Roswell Fanatics

Title: Infinity

Category: XO/Roswell/Supernatural/UC

Rating: Mature

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it’s not mine.

Summary: Spend enough time on the road and you’re bound to meet some interesting people.

A/N: Just so you know, this is my first attempt at Roswell or Supernatural fanfiction. And I’m very sorry to preface this by saying that I am a horrible poster. Here’s hoping you lovely readers will show me lots of patience and encouragement. Nagging works too.


Bemis, Tennessee


“Excuse me, Waitress?”

Liz raised an eyebrow. Waitress? She turned to the smug-looking guy in the back booth. “Yes?”

“My coffee’s cold.”

“Really?” Liz picked it up, heating it through the ceramic before taking a sip. Perfect. She sent him her most innocent smile before setting the mug on the chipped Formica table between them. “Tastes fine to me.”

He almost choked on the scalding liquid. She smirked. Kyle didn’t look amused.

“You know, we passed that carnival a couple states back. If you wanted to join.”

She rolled her eyes. “Funny.”

If she had a dollar for every time Kyle implied she was a freak, she’d have a whole lot of dollars. Of course, she’d also spent weeks learning how to turn ones into hundreds with the wave of a hand, so maybe he had a point.

One paycheck provided them enough cash for months on the road. That didn’t mean it came without a price.

She sent him an admonishing look over her shoulder. “Joke all you want, but you weren’t at the last carnival.”

“True,” he admitted, blowing on his drink and pushing his plate aside. His fingers tapped absentmindedly at the tabletop. “This steak sucks.”

Liz scoffed. “This is a Waffle House. What did you expect?”

“Six dollars and seventy-nine cents’ worth of fine dining.” Kyle leaned back, settling into the vinyl seating. “See, that’s the difference between you and me. I’m an optimist at heart.”

“Right.” She grabbed a bin and went back to bussing a nearby table. Someone had left behind a whole mess of sticky maple circles. “The glass is half full.”

“No,” he drawled, giving her a look like she was being slow. “There is no glass.”

Liz shook her head and stuffed the dirty dishrag into her apron pocket. “How many times can a person watch The Matrix before their brain implodes?”

Kyle grinned, pleased she’d picked up on the reference. He and Sasquatch had trained her well. “When I find out you’ll be the first to know.”

She shook her head again, but couldn’t keep from laughing. Kyle’s grins were infectious.

“Liz.”

The smile died on her face. He knew better than to call her that at work.

Wide-eyed, Kyle tipped his head towards the door. What she saw nearly stopped her heart in her chest.

Nicholas had just walked in.

A/N: Sorry 'bout the wait! Here's Part Two...




Mansfield, OH


Max was in the shower. Michael didn’t know whether to be pissed off or pleased.

Pissed off, because he was tired, sore, and sweaty and wanted nothing more than to be able to shower at will in his own apartment. Or pleased, because if Maxwell was making a conscious effort to clean up, maybe that meant he was finally pulling himself together.

The unwashed look wasn’t a good one for His Highness.

Michael summoned a quick burst of energy and used it to meld the front door’s locking mechanism shut behind him, then tossed his keys up on the kitchen counter. He sighed as the cool air from the fridge hit his face and paused a minute to enjoy the sensation before digging out a Peach Snapple to quench his thirst.

Max had moved in when Liz had moved out. The whole thing was very Odd Couple, but Michael couldn’t begrudge the man his couch. After all, he’d spent the better part of his youth borrowing floor space from the Evans siblings.

Half of him sympathized with Maxwell and even understood what he was going through – Michael knew he hadn’t been the picture of mental health and personal hygiene himself in the weeks following Maria’s departure from the group. On the other hand, he hadn’t done so much to drive her away.

Max was moping, because he missed Liz. But the thing that really rankled was the fact that he didn’t seem to notice or care that the rest of their rag-tag little family was just as affected by Liz’s absence as he was.

Michael could admit it, at least to himself. He missed Liz too.

She was smart. She was rational and practical, and it hadn’t taken her long to accept and adapt to the reality of the life she’d chosen. Liz was loyal and brave, an asset to the group, and fairly easy for even him to get along with. More than anyone else he knew, she was a comrade in arms.

If Isabel and Max were family, then Liz Parker was the first real friend he’d ever had. So the fact that she had left and taken Kyle with her really kind of sucked, because Kyle had turned out to be a good friend too.

Ava missed Liz and Kyle. Isabel missed Kyle and Functional Max. Michael missed the good old days when people and their relationships weren’t such a plague on his life.

