Switchback, Part 6
Oct. 11th, 2026 11:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madimpossibledreamerFor this chapter I would like to submit into evidence the following notes I’d had in my vague outline: sleepwalks to the window (or—no, he does it on his own because he’s stupid). Johnny is Exhibit A of how smart people can be so foolish.
Main Points:
The Dead Zone, Switchback
Chapter Summary: Johnny can't sleep and decides to use that time to be productive.
Word Count: 1820
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Pre-Johnny/Sarah/Walt
Warnings: not in-depth, but discussion of vomit, fairly in-depth discussion of the mind of a predator.
It’s strangely peaceful going to bed, in a way that makes Johnny painfully aware of the fact that he probably is a little lonely, not that he’ll ever admit to Bruce that he was right. Actually sleeping is a different story. Walt drifts off pretty quickly. It’s not feigned or forced; it’s an easy trust, and the thought of it just keeps nagging at Johnny like a bad tooth. The guilt isn’t what’s keeping him awake, though. It’s definitely there, simultaneously worse and better because even with that secret between them out in the open Walt doesn’t seem resentful or anything of what Johnny had expected. In the end, though, it’s the pain. He could get up and take a painkiller, but somehow getting up feels like it would be admitting defeat, in a weird way.
He does find himself nodding off now and then. If he was less experienced he might call the glimpses he keeps getting nightmares. All of the other visions seem to have disappeared, leaving only the booms of thunder rattling the boards of the cabin and the rain coming down, punctuated by the occasional sound of shattering glass from the window, the footsteps around the cabin, the smell of smoke. Even when he startles out of the haze of the vision it’s still lingering, making him want to cough. He actually gives in once, trying to be quiet so as not to wake Walt, and it doesn’t help. He’s not entirely sure what he expected.
And it’s not like staying awake is much better. Sleeping is a nightmare, but the waking world is no picnic. He still feels Linda’s visceral fear, see the worry on Donna’s and Robert’s faces—there’s another name he didn’t have; he’ll have to tell Walt later. And that brings him to Walt, Walt who was frustrated not because Johnny was an ass that slept with his wife but because Johnny had gotten him clues that added up to a whole lot of nothing, Walt who was angry with the cops for not filing a police report but not Johnny, who should have managed to find something useful so far but only just now got a name on the man with the missing women in the cabin and not even a full name.
Walt is probably going to be mad, but it’s not like Johnny’s going to get all that much rest to recharge for the day ahead anyway, even if he takes something for the pain now. Might as well actually make himself useful. He’s definitely going to need his cane, though. He grabs the flashlight on the way out. At least he’s not going to be totally unprepared.
It’s freezing outside, and that’s not even including the fact that Johnny’s skin is half-convinced he’s out in the middle of a thunderstorm, ghostly rain leeching warmth on contact. His teeth are already starting to chatter, but he’s not entirely sure this cold feeling in his bones is just that. Something’s definitely here, some kind of clue that could be the big break they’re looking for. He’d been close when he’d tried to find the signs of the fire. He’d given up too early—and okay, sure, some of that was Walt’s call, worried about Johnny’s health, but hey, he’s a big boy, he can handle it.
The potential soot-mark on the outside of the cabin is just as disappointing when he runs his flashlight over it as it was earlier in the day. But maybe it’s a place to start. If this creep had been starting the fire here, maybe he left some other signs of his presence. Just in case Johnny gingerly crouches down, adjusting his grip on the cane, and reaches out to touch it, but that’s not a trigger for any kind of vision, not even some poor worker trying to scrub it away.
Johnny’s visions can’t be completely useless, though, so he starts going over them again, careful not to shine the flashlight directly in through the window and possibly wake Walt up. He doesn’t want to have to try to explain himself until he has something to actually show for it. The recurring elements that just kept coming back—the storm, the footsteps, the smoke…
He stops moving the flashlight around, staring up at the window. How did it get broken? He thinks back, running over shards of glass, and while none of them got a good look, too scared to go close, they didn’t feel like small pieces of glass underfoot. Linda wouldn’t recognize the sound of a gun, but he would, and he didn’t hear one go off. And as bad as Walt’s opinion is of the investigation, they probably wouldn’t have missed a bullet hole in a window the missing women were renting. For the first time tonight he barely registers the pain as he gets up eagerly and heads around the side to compare, and he’s right. It’s a subtle difference he wouldn’t have caught if he wasn’t looking for it, but the windows don’t match. This creep got more hands-on with breaking the window, maybe even enough to touch something. And that might be just what Johnny needed. Eagerly, he heads back around to the window, pretty sure he’s onto something now. Even if the guy didn’t touch the window itself, used a rock or something, this all but confirms that a fire had been deliberately set beneath it after the window was broken to smoke them out, convince them that their safety was about to be engulfed in flames and the best way to survive this was to flee. He reaches out eagerly to the window.
