![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I meant to post this last night, but work got in the way. *shakes fist at books*
Title: 40 Days and 40 Nights (4/9)
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
Rating: PG this chapter
Pairing: Steve (The Second Coming)/Sam (Reaper)
Summary: A crossover that I felt appropriate given the characters' circumstances. The whole fic is finished. Set after the Reaper season 1 finale. Sam encounters a mysterious stranger on the road.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
Yeargh.
Ow. Big ow. Dizziness stomped behind Sam’s eyes, nausea swelling in his throat, giving him the urge to crawl to the bathroom, but it’d be so much more comfortable to curl up in bed and moan. That is, if it weren’t for the pain. Nerves yanked tight across his head and neck, stinging as if a million microscopic blades were slicing at them. Pills. He needed pills. Huge, massive ones with horse tranquilizers to knock him out for a month. Scrabbling against the mattress, he pushed himself up, nearly stumbling to the floor as he struggled to get his feet under him and not crash into the walls on his way to the bathroom. A brand new flask of painkillers stood in the center of the otherwise bare medicine cabinet, still sealed for safety and freshness with a nicely irritating silver wrapper that refused to be pulled, the edges too tiny for him to get a proper grip on. After a few enraging attempts to break through with his fingers, he grabbed the toothbrush and stabbed it through, gobbling up two of them, but he’d always been so bad about swallowing the damn things that they kept sticking to the roof of his mouth until they began to dissolve into nasty, little cakes. Gulping water from the tap in his hands didn’t help. Screw it. He needed a glass. On to the kitchen. Somehow he managed not to break anything as he rummaged through the cupboards, though that was mostly because they preferred plastic glasses due to Sock knocking them over whenever he was winning at a video game in a fit of victorious glee. The pills finally taken, Sam trudged to the couch, seeking the quiet comfort of soft cushions and unconsciousness.
That’s when he sat on Steve.
“Ow.”
“Oh shit! Steve?”
Sam scrambled back, not noticing in his panic the table behind him until his calves made painful contact, the abruptness of the collision sending him crashing to the floor.
“Sam! Are you okay?”
Steve flickered in his vision before he squeezed his eyes shut as the nausea intensified, his brain merrily blaring distress signals throughout his jolted body. A hand touched his arm, hesitant yet concerned and much more guilty than it should be given the frightened look on Steve’s face. Why should Steve feel bad? He didn’t do it.
“I’m fine,” Sam lied, willing to dance a jig if it that would ease Steve’s worry.
“You’re hung over.” Well, duh. “Let me take care of that.”
Huh? But before Sam could ask, Steve laid a hand on his forehead and closed his eyes, concentrating. Soon it was hard to say that Sam had felt any pain at all. It was like a shot of Vicodin straight to his pleasure center. Light suffused his being. He smiled, a big, goofy grin, such joy running through him that he pictured himself bouncing around the room like a runaway kangaroo or perhaps kissing the man in front of him, such a handsome man, pretty in a masculine way, well defined cheekbones and arched brow and eyes so blue. Not just blue, but blue.
“That’s amazing,” he not quite slurred, and it occurred to him that Steve was very close indeed, a kiss even more of a possibility than he ever hoped for. Perhaps it was still too much to hope for, but Steve was right there. Wasn’t he just gorgeous?
“I take it you feel better.”
Such a nice smile, too. Lips so pink and soft and tasty looking. He wanted to lick them. Maybe even nibble.
“I like your eyes.”
Was he supposed to say that? A small yet very insistent part of his brain screamed “no” with an undue amount of panic, but the rest of him couldn’t seem to see the big deal. It was true. So why did Steve look so worried? Was it the fall? Did Sam break the table by any chance? Screw that. It didn’t matter. Just sticks nailed together. A kiss would fix this situation right up.
“I think I may have gone a little overboard,” Steve said, frowning. Sam wanted to rub that cute wrinkle away, adorable as it made Steve look, the tease.
“With what? I feel great, really. Really, really great. I like your mouth, too.”
No, no, don’t pull away. Why was Steve pulling away when Sam wanted nothing more than to hug him and kiss him and rub him all over?
“Um, Sam, I don’t think you know what you’re saying.”
Did he know what he was saying? Maybe. Did it matter?
“It’s fine. It’s all fine. Just stay here with me.”
“I don’t think I should.”
“Why not?”
He sat up, reaching for Steve as the man scurried back, tripping over his own feet and Sam lunged, coming this close from trapping him against the couch, but Steve scrambled up at the last minute, causing Sam to smack his head against the armrest, but no matter. It didn’t hurt. He barely felt it at all.
“Sam.”
Sam looked up, propping himself up on his elbows. It occurred to him that imitating a puppy dog begging his master for a treat wasn’t the most dignified position to be in, but the comparison seemed oddly apt. Why was Steve so far away? And why was he barricading himself behind the couch? Sam wasn’t going to attack him. Of course not. There was no reason to be afraid. He just wanted a kiss. Steve wanted it too, right? The night before he’d leaned forward with Sam. It wasn’t only Sam’s hopeful imaginings, was it? Please don’t be so.
