maygra
in
maygra_fic
Never Talk To Strangers (part five) -(Dean/Sam, Paul/Alva R, Miracles xover)
Never Talk To Strangers (part five)
by Maygra
This one is for killabeez
SPN/Miracles in the Never 'verse: Dean/Sam, Paul Callan/Alva Keel, Evie and Matt Santos.
[[For those of you not familiar with Miracles, you can find pictures and information on the series and characters here and here. And for anyone who isn't familiar with Supernatural, there is a summary here and a whole bunch more information here]]
The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the CW. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.
(2,401 words)
"He unleashed against them his fiery breath,
roar, fury, and distress, storming messengers of death."
~Psalm 78:49
+++++
"How's he doing?"
The concern in John Winchester's voice was only slightly masked. He leaned against the doorway, and Alva thought Winchester leaning might be a permanent thing rather than attitude. Not casual or studied nonchalance, but a real need for something solid to hold him up.
"Your Dr. Whitstone seems to think it's merely exhaustion," Alva said, glancing at where Paul was stretched out on the couch in the living room. "A faint, pure and simple. How's your son?"
"Sleeping. Bleeding's stopped. Dean's with him. You want to tell me what he said?" Winchester said and eased in the room, and that was studied casualness. He moved like a man unused to his body, and yet commanding it with more will than grace. He sat on a hard-backed chair and found a smile for Matty who watched him with wide eyes. Evie was equally wary, but she didn't move and she didn't look away when Winchester stared at her, assessing.
"Nonsense mostly," Alva said and relaxed when Winchester stiffened. "Taken in the context of what would make sense, but none of this does so --"
"Do you talk to hear yourself talk or just to sound smarter?" Dean still had a low riding anger under his tone, and Alva took less offense than interest. Dean hovered at the bottom of the stairs.
"You seem to take a great many things for granted," Alva said. "What you can see, what you can touch. And yet, you deal with what is not real, all the time."
Dean's laugh was bitter. "I don't know. The bullet from her gun seemed pretty real when Whit was pulling it out of Sam's back. That's a pretty real shiner you're sporting there, professor."
"Dean," John said, a low gruff bark. "You want to fight or you want answers?"
"I'd like to not have to fight for answers," Dean shot back, flatly, answer and tone taking John by surprise. "Or play twenty questions, or have to barter information for information. You came to us," he said, but his sharp tone lost some of the anger he intended to convey when he sat in a chair like his legs won't hold him up any longer.
Alva considered his answer even though there was nothing tangible for him to bargain with. The whispers in the back of his mind, teasing the out range of his hearing, are quieter now than they have been in weeks. But they'd come at him earlier with a burst of sound. He felt he had some grasp of how the explosions of images that Paul saw must disorient him, even though Paul has gotten very, very good at controlling the outward show of the impact. "Very well," he said, and leaned forward, speaking low even though Paul wasn't exactly sleeping. "Paul has visions. Generally of future events, but not always -- more like making sense out of the individual shapes that make up the patterns in a kaleidescope--" Dean twitched and Evie made a delicate but pointed sound as she cleared her throat. "Yes. Most of his visions are given to him in metaphors. Piecing together the actual details of his pre-cognizance can be…difficult. However, in this case -- this house, the road to get here -- they were all very clear. Precise."
"And what were you looking to find?" John asked.
"That was less clear. However, before…even before the world literally went to hell, Paul had been having visions of a different sort, less clear, less…precise. And those, if I'm not mistaken, had to do with you," he nodded at Dean. "And with Sam. More specifically of Sam dying at the hand…of…something not human."
"Demon," Dean grunted. "Enough have tried."
"And so I had thought, however…"
"Hand of God," Paul said and Alva twisted to see him staring at the ceiling.
"God's got shit all to do with this," Dean said.
"What did you summon at the gate?"
The phrase white as a ghost came to mind, and for a moment Alva thought they might have to get Dr. Whitstone back, but Evie was smarter and faster, moving even as the man at the door half rose and John Winchester came out of his seat.
