an agent of the random (riyku) wrote,
an agent of the random

fic: Doppelgänger

Title: Doppelgänger
Paring: Sam/Jensen
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2100
Notes: for smpc Also for cherie_morte who did me a solid ages ago and then another one just recently. Your prompt got a little lost in the sauce, but if you cock your head at a particular angle and squint just the right way, you may be able to see it in here somewhere. As usual, please forgive my ambiguity and interpretive comma usage.

Summary: The guy's got three drivers licenses and two credit cards and five different last names. They all start with Sam. Not Samuel. Just Sam.

The guy throws up twice as Jensen drags him back to his apartment. Red and thick and Jensen's mind skitters all over the place, refuses to land squarely on the thought - is it blood? Is it blood? He passes out in the elevator and Jensen's stuck struggling to keep him upright for two floors. It's like trying to hold up a fucking redwood, limp arms looped around his neck and knees buckling. Somehow he manages and the guy comes to again when the mundane bell rings and the door opens, but only barely.

His eyes swim and he sways on his feet and he might be a few hours into a blackout drunk for all Jensen knows. And Jensen doesn't know much. Only that he found him leaning up against the dumpster behind the bar. At first he'd told him to go home, sleep it off, find a different back alley to take a piss. It hadn't been the first time he'd had to chase someone off when he was cleaning up after last call, not even the tenth.

But there had been something in the low groan he'd let out that made the garbage bags in Jensen's hands fall with an alcoholic clank, something in the broken line of the guy's shoulders that had made Jensen reach out and touch one of them, spin him around, his skin like a furnace even underneath all of the layers.

"You didn't leave," the guy had slurred. Then, "Safe house?"

And something huge had welled up under Jensen's skin, overwhelmingly possessive and protective. Something that made Jensen forget about the phone in his pocket, forced him to dash back inside and toss the bouncer the keys to the joint. Tell the man yeah, he's okay, he just has to jet, and no, he doesn't need a ride.

Now the guy's rocking side to side in the center of Jensen's tiny living room, moving like gravity and the rotation of the earth are entirely new things. Jensen steers him toward the couch and by the time he's come back with a glass of water the guy's dead to the world, doesn't move when Jensen dares to reach inside his jacket and finds three drivers licenses and two credit cards and five different last names. They all start with Sam. Not Samuel. Just Sam.


Sam sleeps for sixteen hours. Jensen watches him for most of them, dozes intermittently, legs hugged so tight to his chest that his feet go numb. He calls out of work and finds out that his bike has been stolen. No surprise there. If there's a good side left in the city of Detroit, this isn't it.


"Who the fuck are you?"

Jensen jumps to his feet before he's fully awake and has to hold onto the back of the chair to keep upright. He blinks and his eyes feel like sandpaper. "I--I'm Jensen," he stutters.

Sam towers over him, a goliath in filthy, bloodstained flannel, feet spread wide and his hands curled into loose fists like he's grown up on back alley fights, like this is his default. Jensen's never been so scared in his life and he still doesn't want him to leave.

"I'm not supposed to be here," Sam says.

"Where are you supposed to be?"

Sam's shoulders slump and he shakes his head. "I don't think I'm supposed to be anywhere."


Sam's all questions, non-sequitur and mostly nonsense, but Jensen answers them anyway. No, he doesn't have a brother. Both his parents are alive and well and living in upstate New York. He has a BA in English but it didn't come from Stanford. He's never been to Kansas but he has been to South Dakota. Camped for a week, saw some bison, went to Mount Rushmore. He hasn't experienced any memory loss, smelled or tasted anything like sulphur or rotten eggs. He doesn't believe in ghosts.

"What color are my eyes?" Sam asks, and that is one question that stumps Jensen. They've been green and gray and blue so far, etched through with gold, and Jensen wants to see what else they can do. Sam shoves his big hand through his hair like he's trying to give Jensen a clearer view, and Jensen wants to know what else those hands could do too.

"I guess I'll go with hazel," Jensen says.

"Not black." Sam nods, chews on his lip for a second. "Do you have a laptop?"


Witness reports of a whirlwind that dropped down near Wrigley stadium from a completely cloudless sky. A freak icestorm along the banks of Lake Erie, record-setting for the beginning of May. All the milk went instantaneously sour in half the counties in Wisconsin and Sam shuts the television off about the time the newscasters start talking about how the price of cheese is going to skyrocket. Sam had spent hours fixated on the television, flipping back and forth between news stations, and Jensen had spent hours fixated on Sam.

"It's like the world is ending," Jensen says, and Sam doesn't like that at all, takes it like a right hook that he didn't see coming. Hides behind the laptop and hardly says a word for the rest of the day.


Sam knows his way around a whiskey bottle and FBI databases, cracks into one of them as easily as the other, and promises Jensen that there's no way it can be traced back to him.

"What are you looking for?" Jensen asks. He doesn't think he wants to know the answer.

Sam stares at him in a very particular way, like he doesn't believe Jensen is real. He drains his glass and turns back to the laptop, says, "You don't believe in ghosts."


It's late. Or early. Jensen has always skewed toward the nocturnal anyway. It's been four days since he went to work, real bitch of a trumped up flu he's suffering, and has hardly left the apartment. He's in the kitchen, drinking the dregs of the orange juice straight from the container.