“I think we should slow down a bit,” Steve said, holding his palms up in a pleading gesture that aggrieved Sam. Slow down? Why slow down?
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Steve continued, distress troubling his pleasing voice. “I was just trying to get rid of your hangover. I don’t think I should try anything else in case I make it worse. Maybe it’ll go away on its own. Until then, we should just sit down, or rather you sit down here,” he tapped the back of the couch, “maybe take a nap, a nice, quiet nap, and I’ll be over here.”
Sam frowned. Something was wrong.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, an uncomfortable knot in his stomach warring against the euphoria running mad through his system.
“No, no, of course not. It’s not you, it—Ah fuck.”
It was the first time Sam had heard Steve curse. He’d expected the eventuality to sound odd and unnatural on Steve’s tongue. Instead it came out desperate and forlorn and Sam knew that somehow he was responsible for it. The thought made him sad, which prompted unwelcome memories to flicker in his head, short bursts of angry words and betrayed emotions and shouting. His parents, so shocked and apologetic but as always much too late. Sorry we didn’t tell you, but how sorry could they be when he’d been crying and his phone had been on every day of that trip, perfectly available for them to call. Hey, son, I’m alive. You see how simple that is? But no. And, of course, the Devil, devious, evil asshole, but what could you expect? He was the Devil. The Fallen One, Lord of Darkness. Master of Lies. And Sam was his son, Beast of the Apocalypse, Destroyer of Humankind. He curled up on the floor, pillowing his head on his arms, the room growing cold. He didn’t feel so happy anymore. It hurt. A low whine built up in his throat, but he bit it back, kneading his bottom lip, wishing the pain would go away. He had felt so wonderful the minute before. Why couldn’t he just go back to that? Steve couldn’t help him. He said he couldn’t. But why? Why not? He was the son of God. Surely he should be able to do anything. It wasn’t fair. The Devil would own him and abuse him until some soul killed him and then he’d chuck him into hell.
Warm hands gripped his shoulders and he folded tighter into himself, but Steve whispered into his ear, “It’s okay,” and he acquiesced, letting Steve coax him towards he couch, where he drew his legs tight against his chest, hugging the left armrest, and shut his eyes, feeling the soft rub of Steve’s hands on his back.
next part
Title: 40 Days and 40 Nights (4/9)
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
Rating: PG this chapter
Pairing: Steve (The Second Coming)/Sam (Reaper)
Summary: A crossover that I felt appropriate given the characters' circumstances. The whole fic is finished. Set after the Reaper season 1 finale. Sam encounters a mysterious stranger on the road.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but my own words.
Yeargh.
Ow. Big ow. Dizziness stomped behind Sam’s eyes, nausea swelling in his throat, giving him the urge to crawl to the bathroom, but it’d be so much more comfortable to curl up in bed and moan. That is, if it weren’t for the pain. Nerves yanked tight across his head and neck, stinging as if a million microscopic blades were slicing at them. Pills. He needed pills. Huge, massive ones with horse tranquilizers to knock him out for a month. Scrabbling against the mattress, he pushed himself up, nearly stumbling to the floor as he struggled to get his feet under him and not crash into the walls on his way to the bathroom. A brand new flask of painkillers stood in the center of the otherwise bare medicine cabinet, still sealed for safety and freshness with a nicely irritating silver wrapper that refused to be pulled, the edges too tiny for him to get a proper grip on. After a few enraging attempts to break through with his fingers, he grabbed the toothbrush and stabbed it through, gobbling up two of them, but he’d always been so bad about swallowing the damn things that they kept sticking to the roof of his mouth until they began to dissolve into nasty, little cakes. Gulping water from the tap in his hands didn’t help. Screw it. He needed a glass. On to the kitchen. Somehow he managed not to break anything as he rummaged through the cupboards, though that was mostly because they preferred plastic glasses due to Sock knocking them over whenever he was winning at a video game in a fit of victorious glee. The pills finally taken, Sam trudged to the couch, seeking the quiet comfort of soft cushions and unconsciousness.
That’s when he sat on Steve.
“Ow.”
“Oh shit! Steve?”
Sam scrambled back, not noticing in his panic the table behind him until his calves made painful contact, the abruptness of the collision sending him crashing to the floor.
“Sam! Are you okay?”
Steve flickered in his vision before he squeezed his eyes shut as the nausea intensified, his brain merrily blaring distress signals throughout his jolted body. A hand touched his arm, hesitant yet concerned and much more guilty than it should be given the frightened look on Steve’s face. Why should Steve feel bad? He didn’t do it.
“I’m fine,” Sam lied, willing to dance a jig if it that would ease Steve’s worry.
“You’re hung over.” Well, duh. “Let me take care of that.”