Johnny has a moment of perfect clarity where he knows what’s coming, this is one of the ones he’s going to hate
how she acts like he’s not even a consideration, like she can just whore herself around. She’d smiled at him, acted all friendly, batted her eyelashes and flirted, but the second he’d flirted back she’d grown cold. “Inappropriate,” she’d said, like she hadn’t been leading him on for hours just to make a quick buck. Who knows how many other men she’d done that too, drew them in with her pretty painted face all the while laughing at them behind their back? She’d had that European fooled. He hadn’t even known the other man had any connection to her after a little investigation of his own until he’d seen the man here this morning as they hiked up and oh, his blood burns.
It’s not like the man’s lucky. Thomas isn’t naive enough to believe that, now that he’s seeing past her beauty. The fool is just being used. Bet that’s where she gets all that money for nice things like the dresses and the jewelry and the nights out on the town. He’s vaguely familiar; Thomas would be able to place them if he was cooler, but right now his blood’s boiling hot, keeping him warm even in this freezing rain.
That bitch. Time she learns her place. He wonders if her crocodile tears will run pretty in the rain, messing up that perfect image she paints with her makeup. He wonders if she’ll beg. He can almost taste her despair, the moment where she learns who’s really in charge here. He smiles.
He bends over to pick up the stone he’d already prepared. Enough planning. Time to put it into action. He’s just about to throw when two hands like vices clamp around his wrists.
He struggles. “Bastard,” he spits. He hadn’t even seen the German creep around behind him. “You know that whore doesn’t actually care about you.”
He can’t make out the reply. None of this feels right. He’s shoved forcefully into the wall hard enough his nose starts to bleed, though he can’t quite tell if that broke it, and there’s actually cuffs being placed on his wrists. Maybe she’d actually appreciate being used like the slut she is, if this is the kind of thing she’s used to. He manages to get in a good kick and a headbutt but can’t tell if he’d actually managed to do much, and he hates this man more than he’s hated
most of the visions he’s had. Though he finds it’s kind of hard to vomit against a wall.
“Jesus, John, are you back with me?” Walt sounds—no, he feels tired and furious and a little in pain and more than a little worried. His hand is now barely touching Johnny’s, ready to take off the handcuffs if necessary, and all of that’s bleeding through. The barriers between them feel a little porous. Or maybe that’s just Johnny.
“Walt, I am so sorry,” Johnny manages. He can’t stop shivering, and he just feels gross now. Even just being Thomas was nasty, and now he has a nosebleed and he’s covered in puke. And that’s not even considering the words he’d thrown at Walt, and he’s now realizing exactly how bad it would have been for Walt to hear them, let alone the German—Robert, has to be.
“For ignoring me to just go and do this in the middle of the night? I sure hope so. For words that weren’t your own from a man that very possibly killed two women? That part isn’t your fault.” He’s still in shock from hearing them but even now he can’t blame Johnny, especially not with him looking all pathetic. Maybe it’s practice but right now all he wants to do is get John cleaned up and into bed and Johnny really needs to try to stay out of Walt’s head. He’s already been intrusive enough.
Johnny should try to get away, should try to give Walt some space, but he tries to get up and his leg abruptly refuses to cooperate. He opens his mouth to explain, maybe to apologize again, but all that comes out is, “...It’s bad.”
“I think I figured that out without the need for psychic powers,” Walt replies dryly, pausing to pick up Johnny’s cane and then hauling him up. “At least you didn’t hurt either of us too badly, though not for lack of trying, and I think you might’ve opened up some of the cuts on your hands again. We are going to talk about this tomorrow, okay?”
It’s mostly just a question based on the fact that Walt actually wants to hear him agree to this and actually follow through, Johnny is pretty sure. Not because it’s actually a discussion. “Okay.” He pauses and then mumbles, “I’m feeling tired now.”
He hears Walt snort despite himself. “Oh, great, the only way to keep you out of trouble is to wear you out. Sarah swears you grew up, but sometimes I’m not so sure.”
