Fic: "Unexpected Breakthrough", Lost and Supernatural crossover, PG
Title: Unexpected Breakthrough
Author: gottalovev
Prompt: Miles Straume walks into a bar and meets... Sam Winchester!
Fandoms: Lost (season 6) and Supernatural
Word count: 3150 words
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, unwanted violent visions causing trauma
Characters: Miles Straume, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Castiel, Jim Ford
A/N: Many thanks to jaydblu and zelda_zee for the beta!. Made for intoabar , thanks to the mods!
Miles loves his job.
Sure he does. Honest.
When the barman looks his way, Miles gestures for a double. He's been coming to this hole in the wall for long enough that his poison of choice is well-known (not that he's an alcoholic or anything). Once served, Miles watches the light play on the whiskey and ice as he turns his glass around slowly. It's pretty.
He might be a bit punchy from lack of sleep.
This damn string of fucked up cases is going to kill him. He's been interviewing witnesses and going through coroner's reports, but all that ends up on the white board is a scattering of insanely violent crimes with no apparent connections. The MOs are all over the place, which has been driving them nuts, but Miles is convinced that it's just a matter of time before they get a good lead.
After weeks of work, Jim - who has the best eye for details - had noticed something suspicious that crossed several stories: two men who asked questions after the fact, generally posing as officials. The police had not managed to get an ID on them, just a general physical description, not even prints, but the guys appeared way too often for it to be a coincidence.
Miles downs his whiskey and calls for another one. He's probably on his way to spectacular drunkenness, but after the day Miles' had he doesn't think it's too much to ask; if he's lucky, maybe he'll forget those mutilated corpses. Miles just received his new drink when he feels a jolt to his stool and the pretty, pretty whisky sloshes around the brim onto Miles' fingers, and he curses under his breath.
"Sorry," says the guy who's responsible. Miles waves his hand.
"No harm done," he grumbles. Miles tries to keep a certain image fit for a police officer at all times and that means not getting in the guy's face just because he’s had a bad day.
He's mentally detailing the guy out of habit - Caucasian male, late twenties, quite a bit over 6 feet tall, broad shoulders, longish brown hair - when the whole picture clicks. After blinking rapidly a couple of times, Miles just starts sniggering, which rapidly turns into laughing hysterically. He's tried everything but asking ghosts how to find their mystery guys - who are very rarely caught on tape or in photographs, good luck doing searches - and Miles bumps into one of them by accident, in a bar?
The tall one - it has to be him - looks at Miles with an indulgent smile.
"Oh-kay," he says, making the syllables stretch for several second. "Maybe you should ease up a bit on that," he adds, pointing to Miles' glass. "You wouldn't want to total your car, or worse, end up hurting someone, right?"
The smile almost dies on Miles' lips, bringing him back to the fact he has a potential nut job by his side. Is he armed? Does he know Miles is a cop working on cases related to him? Was that only general advice or a death threat?
But the guy frowns, looking deceptively sweet with his scrunched forehead and Miles realizes it's just blind luck that they've crossed paths. No more whiskey for him, though, at least not after this one, and at the first chance he’s calling for backup. But if he makes that arrest, it's going to be a big one. As soon as he books the guy and begins questioning, though, he's pretty sure that the Feds will march in and take over. It sucks and pisses him off to no end: Jim was the one that found that link and so far they've been keeping their cards close to their chests. They should be the ones to get the praise.
"You're right," Miles says, belatedly. "No more pretty whiskey. I'm Miles."
He's curious, he'll admit it. Miles wants to know who this guy is, what makes him tick. Keep him close until he can arrest him. The guy is huge so Miles is pretty sure he'd have a hard time restraining him by force. Anyway, the middle of a bar full of civilians is not the best place to make a move since the suspect could get violent.
"Sam," the guy says, with a little smile. He looks kind of nice for a potential serial killer. Ted Bundy was charming, too, the little voice of reason in his head says.
