A/N: I would just like to apologize in advance for this one. . . Sorry.

Somewhere in Between

Let's walk down the road that has no end

Steal away where only angels tread

Heaven or Hell, or somewhere in between

Cross your heart to take me when you leave

Don't go, please don't go

Don't go without me

-C'est la Mort by The Civil Wars

It was nearing midnight by the time he found what he was looking for. The two roads crossed in a perfect 'X' marking the location. They were nothing but dirt paths, intersecting corners lined in yellow clarion indicating he had found the right spot. He left the car running, parked in the middle of the deserted road two dozen miles from the nearest town, and circled around towards the trunk. He pulled out the shovel he'd put in there earlier.

It only took a moment for him to determine the very center of the intersection and once he had he set to work digging a small hole in the compacted dirt. Once he had a few shovelfuls of course earth and a shallow hole about a foot deep, he set the shovel aside and moved back to his car. He carefully picked up the small, locked, metal box he'd placed on the passenger's seat, carried it over to the hole. The contents rattled slightly within, but he paid it no mind; he had already checked and rechecked that he had everything he needed.

Dropping to his knees, he buried the box, pulling the dirt over the hole with his hands, the shovel seemingly forgotten. He packed the dirt in tight, as though afraid the ground would spit his offering back out at him.

He stood, dusted off his hands, his knees. It was an action by default, a facsimile of his usual movements. It wasn't real because he didn't feel real. He felt half-alive, empty and gaping, every move deliberate and measured – or hasty and desperate.

It has to work.

An uncertain amount of time passed; somewhere between a blink of an eye and a handful of hours. He didn't move during that time, even when she appeared in front of him.

"Hiya handsome." She had curly black hair, light brown eyes. Caucasian, skin slightly suntanned; plush, pink lips. Dressed in a sleek black gown, low-cut and revealing, barefoot under its ankle-length skirt. He probably would have found her attractive if he cared to look; if he didn't know what she really was. "Did you have an offer for me?"

"Bring him back." His internal mantra made vocal. Bring him back. Bring him back. Bring him back. . .

Her smile is sweet and false. "You're going to have to be more specific."

"My partner." It came out flat, emotionless, and perfectly enunciated. He knew what he was asking for, exactly what he wanted. Bring him back. Bring him back. Bring him back. "He died one hundred eighty-two hours ago. Bring him back exactly as he was one hundred eighty-six hours ago."

"That's much better! Now, again, but this time say 'please'." Her eyes filled with red; whites, irises, pupils, until there was nothing but the solid, gleaming, blood-red staring back at him. The demon watching and waiting for him to beg.

He was beyond pride. Seven days of begging anyone who might be out there to Bring him back! had moved him far past caring about his ego. At least this time he knew someone was listening. "Bring him back. Please. I need you to bring him back." His voice splintered on the words, threatened to shatter. It had cracked irreparably about the time the doctor had walked up to him after three and a half hours of surgery to say "I'm sorry, Detective, we did all we could but your partner didn't make it". His voice was cracked just like the rest of him was. He was sure his soul had been bleeding for the past week.

Her smile widened into a grin, eyes blinked back to normal. "Beautiful." She stepped closer, trailed a hand down his chest, and looked up into his face. He still didn't move. "I know what you want. You know what I want?"

"Yes."

"I can give you ten years." Her voice was a silky purr as she draped herself over his rigid form; one hand rested at the back of his neck, the other walked fingers up his arm and over his shoulder.

"Yes," he repeated.

She stretched her neck up, brought her face close to his, shared his breath. "Deal?"

It came out in a rolling hum. He breathed it in and breathed it back out again. "Deal."

He surged forward, sealed his lips over hers; cementing their pact. She tasted of sulfur and sin, arms around his shoulders, fingers in his hair. He pulled away just as quickly. She held him close a moment longer, staring him straight in the eye before whispering into his ear.

"You have two hours to get to him."

He bolted for the car, barely remembering to grab the shovel or shut the trunk. He slipped behind the wheel, threw it in drive, and floored it back down the road he'd come. He didn't even glance back at the empty crossroads.

He made it to the cemetery in just over an hour thanks to the lights and siren – the only part of his old life he hadn't handed in with his gun and badge. He longed to simply mow the gate down and drive as close as he could, but he knew he had to keep his head about him. The car was parked in front of the gate, ignition off and doors closed. He grabbed the shovel once more and hopped the high, rod-iron fence.

A ten minute run brought him to the right place. He didn't need light to know which marker it was, nor what it said. It was burned into his memory, haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

Travis Michael Marks
August 3rd, 1973 – May 11th, 2015
A hero, friend, brother, and son.
Loved and will be missed.