He tossed the empty glass bottle into the trash, then scowled at the ceiling as he leaned back against cool tile of the kitchen counter. What the fuck was taking so long? If Maxwell was beating off in his shower… well, that was something he just didn’t want to know about.

Thankfully, he was shaken from that disturbing thought by the ringing of his cell phone. It could only be one of six people. He just hoped it wasn’t Isabel calling to drag him off across town, because there was no way in hell he was going anywhere without showering first.

Provided his shower was still serviceable by the time Maxwell was done with it.

He groaned, grabbed his cell, and reluctantly flipped it open, cutting off his Enter Sandman ringtone halfway through the distinctive guitar riff. “Speak.”

“We’re in trouble.” Michael frowned. That was Liz. And Liz in trouble… well, that was bad. “I took a waitressing job – Tennessee. This morning – shift – showed up.” He hastily checked the reception. Four bars, not that they were doing anyone any good.

He scowled, bringing a hand up to claw at his eyebrow. “What?”

“Nicholas showed – work.” Oh shit. “Kyle and I – away – think something’s wrong.” Fuck.

If it were possible to frown any more, Michael would be doing just that. His only consolation was that it seemed both Liz and Kyle were still alive, and no one was screaming in the background. He knew it’d been wrong for them to split. “Liz, you’re breaking up.”

“What?”

“Damnit!” Silence. “Liz?”

“ – you later. Soon, okay? Be careful.” The line went dead.

Well, fuck. He chucked his phone down next to his keys, disgusted, and resisted the impulse to vaporize it with a well-placed power blast.

Michael hated phones. He was a visual person. What ever happened to good old face-to-face conversation? He scowled. And whatever happened to aliens who died and stayed dead?

It might be better if Maxwell just stayed in the shower for this one.

A/N: Ta da! Winchesters ahoy. I promised Part 3 would be quick...



Bemis, Tennessee


Dean moaned a little as he shoved another forkful of breakfast into his mouth. His brother put down the obits to watch in fascination and disgust. “Dude.”

Dean leered at him around his mouthful of waffles. Swallowing took some effort. “You’re missing out, Sammy.” Sam was staring at his lip. He wiped his mouth on his hand.

The youngest Winchester turned back to his paper. “I’ll live.”

The dry response did little to dampen Dean’s mood. Sam was always a little pissy in the morning, probably from waking up stiff. He snorted to himself as he started in on his sausage. The boy was so tightly wound he’d probably end up pushing himself into a crazed psychic killing spree – all in the name of abstinence.

Talk about awkward.

But Dean, for one, was feeling pretty damn good. Maybe it was knowing that Ash was on the job and they’d know it the second the yellow-eyed bastard reared its ugly head, or maybe it was just being back on the open road, hunting evil shit that didn’t hit so close to home. Whatever it was, Dean was glad for the reprieve. It wasn’t much as vacations went – hell, it was probably just the calm before the storm – but at least he still had Sam.

And the car.

And the view of a nearby waitress definitely didn’t hurt. She was currently bent over a table, scrubbing at the surface as she bantered with a guy a few booths over. Probably a regular. Long, dark hair slid over her shoulder as she worked. If she reached just a little further… Yahtzee.

Sam caught his lecherous grin and followed his line of vision to the hem of her skirt. Dean raised his mug of coffee in mock salute. “I love me some waffles.”

Sam was clearly amused despite himself. Dean found he often had that effect on people.

But as much fun as it would be to hang around and get to know the natives, they needed to figure out where they were headed next. That meant finding a hunt, and with any luck, they’d uncover something interesting in the local rag.

Right on cue, Sam passed the paper across the table. “What do you make of that?”

“Local Man’s Death Follows Personal Tragedy.”

Sam watched expectantly as Dean scanned the article.

He shrugged and tossed the paper down next to his plate. So much for interesting. “That’s it? The guy killed himself. His wife and kid bit it last week, what’s he got to live for?”

“Dean.” Sam motioned towards the article in disbelief, as if a person only had to read it to draw the same conclusions he had.

Dean put up his hands. “I’m just sayin’. A man’s family gets killed in a car crash, and he decides to take his own life.” One plus one equals two. “Sometimes a suicide is just a suicide, Sammy.”

He scoffed. “It’s the third suicide in the house since it was built. People are saying it’s haunted.”

“Of course they are, the house is old and probably creepy.”

Dean went back to his breakfast. Rumored hauntings like this one were iffy at best, and as an added bonus they’d probably have to beat back the amateurs just to get a good look at the place. The last thing anyone wanted was another run-in with posers like those moron twins they’d met in Texas.