Johnny’s yawning deeply when Walt finally maneuvers him into the chair. He’s out before the nosebleed actually stops.
Main Points:
The Dead Zone, Switchback
Chapter Summary: Johnny can't sleep and decides to use that time to be productive.
Word Count: 1820
Rating: Teen
Pairing: Pre-Johnny/Sarah/Walt
Warnings: not in-depth, but discussion of vomit, fairly in-depth discussion of the mind of a predator.
It’s strangely peaceful going to bed, in a way that makes Johnny painfully aware of the fact that he probably is a little lonely, not that he’ll ever admit to Bruce that he was right. Actually sleeping is a different story. Walt drifts off pretty quickly. It’s not feigned or forced; it’s an easy trust, and the thought of it just keeps nagging at Johnny like a bad tooth. The guilt isn’t what’s keeping him awake, though. It’s definitely there, simultaneously worse and better because even with that secret between them out in the open Walt doesn’t seem resentful or anything of what Johnny had expected. In the end, though, it’s the pain. He could get up and take a painkiller, but somehow getting up feels like it would be admitting defeat, in a weird way.
He does find himself nodding off now and then. If he was less experienced he might call the glimpses he keeps getting nightmares. All of the other visions seem to have disappeared, leaving only the booms of thunder rattling the boards of the cabin and the rain coming down, punctuated by the occasional sound of shattering glass from the window, the footsteps around the cabin, the smell of smoke. Even when he startles out of the haze of the vision it’s still lingering, making him want to cough. He actually gives in once, trying to be quiet so as not to wake Walt, and it doesn’t help. He’s not entirely sure what he expected.
And it’s not like staying awake is much better. Sleeping is a nightmare, but the waking world is no picnic. He still feels Linda’s visceral fear, see the worry on Donna’s and Robert’s faces—there’s another name he didn’t have; he’ll have to tell Walt later. And that brings him to Walt, Walt who was frustrated not because Johnny was an ass that slept with his wife but because Johnny had gotten him clues that added up to a whole lot of nothing, Walt who was angry with the cops for not filing a police report but not Johnny, who should have managed to find something useful so far but only just now got a name on the man with the missing women in the cabin and not even a full name.
Walt is probably going to be mad, but it’s not like Johnny’s going to get all that much rest to recharge for the day ahead anyway, even if he takes something for the pain now. Might as well actually make himself useful. He’s definitely going to need his cane, though. He grabs the flashlight on the way out. At least he’s not going to be totally unprepared.
It’s freezing outside, and that’s not even including the fact that Johnny’s skin is half-convinced he’s out in the middle of a thunderstorm, ghostly rain leeching warmth on contact. His teeth are already starting to chatter, but he’s not entirely sure this cold feeling in his bones is just that. Something’s definitely here, some kind of clue that could be the big break they’re looking for. He’d been close when he’d tried to find the signs of the fire. He’d given up too early—and okay, sure, some of that was Walt’s call, worried about Johnny’s health, but hey, he’s a big boy, he can handle it.
The potential soot-mark on the outside of the cabin is just as disappointing when he runs his flashlight over it as it was earlier in the day. But maybe it’s a place to start. If this creep had been starting the fire here, maybe he left some other signs of his presence. Just in case Johnny gingerly crouches down, adjusting his grip on the cane, and reaches out to touch it, but that’s not a trigger for any kind of vision, not even some poor worker trying to scrub it away.
Johnny’s visions can’t be completely useless, though, so he starts going over them again, careful not to shine the flashlight directly in through the window and possibly wake Walt up. He doesn’t want to have to try to explain himself until he has something to actually show for it. The recurring elements that just kept coming back—the storm, the footsteps, the smoke…
He stops moving the flashlight around, staring up at the window. How did it get broken? He thinks back, running over shards of glass, and while none of them got a good look, too scared to go close, they didn’t feel like small pieces of glass underfoot. Linda wouldn’t recognize the sound of a gun, but he would, and he didn’t hear one go off. And as bad as Walt’s opinion is of the investigation, they probably wouldn’t have missed a bullet hole in a window the missing women were renting. For the first time tonight he barely registers the pain as he gets up eagerly and heads around the side to compare, and he’s right. It’s a subtle difference he wouldn’t have caught if he wasn’t looking for it, but the windows don’t match. This creep got more hands-on with breaking the window, maybe even enough to touch something. And that might be just what Johnny needed. Eagerly, he heads back around to the window, pretty sure he’s onto something now. Even if the guy didn’t touch the window itself, used a rock or something, this all but confirms that a fire had been deliberately set beneath it after the window was broken to smoke them out, convince them that their safety was about to be engulfed in flames and the best way to survive this was to flee. He reaches out eagerly to the window.
