fic: without one thing, all will be useless. [spn/lg crossover]
title: without one thing, all will be useless.
fandoms: Supernatural/Lost Girl
pairing: Sam Winchester/Dyson
rating: mucho R
summary: Like a majority of random hookup stories, you meet him in a bar.
notes: 1352 words. second person pov in switching perspectives dun dun dunnn. timeline wise, like NOW in both shows, as in very vague spoilers to SPN 7.15 and LG 2.19. absolutely unbetaed and the first complete thing i've written in four months so it's probably a hot mess. i couldn't tell you where this came from if i tried other than a desire for more people to watch Lost Girl, i would imagine. title/cut text from Walt Whitman.
Like a majority of random hookup stories, you meet him in a bar. He looks out of place, but no more so than you, his hair a little shaggy, his face a little unshaven. A weary traveler, some might say.
There's no names at first, no expectations either, just a simple recognition of despair over a shared bottle of bourbon.
"You a cop?" you ask. You can see it in the way he moves, back away from the door, eyes scanning the room, like a nervous tic he can never shed. You're pretty seasoned in those tics yourself, these days.
"Not today," he replies. "Why, you a bad guy?"
"Not today," you say. There's not a lot of conversation after that, but the silence is far from uncomfortable.
You haven't seen Dean in days, or at least you don't think so, all of them running together in a blur of Lucifer-driven anxiety. You parted ways in Missouri, or maybe Oklahoma, you're not really sure. Lucifer likes to taunt you about it, call you a sissy for turning tail and leaving your brother yet again, but you think Dean understands this time, hope he does.
Kill him, Lucifer would whisper in your ear while Dean was 'borrowing' your toothbrush yet again or stealing your last pair of clean underwear, stupid little things he did on a regular basis that never truly upset you until the devil in your head starting nagging at you. Isn't he annoying? Just a clean shot in the head and it'd stop, he'd say and you'd feel the gun tucked in under shirt, imagining the weight of it in your hand as you fired off a shot at Dean.
You were afraid you'd hurt Dean, so you left.
----------
He doesn't seem to be fae, at least nothing familiar, but he still seems a little off, with a scent you can't place and a haunted look in his eyes like he's caught up in something he can't escape.
You wonder how you look to him.
"Hit me," he says, half the bottle gone. You swing without a second thought, strength unchecked and much harder than you should hit a human. He falls out of the chair, flailing mess of long limbs crashing to the floor and you swear; the last thing you wanted to do was cause a scene. His lip's busted open and bleeding when he staggers back up, but there's a fire and clarity in his gaze that wasn't there before.
You wish you could be concerned for him.
"My name's Sam," he says, smiling crookedly down at you. "We should get out of here before someone calls the cops."
"Dyson," you respond. "I am the cops, remember?"
----------
Dyson follows you to the motel on his motorcycle, its single headlight flickering in your rearview mirror. Lucifer's gone mostly silent in the passenger seat, all quips and insults about one night stands and brokeback moments used up, Dyson's solid punch seemingly flipping his mute switch at least for the time being.
You don't know what you're doing anymore than you suspect Dyson does, nervous and jittery by the time you pull into the parking lot.
"I've got a room here, too," he says quietly when you stop short of your room, its red door like an entryway to just another cage you've built for yourself.
You nod and silently follow him to another red door one floor up.
----------
Sam kisses you first, hard and desperate, and most hesitation you had about the whole situation vanishes. This isn't the sort of thing you do, isn't a type of thing you've ever done despite all the lives you've lived in this world.
You suppose you've been doing a lot of uncharacteristic things lately.
He's taller than you and overall just bigger than you. You're not easily intimidated but you think that if the two of you had met under different circumstances you might have a problem. You can almost hear Kenzi's shocked commentary in your head, something like, he's built like a brick shithouse, good luck with that, D-man.
You don't want to think about Kenzi, you don't want to think about anything but his hands on your body, so you kiss back, needy and desperate, pushing him toward the bed you have yet to sleep in. He's quiet but focused, his eyes never leaving yours as he takes off his shirt and unbuttons his jeans, his stare a sign of dominance if you've ever seen one, but at the same time, it doesn't feel like it to you. It feels more like quiet desperation, a plea to take away the rest of the world if only fo a moment.
You can still understand that feeling, at least.