“Seriously, Sam. There’s no mention of any activity in there that would suggest a haunting, or a poltergeist, or a vengeful spirit. Just a handful of rich homeowners with more issues than they could handle.”

Met with silence, he looked up from his eggs. Sam was watching him again. Dean raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Sam huffed. “Well unless you’ve got something better, Dean, this is the only thing we’ve got.”

“Fine, so we’ll check it out.” He smirked, pushing away his plate. “Just quit being such a girl about it.”

A haunted house. It was too clichéd for words.

Dean turned to catch a waitress, maybe even the hot one from earlier, but he didn’t see her anywhere. He had just enough time to take in the sight of the empty booth and its still-steaming cup of coffee before the entire building shook.

A/N: Part Four, peeps. For anyone wondering about (eventual) pairings, check out the spiffy new banner on page one.




Outside Jackson, TN – headed East on I-40


Kyle tried not to worry as Liz became increasingly frustrated at her end of the line. He prayed to Buddha she hadn’t somehow gotten Max. In Kyle’s opinion, His Royal Pain in the Ass was about as useful as a screen door on a submarine – even less when there was a crisis. And things between him and Liz were currently tense at best.

He arched a skeptical eyebrow as she sighed and tossed the cell into the back seat, signaling the end of a suspiciously short conversation. “What’s the verdict?”

“Crap reception.” She winced and pushed her hair behind her ear. “For now, we’re on our own.”

Kyle studied her with a practiced eye. He knew she got headaches sometimes, more often than not a result of exerting herself psychically. Neither of them had had what anyone would consider a restful morning, but Liz was looking pretty punk. “You okay?”

She nodded, then shot him a cursory glance while keeping one eye on the road. “You?”

“Sure.” They’d both been lucky. He’d actually felt the breeze from a piece of shrapnel winging its way past his ear, and he knew Liz had hit the ground pretty hard when she’d thrown herself around the corner of the building.

But that was one of the things he liked best about Liz. She was hard to shake and much tougher than she looked – the downside of which was her tendency to turn serious and shoulder more responsibility than was fair.

So it came as no surprise that once assured of his wellbeing, she retreated into the quiet of her thoughts. He could practically see her little hamster-mind racing in its exercise wheel as she worried her lower lip, trying to figure out how the Skins had found them, what they were after, and why Nicholas had toyed with them instead of taking them out properly like they both knew he was capable of doing.

Questions he’d like answers to as well, but he figured dwelling on it was an exercise in futility. Kyle knew several aliens, but he doubted he’d ever develop the ability to think like one. He was just happy to put the sadistic little twerp in their rear-view mirror.

The silence was becoming tense in the absence of paralyzing fear, so Kyle reached over and switched on the radio. Classic rock. More specifically, that crazy old Styx song about the robot. He snorted, then snickered. Was absolutely everyone on crack in the eighties?

Liz blinked at the stereo, looking incredulous, and Kyle knew she was thinking along the same lines. He was glad for it. Sometimes all she needed was a good distraction to snap her out of a self-induced funk. Everyone knew Liz was ten times more fun for having him around.

It wasn’t long before both friends were grinning like idiots, choking back hysteric laughter as synthesizer-laden strains of music filled the cab.

It was times like these that Kyle couldn’t help reflecting on what his life had become. Half an hour ago, they’d been ambushed by an evil alien wearing a pissed-off pre-teen skin suit, bent on death dealing and destruction – perhaps even global domination. They’d managed to duck out the back unseen and had been about to make a quick getaway when Liz’s Spidey-sense had kicked into high gear.

He’d always appreciated that ability of hers, but never so much as when he’d seen his truck explode in a spectacular display of alien car bomb pyrotechnics. Nothing had been left but a twisted, burning heap of slag.

Domo arigato, indeed.

So how had the son of a former sheriff ended up playing Bonnie and Clyde with a precognitive best friend who, once upon a time, had been his straight-laced straight-A high school sweetheart?

He’d always thought it might be cool to do a little road tripping after high school. Now he and Liz were rocking out to bad music in a stolen ’67 Impala. There was a lesson in there somewhere.

I’m just a man whose circumstances went beyond his control.

The song struck him as oddly appropriate, and would probably be stuck in his head for the next couple of days. And the craziest part was that Liz was mouthing the words along with him as he drummed out a rhythm on the dash.

