Work Header

All My Loving

Work Text:

It's not the fact that Sam's sitting there looking like a lost, little forlorn puppy.  It's that Eric can't do anything about it.  

It's a sinking feeling, really, deep in the bottom of his stomach that churns like a dark and dank ache and for a fleeting moment he thinks that vampires shouldn't be feeling like this, no less for a human, and even less for a human that's a hunter but he loves Sam Winchester and there isn't really anything he can do about that.

It's been about an hour that Sam has sat in front of the laptop listlessly, scrolling page after page of endless lore of rugarus or wraiths or...  something supernatural that Eric can't really give more than half a shit about.  It's important, he knows this, but he's a vampire and he tends to stray away from the human side of things, especially where hunting is concerned.  Eric is a hunter, but not the kind Sam would appreciate.  Think more...  predetor.  If this much were true, that makes Sam the prey.

Eric doesn't think of Sam as prey.

It starts with a sigh, a loud one, thrown from across the room where Eric lays, sprawled out on the motel room bed like a delicious hunk of Swedish man and Eric fucking knows so.  Sam would too if he were paying attention, which is why Eric sighed in the first place.  Sam doesn't move.  He sighs again.  There's a brief flicker of the human's eyes to where Eric is laying, but other than that Sam might as well be as dead as he is for Christ's sake.

Now, Eric Northman doesn't fucking pine for people's attention, okay?  He's Eric fucking Northman.  He should already have it, as crude and rude as that sounds, but Sam is different.  Sam doesn't revere him like everyone else.  Sam doesn't immediately drop to his knees and open his mouth like everyone else and maybe that's what Eric loves about him.  Vampires were all about respect and age before beauty and the hierarchy...  Sam wasn't.  You had to earn his respect, and Eric was the same way.  For a long time he felt as though humans weren't deserving of it...  until he met Sam.  Sam flipped his whole world upside down and for once he didn't feel like a lesser vampire for harboring feelings for a fucking breather.

Sam Winchester isn't just a breather.  He's the sun when Eric can't have any.  He's the bright warm rays as Eric lavishes the skin, running his lips over the jut of his hips, made of sin and deliciously ripe, just for Eric.  Others had touched this body before, but not like this.





"I'm not sighing again.  You're acting like a child.  What's wrong?"

Silence.  Again.

With a grunt, Eric pushed himself off the bed and crossed to Sam at the table, pushing his laptop lid shut with a click and turning Sam to face him.  "What have I done that's so inconvenienced you?"

Sam doesn't answer right away, just looks up at him with those sad little puppy eyes and Eric never thought he'd be at the mercy of those fucking things but HERE HE WAS.  God damnit...

"Sam, what have I done?"

"It's nothing you've done.  I swear it, you're fine."

A simple answer, but Eric's still just in the dark as before.  

"What have I forgotten?"

Sam moves out of Eric's grip.  "I shouldn't have expected you to remember.  That's giving you way too much credit and you can hardly remember who you ate for breakfast, but...  I was hoping you'd remember this."

That doesn't sit right with Eric.

"I remember you."

Sam smiles sadly.  "That's enough, it really is.  It's stupid, I promise."

Fuck.  Okay.  He's 1200 years old.  He's smarter than any stupid, human mind game that Sam could be playing with him.  He sits back on his heels, eyes still searching Sam's for his answer.  He's not a mind reader, not literally anyway.  If there were ever a time he wished Sookie were here to spoon feed him the freaking answer, it would have been now, but she's not, and Eric's a big boy, but Sam is acting like a child, and really he is.  He's 30.  Eric's 1200.  Sam's just trying to make him feel guilty, but for what?  What could he have possibly forgotten?

He shuffles through the trillions of things he's supposed to remember until he finds the box in his head neatly labeled "Sam."  It's not his birthday, that's in May.  It's not Dean's birthday, that's in January.  It's not Eric's birthday, that's in August...


"It's our anniversary, isn't it?"

Sam doesn't say anything.

God damnit.  He told Sam he wasn't a romantic.  He didn't have the time, nor the patience to remember things like that when he's got things like Pam and the bar to deal with.  "Remind me and we'll celebrate," he'd said, and Sam had agreed but not before Eric said, "these are trivial, human remembrances," and they laughed and went back to fucking or whatever they'd been doing.  Probably sexing, knowing Eric.  Hell, it was probably sex knowing Sam.

Either way Sam is upset and Eric's bearing the brunt of it whether he wants to be on the receiving end or not.


"Eric, I said-"

"I'm aware of what you said but there's no reason to fuss about it.  I didn't forget."

Sam deadpans.  "You didnt forget."

"Of course not."

"Then what are we doing?"

"I wasn't aware it was something to celebrate."

"Wow.  You don't want to celebrate a year of us being... together?  I haven't said that I hate you in like, three months.  That has to be a record."

Eric stands and kisses Sam's forehead briefly.  "It might be a record if you actually hated me, but that's an empty threat and you know it, Sam Winchester.  I've an idea of how we can celebrate."  He grabs Sam's hand and pulls him into a standing position, pressing their bodies together and kissing him gently.  Sam's lips feel like woven silk smoothed across the lush plain of skin and he tastes like bitter, old coffee and Eric still doesn't care.  He thinks it's the most delicious thing he's ever tasted.  

"Had I known the date was legitimately so important to you, tonight would have gone rather different, but it's only 11.  There's still a great deal of time for us to...  make up for lost time," he murmurs against Sam's lips, carved from sin or virture, he's not really sure.  

Sam grins against his lips and they fall gracefully onto the bed, one on top of the other like a picture-perfect romance.  

"It does mean a lot to me.  None of my other relationships survived because the people I was in them WITH didn't survive."

"I'm already dead."

"And you don't have a vagina.  Point, Eric.  Dick of doom, none."

"I prefer to call it monster cock, but to each their own."

"Love you."

"You know I do."