someone doesn't get born," Dean's saying, but Bucky just sits and stares, frozen on the bed. It's like… a marvel, from that World Fair they went to, something that Stark genius would think up. He gets up, finally, and Dean's quiet, and he reaches out and touches the glass and it sparks against his fingers, static, against where there's a box that says February 15, 2013, 9:57 pm. "Yeah, it's an old one. A television. I can't remember if you have those yet or not."

"Who are you, pal?" Bucky says, not turning around. The light hurts his eyes, it's so bright.

Dean sighs, behind him. The sound from the television goes away and Bucky touches it again, shaking his head, and Dean says, "James Buchanan Barnes. You go by Bucky. You're from Brooklyn." Bucky looks over his shoulder and Dean's looking at him—looking older, looking tired. "You joined the service in 1943. You're in the 107th and, from what I can tell, you haven't shipped out to Europe yet, because you were in an alley in Georgia, instead, and you haven't—" He gestures vaguely to Bucky's side, eyes dipping, but Bucky doesn't know what he means, and he's got this vague panicky feeling stuttering up in his chest. Like being caught at something only this time he hasn't done anything wrong.

Dean stands up. They're the same height, same build. Dean's dressed like a farmer, in denim pants and a plaid shirt untucked, but he doesn't carry himself like one. A hunter, he said, and Bucky braces himself. Hunting what? The door's too far away for him to lunge and make it before Dean could get there.

"I'm not here to hurt you, man," Dean says. He laughs, lightly, shaking his head. "Like, that's the last thing I want to do. You're Bucky Barnes. I can't—tell you what that means, I guess, but… It means something. But you're not supposed to be here."

"Where's here?" Bucky says, tightly.

"Well, seventy years out of place, for one thing," Dean says. His mouth curls up on one side. "Though I gotta say, you're hot for an old guy."

Bucky takes a breath, while Dean grimaces. "I feel like I just hit on George Washington or something," he mutters, eyes dropping to his boots.

"Even if you add seventy, I'm not that old," Bucky says, after a second, and he can tell he's coloring up but he's not—men don't—he's never, even in alleyways and in dark rooms and in the one dance club he ever got brave enough to go to, one night when Steve was staying up with his mother and Bucky was so strained in the heart he thought he'd crack in half, he never—out loud, he never.

Dean looks up. Calculation. He's a looker. Even back in the unit among all the guys, Bucky could say that and not have anyone question it. Brownish hair, green eyes, freckles like a kid from a sodapop advertisement but he sure doesn't look like a kid. A man, carrying himself like one, his muscles obvious in the blue plaid, his hands square and sure. Bucky looks at them instead of into Dean's face. He's never sure but now he's very not and he doesn't want to—so there are Dean's hands, on his hips, and his knuckles, and his clean neat nails. Safer to focus on than the insanity of what Dean's telling him—the future, Bucky thinks, again, the world wheeling off its track, where somehow some man in some hotel in Georgia knows who he is, and says he's hot. Howard Stark's World of Tomorrow couldn't possibly.

He steps forward. Dean's hands lift, low, cautioning, and Bucky licks his lips and walks into them, lets Dean catch his hips. "Whoa, sailor," he says, and Bucky says, "I'm in the Army," and then he picks up his head and kisses Dean, square on the mouth, heart leaping into his throat.

Brief, hard. He grips Dean's shoulders and they're—oh, shocking, hot and firm and real in a way that he's turned over by, half-convinced that it's a dream, but all his dreams have been insubstantial as air, gossamer that slips away when he tries to hold it. There's a burst of air, Dean exhaling hard through his nose, but his lips are—soft, his chin scratching against Bucky's, and after a second of stupid clenched-eyed hope Dean's hand slides up his side and he readjusts his head, tilts, makes the kiss… softer, easier, and Bucky gasps in air he didn't realize he was holding onto and Dean's mouth follows his, closing over his bottom lip and sucking very softly, and Bucky thinks out of nowhere without his brain having any say-so Steve, and he pulls away then, jerking so hard that Dean says, "Whoa, whoa, buddy—" and Bucky almost hits him but turns away, puts his hands over his face, breathes out hard and quick and tries to ignore how his lips feel oversensitized, burning.