"I've never seen you around," Miles says, sipping at his drink.
"Oh, we're just passing through," Sam says.
Miles looks around, looking for the other guy.
"You and your girlfriend?" he says, playing clueless.
Sam snorts.
"No. My pain in the ass brother," he says, taking a swallow of his beer. He looks around too, and then sighs. "He was supposed to be here already."
That makes Miles perk up. If he waits, he could arrest them both, since the brother must be the second suspect. He'll need help, though. If he calls the station, Miles' pretty sure backup will come with sirens blaring: that's exactly what he doesn't need.
"That reminds me..." Miles says as he fishes his phone from his shirt pocket. "Sorry, just a sec."
Sam shrugs and makes a “go on” gesture as he checks the door. During that time, Miles rings Jim.
"Hey partner," Jim answers with a smile in his voice. Miles rolls his eyes, knowing that he must have triggered the Pink Panther theme song Jim programmed for his calls - there was a time where Jim would call him Kato all the time and the ring tone stuck. "Wassup? Miss me already?"
"Hey, man, sorry I haven't called lately but I need a favor," Miles says.
You've got to give it to Jim: he catches on immediately that something’s up.
"Oh. Is there a problem?"
"Yeah. I'm at La Fontana. Could you come and get me? I better not drive my car," Miles says. They parted ways twenty minutes ago; Jim knows there's no way Miles hasn’t become unfit to drive in that time.
"You need backup?"
"Yeah. Don't make a big deal about it, just come and get me, fast. Don't tell Cortez."
Chief Cortez might kill him about not going through the official channels, but Miles has a feeling.
"I'll be there in five, don't do anything stupid," Jim says.
"Thanks man, I'll owe you one," Miles says, hanging up and smiling at Sam. "Sorry about that."
"No problem," Sam says. "Now if Dean would just..." he trails off and suddenly waves; Miles turns to see that suspect number two is coming over. Movie star good looks, too. No wonder the people they interrogated in course of their investigation had taken notice.
"Hey," he says to Sam, and unceremoniously steals his beer. He takes a gulp, causing Sam to roll his eyes before he snags it back.
These guys definitely act related, Miles thinks.
"Get your own, asshole," Sam says.
"Then how would I get my daily doses of bitchfaces?" Dean asks.
"Fuck you."
"You wish," Dean says with a cocky smile.
"See what I put up with?" Sam says, appealing to Miles as a witness. Frankly? Spending most of his time with Jim, Miles commiserates.
"I feel your pain," Miles says seriously.
Dean laughs but points to the door, over his shoulder.
"We gotta go, man."
Fuck, that's not good. Jim's not here yet, and Miles doesn't want to lose them. When Sam drains his beer and gets up, Miles does the same. If Sam looks surprised, Dean looks a bit confused.
"I'll go wait for my friend in the parking lot," Miles says to justify tagging along. Hopefully, Jim will arrive in time.
He follows, but once they’re outside Miles is still on his own and the two guys are heading toward a black muscle car, another element that had come up when trying to learn more about the two mysterious men who keep popping up on crime scenes.
Miles would take a chance if he was one on one, but trying to arrest both is a bad idea. All he can think of is to try to buy some time. He reaches for Sam, planning to try bumming a cigarette, but when he touches his arm it's like Miles is hit by a Mack truck.
Pain - Dean - Suffering - Blood - Apocalypse - Fire - Hot - Hell - Lucifer - Lucifer - Demon - Dad - Possessed - Raising - Fighting - Samuel - Monsters - More monsters - Dean - Fight - Survive - Fire - Jess - Saving people - Hunting - Hunting - Cold - Wrong
Everything comes to Miles at once, overbearing and so intense he thinks his head is going to explode, his stomach turning and he retches violently. The pain and the images, too vivid, don't stop. Miles reflexively pushes Sam away, which makes things dull a little. He has no fucking idea what is going on, but it has to stop. Miles shudders when Sam tries to put a hand on him again and he jerks away.
