A Supernatural Libertine, Part 2/6, Carl/Sam, PG-13
Title: A Supernatural Libertine, Part II
Fandom: SPN and The Libertines crossover fic
Characters: Sam/Carl
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,682
Summary: Carl discovers the continent can be fun while Sam loses himself in the anti-Dean.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, *sigh*, wish I did.
Part II
Carl runs the back of his hand across his face to try and stop the blood, and brushes his hair back from his eyes. The ridiculously tall American bloke - taller ‘n Pete even - who pulled him away from the brawl is still standing there, handing his pack of fags over and shooing the man away.
Carl feels like a right wanker. He’s never been in a situation like this before - well, that’s not true. He used to get in punch ups all the time, but that was when he was just a teenager and when he got those right-hooks, he was usually looking for them - or at least deserved ‘em.
“You look like you could use a drink.” Carl’s startled out of his reverie to find the oak tree - the one that pulled him from the fray - talking to him. The tree holds out a hand to pull him to his feet, and Carl’s palm is swallowed in his massive grasp.
“Aye,” Carl says shaking him off and starting toward the bar. The man lingers behind him, and Carl practically runs toward the scarred oak. He feels small and child-like all of a sudden next to this stranger’s 6’5” bulk. The bar counter itself is short - there are only 5 scuffed barstools at its helm and the two on the far end are occupied by the Barbie doll waitress throwing herself all over a patron with golden-brown hair and freckles. The man beside Carl seems to scowl at them for a minute before settling on the exact opposite side of the bar from them. Bloody ‘ell, Carl thinks collapsing on a bar stool. The last thing he needs is someone else’s drama. Carl avoids the possibility of the tree unveiling an emotion by ordering two pints and paying for them with a crumpled ten dollar bill. The tree opens his mouth to say something, but Carl waves it off and raises his glass.
“Thanks, mate,” he says. “I really owe you one.”
The man shrugs it off, and raises his glass as well. “Don’t mention it. I’m Sam by the way.”
“Carl,” Carl replies and clinks their glasses together. “Cheers, mate,” he says lifting it to his lips and taking a hearty gulp.
“So yur a musishin?” Sam asks, ordering his fifth beer of the night. His words are beginning to slosh more than the liquid in his beer mug.
Carl laughs something short and mirthless-sounding. “I used to think so,” he says around the rim of his mug. “But no one seems to care about the music part anymore.” He drowns his fourth? fifth? seventh? beer of the night and motions a lazy hand toward the bartender for another. The man seems to give him and Sam a wary eye, but when a loud cheer from the television screen distracts him, he shoves two bottles of Bud toward them unceremoniously and parks himself under the TV.
Carl picks up the bottle in one hand and squints at it warily, looking at the label with much the same face Sam had when they found the shape-shifter’s discarded skin. Sam can’t help the smile that cracks across his face. “Welcome to America,” he says laughing. Carl now gives Sam the same look of revulsion, and his lips twist into a scowl before he closes his eyes and finally takes a tentative sip. The beginning of Sam’s laugh is caught in his throat as his eyes lock on the impossible fullness of Carl’s lower lip. It’s a deep crimson, stained maybe by dried blood from before, but it’s wet and dark, and as Sam’s eyes slowly move across Carl’s face he can almost feel his pupils dilating and pulsing, lust coloring his irises black as his glance catches on the spiky black points of Carl’s eyelashes. They look like small ebony fans spreading out over tanned skin - skin underlined with the dark bags of so many sleepless nights. Sam can’t help but think that must be how Carl looks when he’s down on his knees. . .
Sam can feel his face reddening and quickly turns back to his own beer and downs almost half of it in one sip. He’s never thought that about another man before - well, besides Dean. But Dean doesn’t count. Dean is Dean - he’s beyond definition or boundaries. Like the sun.
“So what do you do?” Carl drawls, seemingly unconscious of Sam’s sudden embarrassment.
Sam clears his throat and takes a long sip of beer, his alcohol-heavy brain trying to remember who he is in this town. FBI agent? Doctor? Taxidermist?
“I’m in the service industry,” Sam finally says, being as close to truthful as he can be. For some reason he doesn’t want to lie to Carl. Before Carl can say anything else, Sam interjects with, “So what ‘bout you - what you were saying before. About, about “useding to be a musishin?”
