Current mood:	thankful
Current music:	in every sunflower - bell x1
Entry tags:	rating: nc-17, rps/spn crossover, spn: he sleeps in the ruins, supernatural: au, supernatural: slash

He Sleeps In The Ruins
He Sleeps In the Ruins
Fandom: SPN/RPS crossover
Summary: It’s over and there’s nothing left but ghosts to haunt Sam.
Rating: NC-17
Characters: Sam/Jensen, implied Sam/Dean; Christian Kane, OCs
Word Count: ~23,280
Warnings: slash (male/male), sexual scenes, mild scenes of touching in the no-no places by evil persons, mild violence and scenes of torture, mildly midly implied incest
Notes: AU – Jensen never filmed Supernatural/Supernatural was never made.
Major major major thanks to la_folle_allure. This fic would not be as good or as long (is that a good thing?) or as awesome without her brilliant ideas and cheerleading. ♥♥ forever, babe. And thanks to andirealized for reassuring me, as always, that my stories are not crap.
And I still find it funny that I am writing stories rated higher than my own age, :).

Split into five parts due to size.

HE SLEEPS IN THE RUINS
I woke up and wished that I was dead
With an aching in my head
Laid motionless in bed
I thought of you and where you’d gone
Let the world spin madly on
World Spins Madly On – The Weepies

PART ONE.

| |

It ends quicker than he thought it would. Different than how he imagined it, since he had all the time to draw out his end, somewhere around back seats and gun powder. But it was supposed to be his end. Not his.

Explosion of gun powder that echoed across the empty warehouse that was filled with broken typewriters and posters where the eyes were scratched out of the faces; minutes of his screaming, his footsteps and the sound of his own breathing bouncing back off the walls until he found the trail of blood and it just blurs afterwards. Blurs for days between the whiskey and the smoke-filled bars and the repeated no no no, not yet, not yet in the back of his mind.

He falls into strange, quiet places like he’s liquid. He fills up the spaces like he’s the shadows, sucking out the light whenever someone gets too close, someone reaches too far. Night flocks around him, like misery, and he could stay there for days. Street lamps flicker in the early morning, hazy dawn stretching across the horizon to a point of breaking and he can’t remember where he’s been.

It could’ve been weeks that he ended up in the same bar, slumped over the counter and the bartender shaking his head while the world dissolved at the edges. Weeks, days, hours. It all tastes the same, all looks the same and he’s stopped trying to tell the difference, because he’s used to the same – not this kind of same, but it follows similar patterns, how he just falls and falls with no hope of seeing anything to grab hold of. He’s used to losing faith.

There are minutes when he can see right, where it all comes into focus and there is this one moment when noise bursts in the door and he has to look up. And he’s there. Like he never left at all.

He tumbles out of his chair, crashing to the floor ungracefully, dragged down by weeks and weeks of nothing. No one notices, no one sees; lost in the chaos and confusion of the heat and the smoke and everything else besides him.

“Dean,” he whispers, hoarse from the nights screaming and slurred from the alcohol.

But Dean walks right by, oblivious to him, arms draped around strangers, throwing his head back, but Sam can’t hear the laughter.

Sam’s on his feet, falling across the floor, following Dean’s back. Dean, Dean, Dean. He reaches out, grabbing onto Dean’s elbow – skin too smooth, scars gone on the bare tanned skin and Dean turns.

Sam chokes back the tears, pulling himself up and wraps his arms around Dean’s neck, slow and careful, like Dean will break if he goes too fast. Savors the feeling, runs his fingers across the fine hairs at the back of his neck and sinks into Dean, feels body heat and relief, undeniable relief at the impossible rush over him.

There’s in an intake of breathe and subdued whispers, but it’s Dean.

“You were dead,” Sam mutters, pressing his face into Dean’s shoulder. Doesn’t smell like Dean, not the same, but still Dean. “I watched you die.”

“Get off me.” The venom is strong and it stings down to Sam’s bones. He pulls away. Dean’s eyes are dark and confused, mouth twisted into shock and he backs away.

“Dean?”

No one looks familiar – they wear cowboy hats and looks of fear. One girl has her hand covering her mouth, eyes bloodshot and wide.