----------
You keep waiting for the room to close in on you, for Lucifer to show up and set Dyson on fire, or whisper sweet nothings in your ear, or any of a million other strategies he's accumulated for ruining a moment, but your world is strikingly silent, your mind focused on Dyson and Dyson alone. He lets you lead, even though you can tell he's used to being in charge, his body taunt and alert even as he echoes your movements and strips in front of you. He's stronger than you, too, his hands digging into your arms as you try to push him down on the bed, instinct fighting against instinct.
The bed doesn't look slept in, but his clothes are all over the room like he's been here for days, so you spare a moment to wonder where he's been his nights, wonder if he too has a devil on his shoulder that keeps him from resting.
"You've never done this before," you say.
"I've done a great many things in my lifetime, but no, never this."
He's not ashamed and he's not trying to hide himself, though you can tell he's hiding a great many things and there's a lot you don't know these days, where you are or who you're with the least of your worries, but you do know you haven't seen or heard Lucifer since the moment you stepped into Dyson's room and you're not ready to leave that behind.
----------
Sam's not gentle nor is he patient, but you're not fragile and you don't have emotions to spare for him so you're glad he doesn't try to spare any for you. He's rough and fast and every part of you burns for him, with him, your worldview narrowing down to how your body feels around him, skin on skin, muscle against muscle, wolf to human in equal amounts, your primal need for companionship driving every movement.
He's quiet even when he comes, though you get the sense that he's still holding back his words even if he's let go of every other inhibition and you find yourself wondering why, even as his hands, larger than yours, wrap around and finish you off, your ragged panting and the ringing in your ears the only sounds in the room.
You can't take your eyes off him when he gets up to clean off in the bathroom, seeing him in a new light. He catches you looking right off the bat and you wonder what life he leads that he can't even let his guard down with a man he's been intimate with. You don't stop looking, taking inventory of every curve, few as they may be on him. He's got a good many scars, more than you've accumulated in hundreds of years and he's thin, thinner than a frame that size should be. There's a scratch on his shoulder that's at least a few days old, a bruise on his thigh around a set of claw marks, and his lip is still swollen from where your fist collided with his face.
He leaves the door open as he washes his hands off, stands in front of you as he gets dressed, and you get the feeling that you can look all you want but you'll never see who or what he is.
You figure he feels the same towards you.
---------
fandoms: Supernatural/Lost Girl
pairing: Sam Winchester/Dyson
rating: mucho R
summary: Like a majority of random hookup stories, you meet him in a bar.
notes: 1352 words. second person pov in switching perspectives dun dun dunnn. timeline wise, like NOW in both shows, as in very vague spoilers to SPN 7.15 and LG 2.19. absolutely unbetaed and the first complete thing i've written in four months so it's probably a hot mess. i couldn't tell you where this came from if i tried other than a desire for more people to watch Lost Girl, i would imagine. title/cut text from Walt Whitman.
Like a majority of random hookup stories, you meet him in a bar. He looks out of place, but no more so than you, his hair a little shaggy, his face a little unshaven. A weary traveler, some might say.
There's no names at first, no expectations either, just a simple recognition of despair over a shared bottle of bourbon.
"You a cop?" you ask. You can see it in the way he moves, back away from the door, eyes scanning the room, like a nervous tic he can never shed. You're pretty seasoned in those tics yourself, these days.
"Not today," he replies. "Why, you a bad guy?"
"Not today," you say. There's not a lot of conversation after that, but the silence is far from uncomfortable.
You haven't seen Dean in days, or at least you don't think so, all of them running together in a blur of Lucifer-driven anxiety. You parted ways in Missouri, or maybe Oklahoma, you're not really sure. Lucifer likes to taunt you about it, call you a sissy for turning tail and leaving your brother yet again, but you think Dean understands this time, hope he does.
Kill him, Lucifer would whisper in your ear while Dean was 'borrowing' your toothbrush yet again or stealing your last pair of clean underwear, stupid little things he did on a regular basis that never truly upset you until the devil in your head starting nagging at you. Isn't he annoying? Just a clean shot in the head and it'd stop, he'd say and you'd feel the gun tucked in under shirt, imagining the weight of it in your hand as you fired off a shot at Dean.
You were afraid you'd hurt Dean, so you left.
----------
He doesn't seem to be fae, at least nothing familiar, but he still seems a little off, with a scent you can't place and a haunted look in his eyes like he's caught up in something he can't escape.
You wonder how you look to him.