"Oh god, no, don't touch me, fuck," Miles says, panting, and all he wants is to get as far away from Sam as he can.
"Hey, buddy, what's the problem?" and that's Dean coming over, looking concerned but suspicious. Miles reaches for his gun inside his vest, pulls it out and aims at Sam who raises his hands in the air.
"Keep him away from me, or I swear to god, I'll shoot," Miles says, shaking violently. "What the fuck?"
"You saw something, is that it?" Sam says, hands still in the air while trying to look nonthreatening, but with such a calculating look that it makes Miles shiver. Miles knows that this man is dangerous, more dangerous than they ever suspected. He's seen things. Things so big Miles can’t wrap his mind around them. "Are you psychic, Miles?"
Miles snorts as he slowly gets some of his composure back, which is when he notices that Dean is slowly inching his way towards Miles and has his own gun out and trained on his head. Shit.
"Yeah, sorta. Ghosts, mostly, never this, never with living people," he says.
"Well Sammy here is kind of a zombie, if that makes you feel better," Dean says, with a half smile, trying to distract Miles who then turns to aim his gun at Dean, making him stop advancing.,
"You're one to talk," Sam says. "You've died a lot more times than I have."
And wow, they are completely insane. Miles yells, "Don't move, either of you. I'm in the police. I will shoot you if I have to."
"No one is going to shoot," Dean says. "Come on, now. Let's just lower our weapons and no one gets hurt."
"Put your gun down," Miles replies. "You guys have popped up on way too many weird cases. We knew there was something going on."
Sam is still trying to look nonthreatening but it's not working so well; Dean seems just about out of patience.
"I don't know why you saw things when you touched me, or what you saw, but I guess it was pretty scary. We're the good guys, I swear," Sam says.
Miles shakes his head, disbelieving.
"I don't know, you tell me. Lucifer is a good guy now?"
Sam faces change at that, surprised once more and then annoyed, defensive.
"It's a very long story..." Sam says and suddenly, there's a blur of movement and Miles finds himself disarmed, dropped to the ground and held down by Dean.
Those guys are good: it was a move worthy of a special ops soldier. Miles was expecting something, and yet they managed to deflect his attention and take him by surprise nonetheless, moving as one. The only problem is that Dean is holding him down roughly and at one point his hand moves and touches Miles' skin: it's the roller coaster of sensations all over again, just as sharp, just as nausea inducing.
Mom - Sam - Fire - Dad - Sam - Hunting - Hell - Pain - Torture - Pain - Lisa and Ben - Sam - Guilt - Castiel - Raising - Family - Bobby - Apocalypse - Sam - Losing Sam - Sacrifice - Sam being different - Demons - Deals - Hell - Michael
Distantly, Miles hears someone screaming bloody murder and only when the weight of Dean leaves his back and he can curl into a ball does Miles realize it was him. The contact's severance makes the images recede but it's too much, especially after having touched Sam just a bit ago.
"Please, please, leave me alone, don't touch me," he begs, shivering. He hears the brothers talking to each other urgently and makes an effort to understand what they’re saying.
"We gotta go," Sam says, business-like, worried at being caught probably.
"And leave him like that?" Dean says. "Maybe Cas could help."
"Cas? He's got no time to fix psychic cops. He barely helps us these days," Sam says.
Cas must be Castiel, a bright spot of positive energy in what came out of Dean, almost blinding. He's trying to get his breath back when a man appears in the alley in a suit and a trench coat.
"Speak of the Devil," Dean says with a smirk and the man who just materialized in front of Miles frowns.
"I do not like to be associated with my brother's name, Dean," he says, then turns his eyes on Miles and the focus is unnerving. His eyes are so blue, Miles can't look elsewhere. "You wished for my presence? What is the situation?"
"Miles here seems to be able to read people just by touching them. He freaked," Dean says.