“I’m not Dean.” But it is Dean. Perfect. Alive. Flawless and breathing.

Sam shakes his head clear; he bites back the anger. “You are Dean.”

Dean’s face softens, a distant look of pity in his bright eyes. “Sorry. But I’m not him.”

And Sam watches him walk away.

| |

“Who was he?” Sam asks the next morning, when he peels himself from the red leather seats, hidden between the tables and dust. Sam never sees the bar when it’s empty – everyone’s gone home, gone back to lives and families and things that Sam used to wish to have – and it’s almost ironic that he is still stuck here, lost in an endless loop of something he knows he’s never going to escape.

The bartender passes by, giving Sam a look. “The guy you mauled last night?”

Sam rubs his face roughly, trying to wake himself. This nightmare has been going too long.

“He comes in about once a month, always the same crew.” The bartender brushes back his hair, balancing a container of empties on his knee.

“But who is he?” Sam demands.

The bartender shoots him another look. “I don’t know. But you’d better get out of here before the manager comes back.” He looks a little sad, face falling. “I’ve been too easy on you, man.”

Sam is blinded by morning light, where it hangs heavy on his body and wears him down. He can walk straight enough to get the motel, where he collapses against the Impala. It’s dirty, covered with gunpowder and dried blood on the rims, but no one can tell the difference but him.

No one bothers to know the difference.

| |

Sam wonders if he’ll come around again. There’s a vague sense of longing that gnaws at his stomach. It was Dean. It was so much like Dean; like he was stitched back together. Like he was sent back without any seams to show that he was never broken, that it was all in Sam’s head and soon, they would be back to the way they were and Sam would never have to wonder again.

He waits for days for Dean to show up. When he doesn’t, it starts again.

| |


He does come back, a few weeks later. Sam stays there because he’s got nowhere to go.

He comes alone, eyes darting around the bar; looking. The lack of noise and cowboy hats is unnerving; Sam can see it in his face. Sam pulls back into the shadows, hiding his face with a bottle at his lips.

“Your boyfriend’s back,” the bartender says like Sam doesn’t notice him sitting at a table a few feet away. “Looks like he’s going sober tonight.”

Sam looks down at his hands, holding back – something. He grunts and shrugs, shifting in his seat so his back faces the door and him.

“Going to talk to him?” the bartender asks, stacking glasses on the back shelf.

Quiet, simple noise flits around Sam like air, filling up the silence so he doesn’t have to think about how much it hurts. “I don’t even know him.”

“Well, he’s looking right at you.” The bartender points his chin at the table – Sam dares to look, sees those eyes burning through him. Eyes just like Dean’s – the same dark green, that used to dart around him like fireflies, all light and color until they burnt out and Sam could only see the whites, the veins and the emptiness; the same, the same, all the same, but not.

Sam shakes his head, wrapping his hands around the bottle and bringing it back to his lips. “No.”

The bartender shrugs, running his hand through his long hair, pulling it into a small ponytail. “Whatever.”

Sam manages to ignore the man (the man like Dean, but not Dean) for the rest of the night, watching the people shudder around him, feet pounding off-beat to the music and drink down the beer until the bartender started lagging behind.

The door stops slamming somewhere around midnight (weekday and there’s work tomorrow) and the crowd thins out into drunks and young couples slow dancing between the tables; Sam knows it’s time to go. Time to sink back into the safe place he finds only by himself, when the world has stopped moving around him and all he can see is water stains and shadows on the ceiling.

“Hey.” The accent is thick and it makes Sam cringe.

Sam bites his cheek. “What do you want?”

Silence and a stunned look in those eyes. “To talk, I guess.”

“Just leave me alone.” Sam gets up to leave, throwing crumpled bills on the counter. Fingers wrap tightly around his arm, tugging him back.

“Look, I’m sorry if I’m being too – intrusive, but why did you think that I was this Dean guy?” The man stares at Sam with questioning eyes; Sam purses his lips. “Honestly, no one’s ever mistaken me for someone else.”

“It was a mistake.” Sam yanks his arm from the strangers’ grip. “Leave me alone and I’ll do the same for you.”