Carl laughs, a real laugh this time, “Useding? Is that how you Americans speak, mate?” He’s clapping his hand on Sam’s shoulder as he laughs, and Sam swears he can feel the heat of Carl’s hand through his cotton shirt.
“All right, all right,” Sam says laughing as well, trying not to notice that his body feels cold without Carl’s hand there. “I think you’re avoiding the question here.”
Carl’s smile dies instantly. He stares blankly ahead and takes another sip of beer. The silence dragging on as Carl turns the bottle between his hands, a few drops of Bud dripping onto the bar. When he finally speaks his voice is low, and Sam strains to understand him. “You ever have the feeling your life’s gotten away from you?” Carl says. “That wherever the ‘ell you thought it was going jus’ crumpled up and disappeared?”
Like an old tattered cloth, Sam’s life unfurls before his mind’s eye and there’re holes where all the best places should be: a mother who died a horrible death, a father he could never make proud, a brother he will never be strong enough for, a destiny carved out of destruction and death.
“Yeah, I do,” Sam replies in a small voice. Carl nods to himself and drowns the rest of his bottle.
“I needa fag,” Carl says and slides off his stool.
Carl leans his head against the back of the bar, the brick biting into his scalp. He’s bummed a cig from a passing patron and is sucking on the filter like his life depends on it. His head’s swimming from all the beer - who’d ‘ave thought these Americans would know anything about a good pint - and something’s throbbing behind his right eye. He should really just go back to his hotel, drink the rest of his bottle of Jim, and pass out. That would be the smart thing to do. But he can’t help thinking about that damn American, Sam, as he wraps his lips around the Camel.
There’s something about him that intrigues Carl. He’s big - limbs longer’n Pete’s and hands twice the size of his own - but instead of the gangly, just-born-deer clumsiness that Pete often has, this bloke’s careful, measured, graceful almost. There was nothing awkward about the way he handled that giant back there. It was swift and commanding and . . . fuckin’ hot. Carl chuckles to himself.
With Pete, it was always Carl that had to have his head on right. They’d both be totally pissed and laughing, stutter-stumbling down the street in a haze of fag smoke and lust, arms lingering in back pockets and stroking exposed skin as they headed for their flat, and just as Pete was running his tongue, pink and rough like a cat’s, down Carl’s jaw, the cosmos would realign and a group of punks would emerge from an alleyway or stray fan-girls would spot them and demand autographs or some coppers would be standing on a street corner just waiting to arrest the next drunken sod. And Pete’d say something smart instead of just continuing on his way and somehow - always - it’d be Carl who’d end up with a bloody lip by the time they got back home. And Pete would sit him on the couch and fold himself into Carl’s lap - like an overgrown puppy with limbs everywhere - and he’d hold a cold beer to Carl’s busted lip and blink those giant brown eyes. And Carl would have to forgive him. Would have to throw Pete on his back and run his hand down Pete’s porcelain skin and into his boxers because what else could he do in the face of that?
Carl’s forgotten about his cigarette by now - it’s burned down to the filter and he’s only taken one drag. He stubs it out on the heel of his boot and turns back toward the building. He really needs to take a piss.
When he walks into the men’s toilet, Sam’s there at a urinal with his back to Carl. Carl pauses for a second, struck by the breadth of the shoulders and the width of the hips spread out before him. Sam’s a man - all man - grown, indestructible, unbreakable. He’s probably younger than Carl’s near 31 birthdays, but there’s something about him - some sort of stalwartness and self-assurance to Sam’s bearing that ages him beyond his years.
He walks to the urinal next to Sam’s without really thinking, simply overcome by the sudden need to be near him. He swears he can feel Sam’s shadow enveloping him as he unzips his fly. As his hand reaches inside his Calvin Klein’s, the hair on the back of his neck stands up and a shiver crescendos along his spine. He turns and catches Sam’s eyes on his hand inside his pants, and when their gazes meet, Sam’s eyes are gun-barrel black with lust. For the first time in a seemingly infinite expanse of loneliness, Carl feels wanted. Desired. Lusted after. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip - which he always thought was too full for a man’s - and watches as Sam’s pupils seem to shudder. But then Sam turns away and practically flees the room.