The man comes to Miles side and crouches down. Miles recoils and then struggles to sit up. He should call it a night and just get as far away as he can before another touch kills him. What’s taking Jim so long, anyway? Why isn't anyone coming at his shouts, except for the part that they're in a slightly shady part of Los Angeles?
"My name is Castiel. Everything is going to be fine. Relax," he says and before Miles has time to protest, Castiel touches his forehead.
This time, the sensation is utterly cool and pleasant. Miles cannot grab anything specific apart from the love of God, faith, devotion, family, a hint of Dean's presence and the memory of big battles, ancient and new; events, people and what Miles thinks could be angels are muted, making the whole experience like a wave instead of a tsunami.
It slows Miles' heart and his breathing, soothes his stomach, calms his nerves until he's practically boneless. He's never felt so good; if the thing giving that buzz could be bottled up he'd make a fortune. Obviously Castiel can read his mind, can read his soul, because he smiles, as if amused and taps Miles' shoulder with his other hand as he lets go.
"You are a good man, Miles Straume," he says, serious as he gets up. "The Winchester Gospel will one day be known, and then you can make sense of this experience. Trust God's will."
Miles has never been particularly devout. But at the moment, having met an angel, he's predisposed to a bit of leniency on the subject. Distantly he hears a car pulling up; a door slamming brings Miles back to the here and now.
"Police, hands up where I can see them, and right the fuck now!"
Jim, finally. Sam and Dean aim back, though, and Miles groans. It would be just his luck that this whole mess ended in a shoot out. One thing is for sure: those guys aren’t suspects anymore in Miles opinion. They’re more like unofficial warriors against the horrors that live in the dark.
"It's okay, Jim, stand down," Miles shouts.
"Like hell I will! Drop your weapons, boys!" Jim says, almost snarling as he inches closer, facing three men, and Miles is tempted to shake his head. The self-preservation instinct of a lemming, this one.
"Hey, man, calm down," Dean starts, but he's not even finished with his sentence before Castiel steps towards the brothers, making Jim twitch nervously.
"Don't move!" Jim barks.
"We will go, now," Castiel declares and he reaches to touch both brothers, each on one arm and they... disappear. Gone, the three of them.
Miles eye goes round and Jim gapes.
"What the fuck?" Jim concisely expresses for the both of them. "Where the hell did they go?"
"I have no idea," Miles says. He should probably get up. It seems like a lot of effort right now, though.
"They were our suspects, right?" Jim asks. "How did you find them? What happened? Are you okay?"
Jim's crouching in front of him, turning Miles head this way and that, then rapidly tapping him down as if he's looking for a gunshot wound. Jim can be a mother hen sometimes.
"I'm fine," Miles says. "Yeah, those were the guys and let's just say it was pure luck that they came here tonight. They have nothing to do with those murders, though."
The look on Jim's face says he's not convinced, and he stands and offers Miles a hand up. Miles was perfectly fine sitting down after everything, but he takes it anyway. And oh, look at that, his bad ankle doesn't hurt anymore. Castiel probably took care of it, which makes Miles smile.
"What was Columbo doing with them? And how the fuck did they disappear like that?" Jim continues, looking around and peering into the dark alley as if it might hide the men.
"You don't wanna know," Miles says, convinced that even if he could touch Castiel Jim would never believe in angels, not with what happened to his family. "But I tell you, we're wasting our time trying to catch those guys. They're just free agents, trying to catch the killers too. That's why they always appear after a crime, they do their own investigations."
"I hate vigilantes," Jim grumbles. "We should get them for obstruction of justice."
"Whatever," Miles says. It's been a long day and he's wiped. "Hey, wanna go get a drink? I think I need a drink."
Jim snorts and smiles at Miles.
"I bet you do. I could use one too. This is the first time I’ve had a hallucination before the drinking," Jim says.
Miles gestures to the door.
"After you, then."
He follows his partner in and goes straight for the bar: there are one or ten whiskeys with his name on them. The rest - the cases, the confirmation of a crap-load of supernatural shit, the fact that angels exist - can wait for another day.
