It's Comedy Central RPS. Idekwtf.
It's one of those fics where I don't want to spoil the reveal, so...
Click on the Header Info Link if you want to be fore-warned. Don't if you don't.
Title: Oil Spills and Poltergeists
Fandom: Comedy Central RPF
Category: Altered Reality, Fusion, SPN-Style
Characters/Pairing: Jon Stewart/Stephen Colbert
Warnings: Minor mention of the BP oil spill.
Summary: Their jobs are hard.
Date Written: 06/14/2010
Word Count: 815 words.
Disclaimer: Jon and Stephen belong to each other. The "Supernatural" concept belongs to Eric Kripke and The CW Network. This story, however, is all mine. I make no money off of this or them or anything really.
Author's Notes: Is Comedy Central RPS a fandom? What the hell did I just do? Seriously, I think I wrote this while possessed. So, on "Supernatural", hunters go around hunting monsters and ghosts and whatnot. Think that's really all you need to know.
Dedication (or Apology): To baylorsr, for her birthday. I’m sorry? Seriously, idekwtf. But I love you!
Jon stretched out on the motel mattress, rolled his shoulder. There was a creak and a pop and Jon groaned.
“Shit, that didn’t sound good,” Stephen said and leaned over Jon’s other side. He placed a tentative hand on Jon’s shoulder, pressed lightly and felt it roll and slip under his touch. “Man, seriously.”
“Too old for this kind of thing.”
Stephen grinned and ran a finger down Jon’s arm. “It’s a young man’s game?” he quipped and trailed the finger back up to the spasming muscles.
“Don’t bounce the way I used to,” Jon told him and pushed at Stephen’s hand. “That tickles, stop.”
Stephen grinned devilishly down at the older man. “Is that so?”
“No,” Jon said quickly. “Don’t even think about it, boy. I’m so not in the mood right now.”
“Too soon?” Stephen mocked but climbed out of the bed anyway.
Jon caught sight of the scratches down Stephen’s back, cringed at himself for not being more careful. Stephen routed around on the floor for his sweatshirt and started gathering their things.
“My knife,” Jon reminded him and Stephen nodded, got down on his knees and pulled out the blade from where it had slid underneath the bedside table.
“You have to stop just throwing your shit around as soon as we come in the door,” Stephen chided. “We lose more weapons that way.”
“Gee, I’m sorry,” Jon replied, sarcasm rolling thick from his tongue. “I guess you were the one who had his shoulder dislocate by a werewolf. My bad.”
“No,” Stephen said, “I was the one who was bleeding out the side of my body all over your Springsteen shirt.”
Jon grimaced and sat up, his free hand holding the other arm as he lifted. “I’d say I’m sorry again for dropping the ball on the whole shotgun thing, but you know, dude, my Springsteen shirt.”
“Guess we’ll call it even then.”
“Guess you’ll buy me a new shirt.”
“Guess you’ll suck my…”
“Alright, shut up,” and Jon kicked ineffectually at Stephen’s head.
Stephen shoved at Jon’s legs, then slid the other man’s shoes on his feet and started tying the laces.
“I’m not one of my kids,” Jon said, affronted, but let Stephen tie the other shoe anyway.
“You know, we can give this up anytime you’re ready,” Stephen told him and sat next to Jon on the bed.
“Is that what you want?”
“Seems like if it’s something you have to hide from your wife…”
“I don’t hide it. She knows what we do. She just doesn’t like me to come home after, all bloody and broken, with the kids in the house.” Jon tried to shrug and then wished he hadn’t. “Also,” Jon continued, wincing slightly, “She figures you’re my partner and it’s your job to set the dislocated shoulders.”
“And it’s your job to feed me alcohol while I stitch myself back together,” Stephen told him.
“Well, next time I won’t get so beaten and I’ll do the stitching. ‘K, partner?” and Jon grinned at Stephen and leaned into his side.
Stephen rested his cheek on the top of the other man’s head and closed his eyes. “Mmmm, I’ll hold you to that.”
Neither man could really bring himself to move, even though the light of day was starting to creep up on them and the rest of their lives were calling.
“What are you doing on the show today?” Stephen asked and pushed down a yawn.
“Oil spill,” Jon grumbled. “Is there anything else these days?”
“There’s a robot head on the moon.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“But you love me anyway.”
Jon looked up and reached his good hand to stroke at his friend’s back. “Yeah, I do.”
Stephen smiled, leaned down to press their lips together, soft and sleepy and warm. “Good, ‘cause I love you too.”
“Even though I’m old and creaking?”
“And short,” Stephen answered. “Don’t forget short.” But he kissed Jon again anyway, let himself linger there for a minute before pulling away and standing up.
“Can you get out by yourself or do you need me to walk with you?” he asked and Jon looked up through half-lidded eyes.
“’M good, you should go first. Can’t afford another picture of us leaving a motel room with our arms around each other.”
Stephen scowled. “Stupid poltergeist that night. Knocked out my bad knee. We deserve a night off. Let‘s pretend to be hunting tomorrow night and instead get shit-faced and watch bad Jake Gyllenhaal movies,” Stephen suggested and tried not to get jealous at the way Jon’s face lit up at the mention of Jake’s name.
“Really? Bubble Boy?”
“Sure,” Stephen answered and his smile was real because Jon was happy.
And that was enough.
He kissed Jon one last time and slid out of the motel room, ignoring the shout of “The Day After Tomorrow,” that filtered after him.