Dean didn't flinch or didn't notice her when she put a hand at the back of his neck and pushed him forward, head down. "Matty, would you get a glass of water for Dean, please?" Her eyes met Matty's and her lips curled in encouragement as he slid off his seat and went to the kitchen. The tap grumbled.
Paul started to sit up, white as Dean and it was Alva's turn to lend a hand, shift his position from chair to sofa. Matty came back with a glass but he took one look at Paul and gave it to his mother, then went back for another.
The murmuring was a steady rumble now, under everything else, the silence in the room. There was a clock ticking somewhere, a dog barking. Alva could hear the voices of children but they weren't coming from the yard. Matty was the only one who made a sound, shoes striking wood, then the worn rug then wood again. He stopped in front of Paul and offered him the glass.
Alva steadied his hand, watched from the corner of his eye as Evie did the same. John had settled back down but his eyes were on his son.
"Thank you, Matty," Paul said and let the boy take the glass back. He had more color back but there was a fine tremor when he rubbed his face, pushed dirty hair off his forehead. "We're walking ghosts here -- an apocalyptic detante."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Dean said.
"No, maybe not. But you know what I'm talking about. You meant to summon a demon, but that wasn't what you called up. Lucifer Glorificant."
"We don't know what the fuck we called up," Dean said and there was flash of color across his cheeks, and definite light in his eyes, angry and defiant.
"Paul," Alva said carefully. "I won't debate with you the existence of angels, but…that is more church construct than--"
"You can't name the unnamable," Paul said. "There's nothing mortal that can breach the gates of hell and that's what you needed to do."
"You can't know that."
"No, I can't, but Sam does. And to get that kind of power backing you, you need to offer up something pretty important. I think, faith wouldn't be something you had to offer. And if you weren't willing to pay the price--"
For someone who looked like he might pass out only moments before, Dean moved surprisingly quickly, and once more the sudden movement set the room in motion. The sound of guns cocked in their direction, Matty's squeak of fear and plunge into his mother's arms. John Winchester grabbed Dean as Alva pushed between him and Paul. Paul didn't fight at all, even when Dean's hands closed around his throat.
"We've paid. And paid," Dean spat out, spittle striking Paul's face. Dean looked barely human, teeth bared, face flushed dark. "If God wanted a sacrifice, he should have asked someone who thought the world was worth it."
"But he did," Paul got out, voice barely a whisper. "That's the problem…he did."
Paul's face was turning and alarming shade of red and Alva pried Dean's hands loose, surprised as Dean when he was actually able to do so, and found himself holding Paul up as he sucked in air. "It's you I've been seeing, with Sam's blood on your hands. Of equal or greater value. You weren't willing to pay the price but you took the bargain anyway."
"I was…I was willing."
"No," Paul said, and there was true and cutting sympathy, pity in his voice, something Alva could only muster on his best days. "You weren't. Something of value, Dean. If you hold your own life cheaply, it's got no value to anyone else either."
There's still defiance there but no denial. Dean turned away first, heading for the stairs
"We need to get to paradise…some place called Paradise," Paul said as Alva helped him sit again. His handkerchief, stained as it was, and some of the water from Paul's glass, made a makeshift compress against the angry red marks at his throat.
"Sam…you should be resting." There's no anger in his voice now, only real concern, and the stairs creaked under the weight of both of them. Sam had a swathe of bandages around his chest and back and shoulder, an unbuttoned shirt barely pulled on. His arm rested heavily across Dean's shoulder as they made their way down.
"It's in Utah," he said, eyes on Paul. "I couldn't remember…but it's in Utah. It won't change anything though. He can't do it," Sam said and his arm tightened across Dean's shoulder. "And I won't ask him again."
"You don't have to," Paul said. "I think that's why I'm here."
Dean looked ready to vomit but Sam smiled, wide and bright, and something clear and wet fell across the back of Alva's hand where it rested on Paul's arm. In his head the whispers broke apart and scattered, then coalesced into something not unlike singing, but it could have been the rhythmic rise and fall murmuring of an angry mob.