The End
Author: gottalovev
Prompt: Miles Straume walks into a bar and meets... Sam Winchester!
Fandoms: Lost (season 6) and Supernatural
Word count: 3150 words
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, unwanted violent visions causing trauma
Characters: Miles Straume, Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Castiel, Jim Ford
A/N: Many thanks to jaydblu and zelda_zee for the beta!. Made for intoabar , thanks to the mods!
Miles loves his job.
Sure he does. Honest.
When the barman looks his way, Miles gestures for a double. He's been coming to this hole in the wall for long enough that his poison of choice is well-known (not that he's an alcoholic or anything). Once served, Miles watches the light play on the whiskey and ice as he turns his glass around slowly. It's pretty.
He might be a bit punchy from lack of sleep.
This damn string of fucked up cases is going to kill him. He's been interviewing witnesses and going through coroner's reports, but all that ends up on the white board is a scattering of insanely violent crimes with no apparent connections. The MOs are all over the place, which has been driving them nuts, but Miles is convinced that it's just a matter of time before they get a good lead.
After weeks of work, Jim - who has the best eye for details - had noticed something suspicious that crossed several stories: two men who asked questions after the fact, generally posing as officials. The police had not managed to get an ID on them, just a general physical description, not even prints, but the guys appeared way too often for it to be a coincidence.
Miles downs his whiskey and calls for another one. He's probably on his way to spectacular drunkenness, but after the day Miles' had he doesn't think it's too much to ask; if he's lucky, maybe he'll forget those mutilated corpses. Miles just received his new drink when he feels a jolt to his stool and the pretty, pretty whisky sloshes around the brim onto Miles' fingers, and he curses under his breath.
"Sorry," says the guy who's responsible. Miles waves his hand.
"No harm done," he grumbles. Miles tries to keep a certain image fit for a police officer at all times and that means not getting in the guy's face just because he’s had a bad day.
He's mentally detailing the guy out of habit - Caucasian male, late twenties, quite a bit over 6 feet tall, broad shoulders, longish brown hair - when the whole picture clicks. After blinking rapidly a couple of times, Miles just starts sniggering, which rapidly turns into laughing hysterically. He's tried everything but asking ghosts how to find their mystery guys - who are very rarely caught on tape or in photographs, good luck doing searches - and Miles bumps into one of them by accident, in a bar?
The tall one - it has to be him - looks at Miles with an indulgent smile.
"Oh-kay," he says, making the syllables stretch for several second. "Maybe you should ease up a bit on that," he adds, pointing to Miles' glass. "You wouldn't want to total your car, or worse, end up hurting someone, right?"
The smile almost dies on Miles' lips, bringing him back to the fact he has a potential nut job by his side. Is he armed? Does he know Miles is a cop working on cases related to him? Was that only general advice or a death threat?
But the guy frowns, looking deceptively sweet with his scrunched forehead and Miles realizes it's just blind luck that they've crossed paths. No more whiskey for him, though, at least not after this one, and at the first chance he’s calling for backup. But if he makes that arrest, it's going to be a big one. As soon as he books the guy and begins questioning, though, he's pretty sure that the Feds will march in and take over. It sucks and pisses him off to no end: Jim was the one that found that link and so far they've been keeping their cards close to their chests. They should be the ones to get the praise.
"You're right," Miles says, belatedly. "No more pretty whiskey. I'm Miles."
He's curious, he'll admit it. Miles wants to know who this guy is, what makes him tick. Keep him close until he can arrest him. The guy is huge so Miles is pretty sure he'd have a hard time restraining him by force. Anyway, the middle of a bar full of civilians is not the best place to make a move since the suspect could get violent.
"Sam," the guy says, with a little smile. He looks kind of nice for a potential serial killer. Ted Bundy was charming, too, the little voice of reason in his head says.
"I've never seen you around," Miles says, sipping at his drink.