Fandom: SPN and The Libertines crossover fic
Characters: Sam/Carl
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,682
Summary: Carl discovers the continent can be fun while Sam loses himself in the anti-Dean.
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, *sigh*, wish I did.
Part II
Carl runs the back of his hand across his face to try and stop the blood, and brushes his hair back from his eyes. The ridiculously tall American bloke - taller ‘n Pete even - who pulled him away from the brawl is still standing there, handing his pack of fags over and shooing the man away.
Carl feels like a right wanker. He’s never been in a situation like this before - well, that’s not true. He used to get in punch ups all the time, but that was when he was just a teenager and when he got those right-hooks, he was usually looking for them - or at least deserved ‘em.
“You look like you could use a drink.” Carl’s startled out of his reverie to find the oak tree - the one that pulled him from the fray - talking to him. The tree holds out a hand to pull him to his feet, and Carl’s palm is swallowed in his massive grasp.
“Aye,” Carl says shaking him off and starting toward the bar. The man lingers behind him, and Carl practically runs toward the scarred oak. He feels small and child-like all of a sudden next to this stranger’s 6’5” bulk. The bar counter itself is short - there are only 5 scuffed barstools at its helm and the two on the far end are occupied by the Barbie doll waitress throwing herself all over a patron with golden-brown hair and freckles. The man beside Carl seems to scowl at them for a minute before settling on the exact opposite side of the bar from them. Bloody ‘ell, Carl thinks collapsing on a bar stool. The last thing he needs is someone else’s drama. Carl avoids the possibility of the tree unveiling an emotion by ordering two pints and paying for them with a crumpled ten dollar bill. The tree opens his mouth to say something, but Carl waves it off and raises his glass.
“Thanks, mate,” he says. “I really owe you one.”
The man shrugs it off, and raises his glass as well. “Don’t mention it. I’m Sam by the way.”
“Carl,” Carl replies and clinks their glasses together. “Cheers, mate,” he says lifting it to his lips and taking a hearty gulp.
“So yur a musishin?” Sam asks, ordering his fifth beer of the night. His words are beginning to slosh more than the liquid in his beer mug.
Carl laughs something short and mirthless-sounding. “I used to think so,” he says around the rim of his mug. “But no one seems to care about the music part anymore.” He drowns his fourth? fifth? seventh? beer of the night and motions a lazy hand toward the bartender for another. The man seems to give him and Sam a wary eye, but when a loud cheer from the television screen distracts him, he shoves two bottles of Bud toward them unceremoniously and parks himself under the TV.
Carl picks up the bottle in one hand and squints at it warily, looking at the label with much the same face Sam had when they found the shape-shifter’s discarded skin. Sam can’t help the smile that cracks across his face. “Welcome to America,” he says laughing. Carl now gives Sam the same look of revulsion, and his lips twist into a scowl before he closes his eyes and finally takes a tentative sip. The beginning of Sam’s laugh is caught in his throat as his eyes lock on the impossible fullness of Carl’s lower lip. It’s a deep crimson, stained maybe by dried blood from before, but it’s wet and dark, and as Sam’s eyes slowly move across Carl’s face he can almost feel his pupils dilating and pulsing, lust coloring his irises black as his glance catches on the spiky black points of Carl’s eyelashes. They look like small ebony fans spreading out over tanned skin - skin underlined with the dark bags of so many sleepless nights. Sam can’t help but think that must be how Carl looks when he’s down on his knees. . .
Sam can feel his face reddening and quickly turns back to his own beer and downs almost half of it in one sip. He’s never thought that about another man before - well, besides Dean. But Dean doesn’t count. Dean is Dean - he’s beyond definition or boundaries. Like the sun.
“So what do you do?” Carl drawls, seemingly unconscious of Sam’s sudden embarrassment.
Sam clears his throat and takes a long sip of beer, his alcohol-heavy brain trying to remember who he is in this town. FBI agent? Doctor? Taxidermist?
“I’m in the service industry,” Sam finally says, being as close to truthful as he can be. For some reason he doesn’t want to lie to Carl. Before Carl can say anything else, Sam interjects with, “So what ‘bout you - what you were saying before. About, about “useding to be a musishin?”