But he could pick out the individuals: grief and fear from John like running water, a howl of denial tinged by the echoes in an abyss from Dean, and the bright sparkle of laughter like bells from Sam.
And then they were all gone, silence settling like a blanket, like a lead blanket. Paul's lips moved but Alva couldn't hear him through the deadening silence.
+++++
They couldn't leave immediately. Getting to Utah would take time, with no absolute surety of additional fuel and carrying enough with them meant scavenging up a vehicle large enough to carry them and fuel.
Alva wasn't entirely relieved to find he wasn't deaf after all. But the silence persisted even though he could hear -- the hush of voices dropped whenever he or Paul or even Evie moved among the distant group of people until finally he asked John Winchester if they had books, reference books.
John looked like a man who had a hundred questions but Alva doubted many of them were for him. Instead John showed them the door and the stairs that led below, the flickering bulbs drawing on the inconsistent power of the generator, only for here, for that room it wasn't a waste. And oil burning lanterns had no place down there.
The farmhouse had belonged to Jim Murphy, something Alva had forgotten but this detail…shelf after shelf of books, boxes for archiving documents, a meticulous inventory written in handwriting Alva recognized, and elsewhere handwriting he didn't. The dust was minimal, and Alva was glad to know his expression wasn't the only one reflecting the first sight of the Treasures of Kings.
He knew what he was looking for and Matty took the list, helping Evie look while Alva watched Paul's fingers brush over those acid-free boxes, barely touching the labels. When he turned to look at Alva, there was wonder and accusation there. Alva could only shrug, hide the fact that he felt guiltier than he wanted Paul to know. "Those looking for miracles never give up the search, Paul. We just start looking in other places. 'Liberate te ex inferis,'"
Paul pulled the casing and opened it, the scrolls lay loose, unbound. He hesitated before touching them -- a researcher's fear of damage. Alva held out a pair of cotton gloves. Paul took them and Alva took the box. "Tell me you understand what's happening," Paul said quietly. "Tell me there's a way to fix this."
Don't look to me for miracles, Alva almost said. "The symbols on this house hold the ghosts in place. But you saw something quite different, didn't you?"
"The house burned. We got out, but it burned. Are you a ghost too?" Paul murmured, pulling the first of the sheaves out to unroll it carefully.
"I don't think so, but the ghosts, true ghosts, rarely recognize their own deaths -- hence their inability to move on. What did you see?"
"They emptied heaven and hell both," Paul said, barely a sound. He didn't look for Evie or Matty but Alva did and caught Evie's eyes. What she knew he could only guess at, but she kept Matty away either for him or for herself.
The papers whispered from Paul's fingers and Alva caught his wrist, flesh on flesh. Paul reached across and covered his hand but didn't try to pull Alva's hand away. "The edges of the world are bleeding out."
Alva turned and put his back to the library table, forcing Paul to look at him more directly. "I hear the voices of the dead, Paul. The dead. What does that tell you about this moment?"
"It's an empty world there, Alva. I think I know why Dean couldn't do what was asked of him."
"You've seen what happens -- maybe what needs to happen. You saw it for months before all this," Alva said urgently, feeling the resistance build in Paul as he could see it Dean Winchester -- defiance not denial. "Two opposite forces cannot exist in the same place at the same time."
Paul gave a dry, short laugh. "And we're going to find the lever to separate them in Paradise?"
Alva felt his lips twitch. "I can't hear you in my head, Paul. What does that tell you?"
"That I've got nothing to say?"
Alva wasn't even sure he believed in God any longer, but he wanted to if only for Paul's sake. He leaned in close, fingers at the back of Paul's neck, lips close enough to kiss his cheek. "If the darkness wants, Paul, then the light gives. What darkness demands, the light surrenders."
"What if we've got it backwards, all of it?"
There was no answer to that but one, and against all reason and good sense, Alva let his lips brush against Paul's temple and squeezed his neck. He meant it in benediction but it was more than that and by the way Paul gripped his arm, Paul knew it too. "Then Sam Winchester will live and the rest of the world will die."