"Oh, we're just passing through," Sam says.
Miles looks around, looking for the other guy.
"You and your girlfriend?" he says, playing clueless.
Sam snorts.
"No. My pain in the ass brother," he says, taking a swallow of his beer. He looks around too, and then sighs. "He was supposed to be here already."
That makes Miles perk up. If he waits, he could arrest them both, since the brother must be the second suspect. He'll need help, though. If he calls the station, Miles' pretty sure backup will come with sirens blaring: that's exactly what he doesn't need.
"That reminds me..." Miles says as he fishes his phone from his shirt pocket. "Sorry, just a sec."
Sam shrugs and makes a “go on” gesture as he checks the door. During that time, Miles rings Jim.
"Hey partner," Jim answers with a smile in his voice. Miles rolls his eyes, knowing that he must have triggered the Pink Panther theme song Jim programmed for his calls - there was a time where Jim would call him Kato all the time and the ring tone stuck. "Wassup? Miss me already?"
"Hey, man, sorry I haven't called lately but I need a favor," Miles says.
You've got to give it to Jim: he catches on immediately that something’s up.
"Oh. Is there a problem?"
"Yeah. I'm at La Fontana. Could you come and get me? I better not drive my car," Miles says. They parted ways twenty minutes ago; Jim knows there's no way Miles hasn’t become unfit to drive in that time.
"You need backup?"
"Yeah. Don't make a big deal about it, just come and get me, fast. Don't tell Cortez."
Chief Cortez might kill him about not going through the official channels, but Miles has a feeling.
"I'll be there in five, don't do anything stupid," Jim says.
"Thanks man, I'll owe you one," Miles says, hanging up and smiling at Sam. "Sorry about that."
"No problem," Sam says. "Now if Dean would just..." he trails off and suddenly waves; Miles turns to see that suspect number two is coming over. Movie star good looks, too. No wonder the people they interrogated in course of their investigation had taken notice.
"Hey," he says to Sam, and unceremoniously steals his beer. He takes a gulp, causing Sam to roll his eyes before he snags it back.
These guys definitely act related, Miles thinks.
"Get your own, asshole," Sam says.
"Then how would I get my daily doses of bitchfaces?" Dean asks.
"Fuck you."
"You wish," Dean says with a cocky smile.
"See what I put up with?" Sam says, appealing to Miles as a witness. Frankly? Spending most of his time with Jim, Miles commiserates.
"I feel your pain," Miles says seriously.
Dean laughs but points to the door, over his shoulder.
"We gotta go, man."
Fuck, that's not good. Jim's not here yet, and Miles doesn't want to lose them. When Sam drains his beer and gets up, Miles does the same. If Sam looks surprised, Dean looks a bit confused.
"I'll go wait for my friend in the parking lot," Miles says to justify tagging along. Hopefully, Jim will arrive in time.
He follows, but once they’re outside Miles is still on his own and the two guys are heading toward a black muscle car, another element that had come up when trying to learn more about the two mysterious men who keep popping up on crime scenes.
Miles would take a chance if he was one on one, but trying to arrest both is a bad idea. All he can think of is to try to buy some time. He reaches for Sam, planning to try bumming a cigarette, but when he touches his arm it's like Miles is hit by a Mack truck.
Pain - Dean - Suffering - Blood - Apocalypse - Fire - Hot - Hell - Lucifer - Lucifer - Demon - Dad - Possessed - Raising - Fighting - Samuel - Monsters - More monsters - Dean - Fight - Survive - Fire - Jess - Saving people - Hunting - Hunting - Cold - Wrong
Everything comes to Miles at once, overbearing and so intense he thinks his head is going to explode, his stomach turning and he retches violently. The pain and the images, too vivid, don't stop. Miles reflexively pushes Sam away, which makes things dull a little. He has no fucking idea what is going on, but it has to stop. Miles shudders when Sam tries to put a hand on him again and he jerks away.
