Falling is Easy (1/1) Supernatural
Falling is Easy (1/1)
Don’t own Sam, Dean, or the Impala. The title comes from the Staind song, Falling.
Author: Dimitri Aidan
Rating: Nc-17, I suppose…
Pairings: Sam/OMCx2, one-sided Sam/Dean.
Warnings: General screwed up behavior, ranging from unprotected bathroom sex to choking. Silly boy.
Notes: I wanted to write something short for a change, ended up with 1,000 words. (After chopping out about 300 and forcing myself to make it work anyway. It was…fun.)
Summery: Sam has some really bad habits.
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Falling is Easy
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Sam doesn’t particularly like fries, at least not ones so greasy that they form a small puddle of congealed shortening on the bottom of his plate, scant centimeters away from his steak hoagie, which he doesn’t particularly like either because it’s just as greasy as the fries and is covered in peppers and onions, which he hates.
There are lots of things he doesn’t like that he indulges in, though. Bad habits he supposes, things that make him sick to think about but that he can’t help but do anyway. Like smoking. He doesn’t, Jess had made him quit when they started going out and that had been fine because the urge to smoke had just vanished when he’d met her, all warmth and sunshine. He misses her because of that; the warmth, the way she’d always ended up half on-top of him in the night, cuddling in her sleep and chasing away all of the nightmares- visions- just by being with him.
He doesn’t get that anymore, the touch and feeling and the smell of another person so close that nothing else matters at all. The dreams just get worse and worse in between the moments he seeks a way to make them fade.
The first trucker is nothing to look at, smelling enough for Sam’s nose to wrinkle even as he just walks by the table, not that Sam smells fantastic. They haven’t hit a motel in a week and Sam’s clothes are stiff and cloying.
The second is even worse, vaguely balding and over-weight and Sam wouldn’t have given a guy like this a second look in college, even if he hadn’t had Jess.
Wouldn’t have given him a first look when he was younger, because Dean had been the only thing he could see.
Dean doesn’t look at him like that anymore: like Sam’s the center of the world and there is nothing he wants more.
Neither trucker gives him a second glance but he doesn’t need them to. The first one was enough because Sam has gotten kind of good at this over the past few months and hasn’t misinterpreted and nearly gotten beat senseless in weeks. His fingers twitch slightly as he thinks about it; he might do it on purpose just for the sake of it. Just to feel blood on his tongue and the sharp dig of fists on his flesh.
He gets up to go outside of the diner while muttering something about going to piss, letting Dean flirt with the waitress without his interference. Dean won’t even notice he’s gone for a while as all of his focus is on the ample cleavage of the redhead he had practically charmed into his lap.
He’s just inside of the door of the men‘s room next to the diner, a large room lit by two bare, swinging fluorescent bulbs that cast an almost sickly glow onto the ugly blue-green paint and tile, when the trucker grabs him. He isn’t sure if it’s number one or two and doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about a lot of things actually. Just wants to feel this, the heat and pain and want. Just for a little while he wants to feel.
The trucker, whose mouth tastes of old scotch and tobacco, presses against him, hard and hot, then shoves him onto his knees. He closes his eyes and lets everything become the feel of his cock in the back of his throat, the hard stone under his legs, the one hand around his throat and the other buried in his hair. The trucker pushes in harshly until bitter fluid erupts into his mouth and Sam nearly chokes but the hand around his throat just squeezes tighter. The trucker forces him to swallow it all and then lick him clean and Sam is so hard it hurts and so he does it.
The other man hauls him up to his feet and turns him around. He’s against the wall, fingers digging into the paint and chipping it away to reveal a brown-red that’s oddly reminiscent of blood. His pants are pulled down to his knees and he’s pushed closer to the wall, cold to the touch and chilling him through his t-shirt.
A finger presses inside of him, dry and rough and he moans despite himself, cock twitching between his stomach and the wall. He arches back only to be pushed back into place hard, teeth cutting into his lip and vision jumping when his head meets concrete. The finger pulls free and something larger, thicker, replaces it and it hurts enough that tears prick his eyes.
He just shudders though and braces himself against the wall. The trucker is flat against him for a long moment, length ripping Sam apart from the inside, burning him. It isn’t long, in and out roughly and it hurts so much there is no actual pleasure from it but Sam comes against the wall anyway, letting out a shuddery moan, as sharp fingers dig into his hips, leaving bruises on top of bruises that may exist on top of yet more bruises. The wall is uneven and sharp, cutting his stomach and knees and hands and that just makes it better, little licks of pain and he can see smears of his blood.
The trucker comes; liquid fire inside of him and Sam shuts his eyes against the feeling, mouth falling open to let out a gasp. The man pulls out as roughly as he’d entered and Sam slides to his knees, breathing. He’s content to not move for some time but Dean may notice that so he pushes himself up and grabs paper towels, wiping dispassionately at the cum running down his legs, streaked with blood.
When he slides back into the booth Dean is smiling, all teeth, and brandishing the waitress’s number while saying he plans to stay at the motel across the street. Sam nods and puts a fry in his mouth.
He won’t dream tonight.