“Wait!”

Sam’s halfway to the door, dodging tipped chairs and tables, shrugging his coat on. He stops, like hitting a brick wall – too much like Dean. Desperate and rough, the way Dean always sounded and Sam wants to punch this guy, whoever he is.

“At least… I don’t know.” There’s a pause where the music changes and Sam can hear the discs in the jukebox switching, gears grinding. “Let me buy you a drink.”

Sam looks over his shoulder; those eyes are saying please.

| |

His name is Jensen and he lives in Los Angeles, originally from Texas; Dallas, and he never liked the Cowboys. He’s down visiting his friends, like he does every month, and he always comes to this bar. He likes the beer – it’s the same as in LA, but somehow it’s colder, thicker. Just different.

“Never seen you here before, Sam”, he says and Sam shrugs. Sam doesn’t need a story.

He wants to be an actor and he laughs about it because his parents want him to be a lawyer, a doctor, a firefighter, something real. He ran away and is living on two minimum wage paychecks; he takes as many tips from his waiting gig as he can.

He sings at clubs with his friend Chris during the night. They never get many crowds, but they do have a few loyal fans. It brings in enough to buy him a cup of coffee and a bus ticket to auditions.

And, somehow, Sam finds it interesting.

“Ever been to Cali?” Jensen asks around his third beer.

Sam feels his chest tighten; he tries not to remember, but fate has ways of bringing it back around again and Sam wants to know exactly why he was the last one left behind. “A few times.”

“Great place,” Jensen says and takes a swig.

“Beautiful,” Sam mutters.

“What’s your story, Sam?” The empty beer bottle clanks on the polished wood. Jensen twirls the neck in his fingers.

Sam looks at his hands, twisting them into each other; there’s dirt under his fingernails and bruises on his knuckles – minuscule cuts scattered across the back of his hand. He can’t remember what he does at night anymore. “Nothing to tell.”

Jensen shoots him a glance, lips curved up into a smug-knowing grin. “Of course you’ve got something to tell. Everybody’s got something to tell.”

Sam shakes his head. “Nope.”

“What about Dean?”

Sam waves over the bartender. “Another beer.”

“Almost closing time, Sam.” The bartender sets a tray of dirty glasses on the table and shouts at a guy who’s trying to piss in the corner of the bar.

Jensen swivels in his chair to face Sam, opening his mouth.

Sam raises his hand. “Can we not talk about this, please?”

Jensen’s silent for a moment and then he nods, turning back to face the counter. “Sure.”

Sam sighs deeply and pulls his wallet out of his back pocket. “Do you need a ride home or something?”

“Uh, no.” Jensen looks mildly surprised.

“Got a place to stay?” Sam throws what he has left on the counter, looking to Jensen.

“Kind of,” Jensen says quietly. He drums the tips of his fingers on the bar counter.

Sam blinks. “There’s a motel just down the highway.”

Jensen sighs deeply, chest and shoulders heaving. He smiles lightly at Sam, jumping down from his bar stool and throwing some bills from his jacket pocket beside his half-empty beer. “Nah, I’ll just drive to the next town – I have a friend living there. You?”

“Motel.”

Jensen nods. “Well. See you later, Sam.” He’s heading towards the door, pulling car keys out from his jeans.

Sam raises his hand. “Bye.”

And he’s gone again; this time, it hurts a little less.

| |

That night, Sam drives to wherever the fuck he can without stopping. Morning breaks when he slows down and everything’s one night and three towns behind. He parks the Impala in an abandoned lot, one mile out of the town, and falls asleep in the backseat.

All he can think about is Jensen, how even the freckles that were scattered across his nose were just like Dean’s.

| |

He gets to LA before he’s even thinking rationally. He’s sober for the first time in weeks and he’s not thinking straight; he turns the car towards palm trees and beaches, like he even has a chance there.

Sam drives through Palo Alto, narrowly missing the road to surpass Stanford and feels like his heart is going to jump out of his chest the entire way through. The rest of the time, he only sees desert and for awhile, it’s okay.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, just turning corners and taking street names at random picking. He ends up near a Nordstrom and the House of Blues, stuck between high-end cars that purr silently next to the Impala.