"Oh god, no, don't touch me, fuck," Miles says, panting, and all he wants is to get as far away from Sam as he can.
"Hey, buddy, what's the problem?" and that's Dean coming over, looking concerned but suspicious. Miles reaches for his gun inside his vest, pulls it out and aims at Sam who raises his hands in the air.
"Keep him away from me, or I swear to god, I'll shoot," Miles says, shaking violently. "What the fuck?"
"You saw something, is that it?" Sam says, hands still in the air while trying to look nonthreatening, but with such a calculating look that it makes Miles shiver. Miles knows that this man is dangerous, more dangerous than they ever suspected. He's seen things. Things so big Miles can’t wrap his mind around them. "Are you psychic, Miles?"
Miles snorts as he slowly gets some of his composure back, which is when he notices that Dean is slowly inching his way towards Miles and has his own gun out and trained on his head. Shit.
"Yeah, sorta. Ghosts, mostly, never this, never with living people," he says.
"Well Sammy here is kind of a zombie, if that makes you feel better," Dean says, with a half smile, trying to distract Miles who then turns to aim his gun at Dean, making him stop advancing.,
"You're one to talk," Sam says. "You've died a lot more times than I have."
And wow, they are completely insane. Miles yells, "Don't move, either of you. I'm in the police. I will shoot you if I have to."
"No one is going to shoot," Dean says. "Come on, now. Let's just lower our weapons and no one gets hurt."
"Put your gun down," Miles replies. "You guys have popped up on way too many weird cases. We knew there was something going on."
Sam is still trying to look nonthreatening but it's not working so well; Dean seems just about out of patience.
"I don't know why you saw things when you touched me, or what you saw, but I guess it was pretty scary. We're the good guys, I swear," Sam says.
Miles shakes his head, disbelieving.
"I don't know, you tell me. Lucifer is a good guy now?"
Sam faces change at that, surprised once more and then annoyed, defensive.
"It's a very long story..." Sam says and suddenly, there's a blur of movement and Miles finds himself disarmed, dropped to the ground and held down by Dean.
Those guys are good: it was a move worthy of a special ops soldier. Miles was expecting something, and yet they managed to deflect his attention and take him by surprise nonetheless, moving as one. The only problem is that Dean is holding him down roughly and at one point his hand moves and touches Miles' skin: it's the roller coaster of sensations all over again, just as sharp, just as nausea inducing.
Mom - Sam - Fire - Dad - Sam - Hunting - Hell - Pain - Torture - Pain - Lisa and Ben - Sam - Guilt - Castiel - Raising - Family - Bobby - Apocalypse - Sam - Losing Sam - Sacrifice - Sam being different - Demons - Deals - Hell - Michael
Distantly, Miles hears someone screaming bloody murder and only when the weight of Dean leaves his back and he can curl into a ball does Miles realize it was him. The contact's severance makes the images recede but it's too much, especially after having touched Sam just a bit ago.
"Please, please, leave me alone, don't touch me," he begs, shivering. He hears the brothers talking to each other urgently and makes an effort to understand what they’re saying.
"We gotta go," Sam says, business-like, worried at being caught probably.
"And leave him like that?" Dean says. "Maybe Cas could help."
"Cas? He's got no time to fix psychic cops. He barely helps us these days," Sam says.
Cas must be Castiel, a bright spot of positive energy in what came out of Dean, almost blinding. He's trying to get his breath back when a man appears in the alley in a suit and a trench coat.
"Speak of the Devil," Dean says with a smirk and the man who just materialized in front of Miles frowns.
"I do not like to be associated with my brother's name, Dean," he says, then turns his eyes on Miles and the focus is unnerving. His eyes are so blue, Miles can't look elsewhere. "You wished for my presence? What is the situation?"
"Miles here seems to be able to read people just by touching them. He freaked," Dean says.
The man comes to Miles side and crouches down. Miles recoils and then struggles to sit up. He should call it a night and just get as far away as he can before another touch kills him. What’s taking Jim so long, anyway? Why isn't anyone coming at his shouts, except for the part that they're in a slightly shady part of Los Angeles?
