Exiles, BtVS/SPN crossover, 22/?, Oz, Sam, Rated R
Exiles
nwhepcat
Rated R
BtVS/SPN crossover; Oz, Sam Winchester
Set post-Chosen for BtVS, during Mystery Spot for SPN
Disclaimer: not mine
Summary: Living a loner's life, Oz meets someone even more cut off from other people than he is.
Previous parts are here.
When Oz lets himself into his apartment, he finds Sam at the table, hunched over a laptop, a button-down shirt from his laundry duffel flapping open around him. He's scrawling notes on the back of Oz's note inviting him to help himself to any food or drink he finds, and there's a beer bottle at his elbow, sweaty with condensation.
Oz feels a little thrill when he sees the half-consumed beer. While there's nothing particularly dangerous about drinking after using the herbs, it tends to take Oz down before he finishes the second beer. This may solve the problem of how to get past Sam tonight, because it sure as hell doesn't look like Sam's in any shape to leave.
"Hey," Oz says. "Alice sent you something to eat."
Sam raises an eyebrow.
"It's an egg thing. It's good." He sets the plate down, and Sam shoves his laptop back, though he doesn't close it.
Oz turns to get a fork, and grabs himself a beer from the fridge, just to be encouraging. "You ready for another beer?"
"Not just yet. Thanks." Once Oz hands over the fork, he attacks his meal with a ferocity that Oz -- and his wolf -- find familiar.
Oz seats himself at the table, cracks open his beer. "How're you feeling?"
"A little rough," Sam admits. "I went out to the car a little while ago to get some things."
The two statements don't seem to go together, until Oz takes a look around and sees the duffel moved from where Oz had left it, tumbled onto its side and left in an awkward spot on the floor. Yeah. He can imagine how well that went. Sam's boots are where Oz had left them, though, neatly arranged side by side.
"Let me guess," Oz says. "Nothing distracts you from broken rib pain like barefooting it on a blazing hot pavement."
That raises a smirk. "Something like that." Pushing back his empty plate, Sam tips up his beer and takes a few healthy swallows. "That was good."
"So. Looks like you've picked up the trail of something." Part of him wants to tell Sam he's in no shape right now to be hunting anything bigger than a field mouse; the rest of him wants to send him off with a sandwich and a hearty "Good luck!"
"Could be."
Oz had caught a brief glimpse of the screen as Sam had pushed his laptop back. Grainy surveillance shots. Whatever it was had the shape of a human. "What sort of thing is it?"
He senses he's skirting the edges of Sam's patience. The hunters this guy meets probably don't ask many questions, and he'd guess there's precious little voluntary exchange of information. Oz tips back his beer, aware of Sam's scrutiny.
"Trickster," Sam says after a long moment. "Ever run into one of those in Sunnydale?"
"Can't say I have." Unless you could count Ethan Rayne.
"It's a minor god," Sam says.
That lets out Ethan Rayne, Oz supposes.
"They seem to specialize -- or this one does, at any rate -- in giving people their just desserts. He especially likes to go for pompous asses. They're tough to track. You can't exactly put out a Google alert for 'highly ironic death.'"
"So this thing does kill people."
A flicker of dark emotion passes over Sam's face. "He does."
Casually, Oz tips back his chair to snag another beer bottle from the fridge. He twists the cap and sets it in front of Sam, who seizes it and downs a good third. When Sam sets down the bottle a little too hard, Oz sees the signs of the amplified effects of the alcohol.
"He killed my brother," Sam says, his voice hard yet brittle. "I'm going to find that fucker and make him take it back."
nwhepcat
Rated R
BtVS/SPN crossover; Oz, Sam Winchester
Set post-Chosen for BtVS, during Mystery Spot for SPN
Disclaimer: not mine
Summary: Living a loner's life, Oz meets someone even more cut off from other people than he is.
Previous parts are here.
When Oz lets himself into his apartment, he finds Sam at the table, hunched over a laptop, a button-down shirt from his laundry duffel flapping open around him. He's scrawling notes on the back of Oz's note inviting him to help himself to any food or drink he finds, and there's a beer bottle at his elbow, sweaty with condensation.
Oz feels a little thrill when he sees the half-consumed beer. While there's nothing particularly dangerous about drinking after using the herbs, it tends to take Oz down before he finishes the second beer. This may solve the problem of how to get past Sam tonight, because it sure as hell doesn't look like Sam's in any shape to leave.
"Hey," Oz says. "Alice sent you something to eat."
Sam raises an eyebrow.
"It's an egg thing. It's good." He sets the plate down, and Sam shoves his laptop back, though he doesn't close it.
Oz turns to get a fork, and grabs himself a beer from the fridge, just to be encouraging. "You ready for another beer?"
"Not just yet. Thanks." Once Oz hands over the fork, he attacks his meal with a ferocity that Oz -- and his wolf -- find familiar.
Oz seats himself at the table, cracks open his beer. "How're you feeling?"
"A little rough," Sam admits. "I went out to the car a little while ago to get some things."
The two statements don't seem to go together, until Oz takes a look around and sees the duffel moved from where Oz had left it, tumbled onto its side and left in an awkward spot on the floor. Yeah. He can imagine how well that went. Sam's boots are where Oz had left them, though, neatly arranged side by side.
"Let me guess," Oz says. "Nothing distracts you from broken rib pain like barefooting it on a blazing hot pavement."
That raises a smirk. "Something like that." Pushing back his empty plate, Sam tips up his beer and takes a few healthy swallows. "That was good."
"So. Looks like you've picked up the trail of something." Part of him wants to tell Sam he's in no shape right now to be hunting anything bigger than a field mouse; the rest of him wants to send him off with a sandwich and a hearty "Good luck!"
"Could be."
Oz had caught a brief glimpse of the screen as Sam had pushed his laptop back. Grainy surveillance shots. Whatever it was had the shape of a human. "What sort of thing is it?"
He senses he's skirting the edges of Sam's patience. The hunters this guy meets probably don't ask many questions, and he'd guess there's precious little voluntary exchange of information. Oz tips back his beer, aware of Sam's scrutiny.
"Trickster," Sam says after a long moment. "Ever run into one of those in Sunnydale?"
"Can't say I have." Unless you could count Ethan Rayne.
"It's a minor god," Sam says.
That lets out Ethan Rayne, Oz supposes.
"They seem to specialize -- or this one does, at any rate -- in giving people their just desserts. He especially likes to go for pompous asses. They're tough to track. You can't exactly put out a Google alert for 'highly ironic death.'"
"So this thing does kill people."
A flicker of dark emotion passes over Sam's face. "He does."
Casually, Oz tips back his chair to snag another beer bottle from the fridge. He twists the cap and sets it in front of Sam, who seizes it and downs a good third. When Sam sets down the bottle a little too hard, Oz sees the signs of the amplified effects of the alcohol.
"He killed my brother," Sam says, his voice hard yet brittle. "I'm going to find that fucker and make him take it back."