~end~
TBC…
by Maygra
This one is for killabeez
SPN/Miracles in the Never 'verse: Dean/Sam, Paul Callan/Alva Keel, Evie and Matt Santos.
[[For those of you not familiar with Miracles, you can find pictures and information on the series and characters here and here. And for anyone who isn't familiar with Supernatural, there is a summary here and a whole bunch more information here]]
The characters and situations portrayed here are not mine, they belong to the CW. This is a fan authored work and no profit is being made. Please do not link to this story without appropriate warnings. Please do not archive this story without my permission.
(2,401 words)
"He unleashed against them his fiery breath,
roar, fury, and distress, storming messengers of death."
~Psalm 78:49
+++++
"How's he doing?"
The concern in John Winchester's voice was only slightly masked. He leaned against the doorway, and Alva thought Winchester leaning might be a permanent thing rather than attitude. Not casual or studied nonchalance, but a real need for something solid to hold him up.
"Your Dr. Whitstone seems to think it's merely exhaustion," Alva said, glancing at where Paul was stretched out on the couch in the living room. "A faint, pure and simple. How's your son?"
"Sleeping. Bleeding's stopped. Dean's with him. You want to tell me what he said?" Winchester said and eased in the room, and that was studied casualness. He moved like a man unused to his body, and yet commanding it with more will than grace. He sat on a hard-backed chair and found a smile for Matty who watched him with wide eyes. Evie was equally wary, but she didn't move and she didn't look away when Winchester stared at her, assessing.
"Nonsense mostly," Alva said and relaxed when Winchester stiffened. "Taken in the context of what would make sense, but none of this does so --"
"Do you talk to hear yourself talk or just to sound smarter?" Dean still had a low riding anger under his tone, and Alva took less offense than interest. Dean hovered at the bottom of the stairs.
"You seem to take a great many things for granted," Alva said. "What you can see, what you can touch. And yet, you deal with what is not real, all the time."
Dean's laugh was bitter. "I don't know. The bullet from her gun seemed pretty real when Whit was pulling it out of Sam's back. That's a pretty real shiner you're sporting there, professor."
"Dean," John said, a low gruff bark. "You want to fight or you want answers?"
"I'd like to not have to fight for answers," Dean shot back, flatly, answer and tone taking John by surprise. "Or play twenty questions, or have to barter information for information. You came to us," he said, but his sharp tone lost some of the anger he intended to convey when he sat in a chair like his legs won't hold him up any longer.
Alva considered his answer even though there was nothing tangible for him to bargain with. The whispers in the back of his mind, teasing the out range of his hearing, are quieter now than they have been in weeks. But they'd come at him earlier with a burst of sound. He felt he had some grasp of how the explosions of images that Paul saw must disorient him, even though Paul has gotten very, very good at controlling the outward show of the impact. "Very well," he said, and leaned forward, speaking low even though Paul wasn't exactly sleeping. "Paul has visions. Generally of future events, but not always -- more like making sense out of the individual shapes that make up the patterns in a kaleidescope--" Dean twitched and Evie made a delicate but pointed sound as she cleared her throat. "Yes. Most of his visions are given to him in metaphors. Piecing together the actual details of his pre-cognizance can be…difficult. However, in this case -- this house, the road to get here -- they were all very clear. Precise."
"And what were you looking to find?" John asked.
"That was less clear. However, before…even before the world literally went to hell, Paul had been having visions of a different sort, less clear, less…precise. And those, if I'm not mistaken, had to do with you," he nodded at Dean. "And with Sam. More specifically of Sam dying at the hand…of…something not human."
"Demon," Dean grunted. "Enough have tried."
"And so I had thought, however…"
"Hand of God," Paul said and Alva twisted to see him staring at the ceiling.
"God's got shit all to do with this," Dean said.
"What did you summon at the gate?"
The phrase white as a ghost came to mind, and for a moment Alva thought they might have to get Dr. Whitstone back, but Evie was smarter and faster, moving even as the man at the door half rose and John Winchester came out of his seat.