"Hit me," he says, half the bottle gone. You swing without a second thought, strength unchecked and much harder than you should hit a human. He falls out of the chair, flailing mess of long limbs crashing to the floor and you swear; the last thing you wanted to do was cause a scene. His lip's busted open and bleeding when he staggers back up, but there's a fire and clarity in his gaze that wasn't there before.
You wish you could be concerned for him.
"My name's Sam," he says, smiling crookedly down at you. "We should get out of here before someone calls the cops."
"Dyson," you respond. "I am the cops, remember?"
----------
Dyson follows you to the motel on his motorcycle, its single headlight flickering in your rearview mirror. Lucifer's gone mostly silent in the passenger seat, all quips and insults about one night stands and brokeback moments used up, Dyson's solid punch seemingly flipping his mute switch at least for the time being.
You don't know what you're doing anymore than you suspect Dyson does, nervous and jittery by the time you pull into the parking lot.
"I've got a room here, too," he says quietly when you stop short of your room, its red door like an entryway to just another cage you've built for yourself.
You nod and silently follow him to another red door one floor up.
----------
Sam kisses you first, hard and desperate, and most hesitation you had about the whole situation vanishes. This isn't the sort of thing you do, isn't a type of thing you've ever done despite all the lives you've lived in this world.
You suppose you've been doing a lot of uncharacteristic things lately.
He's taller than you and overall just bigger than you. You're not easily intimidated but you think that if the two of you had met under different circumstances you might have a problem. You can almost hear Kenzi's shocked commentary in your head, something like, he's built like a brick shithouse, good luck with that, D-man.
You don't want to think about Kenzi, you don't want to think about anything but his hands on your body, so you kiss back, needy and desperate, pushing him toward the bed you have yet to sleep in. He's quiet but focused, his eyes never leaving yours as he takes off his shirt and unbuttons his jeans, his stare a sign of dominance if you've ever seen one, but at the same time, it doesn't feel like it to you. It feels more like quiet desperation, a plea to take away the rest of the world if only fo a moment.
You can still understand that feeling, at least.
----------
You keep waiting for the room to close in on you, for Lucifer to show up and set Dyson on fire, or whisper sweet nothings in your ear, or any of a million other strategies he's accumulated for ruining a moment, but your world is strikingly silent, your mind focused on Dyson and Dyson alone. He lets you lead, even though you can tell he's used to being in charge, his body taunt and alert even as he echoes your movements and strips in front of you. He's stronger than you, too, his hands digging into your arms as you try to push him down on the bed, instinct fighting against instinct.
The bed doesn't look slept in, but his clothes are all over the room like he's been here for days, so you spare a moment to wonder where he's been his nights, wonder if he too has a devil on his shoulder that keeps him from resting.
"You've never done this before," you say.
"I've done a great many things in my lifetime, but no, never this."
He's not ashamed and he's not trying to hide himself, though you can tell he's hiding a great many things and there's a lot you don't know these days, where you are or who you're with the least of your worries, but you do know you haven't seen or heard Lucifer since the moment you stepped into Dyson's room and you're not ready to leave that behind.
----------
Sam's not gentle nor is he patient, but you're not fragile and you don't have emotions to spare for him so you're glad he doesn't try to spare any for you. He's rough and fast and every part of you burns for him, with him, your worldview narrowing down to how your body feels around him, skin on skin, muscle against muscle, wolf to human in equal amounts, your primal need for companionship driving every movement.
He's quiet even when he comes, though you get the sense that he's still holding back his words even if he's let go of every other inhibition and you find yourself wondering why, even as his hands, larger than yours, wrap around and finish you off, your ragged panting and the ringing in your ears the only sounds in the room.
You can't take your eyes off him when he gets up to clean off in the bathroom, seeing him in a new light. He catches you looking right off the bat and you wonder what life he leads that he can't even let his guard down with a man he's been intimate with. You don't stop looking, taking inventory of every curve, few as they may be on him. He's got a good many scars, more than you've accumulated in hundreds of years and he's thin, thinner than a frame that size should be. There's a scratch on his shoulder that's at least a few days old, a bruise on his thigh around a set of claw marks, and his lip is still swollen from where your fist collided with his face.
He leaves the door open as he washes his hands off, stands in front of you as he gets dressed, and you get the feeling that you can look all you want but you'll never see who or what he is.
You figure he feels the same towards you.
---------