Maybe it was rush of escaping with their lives that was making them all giddy. Maybe it was the thrill of classic rock and classic American-made machinery, or maybe there was something funny in that Waffle House steak Liz had served him earlier in the day. Whatever the reason, the sky looked bluer and the wind felt cooler and the air smelled sweeter.

Nothing like a brush with certain death to make a guy appreciate his life, no matter how abnormal it was turning out to be.

Mr. Roboto. Kyle snorted. What a trip.

“Hey, Liz. I think I’ve figured out my next alias.”

Liz smiled. “Shut up, Kyle.”

She cranked up the volume and they sped down the highway in their sweet new ride.


Yet another A/N: I need some good – and preferably funny – aliases for Kyle and Liz… the kind that someone a little bit twisted i.e. Kyle might come up with. If anyone has any ideas, throw them out there and I’ll use them throughout the story. Arigato!

A/N: Okay, so I know it’s been forever, but in all fairness this latest installment is twice as long as the last. No, I didn’t die. There were no Blast-Ended Skrewts. I just… um… became a bit lazy? I’ve actually been getting a lot of inspiration lately for another fic I’m working on, but I don’t want to post any of it without finishing Infinity first. Le sigh. This authoring business is tough.

Alright, so the first four parts taken together make up a sort of prologue that explains how our characters’ paths first cross. From now on parts should be longer (and updates, sadly, irregular and infrequent). But, as I’ve said before, nagging helps!

So thanks to all my lovely readers and reviewers, especially to JNF247 for all the inventive Kyle-isms and to bettylove8 for all her prodding, without which I might never have gotten my ass in gear. Hope I haven’t lost you all! And happy Fourth to all my fellow Americans out there!



Part I: Lost

I find the map and draw a straight line
Over rivers, farms, and state lines
The distance from ‘A’ to where you’d ‘B’
It’s only finger-lengths that I see
I touch the place where I’d find your face
My fingers in creases of distant dark places
- Set Fire to the Third Bar, Snow Patrol


Bemis, Tennessee

Sam thanked the manager and reluctantly made his way outside to Dean. Dean, who was still freaking out like… well, like something had happened to his car.

“My baby’s gone.”

It was the same thing he’d been muttering since before Sam had pulled out his US Marshal ID and gone to interrogate the Waffle House employees. He’d sat his brother on the curb and shoved his head between his knees. They didn’t have a lot of time before actual cops showed up, and without the means to make a quick getaway things could get hairy. And all of Dean’s fakes were back in the Impala.

“They took my baby.”

Sam was tempted to say that maybe it was the dingo that took his baby, or even make a reference to Brigadoon. As it was, Dean looked like he was on the edge of a mental breakdown and Sam appreciated the risk that came with the job too much to gamble his life with a cheap shot at his big brother. Especially when he looked like he might start crying.

Besides, being stranded really wasn’t all that funny.

Having finally registered his presence on the sidewalk, Dean heaved himself up from the pavement, rubbed a hand over his mouth, and fixed Sam with a hard stare.

“Tell me we can track these assholes down and get my car back. ’Cause I am gonna beat the shit out of these motherfuckers.” Sam swallowed unhappily as Dean jabbed a gesticulatory finger towards the burning wreck still smoldering in the restaurant’s side lot. His next words were little more than a growl. “I am gonna salt and burn their bodies.”

Okay. That did not make it any easier to tell Dean what he’d found out.

“Well?” he pressed. “Who the fuck stole my car?”

Gone was Dean on the Verge of Tears. It had been an extremely quick turnaround from distraught to homicidal which, Sam thought, was pretty alarming as far as mood swings went. He sighed. Suck it up, Sammy. “The waitress’s name is Carrie Bradshaw.”

He waited for a reaction. Nothing. “It’s a fake, Dean.”

“Fuck me,” he breathed, pacing away only to turn back and stare. And then he exploded. “Son of a bitch!”

On the plus side, Dean was no longer hyperventilating.

Sam tuned him out in favor of the task at hand. Floppy hair and college-worn casual wear aside, Sam Winchester made a pretty good impression of law enforcement as he surveyed the scene of destruction in front of him with a practiced eye. It looked a little bit like a scene from Apocalypse Now.

Most often the destruction they dealt with was the work of evil or of the Winchesters themselves, or some volatile combination of the two. Usually it was nighttime and no one was around, or else there was a somber feel to the air as oblivious civilians congregated around a dead body or two. Today was a different story.

First of all, no one was dead.

He winced as a particularly loud expletive of Dean’s registered in his mind.