He set to digging. The sawed was newly planted and easily peeled away; the soil dark and loose in the still-fresh grave. His pace was brutal and punishing, the ground unforgiving and slick with runoff. Bring him back.

Wes was four feet deep and five minutes past his two hour deadline when he heard the first muffled thump and shout from below him. He dug impossibly faster, frantic and graceless, as his partner shouted and beat against the coffin. As soon as he struck wood, he dropped to his knees to shove the dirt and mud aside by hand. By that point, the noise below had faded out, but he didn't slow. His fingers scrabbled at the clasps, unhooked them, wrenched the lid up—

And narrowly avoided a punch to the face. He stumbled back on his rear, away from the open portion of the coffin just as a very much alive Travis sat up.

"Wes!" Wes never thought his own name could ever be the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard, but in that moment, in that voice, it was. "Oh my God, Wes! Baby!"

Suddenly hands – warm, gentle, calloused hands – were on his face, thumbs rubbing away tear tracks he hadn't been aware where there. After taking notice, he realized he was breathing in harsh sobs; he'd been crying for a while, likely from hearing that first shout, he figured.

"Wes, baby, I'm sorry! I didn't know it was you! Are you okay?"

"Travis." He flung himself at his partner, arms around his torso, hands latched on Travis's dress blues and face pressed against his neck, Wes just breathed. He smelled like Travis. Not like gunpowder or blood or chemicals or sulfur or graveyard dirt, but like Travis. Greasy food, leather, sunshine, and love. Just like he did before he got shot.

Travis held him, smoothed a hand down the back of his blonde head then left the hand there as Wes fought for his breath back in heaping gulps. "Wes. . . Wes, was I dead?"

He didn't move at all when he asked it and Wes would have been content to stay like that forever, warm and whole for the first time in more than a week; he knew Travis wouldn't demand anything of him until he was ready. But the question brought him back to the moment. There would be time to break down later, right then they needed to leave.

Wes pulled back, but didn't break contact, leaving on hand on Travis's shoulder while the other erased the wetness from his face. "Yes. For about a week now." He looked at him – looked at his Travis, alive and awake and looking back at him with all the boundless love he was capable of. "I'm sorry, but we have to go. Everybody knows you were dead, Travis. We can't stay." His voice was wrecked from tears and disuse. He'd hardly said a word in the three days since the funeral. He'd been too busy looking for a loophole, or a do-over. "We need to go."

They climbed out of the roughly dug hole awkwardly, neither willing to let go of the other. They refilled the grave, smoothing out the grass. It wasn't perfect, but it would do.

Wes led Travis through the tombstone checkered hills to the fence behind which sat his car. They clambered over, Wes landing on unsteady legs. After the week he had lived through, Wes was about ready to collapse. Beside him, Travis stood as steady as ever and Wes drew strength from his presence to finish what needed to be done.

When they got to the car, Travis pulled Wes to a stop. Before Wes could say a thing, he was drawn into a bruising kiss that gentled into the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted. When they broke apart, Travis simply stated, "I'm driving."

Wes merely nodded his assent, handed over the keys, and maneuvered toward the passenger side. He had his car prepared for he and Travis running since his partner was buried; there were two suitcases of clothes and essentials tucked into the backseat, several grand in cash under the passenger seat, and no ties holding either of them there. Travis had family, of course, but after a week dead they both knew there was no going back. Wes had no one but the man he'd just sold his soul for.

Travis slid into the driver's side next to him, turned the Chrysler over, and offered up a hand. Wes gladly took it, interlocking their fingers and resting them on the center console between them. "Where to?" Travis asked.

"Anywhere."

They were on the interstate heading east less than a half hour later, headlamps beating back the darkness and tires eating up road. Their hands stayed clasped long into the night. Later, Travis would ask what had happened and Wes would have to decide whether to tell him the truth or not – though he probably would, if only because Travis would know if he was lying. They would have to figure out where to go from there, in every sense. They would have to stop for food, gas, sleep. . . But it could wait. For that moment, Wes hardly even wanted to look away from the man sitting beside him. He had eighty-seven thousand six hundred sixty-eight hours left. He didn't want to waste a minute of it.

Aaand I think I'll stop there. Really, there are only two ways it could go at this point, and neither of them are particularly happy. At least here we can pretend it has a Happily Ever After. This was born from binge-ing too much Supernatural while thinking about Common Law, and the fact there are so few CL Xovers (tons of amazing AUs, but hardly any Xovers). I'd meant for it to be Gen, but the boys had other ideas. Who was I to stand in the way of love? (Just a side note, I am super obsessed with that song right now. I've been working on a cannon compliant that was partially inspired by it as well. Hopefully I'll get that one out soon, but seeing as I'm writing this instead of finishing tomorrow's psych homework, that might not be the case xD)

Stay classy my sassies! Ta!

~SASS~