"blind night: without knowing how, or when, or from where" (Jensen/Sam, PG-13)
Title: blind night: without knowing how, or when, or from where (follows "blind night")
Pairing: Jensen/Sam (SPN/RPS crossover)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 550
Summary: Jensen, a rising star already on the fast track to burning out, sees something he shouldn't have and pays a heavy price. Sam, learning to be human in a world not his own. Sanctuary beneath the cities, forgotten by almost all and found by only those in need. It begins with the thick cloak of blind night in the midnight tunnels.
Warnings: Post S3 of SPN, AU Jensen. Much with the hurt/comfort.
A/N: As with the Scrubs series, this is a re-conceptualization of "Beauty and the Beast" (TV series).
without knowing how, or when, or from where
Sam's the only one Jensen trusts to take care of him, and Sam lets no one else near Jensen; it's an arrangement that suits them both. Sam's the one who sewed him back together (he hasn't looked, can't look, glad the bandages cover his eyes so he can't give in to the temptation). Sam is the one who checks his healing, who changes the bandages, smoothes on salves that smell green the way trees do, and who washes the body beneath.
"I waited for you," Jensen says. He rubs his cheek sleepily against his own shoulder, the stubble grown too long, scratchy. "What time is it?"
"Late." Sam makes no apologies and gives no excuses; Jensen likes that about him. He only asked to tweak Sam's chains. Tug the tail of the tiger. Sam always comes to him at night, though it's always night down here, and Jensen always waits.
Sam lights a candle that smells as clean as soap, the brightness of it a coin-sized circle of heat on Jensen's bared chest when Sam eases the heavy crazy-quilt away. The air down here (where does it come from? Where does it go?) blows in cool whispers that crinkle his skin with goosebumps. The curl of chill wind mingles with Sam's warmer breath over him when he bends close to examine Jensen. Quiet rippling of water in a clay bowl comes before the stroke of a rough sponge over his ribs.
When seeing to Jensen's needs Sam takes his time, no more of it than he should but no less than a man could. And though Sam covers each piece of Jensen after it's been washed in a way that should be innocent, Jensen thinks it's not. He can't do anything about it, but he doesn't mind. There's time to enjoy. What else does he have but time?
Time and Sam. When Sam thinks the herbs Jensen knows are for more than taste in his tea have put him to sleep, his touch slows, becoming more like that of a lover's than that of a nurse's. Jensen breathes shallow and slow then; if he stirs at the wrong moment Sam pulls away, covers him, goes, doesn't come back for hours. Not until he's pulled to Jensen, like he always is.
It scrapes something raw inside Jensen to be separated from Sam. Sam's more than him. Feels more, sees more, hurts more sharply. If being separated feels like a stinging scrape to Jensen, what's it like for Sam?
Jensen would ask if he thought he'd get an answer.
Today, he doesn't want to. He'd rather lie half-drugged and half-aroused, washed limb by limb with rough hands that have a gentle touch, and the smells of chamomile soap, gun oil, stone and body-warmed wool filling his head. Sam speaks quietly of nothing in particular, white noise that lulls his thoughts to peaceful rest.
Sometimes he thinks he should mind, but he doesn't. He thinks it should bother him that although he's exposed a lot more of himself than this on film, when Sam's hands are on him he's never felt so naked. It doesn't, and he's done caring about who thinks what about who, so instead he lets himself sink into the crackling mattress and drifts in the afterglow.
Pairing: Jensen/Sam (SPN/RPS crossover)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 550
Summary: Jensen, a rising star already on the fast track to burning out, sees something he shouldn't have and pays a heavy price. Sam, learning to be human in a world not his own. Sanctuary beneath the cities, forgotten by almost all and found by only those in need. It begins with the thick cloak of blind night in the midnight tunnels.
Warnings: Post S3 of SPN, AU Jensen. Much with the hurt/comfort.
A/N: As with the Scrubs series, this is a re-conceptualization of "Beauty and the Beast" (TV series).
without knowing how, or when, or from where
Sam's the only one Jensen trusts to take care of him, and Sam lets no one else near Jensen; it's an arrangement that suits them both. Sam's the one who sewed him back together (he hasn't looked, can't look, glad the bandages cover his eyes so he can't give in to the temptation). Sam is the one who checks his healing, who changes the bandages, smoothes on salves that smell green the way trees do, and who washes the body beneath.
"I waited for you," Jensen says. He rubs his cheek sleepily against his own shoulder, the stubble grown too long, scratchy. "What time is it?"
"Late." Sam makes no apologies and gives no excuses; Jensen likes that about him. He only asked to tweak Sam's chains. Tug the tail of the tiger. Sam always comes to him at night, though it's always night down here, and Jensen always waits.
Sam lights a candle that smells as clean as soap, the brightness of it a coin-sized circle of heat on Jensen's bared chest when Sam eases the heavy crazy-quilt away. The air down here (where does it come from? Where does it go?) blows in cool whispers that crinkle his skin with goosebumps. The curl of chill wind mingles with Sam's warmer breath over him when he bends close to examine Jensen. Quiet rippling of water in a clay bowl comes before the stroke of a rough sponge over his ribs.
When seeing to Jensen's needs Sam takes his time, no more of it than he should but no less than a man could. And though Sam covers each piece of Jensen after it's been washed in a way that should be innocent, Jensen thinks it's not. He can't do anything about it, but he doesn't mind. There's time to enjoy. What else does he have but time?
Time and Sam. When Sam thinks the herbs Jensen knows are for more than taste in his tea have put him to sleep, his touch slows, becoming more like that of a lover's than that of a nurse's. Jensen breathes shallow and slow then; if he stirs at the wrong moment Sam pulls away, covers him, goes, doesn't come back for hours. Not until he's pulled to Jensen, like he always is.
It scrapes something raw inside Jensen to be separated from Sam. Sam's more than him. Feels more, sees more, hurts more sharply. If being separated feels like a stinging scrape to Jensen, what's it like for Sam?
Jensen would ask if he thought he'd get an answer.
Today, he doesn't want to. He'd rather lie half-drugged and half-aroused, washed limb by limb with rough hands that have a gentle touch, and the smells of chamomile soap, gun oil, stone and body-warmed wool filling his head. Sam speaks quietly of nothing in particular, white noise that lulls his thoughts to peaceful rest.
Sometimes he thinks he should mind, but he doesn't. He thinks it should bother him that although he's exposed a lot more of himself than this on film, when Sam's hands are on him he's never felt so naked. It doesn't, and he's done caring about who thinks what about who, so instead he lets himself sink into the crackling mattress and drifts in the afterglow.