Somehow, he remembers the name of one of the clubs Jensen mentioned a week before, in the haze of beer and confusion. Somehow, he gets on the right street after buying multiple star maps on the corners of Hollywood Boulevard; he stands outside the doors for hours, watching people rush by, until the place opens and the someone sticks his head out, waving Sam in. People start coming minutes later and he suddenly doesn’t feel so alone.

| |

“Who’s the lucky sonuvabitch to be brave enough to entertain us tonight?”

Sam overhears the voices as he wanders through the tables and waitresses in black pants and low cut shirts that giggle at middle-aged men who give them tips and cheap pick-up lines.

“This duo – Chris Kane and Jensen Ackles.”

Sam feels his heart double-beat in his chest.

“Who?” The man sounds skeptical, even among the screaming.

“They’re good, man! I’ve seen them before.”

“Probably ‘cause you think they’re hot, queer.”

The laughter fades into the rest of the noise and Sam’s pushed away from the table, losing their faces and their voices. He steadies himself against the sink in the bathroom, hands clenched onto either side and he doesn’t understand this. He can’t understand why he gives such a fuck; he wants to forget Dean, he wants to push it all away so he doesn’t have to deal – not like with Jess or his dad. Not again.

But he needs to see him. He needs to remember because he can’t let go, no matter how much he wants to.

He steps out of the bathroom, the smell of smoke and people hitting him like a crashing wave. He stands by the wall, watching the empty stage. His fingers twitch and his legs ache and he wants to stop caring, but it’s taking over him.

He just needs to see his face again, just so can remember Dean. Just for one more day, even if it means for a second – one fleeting moment in time that could easily slip away – he just needs the reassurance that Dean isn’t going to fade so quickly.

When Jensen steps on the stage half-an-hour later, carrying a guitar and laughing wide-mouthed and loud, Sam relaxes. He melts into the wall, shoulders hunching forward; just for a moment and he’s all right again.

There’s a cat call from the audience and Jensen blushes under the hot lights. He raises his hand, smiling and nodding, and the crowd cheers. He shakes his head, walking off stage; another guy – same size, darker hair, darker eyes – walks on stage with an amp, laughing. He says something no one hears because it’s just shadows and noise throughout the entire bar; continuous hum of voices over top clinking glasses and chairs pulled along the floor.

Jensen comes back on, running a hand through his hair – he ends up sitting on a chair, lowering the microphone stand to his level. He starts tuning his guitar while the other guy sets up the amps, disappearing behind the black boxes to mess with the wires.

Sam thinks Jensen sees him when he scans the bar and his gaze stops near the bathroom door. His smile seems to flicker and he looks back to his guitar, fingers resting on the faded finish of the wood.

“Hey guys, it’ll only be a few more minutes,” Jensen says into the microphone, his voice low and soft; his eyes close as he plays with his guitar, strumming his fingers on the strings and it echoes through the bar. “Chris just has to get the amps plugged in. Thanks for your patience.”

“Play us a song!” someone yells from the audience. There is a roar of support and people start to chant play, play, play!

Jensen grins, giving in. “Okay.” He shifts in the chair, pushing himself back, setting the guitar comfortably in his lap. “This is a classic, but you know that those never die. Let’s see how many of you know the original.”

Sam rushes out of the back door into the warm California night as Jensen begins to sing, applause from the audience at recognition of the song. It cuts off when the door slams shut behind Sam and he can only hear the bass line.

He doesn’t need to hear it. He heard Dean sing too many times, just to piss him off, and he knows Jensen will sound exactly the same.

| |

“Thanks again, Rich!”

The sound of the door slamming shut startles Sam enough that he jumps from his hiding place. He sees Jensen carrying a guitar case out to the jeep parked in the back alley, placing it gently in the back trunk.

Sam steps from the shadows as Jensen turns away, bouncing on his toes in anticipation. “Jensen.”

Jensen jumps, throwing a hand out in front of him. He blinks before taking a deep breath. “Jesus! Sam?”

“Hey,” Sam says, stepping closer.

