It
Takes Two
Author:
Jett
Fandom(s):
Supernatural/Smallville (crossover)
Rating:
Currently T (moving to M)
Pairing:
Sam Winchester/Clark Kent - which means SLASH
Spoilers:
All aired eps of Supernatural and Smallville (just in case).
Feedback:
Reviews are great and make me feel warm and loved.
Notes: We need more Sam/Clark, so here's my attempt. Also, if slash is not your cuppa, the back button is your friend.
It
Takes Two - Chapter 4
by
Jett
The motel room is like every other motel room Sam and Dean've been to in the last few years. It's nothing spectacular yet oddly stylized. Maybe it's just the luck of the draw, but they somehow keep winding up in places that're a set designer's wet dream.
Dean's not coming back, not for a while. Sam deconstructs the voice mail message. Dean being "cheery." Dean being Dean. Dean being an (unintentional) asshole. Sam wants to be angry, but he's got other things to do.
"Sit down," says Sam, indicating the chair by the desk by the window, and Clark does. Sam reaches into his pants and removes the pocketknife. The blade flicks into view with a button push. "Pass me that lighter," Sam tosses his head vaguely in the direction of the Bic. Clark looks at Sam, head slightly tilted, waiting. "Please," says Sam, and Clark does.
Sam heats the blade, running the flame along the edge. He watches as the silver smokes and blackens.
"Is that really necessary?" For a man who faced down a demon empty handed, Clark 's eyes look weirdly fearful.
"It's called 'sterilization' and yes, it is. Unless infections aren't something you do."
Clark starts to say something, but Sam just wants to get this over with. He leans closer before dork words happen. "Breathe," says Sam as he angles himself over the wound. Clark inhales and exhales like a woman practicing Lamaze. It's enough to make Sam laugh, and he does.
"What?" asks Clark . The concern on his face is genuine.
"Nothing," says Sam. "you're doing fine. Just grip the arms of the chair." Sam pulls back enough to look Clark square in the eye when he says "This's probably gonna hurt."
Sam shifts. The knife moves. The splinter-crack of wood under Clark 's hands proves he was on the right page (paragraph and line) with the "hurt" statement. Then there's the grunt-moan thing that breaches air between Lamaze breaths that instantly makes Sam wonder what Clark sounds like in bed.
Sam twists the knife, and Clark moans a little more. He's seen women giving birth who're less frail than Clark seems. A final dig-twist and the bullet pops free, darting into the air. Sam catches the slug easily in his palm and plops it into the nearest ashtray.
Clark's staring at the slug as Sam rummages through Dean's stuff in hopes of unearthing the first-aid kit. Turns out Dean's got the kit hidden under a pile of skin mags. Sam doesn't want to think about that. Grabbing the antiseptic cream, Sam walks back to Clark , gauze bandage in hand as well. Clark 's still staring at the bullet. "You act like you've never seen one of those," Sam says, gently dabbing cream in the wound.
"I have. But not like that. It's... different."
"Oh, that is an understatement of near biblical proportions." Sam examines the wound. He hasn't done a bad job and he could do better, but Clark isn't Dean. He did as much as he felt comfortable, given Clark 's ridiculously low pain threshold. "You might need some stitches."
"No, it'll be fine," says Clark , eyes angled up at Sam.
Sam pulls back enough to see Clark's entire face as Clark stares up at him. He glimpses more than simple curiosity in Clark 's features. He can feel the heat again, and as sure as he was about the demon and what had to be done, he's as unsure about what to do with Clark here and now.
Sam can feel the pull, Clark 's gravity usurping Earth's own, as he drifts nearer. He can see Clark's lips as Clark lifts off the chair to meet him.
Sam's eyes are closed. Clark 's eyes are closed and –
There's nothing.
Sam coughs. Clark 's subsequent cough is like an echo.
"I think maybe –" starts Sam. "The bandage looks –" begins Clark.
Then, Clark 's up and out of the chair, and Sam's out of his way. They're there, standing, feet awkward, shuffling, not contact, and for a moment, Sam feels like he's looking in a mirror. He's staring at ability and refusal and uncertainty and denial and...
Sam's not sure who grabs who, but before he can say "Holy sh-" Clark's lips are on his (or maybe his lips are on Clark's?) with warmth and power and need, and Clark and Sam are tangled like a load of laundry, spinning around the room, as shirts and shoes and pants disappear beneath legs and arms and fingers.