Okay, so no one was dead yet. Considering the spectacular nature of the truck’s explosion, that was something of a miracle in and of itself.

But even weirder was the fact that neither Winchester had been an active participant in the madness and the mayhem. He and Dean had been innocent bystanders. That was practically a first.

Really, it was kind of surreal.

As Dean’s tirade faded out to be replaced by outraged panting, Sam figured it was high time to enlist his help. This was a crime scene after all, and by now the police had to be well on their way. “Have you looked around at all? There might be a lead around here somewhere.”

“You mean like an arrow with a sign that says, ‘They went that way’?”

Sam sighed. He was just beginning to realize exactly how much fun his brother was going to be from now on. God, they needed that car back.

His sanity depended on it.

“The truck,” he explained, digging into his reserve of patience and brotherly understanding, “belonged to the waitress’s friend.” Sam made a face as he got a whiff of a burning chunk of tire, but continued to pick his way among the rubble that was once a blue flatbed Ford. “According to the manager, he dropped her off and picked her up for every shift.”

All Dean did was grunt in response, but Sam was gratified to see that he was beginning to kick around the edges of the wreckage now too. It would be good if he could get his brother into hunting mode and keep him there. Clinically detached was better than psychotically enraged.

“The manager hired her when she and her friend showed up in town a couple weeks ago.”

“The guy’s name?”

“According to the credit card receipt?” Sam was torn between annoyance and faint – very faint – amusement. “Elrond Hubbard.”

Dean snorted. “L. Ron Hubbard?” Disgusted, he tossed away a deformed-looking license plate. There was no telling what state the thing was from, let alone getting a read on the actual letters and numbers. “Great. The asshole has a sense of humor.”

That was one opinion. Sam had never gotten quite the same kick as Dean did out of thinking up fake names for homemade IDs and credit card applications. Sam had never considered trying to pass himself off as ‘D. Hasselhoff,’ either.

That was just one of many differences between himself and his brother, and the fact that their car thieves shared Dean’s perverse pleasure in outrageous aliases seemed like irony at its worst. If it weren’t for all the lives they’d saved, he might think this was bad karma coming back to bite them in the ass.

He’d never believed in karma, but Jess had.

Giving up the search for anything useful in all the debris, Sam turned helplessly towards the empty block of spaces where they’d left the Impala. He squinted in the late morning sunlight and paced over half-heartedly, though he was beginning to doubt they’d find anything at all. So much for Dean’s arrow theory.

There was an empty beer bottle and a few weeds sprouting in the cracks of the pavement, but definitely no car… although there was a glint of something there on the ground.

“Hey! Get a look at this.”

Dean jogged over to see him holding a necklace up against the light of the sun. It almost seemed to glow as it swung lightly with the chill autumn breeze.

“Well that’s just great, Samantha,” Dean enthused, his voice false-bright as he clapped his brother on the shoulder. “We lost my car, but now you can accessorize!”

Sam shook Dean off, scowling as he carelessly shoved the stone and its chain into his jacket pocket. There was only so much any self-respecting person could take. “Hey, whatever, Dean. I wasn’t the one who needed to stop for a second breakfast.”

“Yeah, and that’s not natural either!” Dean accused, this time pointing at Sam like he was sporting a red letter ‘A’ on the front of his shirt. “What’s your problem anyway? Would it kill you to show some emotion here?”

“For a car?!” Sam scoffed; sometimes he just couldn’t believe his brother. He’d been a stone wall after their dad had died, and now he wanted Sam to mourn the loss of the Impala? Screw that. Their dad was their dad and a car was an inanimate object.

And Dean was being a jerk.

“A car – !” He was sputtering incoherently now. “That car is – you know what, forget it! So I just spent hundreds of hours restoring it and it’s got all our stuff in it, so what?”

There was a tense silence that had little to do with the Impala. Sam was the first to break eye contact. He didn’t need a Stanford education to know how his brother felt about the car. Just because he didn’t feel the same way…

“I know, Dean. I just thought it might be helpful if one of us tried to stay calm.”

“I am calm!”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Sam turned away so Dean wouldn’t catch him trying not to smile. Dean hadn’t been this freaked since Flight 424. His amusement, however, faded away as they heard the first faint echoes of sirens in the distance.

“Let’s get out of here,” Dean muttered angrily, giving the empty beer bottle a vicious kick so that it shattered on the curb. Sam winced. “Did you get an address?”

“A motel a couple miles from here.” Sam knew it was dangerous but couldn’t quite help himself. “Did you want to walk or try to catch a bus?”