Dean didn't flinch or didn't notice her when she put a hand at the back of his neck and pushed him forward, head down. "Matty, would you get a glass of water for Dean, please?" Her eyes met Matty's and her lips curled in encouragement as he slid off his seat and went to the kitchen. The tap grumbled.
Paul started to sit up, white as Dean and it was Alva's turn to lend a hand, shift his position from chair to sofa. Matty came back with a glass but he took one look at Paul and gave it to his mother, then went back for another.
The murmuring was a steady rumble now, under everything else, the silence in the room. There was a clock ticking somewhere, a dog barking. Alva could hear the voices of children but they weren't coming from the yard. Matty was the only one who made a sound, shoes striking wood, then the worn rug then wood again. He stopped in front of Paul and offered him the glass.
Alva steadied his hand, watched from the corner of his eye as Evie did the same. John had settled back down but his eyes were on his son.
"Thank you, Matty," Paul said and let the boy take the glass back. He had more color back but there was a fine tremor when he rubbed his face, pushed dirty hair off his forehead. "We're walking ghosts here -- an apocalyptic detante."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Dean said.
"No, maybe not. But you know what I'm talking about. You meant to summon a demon, but that wasn't what you called up. Lucifer Glorificant."
"We don't know what the fuck we called up," Dean said and there was flash of color across his cheeks, and definite light in his eyes, angry and defiant.
"Paul," Alva said carefully. "I won't debate with you the existence of angels, but…that is more church construct than--"
"You can't name the unnamable," Paul said. "There's nothing mortal that can breach the gates of hell and that's what you needed to do."
"You can't know that."
"No, I can't, but Sam does. And to get that kind of power backing you, you need to offer up something pretty important. I think, faith wouldn't be something you had to offer. And if you weren't willing to pay the price--"
For someone who looked like he might pass out only moments before, Dean moved surprisingly quickly, and once more the sudden movement set the room in motion. The sound of guns cocked in their direction, Matty's squeak of fear and plunge into his mother's arms. John Winchester grabbed Dean as Alva pushed between him and Paul. Paul didn't fight at all, even when Dean's hands closed around his throat.
"We've paid. And paid," Dean spat out, spittle striking Paul's face. Dean looked barely human, teeth bared, face flushed dark. "If God wanted a sacrifice, he should have asked someone who thought the world was worth it."
"But he did," Paul got out, voice barely a whisper. "That's the problem…he did."
Paul's face was turning and alarming shade of red and Alva pried Dean's hands loose, surprised as Dean when he was actually able to do so, and found himself holding Paul up as he sucked in air. "It's you I've been seeing, with Sam's blood on your hands. Of equal or greater value. You weren't willing to pay the price but you took the bargain anyway."
"I was…I was willing."
"No," Paul said, and there was true and cutting sympathy, pity in his voice, something Alva could only muster on his best days. "You weren't. Something of value, Dean. If you hold your own life cheaply, it's got no value to anyone else either."
There's still defiance there but no denial. Dean turned away first, heading for the stairs
"We need to get to paradise…some place called Paradise," Paul said as Alva helped him sit again. His handkerchief, stained as it was, and some of the water from Paul's glass, made a makeshift compress against the angry red marks at his throat.
"Sam…you should be resting." There's no anger in his voice now, only real concern, and the stairs creaked under the weight of both of them. Sam had a swathe of bandages around his chest and back and shoulder, an unbuttoned shirt barely pulled on. His arm rested heavily across Dean's shoulder as they made their way down.
"It's in Utah," he said, eyes on Paul. "I couldn't remember…but it's in Utah. It won't change anything though. He can't do it," Sam said and his arm tightened across Dean's shoulder. "And I won't ask him again."
"You don't have to," Paul said. "I think that's why I'm here."
Dean looked ready to vomit but Sam smiled, wide and bright, and something clear and wet fell across the back of Alva's hand where it rested on Paul's arm. In his head the whispers broke apart and scattered, then coalesced into something not unlike singing, but it could have been the rhythmic rise and fall murmuring of an angry mob.