Johnny has a moment of perfect clarity where he knows what’s coming, this is one of the ones he’s going to hate
how she acts like he’s not even a consideration, like she can just whore herself around. She’d smiled at him, acted all friendly, batted her eyelashes and flirted, but the second he’d flirted back she’d grown cold. “Inappropriate,” she’d said, like she hadn’t been leading him on for hours just to make a quick buck. Who knows how many other men she’d done that too, drew them in with her pretty painted face all the while laughing at them behind their back? She’d had that European fooled. He hadn’t even known the other man had any connection to her after a little investigation of his own until he’d seen the man here this morning as they hiked up and oh, his blood burns.
It’s not like the man’s lucky. Thomas isn’t naive enough to believe that, now that he’s seeing past her beauty. The fool is just being used. Bet that’s where she gets all that money for nice things like the dresses and the jewelry and the nights out on the town. He’s vaguely familiar; Thomas would be able to place them if he was cooler, but right now his blood’s boiling hot, keeping him warm even in this freezing rain.
That bitch. Time she learns her place. He wonders if her crocodile tears will run pretty in the rain, messing up that perfect image she paints with her makeup. He wonders if she’ll beg. He can almost taste her despair, the moment where she learns who’s really in charge here. He smiles.
He bends over to pick up the stone he’d already prepared. Enough planning. Time to put it into action. He’s just about to throw when two hands like vices clamp around his wrists.
He struggles. “Bastard,” he spits. He hadn’t even seen the German creep around behind him. “You know that whore doesn’t actually care about you.”
He can’t make out the reply. None of this feels right. He’s shoved forcefully into the wall hard enough his nose starts to bleed, though he can’t quite tell if that broke it, and there’s actually cuffs being placed on his wrists. Maybe she’d actually appreciate being used like the slut she is, if this is the kind of thing she’s used to. He manages to get in a good kick and a headbutt but can’t tell if he’d actually managed to do much, and he hates this man more than he’s hated
most of the visions he’s had. Though he finds it’s kind of hard to vomit against a wall.
“Jesus, John, are you back with me?” Walt sounds—no, he feels tired and furious and a little in pain and more than a little worried. His hand is now barely touching Johnny’s, ready to take off the handcuffs if necessary, and all of that’s bleeding through. The barriers between them feel a little porous. Or maybe that’s just Johnny.
“Walt, I am so sorry,” Johnny manages. He can’t stop shivering, and he just feels gross now. Even just being Thomas was nasty, and now he has a nosebleed and he’s covered in puke. And that’s not even considering the words he’d thrown at Walt, and he’s now realizing exactly how bad it would have been for Walt to hear them, let alone the German—Robert, has to be.
“For ignoring me to just go and do this in the middle of the night? I sure hope so. For words that weren’t your own from a man that very possibly killed two women? That part isn’t your fault.” He’s still in shock from hearing them but even now he can’t blame Johnny, especially not with him looking all pathetic. Maybe it’s practice but right now all he wants to do is get John cleaned up and into bed and Johnny really needs to try to stay out of Walt’s head. He’s already been intrusive enough.
Johnny should try to get away, should try to give Walt some space, but he tries to get up and his leg abruptly refuses to cooperate. He opens his mouth to explain, maybe to apologize again, but all that comes out is, “...It’s bad.”
“I think I figured that out without the need for psychic powers,” Walt replies dryly, pausing to pick up Johnny’s cane and then hauling him up. “At least you didn’t hurt either of us too badly, though not for lack of trying, and I think you might’ve opened up some of the cuts on your hands again. We are going to talk about this tomorrow, okay?”
It’s mostly just a question based on the fact that Walt actually wants to hear him agree to this and actually follow through, Johnny is pretty sure. Not because it’s actually a discussion. “Okay.” He pauses and then mumbles, “I’m feeling tired now.”
He hears Walt snort despite himself. “Oh, great, the only way to keep you out of trouble is to wear you out. Sarah swears you grew up, but sometimes I’m not so sure.”
Johnny’s yawning deeply when Walt finally maneuvers him into the chair. He’s out before the nosebleed actually stops.
