Lost/SPN Fic: things don't die, just fade (Miles/Sam)
Title: things don’t die, just fade
Pairing: Miles Straume/Sam Winchester
Rating: R
Words: 958
Disclaimer: Not mine. Title from “Modern Things” by the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs.
Summary: Miles remembers a time when he didn’t give a damn about anyone. He glances at Sam and thinks he probably remembers a time when he did.
A/N: Originally written for the spnlost_otp comment fic meme, which is totally still happening so get over there and write some crossovers. <3
They come to a crossroads and Miles holds his breath like they’re passing a cemetery. He stares at Sam’s reflection in the rearview mirror, his face is a mask but he keeps driving and Miles breaths again.
*
“Florida, huh? Think we’ll have time to stop at Disney World?”
Sam almost smiles, but seems to think better of it at the last minute and forces his lips downwards in a scowl instead. He tosses a wrinkled paper on Miles’s lap; the headline reads two dead in mysterious drowning incident.
“Guess we’ll have to take a rain check on Mickey then.”
“Maybe next time,” Sam replies.
A joke. That’s new.
*
The bodies are horrific, blue and bloated. Unfortunately, Miles has seen worse. He lays his hands on them and lets the first wave of panic wash over him. He’s vaguely aware that Sam is beside him, watching. Sam likes to watch. But soon he’s lost in the fear, lost in the dying. He comes back with a gasp, his lungs trying their best to cough up phantom water.
“Fucking swamp monster,” Miles chokes out.
Sam’s hand has found its way to Miles’s back and Miles tries not to focus on how good it feels there. He knows it won’t last. Sure enough, Sam takes the contact away.
“At least it’s something we can kill.”
*
It goes down easily enough. Sam and Miles are back in their hotel room before midnight. Miles likes the easy cases. They make up for the impossible ones.
Miles settles himself on the edge of Sam’s bed and passes him a beer. Sam drinks half before passing it back. They stare blankly at local news that’s not local for them while Miles cracks open another one.
“Did you know swamp monsters were real?” Miles asks.
He’s rewarded with a smirk.
“Everything’s real.”
Miles thinks that’s probably true. Demons, angels, werewolves, ancient life ruining bastards, ghosts---he remembers when he didn’t believe in anything. Those were the good old days.
“Dean would have loved this case,” Sam says softly.
Miles keeps his mouth shut.
*
They’re both in mourning. They’re both fucked up. Miles hesitates to add beyond repair, but they might be. It doesn’t matter. Everyone’s damaged these days.
There’s a picture of Sam with two men tucked in the visor. There’s a picture of Richard folded in Miles’s back pocket. They mean different things, but the sentiment is the same. The common denominator is they’re all gone.
Miles remembers a time when he didn’t give a damn about anyone. He glances at Sam and thinks he probably remembers a time when he did.
“Where to next, boss?”
Sam shrugs.
*
He’s not used to being the one who holds things together, but that’s who he is now. That’s who he has been for a long time.
Sam talks in his sleep. Miles listens. It’s mostly nonsense, just “Dean” and “Dad” and sometimes on the really bad nights “Jess.” Miles only has a vague idea of who any of these people are or what happened to them or why dreams of them leave Sam drenched in sweat and trembling.
He doesn’t ask Sam to elaborate. There are things they share and things they don’t. Miles has his own nightmares to worry about anyway.
Instead, Miles stays up with him watching old reruns of I Love Lucy until they fall asleep on the same bed.
*
They take a week off and drive north. Miles has never been to New York. Sam thinks this is ridiculous.
The bar they end up in is too hot, too crowded, but they stay anyway. It’s nice, being with people. Not ones they have to save, not ones that are going to die, just people, people they’ll never see again.
They drink too much, drop too many quarters into the jukebox playing songs no one wants to hear. Around three in the morning the bartender starts shooting them dirty looks.
Miles leaves feeling loose-limbed and free for the first time since he came back to the real world. Sam leans against him heavily and Miles stumbles under the weight, but even that feels good.
“I’m glad we did this,” Sam slurs.
“Me too, buddy.”
*
The inevitable happens and Miles thinks it’s such a fucking relief he could cry. They fall onto Sam’s bed and Miles scoots closer, ignoring the heavy-lidded look in Sam’s eyes, until he can smell the liquor and stale pretzels on Sam’s breath.
He wants to kiss Sam. He wants to fuck him until they’re both exhausted. He’s completely shit-faced, but he doesn’t care anymore. He wants. And that’s a feeling he’s missed.
Miles wraps a hand in Sam’s tangled hair and closes the gap between them before he sobers up enough to talk himself out of it. There’s a moment of hesitation, then Sam’s lips part and his tongue is sliding against Miles’s, his hand tugging at Miles’s hip, dragging him closer.
They only break a part long enough to shimmy out of their pants.
*
“Look at this,” Sam says, tapping the screen of his laptop. Miles peers over his shoulder.
“Five people dead in one year? That must be one hell of a realtor.”
Sam laughs. It’s a nice sound.
Miles starts tossing his clothes in a bag.
“You ready to get back to work?” Sam asks.
Miles shoulders his bag, his hand already on the handle of the door.
*
They move on.
They move on together.
Miles stashes his crumpled picture of Richard in the glove compartment and doesn’t feel guilty about it. He’s still there, even when he’s not. When Sam’s picture joins it, Miles doesn’t say a word.