But he could pick out the individuals: grief and fear from John like running water, a howl of denial tinged by the echoes in an abyss from Dean, and the bright sparkle of laughter like bells from Sam.
And then they were all gone, silence settling like a blanket, like a lead blanket. Paul's lips moved but Alva couldn't hear him through the deadening silence.
+++++
They couldn't leave immediately. Getting to Utah would take time, with no absolute surety of additional fuel and carrying enough with them meant scavenging up a vehicle large enough to carry them and fuel.
Alva wasn't entirely relieved to find he wasn't deaf after all. But the silence persisted even though he could hear -- the hush of voices dropped whenever he or Paul or even Evie moved among the distant group of people until finally he asked John Winchester if they had books, reference books.
John looked like a man who had a hundred questions but Alva doubted many of them were for him. Instead John showed them the door and the stairs that led below, the flickering bulbs drawing on the inconsistent power of the generator, only for here, for that room it wasn't a waste. And oil burning lanterns had no place down there.
The farmhouse had belonged to Jim Murphy, something Alva had forgotten but this detail…shelf after shelf of books, boxes for archiving documents, a meticulous inventory written in handwriting Alva recognized, and elsewhere handwriting he didn't. The dust was minimal, and Alva was glad to know his expression wasn't the only one reflecting the first sight of the Treasures of Kings.
He knew what he was looking for and Matty took the list, helping Evie look while Alva watched Paul's fingers brush over those acid-free boxes, barely touching the labels. When he turned to look at Alva, there was wonder and accusation there. Alva could only shrug, hide the fact that he felt guiltier than he wanted Paul to know. "Those looking for miracles never give up the search, Paul. We just start looking in other places. 'Liberate te ex inferis,'"
Paul pulled the casing and opened it, the scrolls lay loose, unbound. He hesitated before touching them -- a researcher's fear of damage. Alva held out a pair of cotton gloves. Paul took them and Alva took the box. "Tell me you understand what's happening," Paul said quietly. "Tell me there's a way to fix this."
Don't look to me for miracles, Alva almost said. "The symbols on this house hold the ghosts in place. But you saw something quite different, didn't you?"
"The house burned. We got out, but it burned. Are you a ghost too?" Paul murmured, pulling the first of the sheaves out to unroll it carefully.
"I don't think so, but the ghosts, true ghosts, rarely recognize their own deaths -- hence their inability to move on. What did you see?"
"They emptied heaven and hell both," Paul said, barely a sound. He didn't look for Evie or Matty but Alva did and caught Evie's eyes. What she knew he could only guess at, but she kept Matty away either for him or for herself.
The papers whispered from Paul's fingers and Alva caught his wrist, flesh on flesh. Paul reached across and covered his hand but didn't try to pull Alva's hand away. "The edges of the world are bleeding out."
Alva turned and put his back to the library table, forcing Paul to look at him more directly. "I hear the voices of the dead, Paul. The dead. What does that tell you about this moment?"
"It's an empty world there, Alva. I think I know why Dean couldn't do what was asked of him."
"You've seen what happens -- maybe what needs to happen. You saw it for months before all this," Alva said urgently, feeling the resistance build in Paul as he could see it Dean Winchester -- defiance not denial. "Two opposite forces cannot exist in the same place at the same time."
Paul gave a dry, short laugh. "And we're going to find the lever to separate them in Paradise?"
Alva felt his lips twitch. "I can't hear you in my head, Paul. What does that tell you?"
"That I've got nothing to say?"
Alva wasn't even sure he believed in God any longer, but he wanted to if only for Paul's sake. He leaned in close, fingers at the back of Paul's neck, lips close enough to kiss his cheek. "If the darkness wants, Paul, then the light gives. What darkness demands, the light surrenders."
"What if we've got it backwards, all of it?"
There was no answer to that but one, and against all reason and good sense, Alva let his lips brush against Paul's temple and squeezed his neck. He meant it in benediction but it was more than that and by the way Paul gripped his arm, Paul knew it too. "Then Sam Winchester will live and the rest of the world will die."
~end~
TBC…