Word Count: 10,130
Rating: Mature (16+)
Summary: Sam knows the Trickster better than any hunter before him. Hell, he even managed to connect a few dots and find out his name: Loki, the Norse god of mischief. It just makes sense that a creature like him in the modern world would be running amuck, wreaking havoc on the mortals who used to fear him and slaughter virgins for him. He is also a conniving, sly, sugar-addicted, hypersexual, sadistic prick of a supernatural creature.
As well as being one of the most terrifyingly powerful creatures Sam has ever had the displeasure of meeting. And he has managed to make Sam despise Tuesdays, 'Heat of the Moment' by Asia, and had him experience the worst six months (at least) of his life.
So, why the hell did he save his life?
Genre: Whump - Physical Hurt/Comfort
Ship: Sabriel (Sam Winchester/Gabriel)
Triggers: Near-Death Experiences, Canon Typical Violence and Gore, Mild Internalized Homophobia, Mature Sexual Themes, Mental Health Issues, Major Character Injury
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The bed beneath him was soft, actually, it felt like it was made of clouds. He wasn't sure what was around him other than that, feeling the thick red sheets that were draped on it slide over his body as he shifted. There was a classic dream blurriness to the rest of the world, making it impossible to point out details. Sam had long ago gotten used to strange dreams, and he was always a little more aware than most while in them. Having been a psychic after all, there were still remnants of his powers that had been 'gifted' to him by the demon blood in his veins. Lucid dreaming was at least a good perk.
When it wasn't a nightmare.
He smiles softly. It's odd he is dreaming of sleeping in a soft bed. Sam fell asleep in the car, and while he adores the Impala, her leather seats holding so many timeless memories (and blood): it wasn't that comfy of a sleeping spot. He would prefer a motel bed. Sometimes. Depends on how many weird stains he can count on the sheets. He slowly becomes more aware as the dream starts to take root.
He feels a soft warmth buried into his front, it's the familiar sensation of someone being against him. Their body slotted perfectly into his, seeming to be just the right height to bury their head into his chest. He finds that his arms are wrapped around them tightly, their legs tangled neatly together. One of his legs though seems to tingle with numbness, meaning he had been here for a while. He slides one of his hands up the slim, but toned body lying against him, finding his hand on their chest. His eyes flicker open as he realizes there is no heartbeat beneath his fingertips. Yet, there is warmth in the body. No. Actually, with a shudder, he realizes the creature with him is lukewarm at best. His pupils dilate with mild fear as he takes in fluffy, but well-combed back brown-blonde hair. The strands were like golden rays of sunlight, a few of them sticking up unnaturally due to the pillows beneath them.
His fear melts into pure confusion, that fuzzy feeling inside of his chest not dissipating despite his realization that this thing isn't human. What the hell is he lying with? It wouldn't be the first time he had shared a bed with a non-human. But at least Madison had a heartbeat. He doesn't pull away, his eyes threatening to close and drag him into a peaceful slumber. The lukewarm is actually pretty nice. Keeps him from getting to or beneath the already thick silk sheets. Which are honestly, such a strange bright red. It reminds him of lipstick, the kind that ladies of the night wear in movies and such to entice men.
That's another thing.
As he processes that beneath his hand, placed upon the creature's chest, there is no soft breast. Instead, he can feel firm pectorals. So it's masculine in presentation. Sam feels his heart leap into his throat. He hasn't completely come to terms with his sexuality yet. Having gotten away from small-town Kansas and John had certainly helped, being around Dean had brought back all kinds of insecurities and screeching self-loathing about it. He knows Dean doesn't have any true hatred towards people like him, but sometimes his jokes just don't land right. Or at all. Those jokes have never landed. It was getting better though. Maybe one day he would feel comfortable enough to tell him. He is sure Dean would be shocked: he is oblivious to any feelings he doesn't want to deal with. Ignoring them. Always the type to bottle it up and toss that bottle into an ocean, never to be seen again, as he had put rocks in them. Sam wished he could do that.
