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The damn vampire runs like a fucking lightning bolt. I skid around a corner, grunting with the effort, just to see him jumping on top of a police car. The face of the guy next to it barely has time to scrunch into the universal position of WTF? before his instincts take over and he follows my prey. Nothing to be done about it – I can’t let those two come close.
My lungs burn like acid and the latest bite wound on my leg, only three weeks old, hurts something awful. I put my chin down and search for that last ounce of strength to get me in step with the cop. He eyes me sideways and concentrates back on the uneven pavement.
Mr. Fang is a few yards ahead and risks a glance over his shoulder. Then that asshole runs right onto the busy street, jumps on one car, then the next and then he’s gone.
Cop and me come to a stumbling halt. He’s got his hands on his thighs just like me, wheezing and coughing. It’s not a pretty sound. A minute or two are spent with fighting to get our breath back. I should just go before he starts asking questions I won’t answer.
For whatever reasons, though, my feet stay put.
“What’s wrong with him? He should have been dead,” the cop whines and turns to the street to shout “you should have been dead!” for good measure. I bite my tongue to hold the correct answer in. He is dead, buddy.
The cop faces me and breaks into a grin that looks like he uses it way too often to get people to do what he wants. I can see it working. All too clearly.
“Jake Peralta, NYPD.” His outstretched hand meets mine in a tight, good grip. “PI?”
“Something like that.” He keeps my hand and the grin is still there. What is he waiting – oh, yeah, I gotta give him a name. Fuck, what’s on that PI card again?
“Dean Winchester.”
It tumbles from my lips like foaming beer when you’re completely wasted. I’m appalled by my own lack of professionalism.
“Okay, Dean, since that asshole is gone and there’s a lot of evening still ahead, how about a beer.” His hand is still holding mine. I’m not overly familiar with this kind of thing, but I guess he’s coming on to me. Or he forgot about the hand. I tug on it experimentally and he lets go.
“I…uhm.” For chrissake, just say no, Winchester. A cute smile and good hands and dark blond hair just long enough to grab and pull shouldn’t lay that kind of waste to your higher brain functions.
“I take that as a yes. Let’s go.” His hand lands on my shoulder and stays there. I turn and take few steps in the direction he’s indicated. New York is messing with me. It’s loud and filthy and I feel disoriented and bone tired. I have to follow the vamp, take out his nest and move on, but suddenly the last days, hell the last years come crashing down.
I want a beer and a night spent bantering with an outsider, a human (huh, I call them that now, how fucked up is that?). I wanna hear about shitty pay and drunken misconduct, fuck, I wanna commit drunken misconduct. With Sammy two states over and Cas on a mission he told me nothing about, I tell myself I’ve earned it and no one will ever know.
The cop, Jake, is chatting away by my side about that bar I’m gonna like and that I look like I could use a bowl of nachos drowned in cheese, too. He’s not wrong. My mouth waters at the thought.
We stop at an old building. Worn stone stairs lead to a heavy wooden door a few feet under street level. A battered sign promises Irish drafts.
A couple minutes later, I'm sitting in the dim light of a booth. The dark green leather of the upholstery and the dark wooden table do nothing to brighten the gloomy atmosphere. It’s perfect. Jake goes over to the bar to get provisions.
He comes back with two fresh beers and a plate full of nachos. Our hands meet over the cheese-drenched heart attack to happen, and I swear it’s like in the movies. Touch, look, embarrassed smile. He’s so cute I wanna kiss him right then and there. The moment passes and we munch our nachos in silence.
Five beers and a few shots later, the weird tension is gone and we swap stories like old buds. His station is a madhouse but honestly, I’ve never heard of a cop who calls his colleagues stable. A little bit of crazy helps you get through the day. And apparently, Jake’s team is highly entertaining.
I reciprocate with censored anecdotes about my own squad. Sammy the nerd, Crowley the obnoxious pain in the ass and badass cops Donna and Jody are good for a few stories, even leaving out the supernatural stuff.
I take a long swig from my beer. “Do you have a permanent partner? Work-wise I mean?” Everything else isn’t a topic for this evening. Or so I thought.
He hesitates for the fraction of a second but I see the slight tug of his shoulder. “Ah…yes, I have. Best cop in the city. Santiago.”
“I see.” I try not to smile a knowing smile.
“What?” He leans back and crosses his arms over his chest.
“Come on, you talked about 10 minutes about every person in your precinct. I know more about Gina than I know about you. And this Santiago gets the highest praise possible and that’s it? Nothing to add?”
“Fine!” His expressive hands fly into the air before he puts his elbows on the table and shoots me a brooding look.
“I’m in love with her, okay? Not something I’m eager to discuss with a stranger!” His outburst is adorable.
“Then just ask her out! You’re cute and nice and from what you tell me, you’re a good cop. I bet she likes you too.” Way to diminish your chances for getting laid tonight, Winchester. But I can’t help it, I want this guy to get his happy end.
“I take it you’ve never been in love with your partner,” he bites out.
I laugh. And I’m talking full body laugh that turns the heads of some patrons and brings tears to my eyes. I have to laugh, because the alternative is even less pretty.
Jakes face spins through three different emotions: Anger, surprise, pity.
He takes my hand over the table and it’s a gesture of comfort, not the start of something. He stands and gets us another round of beer and whiskey. I’ve got two minutes to get myself under control.
When he comes back, he tells me about Amy Santiago. About her strategic mind, her big compassionate heart that most people overlook because of her uptight appearance. He tells me that the best feeling in the world is when he manages to make her smile.
And my heart aches with the force of how much I’m missing Cas. The slow constant pull, the never-ending what if at the back of my mind transforms into something urgent and huge and terrifying while I listen to Jake spilling his love onto the scarred table between us.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble while I get up on shaking legs. I’m fumbling for my phone and bump into a bulky man wearing an oil-stained overall. He steps aside with concern written all over his face. I must look like shit warmed over. Up the stairs, into the cold night. I dial the number I know by heart. The phone is warm on my ear.
It rings once. Twice.
“Dean?”
“Heya, Cas.”