Huh? But before Sam could ask, Steve laid a hand on his forehead and closed his eyes, concentrating. Soon it was hard to say that Sam had felt any pain at all. It was like a shot of Vicodin straight to his pleasure center. Light suffused his being. He smiled, a big, goofy grin, such joy running through him that he pictured himself bouncing around the room like a runaway kangaroo or perhaps kissing the man in front of him, such a handsome man, pretty in a masculine way, well defined cheekbones and arched brow and eyes so blue. Not just blue, but blue.
“That’s amazing,” he not quite slurred, and it occurred to him that Steve was very close indeed, a kiss even more of a possibility than he ever hoped for. Perhaps it was still too much to hope for, but Steve was right there. Wasn’t he just gorgeous?
“I take it you feel better.”
Such a nice smile, too. Lips so pink and soft and tasty looking. He wanted to lick them. Maybe even nibble.
“I like your eyes.”
Was he supposed to say that? A small yet very insistent part of his brain screamed “no” with an undue amount of panic, but the rest of him couldn’t seem to see the big deal. It was true. So why did Steve look so worried? Was it the fall? Did Sam break the table by any chance? Screw that. It didn’t matter. Just sticks nailed together. A kiss would fix this situation right up.
“I think I may have gone a little overboard,” Steve said, frowning. Sam wanted to rub that cute wrinkle away, adorable as it made Steve look, the tease.
“With what? I feel great, really. Really, really great. I like your mouth, too.”
No, no, don’t pull away. Why was Steve pulling away when Sam wanted nothing more than to hug him and kiss him and rub him all over?
“Um, Sam, I don’t think you know what you’re saying.”
Did he know what he was saying? Maybe. Did it matter?
“It’s fine. It’s all fine. Just stay here with me.”
“I don’t think I should.”
“Why not?”
He sat up, reaching for Steve as the man scurried back, tripping over his own feet and Sam lunged, coming this close from trapping him against the couch, but Steve scrambled up at the last minute, causing Sam to smack his head against the armrest, but no matter. It didn’t hurt. He barely felt it at all.
“Sam.”
Sam looked up, propping himself up on his elbows. It occurred to him that imitating a puppy dog begging his master for a treat wasn’t the most dignified position to be in, but the comparison seemed oddly apt. Why was Steve so far away? And why was he barricading himself behind the couch? Sam wasn’t going to attack him. Of course not. There was no reason to be afraid. He just wanted a kiss. Steve wanted it too, right? The night before he’d leaned forward with Sam. It wasn’t only Sam’s hopeful imaginings, was it? Please don’t be so.
“I think we should slow down a bit,” Steve said, holding his palms up in a pleading gesture that aggrieved Sam. Slow down? Why slow down?
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Steve continued, distress troubling his pleasing voice. “I was just trying to get rid of your hangover. I don’t think I should try anything else in case I make it worse. Maybe it’ll go away on its own. Until then, we should just sit down, or rather you sit down here,” he tapped the back of the couch, “maybe take a nap, a nice, quiet nap, and I’ll be over here.”
Sam frowned. Something was wrong.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, an uncomfortable knot in his stomach warring against the euphoria running mad through his system.
“No, no, of course not. It’s not you, it—Ah fuck.”
It was the first time Sam had heard Steve curse. He’d expected the eventuality to sound odd and unnatural on Steve’s tongue. Instead it came out desperate and forlorn and Sam knew that somehow he was responsible for it. The thought made him sad, which prompted unwelcome memories to flicker in his head, short bursts of angry words and betrayed emotions and shouting. His parents, so shocked and apologetic but as always much too late. Sorry we didn’t tell you, but how sorry could they be when he’d been crying and his phone had been on every day of that trip, perfectly available for them to call. Hey, son, I’m alive. You see how simple that is? But no. And, of course, the Devil, devious, evil asshole, but what could you expect? He was the Devil. The Fallen One, Lord of Darkness. Master of Lies. And Sam was his son, Beast of the Apocalypse, Destroyer of Humankind. He curled up on the floor, pillowing his head on his arms, the room growing cold. He didn’t feel so happy anymore. It hurt. A low whine built up in his throat, but he bit it back, kneading his bottom lip, wishing the pain would go away. He had felt so wonderful the minute before. Why couldn’t he just go back to that? Steve couldn’t help him. He said he couldn’t. But why? Why not? He was the son of God. Surely he should be able to do anything. It wasn’t fair. The Devil would own him and abuse him until some soul killed him and then he’d chuck him into hell.
Warm hands gripped his shoulders and he folded tighter into himself, but Steve whispered into his ear, “It’s okay,” and he acquiesced, letting Steve coax him towards he couch, where he drew his legs tight against his chest, hugging the left armrest, and shut his eyes, feeling the soft rub of Steve’s hands on his back.
next part
Tags:
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
Thank you!
From:
no subject
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked, an uncomfortable knot in his stomach warring against the euphoria running mad through his system.
Poor boys.
From:
no subject