Sweet Dreams"
Don’t own Sam, Dean, or the Impala. The title comes from the Staind song, Falling.
Author: Dimitri Aidan
Rating: Nc-17, I suppose…
Pairings: Sam/OMCx2, one-sided Sam/Dean.
Warnings: General screwed up behavior, ranging from unprotected bathroom sex to choking. Silly boy.
Notes: I wanted to write something short for a change, ended up with 1,000 words. (After chopping out about 300 and forcing myself to make it work anyway. It was…fun.)
Summery: Sam has some really bad habits.
00000000000000
Falling is Easy
00000000000000
Sam doesn’t particularly like fries, at least not ones so greasy that they form a small puddle of congealed shortening on the bottom of his plate, scant centimeters away from his steak hoagie, which he doesn’t particularly like either because it’s just as greasy as the fries and is covered in peppers and onions, which he hates.
There are lots of things he doesn’t like that he indulges in, though. Bad habits he supposes, things that make him sick to think about but that he can’t help but do anyway. Like smoking. He doesn’t, Jess had made him quit when they started going out and that had been fine because the urge to smoke had just vanished when he’d met her, all warmth and sunshine. He misses her because of that; the warmth, the way she’d always ended up half on-top of him in the night, cuddling in her sleep and chasing away all of the nightmares- visions- just by being with him.
He doesn’t get that anymore, the touch and feeling and the smell of another person so close that nothing else matters at all. The dreams just get worse and worse in between the moments he seeks a way to make them fade.
The first trucker is nothing to look at, smelling enough for Sam’s nose to wrinkle even as he just walks by the table, not that Sam smells fantastic. They haven’t hit a motel in a week and Sam’s clothes are stiff and cloying.
The second is even worse, vaguely balding and over-weight and Sam wouldn’t have given a guy like this a second look in college, even if he hadn’t had Jess.
Wouldn’t have given him a first look when he was younger, because Dean had been the only thing he could see.
Dean doesn’t look at him like that anymore: like Sam’s the center of the world and there is nothing he wants more.
Neither trucker gives him a second glance but he doesn’t need them to. The first one was enough because Sam has gotten kind of good at this over the past few months and hasn’t misinterpreted and nearly gotten beat senseless in weeks. His fingers twitch slightly as he thinks about it; he might do it on purpose just for the sake of it. Just to feel blood on his tongue and the sharp dig of fists on his flesh.
He gets up to go outside of the diner while muttering something about going to piss, letting Dean flirt with the waitress without his interference. Dean won’t even notice he’s gone for a while as all of his focus is on the ample cleavage of the redhead he had practically charmed into his lap.
He’s just inside of the door of the men‘s room next to the diner, a large room lit by two bare, swinging fluorescent bulbs that cast an almost sickly glow onto the ugly blue-green paint and tile, when the trucker grabs him. He isn’t sure if it’s number one or two and doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about a lot of things actually. Just wants to feel this, the heat and pain and want. Just for a little while he wants to feel.
The trucker, whose mouth tastes of old scotch and tobacco, presses against him, hard and hot, then shoves him onto his knees. He closes his eyes and lets everything become the feel of his cock in the back of his throat, the hard stone under his legs, the one hand around his throat and the other buried in his hair. The trucker pushes in harshly until bitter fluid erupts into his mouth and Sam nearly chokes but the hand around his throat just squeezes tighter. The trucker forces him to swallow it all and then lick him clean and Sam is so hard it hurts and so he does it.
The other man hauls him up to his feet and turns him around. He’s against the wall, fingers digging into the paint and chipping it away to reveal a brown-red that’s oddly reminiscent of blood. His pants are pulled down to his knees and he’s pushed closer to the wall, cold to the touch and chilling him through his t-shirt.
A finger presses inside of him, dry and rough and he moans despite himself, cock twitching between his stomach and the wall. He arches back only to be pushed back into place hard, teeth cutting into his lip and vision jumping when his head meets concrete. The finger pulls free and something larger, thicker, replaces it and it hurts enough that tears prick his eyes.
He just shudders though and braces himself against the wall. The trucker is flat against him for a long moment, length ripping Sam apart from the inside, burning him. It isn’t long, in and out roughly and it hurts so much there is no actual pleasure from it but Sam comes against the wall anyway, letting out a shuddery moan, as sharp fingers dig into his hips, leaving bruises on top of bruises that may exist on top of yet more bruises. The wall is uneven and sharp, cutting his stomach and knees and hands and that just makes it better, little licks of pain and he can see smears of his blood.
The trucker comes; liquid fire inside of him and Sam shuts his eyes against the feeling, mouth falling open to let out a gasp. The man pulls out as roughly as he’d entered and Sam slides to his knees, breathing. He’s content to not move for some time but Dean may notice that so he pushes himself up and grabs paper towels, wiping dispassionately at the cum running down his legs, streaked with blood.
When he slides back into the booth Dean is smiling, all teeth, and brandishing the waitress’s number while saying he plans to stay at the motel across the street. Sam nods and puts a fry in his mouth.
He won’t dream tonight.
Sweet Dreams"