There's a strange metallic sound while Bucky's heart is trying to beat out of his throat. It cuts off mid-racket and Dean says, "Great timing, Sammy," full of sarcasm, and Bucky drags his hands down over his cheeks, covers his mouth. Turns around, to face his stupidity like a man. Dean's holding the metal thing to his ear, apparently listening, but his eyes are fixed to Bucky's. "Oh, just traumatizing a war hero," Dean says, and then his attention shifts and he rolls his eyes, holding the thing away from his ear with this expression so what are you gonna do?, like a guy from the deli taking a call from his henpecking wife, that Bucky snorts. Dean smiles at him, easy, and puts it back to his ear in time to respond, "Yeah," and then, "Got it, okay—look, text it to me, I left my pen in Kansas," and takes it away and holds it in front of himself—another whirling flash of color, a picture of some man, and then Dean pokes a red circle and it goes quiet.

"So," Dean says. "Sammy knows how we can send you back. Gotta do it by midnight but that's no big deal, I've got the stuff in the trunk. Scary adventure's gonna be over soon, soldier. You'll have to worry about the AWOL thing on your own."

He's poking at things on the rectangle again. His thumbs move very quickly. Bucky's watching his face, downturned, apparently casual, except that his ears are bright blushing red.

"War hero," Bucky says, finally.

Dean's cheek sucks in on one side and he looks up under his eyebrows. "Can we pretend I didn't say that?" he says. Bucky shakes his head and Dean bites the corner of his mouth. His mouth. Bucky looks into his eyes instead. "Yeah. Look, I can't—tell you this stuff. I don't know if they had sci-fi in the 40s but you just… can't tell people their future, okay? It's a bad idea. You might change something, or do something, and you'd screw up time, and then, I don't know, giant vampire robots might take over Manhattan as soon as I send you back."

"Vampire—?" Bucky says, bewildered, and Dean groans.

"Forget that, too," Dean says—fat chance, Bucky thinks—and Dean shakes his head, sighing. "Look, all this… time travel crap is new for me, too. Didn't even know it could really be a thing before a few years ago, and I didn't know regular people could just smear some stuff on a wall and speak some mumbo-jumbo and just make it happen. And so—we found this record that an unexplained event had happened, on this day in Georgia, and Sammy—that's who was just on the phone—he said, well, go check it out, and he's faking like he's not sick so I just let him send me out on the errand, and then it turned out to be you, and I'm… babbling, this is embarrassing, but you're you and I gotta say, whenever we were kids, Sammy was Superman and I was Batman but when we played Commandos he had to be Cap because I always wanted—"

Dean cuts off, and now the red's in his cheeks as well as his ears, even if Bucky doesn't know what goes there. "So. I'll send you back, but." He lifts a shoulder. "I wish I didn't have to."

He looks real sorry. Bucky leans back against the dresser, with the silent television flashing colors by his shoulder. He tries to imagine it. Boys in some hazy, magic-screen future, playing at being him, the way the kids in the neighborhood play being Flash Gordon. It's too big to fit into his head. He says, instead, "So… we win, then." Dean frowns. "The war. We win? If… me and the commandos and whoever the Captain is, we all get to be heroes. We must win."

Dean licks his lips, and looks… guilty, as all hell. "Yeah," he says, voice strange. "Yeah, you win."

Oppressive, to hear it. Not relief but responsibility. Bucky nods, takes a deep breath. "Well, all right, then," he says. He smiles at Dean, his very best. "Then I think the big hero deserves another kiss."

Dean startles, and laughs, and Bucky grins until Dean's head drops. He swallows. The future, settling onto his heart; the past, roaring up to meet it.

#ffcc #dean winchester #bucky barnes #my writing #-- hey i hate to be that guy but i gotta apologize #this is less a story than a collection of paragraphs #but i feel like i forgot how to write at all #this doesn't match up to the donation #but i hope it gives you some mild entertainment #imagine bucky barnes watching cnn #that could be funny at least right?

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