Carl laughs, a real laugh this time, “Useding? Is that how you Americans speak, mate?” He’s clapping his hand on Sam’s shoulder as he laughs, and Sam swears he can feel the heat of Carl’s hand through his cotton shirt.
“All right, all right,” Sam says laughing as well, trying not to notice that his body feels cold without Carl’s hand there. “I think you’re avoiding the question here.”
Carl’s smile dies instantly. He stares blankly ahead and takes another sip of beer. The silence dragging on as Carl turns the bottle between his hands, a few drops of Bud dripping onto the bar. When he finally speaks his voice is low, and Sam strains to understand him. “You ever have the feeling your life’s gotten away from you?” Carl says. “That wherever the ‘ell you thought it was going jus’ crumpled up and disappeared?”
Like an old tattered cloth, Sam’s life unfurls before his mind’s eye and there’re holes where all the best places should be: a mother who died a horrible death, a father he could never make proud, a brother he will never be strong enough for, a destiny carved out of destruction and death.
“Yeah, I do,” Sam replies in a small voice. Carl nods to himself and drowns the rest of his bottle.
“I needa fag,” Carl says and slides off his stool.
Carl leans his head against the back of the bar, the brick biting into his scalp. He’s bummed a cig from a passing patron and is sucking on the filter like his life depends on it. His head’s swimming from all the beer - who’d ‘ave thought these Americans would know anything about a good pint - and something’s throbbing behind his right eye. He should really just go back to his hotel, drink the rest of his bottle of Jim, and pass out. That would be the smart thing to do. But he can’t help thinking about that damn American, Sam, as he wraps his lips around the Camel.
There’s something about him that intrigues Carl. He’s big - limbs longer’n Pete’s and hands twice the size of his own - but instead of the gangly, just-born-deer clumsiness that Pete often has, this bloke’s careful, measured, graceful almost. There was nothing awkward about the way he handled that giant back there. It was swift and commanding and . . . fuckin’ hot. Carl chuckles to himself.
With Pete, it was always Carl that had to have his head on right. They’d both be totally pissed and laughing, stutter-stumbling down the street in a haze of fag smoke and lust, arms lingering in back pockets and stroking exposed skin as they headed for their flat, and just as Pete was running his tongue, pink and rough like a cat’s, down Carl’s jaw, the cosmos would realign and a group of punks would emerge from an alleyway or stray fan-girls would spot them and demand autographs or some coppers would be standing on a street corner just waiting to arrest the next drunken sod. And Pete’d say something smart instead of just continuing on his way and somehow - always - it’d be Carl who’d end up with a bloody lip by the time they got back home. And Pete would sit him on the couch and fold himself into Carl’s lap - like an overgrown puppy with limbs everywhere - and he’d hold a cold beer to Carl’s busted lip and blink those giant brown eyes. And Carl would have to forgive him. Would have to throw Pete on his back and run his hand down Pete’s porcelain skin and into his boxers because what else could he do in the face of that?
Carl’s forgotten about his cigarette by now - it’s burned down to the filter and he’s only taken one drag. He stubs it out on the heel of his boot and turns back toward the building. He really needs to take a piss.
When he walks into the men’s toilet, Sam’s there at a urinal with his back to Carl. Carl pauses for a second, struck by the breadth of the shoulders and the width of the hips spread out before him. Sam’s a man - all man - grown, indestructible, unbreakable. He’s probably younger than Carl’s near 31 birthdays, but there’s something about him - some sort of stalwartness and self-assurance to Sam’s bearing that ages him beyond his years.
He walks to the urinal next to Sam’s without really thinking, simply overcome by the sudden need to be near him. He swears he can feel Sam’s shadow enveloping him as he unzips his fly. As his hand reaches inside his Calvin Klein’s, the hair on the back of his neck stands up and a shiver crescendos along his spine. He turns and catches Sam’s eyes on his hand inside his pants, and when their gazes meet, Sam’s eyes are gun-barrel black with lust. For the first time in a seemingly infinite expanse of loneliness, Carl feels wanted. Desired. Lusted after. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip - which he always thought was too full for a man’s - and watches as Sam’s pupils seem to shudder. But then Sam turns away and practically flees the room.