“God. Don’t do that. Especially not here.” Jensen runs a hand through his hair, pupils blown wide and hands shaking. “Just about gave me a fucking heart attack.”

“Sorry.”

Jensen waves his hand. “It’s okay. Just – for next time.” He looks at Sam. “What’re you doing here?”

“Passing through.” Sam’s obviously lying, he just hopes Jensen can’t read people that well.

Jensen looks skeptical. “Ah.”

“Heard you were playing tonight, so I dropped by.” Sam can’t look Jensen in the eye; he knows he’s going to give himself away soon, but he doesn’t think he can look at those eyes again without feeling like someone was sticking a hand in his chest and squeezing.

“Too bad you didn’t stick around to hear any of it,” Jensen taunts with a smile.

“Sorry. It’s just – yeah.” Sam rubs the back of his neck.

“Is it bothering you that much?” Jensen asks, eyebrows raised.

Sam can look at Jensen this time. “Is what bothering me?”

“Me, looking so much like… Dean.”

Sam’s heart plummets into his stomach. He chews on his bottom lip. “No. Why would it?”

Jensen’s eyes flicker, dance under the pale street lights. “You can’t even stay around me long enough before you have to run off. But yet you drive across the country to find me, here?”

Sam doesn’t answer. It should bother him and it does bother him, but maybe if he stops thinking about the way Jensen’s lips curve at the edges when he smiles and the sound of Dean laughing when he had too much to drink, maybe then it wouldn’t bother him – maybe then, it shouldn’t.

“Look, its okay.” Jensen reaches out for him, but Sam pulls away. “I can’t say I understand, ‘cause I don’t. But hell, I’d be freaked too if I found someone who looked like someone I lost. I’m assuming you lost him. Sorry.”

Sam nods, shoving his hands into his pockets and toes at the ground. They stand for a few more minutes before the novelty of silence wears off and both start to fidget uncomfortably.

“Do you wanna go for something to eat?” Jensen asks and Sam looks at him strangely. “I know it’s three in the morning, but there are enough twenty-four-hour diners in this city to feed a third world country and I’m starving.”

Sam doesn’t move as Jensen makes his way to the drivers’ side of the jeep.

“You don’t have to talk or anything like that. Just come get something to eat.” Jensen smiles and he’s all teeth and lips and more him than anything. “You look like you could use it.”

“Okay,” Sam agrees reluctantly and Jensen grins widely, hand smacking the top of the jeep.

“Great! Let’s go.”

| |

Jensen orders a stack of pancakes with extra syrup and strawberries; Sam tries to get away with nothing, but Jensen insists he at least try the hash-browns. Sam ends up with breakfast sausages, hash-browns, bacon and two eggs, sunny-side up – something he hadn’t had since before everything started (even with Dean, when they started running faster and staying out later and trying not to be found between the towns and fake names) and how he lived on complimentary bar nuts and Ritz crackers.

“It’s three in the morning, Jensen,” Sam mutters under his breath once the waiter walks away.

Jensen smiles. “It’s gotta be breakfast somewhere,” he answers, shrugging.

Sam leans back in the plastic bench-seat; surprisingly, the diner was full to a point of bursting. Early-morning clubbers and bouncers, truckers and midnight travelers, people on their way to work. They sat side-by-side, squished together like rag dolls, on the stools around the counter and the sounds of laughter and clinking plates filled the brightly colored walls contentedly.

“What about your friend?” Sam asks, tucking his hands under his legs.

Jensen looks up from his coffee. “Chris?” He waves his hand. “Nah, don’t worry about him. He ran off with one of the waitress’ – real cute. He’ll be fine.”

The food comes after a prolonged calm where Jensen watched people come in and out with a look of lethargic bliss on his face and Sam watched a half-beaten bouncer chew on his toast and wince each time he bit down. Sam suddenly feels hungry; he digs into his hash-browns, relishing the taste of cheap spices and fat.

“You got a place to stay tonight?” Jensen asks after swallowing a mouthful of pancakes and milk.

Sam shakes his head, poking eagerly at his eggs. “I can find a motel, or something. Sometimes I just sleep in the car.”