"My name is Castiel. Everything is going to be fine. Relax," he says and before Miles has time to protest, Castiel touches his forehead.
This time, the sensation is utterly cool and pleasant. Miles cannot grab anything specific apart from the love of God, faith, devotion, family, a hint of Dean's presence and the memory of big battles, ancient and new; events, people and what Miles thinks could be angels are muted, making the whole experience like a wave instead of a tsunami.
It slows Miles' heart and his breathing, soothes his stomach, calms his nerves until he's practically boneless. He's never felt so good; if the thing giving that buzz could be bottled up he'd make a fortune. Obviously Castiel can read his mind, can read his soul, because he smiles, as if amused and taps Miles' shoulder with his other hand as he lets go.
"You are a good man, Miles Straume," he says, serious as he gets up. "The Winchester Gospel will one day be known, and then you can make sense of this experience. Trust God's will."
Miles has never been particularly devout. But at the moment, having met an angel, he's predisposed to a bit of leniency on the subject. Distantly he hears a car pulling up; a door slamming brings Miles back to the here and now.
"Police, hands up where I can see them, and right the fuck now!"
Jim, finally. Sam and Dean aim back, though, and Miles groans. It would be just his luck that this whole mess ended in a shoot out. One thing is for sure: those guys aren’t suspects anymore in Miles opinion. They’re more like unofficial warriors against the horrors that live in the dark.
"It's okay, Jim, stand down," Miles shouts.
"Like hell I will! Drop your weapons, boys!" Jim says, almost snarling as he inches closer, facing three men, and Miles is tempted to shake his head. The self-preservation instinct of a lemming, this one.
"Hey, man, calm down," Dean starts, but he's not even finished with his sentence before Castiel steps towards the brothers, making Jim twitch nervously.
"Don't move!" Jim barks.
"We will go, now," Castiel declares and he reaches to touch both brothers, each on one arm and they... disappear. Gone, the three of them.
Miles eye goes round and Jim gapes.
"What the fuck?" Jim concisely expresses for the both of them. "Where the hell did they go?"
"I have no idea," Miles says. He should probably get up. It seems like a lot of effort right now, though.
"They were our suspects, right?" Jim asks. "How did you find them? What happened? Are you okay?"
Jim's crouching in front of him, turning Miles head this way and that, then rapidly tapping him down as if he's looking for a gunshot wound. Jim can be a mother hen sometimes.
"I'm fine," Miles says. "Yeah, those were the guys and let's just say it was pure luck that they came here tonight. They have nothing to do with those murders, though."
The look on Jim's face says he's not convinced, and he stands and offers Miles a hand up. Miles was perfectly fine sitting down after everything, but he takes it anyway. And oh, look at that, his bad ankle doesn't hurt anymore. Castiel probably took care of it, which makes Miles smile.
"What was Columbo doing with them? And how the fuck did they disappear like that?" Jim continues, looking around and peering into the dark alley as if it might hide the men.
"You don't wanna know," Miles says, convinced that even if he could touch Castiel Jim would never believe in angels, not with what happened to his family. "But I tell you, we're wasting our time trying to catch those guys. They're just free agents, trying to catch the killers too. That's why they always appear after a crime, they do their own investigations."
"I hate vigilantes," Jim grumbles. "We should get them for obstruction of justice."
"Whatever," Miles says. It's been a long day and he's wiped. "Hey, wanna go get a drink? I think I need a drink."
Jim snorts and smiles at Miles.
"I bet you do. I could use one too. This is the first time I’ve had a hallucination before the drinking," Jim says.
Miles gestures to the door.
"After you, then."
He follows his partner in and goes straight for the bar: there are one or ten whiskeys with his name on them. The rest - the cases, the confirmation of a crap-load of supernatural shit, the fact that angels exist - can wait for another day.
The End