Sam comes in smelling like he just crawled out of a bottle, traps Jensen in the corner and reaches over Jensen's head for a glass. It's thoughtless, without intent, not the first time something like this has happened. Whatever life Sam had before this one must have been constructed out of shared space and close quarters.

He's wearing one of Jensen's t-shirts, has stretched out the collar some and Jensen gets a front row view of the long line of his neck, skin scattered with a few moles. Tiny imperfections that only make it better. The jeans he has on belonged to Jensen's ex, something he could never quite bring himself to ditch, kept rolled up in the back of his closet for years.

Sam's constant worry lines are smoothed out from the liquor and he nearly smiles, his tongue sneaking out to run along his canine tooth. It's a good look on him and Jensen reaches out, touches familiar jeans and the unfamiliar hipbone underneath.

Sam dips his head, close enough that his hair tickles Jensen's face. His breath tastes sweet in Jensen's mouth and Jensen thinks things like here it is and finally, shifts his leg between Sam's thighs. He pushes in closer, watches as Sam's expression shuts down, turns sharp and calculating.

"Is this why I'm here? Is this why you brought me here?" It's a whisper in Jensen's ear, and before Jensen can answer, Sam goes on, "It's okay. Everybody wants something." He turns away, disappears into the other room and Jensen's left flushed and shivering, half hard and waiting for his apartment door to slam shut. He waits for a very long time.


"There's something I have to do." Sam slams the laptop closed.

"Should I come with you?" Jensen says, when he really means Are you coming back?

"Can't stop you." Sam picks up a dull letter opener from a pile of junk on Jensen's counter, tests the weight of it. "Is this real silver?"


They're in a damp alley and the light from the streetlamp reflects off of the silver in Sam's fist. A pile of formerly animated flesh lays dead at his feet, more of it drips off of his free hand. He wipes it off on his leg.

Jensen's lungs can't keep up and neither can his heart, but Sam is centered, the calmest Jensen has ever seen him.

"Not human?" Jensen asks. Thinks. Hopes.

"Not human. Shifter." Sam does this trick with the blade, flips it between his fingers and makes it disappear up his sleeve. Magic in reverse. A few long strides and he closes in on Jensen, presses his thumb against the jamming pulse in Jensen's throat. "Do you still wanna fuck me?"

Twenty minutes later and Jensen's on his knees, his shirt still bunched up around his wrist with Sam's dick in his mouth, down his throat, hot and heavy and thick. Sam towers over him, bunches his fist in Jensen's hair and Jensen wonders if it's the one that had all that shit from the shifter on it before he decides that he actually doesn't care. He swallows Sam down as far as he can go, and Sam groans, tugs on his hair a little harder.

"That fucking mouth of yours," Sam says, grit in his voice and a rhythm to the words, a hint of repetition that Jensen doesn't really understand. He still likes the sound of it.

Sam pulls him off and picks him up, puts the strength that he likes to keep hidden under that baggy flannel shirt of his to good use, and bends Jensen over the couch. He runs his hands down Jensen's back until he gets to his ass, then spreads him open. Jensen shivers, clutches at anything that he can get his hands on and sets his feet wider. Pushes against it as Sam slides his dick along his crack, catches the head of it on his rim.

It's abrupt when Sam slams inside of him, nothing but precome and a little spit to get him there. It steals all the air from Jensen's chest, leaves him gasping, gritting his teeth from the burn. Sam fucks him hard, relentlessly, quick jabs of his hips and the stinging slap of their bodies colliding. Jensen figures him out, starts to move with him, rocks into Sam's thrusts and his heart feels like it might quit when Sam slips his hand down his stomach and finds his dick, wraps those long fingers around him. Jensen's already right on the edge, and it doesn't take much before he's shooting into Sam's fist, feeling the sloppy trickle of Sam's spunk on his balls, the backs of his thighs as Sam falls against him.

They sleep in the same bed that night. When Sam finally kisses him, needy, violent as a car crash, Jensen can't shake the feeling that Sam's really kissing someone else.


"I have a brother," Sam tells him, and Jensen's never heard the word sound like that before. Carry that much weight. "You're a lot like him." Sam cocks his head to the side and goes on, "Just...softer somehow."

He's still wearing one of Jensen's t-shirts, stretched too tight across his chest and every time he moves it rides up a little, exposing a slice of his hip, the smooth stretch of his lower stomach. Sam puts on his flannel shirt, washed and washed again after Jensen had found him, but the blood has never come out. Not completely.

"I have to go," Sam says.

Sunlight pours in through the window, a bright cheerful illusion and everything seems disjointed, like Jensen's looking at the whole wide world through a cracked mirror. Nothing matches. Nothing's lining up.

Jensen leans against the corner of the counter, sharp little stab of pain in his lower back that matches the one in his chest but it feels good. It centers him, keeps his feet on solid ground.

"I know," he says. It's all he can say. He still doesn't entirely believe in ghosts, but he's starting to.

"I don't think I'm coming back," Sam goes on, and there's no sign of guilt in it, only facts.

Jensen stares at him, solid and direct and Sam stares back. He doesn't shy away and perhaps that's the best thing about him. Or the worst. "You were never really here."


Tags: fic: sam/jensen, rated: nc-17, smpc
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