“Stay at my place,” Jensen offers and Sam’s head snaps up. “It’s nothing much, but I don’t think you should be sleeping in your car, man.”

“I don’t know.” Sam sits back in his seat, looking at Jensen nervously. “I barely know you.”

“You’re harmless – besides jumping strangers, but that can be fixed. We’ve hung out enough for me to trust you,” Jensen says. “Hell, we’re on a date right now! Com’n, I can’t let you sleep in your car.”

Sam sets his fork down and runs his hands along the edge of the table. “Okay.”

“Sweet.” Jensen’s smile takes up his entire face. “I haven’t had a sleep-over since I was eight. This is gonna be awesome.”

Sam doubts if his smile is too forced and if Jensen notices.

| |

Jensen’s apartment is somewhere in the middle of the city, stuck between abandoned family stores and skyscrapers; they finally got there around six in the morning, having pushed through early morning traffic. Sam follows in the Impala and he tries not to get lost; he hasn’t driven like this, used to being open and fast. Somehow, Sam can’t stand the chaos now when a few years ago, he lived for it.

“Like I said,” Jensen warns as he unlocks the numerous bolts on his door, “it’s nothing much.”

The walls are light beige and abstract paintings decorate the tiny hallway, leading into the kitchen and living room. The furniture is mismatched – deep red beanbags and a floral-printed couch that sags in the middle – and everything seems ready to collapse in on itself, like its giving effort to keep itself up. Papers are scattered around the coffee table and discarded beer bottles on the floor. Jensen sets his bag and guitar by a vacant wall before heading to the kitchen.

“Sit down, lie on the floor, run around naked – do whatever makes you feel comfortable,” Jensen says from behind the fridge. “You want a beer?”

Sam sits down on a black leather chair. “Sure.”

Jensen comes back into the living room with two beers; he hands one to Sam and falls down into a beanbag, letting out a loud sigh. “Good to see you’re not naked,” Jensen says, opening his beer and taking a long drink. “Someone actually did that once.”

“You tell all your guests that?” Sam asks with a faint smile. “That they can run naked around your place?”

“No, he just got naked.”

Sam chuckles, feeling his heart lift lightly. “That must’ve been uncomfortable.”

Jensen shrugs. “He was my boyfriend. Didn’t make a difference. Fucked him anyway.” And he took a sip of his beer.

Sam’s smile freezes on his face; he lowers his beer from his lips and swallows hard. “Right.”

Jensen’s eyes go wide. “Oh, God. I’m sorry. If that bothers you –”

Sam shook his head, waving his hand in front of him. “It’s okay. I – it doesn’t matter, really, to me.” He knows he’s done worse himself.

Jensen drums his fingers against the bottle, sucking his lips back. “Where are you from, Sam? I got barely anything out of you the other night.”

Sam’s tempted to tell him he’s from nowhere; that he’s all over place and it’s like flying. But he can’t, because he’d have to explain why he’s from nowhere. “Kansas.”

“Ooh-hoo!” Jensen sets down his beer and leans forward, punching Sam lightly in the knee. “A farm boy, eh?”

“Hah, far from it. Lawrence, actually.” And Sam’s lying, because he hasn’t been to Lawrence since he visited his mom’s grave that one time with Dean. It still hurt for days just having to watch Dean walk away with that look on his face; that look that Sam rarely saw and it was like watching a wall break and people were pushing through the debris to escape.

Jensen tries to frown, but his lips pull at the corners. “Ah, I thought I had my own Clark Kent in my apartment.”

Sam grins.

They talk about nothing (Jensen never pushes Sam into talking about where he’s been or where he’s from – they talk about simple things, like favorite birthdays and best horror movies and Sam’s careful, treading thin ice, to make sure he doesn’t let too much slip past) until Sam’s falling asleep on the couch and Jensen pushes himself from the floor.

“You okay on the couch?” Jensen asks as he heads to his bedroom down the hall.

“I’ve slept in the backseat of a car for the last week. I think I’ll be good,” Sam mumbles groggily, covering his eyes from the neon lights shining in the window.

Jensen smiles and closes the curtains on the balcony doors. “Have a good sleep, Sam.”

| |

Part Two.