People have to keep going. It’s just human nature.
Pairing: Miles Straume/Sam Winchester
Rating: R
Words: 958
Disclaimer: Not mine. Title from “Modern Things” by the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs.
Summary: Miles remembers a time when he didn’t give a damn about anyone. He glances at Sam and thinks he probably remembers a time when he did.
A/N: Originally written for the spnlost_otp comment fic meme, which is totally still happening so get over there and write some crossovers. <3
They come to a crossroads and Miles holds his breath like they’re passing a cemetery. He stares at Sam’s reflection in the rearview mirror, his face is a mask but he keeps driving and Miles breaths again.
*
“Florida, huh? Think we’ll have time to stop at Disney World?”
Sam almost smiles, but seems to think better of it at the last minute and forces his lips downwards in a scowl instead. He tosses a wrinkled paper on Miles’s lap; the headline reads two dead in mysterious drowning incident.
“Guess we’ll have to take a rain check on Mickey then.”
“Maybe next time,” Sam replies.
A joke. That’s new.
*
The bodies are horrific, blue and bloated. Unfortunately, Miles has seen worse. He lays his hands on them and lets the first wave of panic wash over him. He’s vaguely aware that Sam is beside him, watching. Sam likes to watch. But soon he’s lost in the fear, lost in the dying. He comes back with a gasp, his lungs trying their best to cough up phantom water.
“Fucking swamp monster,” Miles chokes out.
Sam’s hand has found its way to Miles’s back and Miles tries not to focus on how good it feels there. He knows it won’t last. Sure enough, Sam takes the contact away.
“At least it’s something we can kill.”
*
It goes down easily enough. Sam and Miles are back in their hotel room before midnight. Miles likes the easy cases. They make up for the impossible ones.
Miles settles himself on the edge of Sam’s bed and passes him a beer. Sam drinks half before passing it back. They stare blankly at local news that’s not local for them while Miles cracks open another one.
“Did you know swamp monsters were real?” Miles asks.
He’s rewarded with a smirk.
“Everything’s real.”
Miles thinks that’s probably true. Demons, angels, werewolves, ancient life ruining bastards, ghosts---he remembers when he didn’t believe in anything. Those were the good old days.
“Dean would have loved this case,” Sam says softly.
Miles keeps his mouth shut.
*
They’re both in mourning. They’re both fucked up. Miles hesitates to add beyond repair, but they might be. It doesn’t matter. Everyone’s damaged these days.
There’s a picture of Sam with two men tucked in the visor. There’s a picture of Richard folded in Miles’s back pocket. They mean different things, but the sentiment is the same. The common denominator is they’re all gone.
Miles remembers a time when he didn’t give a damn about anyone. He glances at Sam and thinks he probably remembers a time when he did.
“Where to next, boss?”
Sam shrugs.
*
He’s not used to being the one who holds things together, but that’s who he is now. That’s who he has been for a long time.
Sam talks in his sleep. Miles listens. It’s mostly nonsense, just “Dean” and “Dad” and sometimes on the really bad nights “Jess.” Miles only has a vague idea of who any of these people are or what happened to them or why dreams of them leave Sam drenched in sweat and trembling.
He doesn’t ask Sam to elaborate. There are things they share and things they don’t. Miles has his own nightmares to worry about anyway.
Instead, Miles stays up with him watching old reruns of I Love Lucy until they fall asleep on the same bed.
*
They take a week off and drive north. Miles has never been to New York. Sam thinks this is ridiculous.
The bar they end up in is too hot, too crowded, but they stay anyway. It’s nice, being with people. Not ones they have to save, not ones that are going to die, just people, people they’ll never see again.
They drink too much, drop too many quarters into the jukebox playing songs no one wants to hear. Around three in the morning the bartender starts shooting them dirty looks.
Miles leaves feeling loose-limbed and free for the first time since he came back to the real world. Sam leans against him heavily and Miles stumbles under the weight, but even that feels good.
“I’m glad we did this,” Sam slurs.
“Me too, buddy.”
*
The inevitable happens and Miles thinks it’s such a fucking relief he could cry. They fall onto Sam’s bed and Miles scoots closer, ignoring the heavy-lidded look in Sam’s eyes, until he can smell the liquor and stale pretzels on Sam’s breath.
He wants to kiss Sam. He wants to fuck him until they’re both exhausted. He’s completely shit-faced, but he doesn’t care anymore. He wants. And that’s a feeling he’s missed.
Miles wraps a hand in Sam’s tangled hair and closes the gap between them before he sobers up enough to talk himself out of it. There’s a moment of hesitation, then Sam’s lips part and his tongue is sliding against Miles’s, his hand tugging at Miles’s hip, dragging him closer.
They only break a part long enough to shimmy out of their pants.
*
“Look at this,” Sam says, tapping the screen of his laptop. Miles peers over his shoulder.
“Five people dead in one year? That must be one hell of a realtor.”
Sam laughs. It’s a nice sound.
Miles starts tossing his clothes in a bag.
“You ready to get back to work?” Sam asks.
Miles shoulders his bag, his hand already on the handle of the door.
*
They move on.
They move on together.
Miles stashes his crumpled picture of Richard in the glove compartment and doesn’t feel guilty about it. He’s still there, even when he’s not. When Sam’s picture joins it, Miles doesn’t say a word.
People have to keep going. It’s just human nature.