Fic: Headlong and Full-Tilt (Supernatural; Sam/OMC, implied Sam/Dean - Hard R)
title: Headlong and Full-Tilt
rating: hard R to NC-17, depending on your sensibilities
characters/pairings: Sam/OMC, implied Sam/Dean
word count: 920
spoilers: through 4.10
warnings: dark; second-person POV
note: This is absolutely not what pyrebi asked for. Also, this is how I compensate for writing fluff for whenboymeetsboy apparently.
summary: You wonder if there’s a demon you let out called Grief. If you’re possessed. The summer Dean wasn’t around.
The first thing you do after you bury your brother is drink yourself unconscious in some dive bar in central Illinois. You drive away, then, but you keep repeating yourself. It’s worse than the time loop in Florida, too, because you fall asleep on Wednesday and the next day’s Thursday, and then you pass out on Thursday and wake up on Friday. You close your eyes in May and then it’s June when you open them.
You know that this is no way to deal with things, but hey, fuck it. You try and fail to make deals with devils, and you wonder how drunk Dean was when he decided to trade himself for you.
You don’t recharge any of the cell phones. You just can’t listen to Bobby’s increasingly stern and increasingly worried voicemails.
So you deal, and you hope your liver will hold out ‘til your dealing is done. You let festering things fester.
This time it’s this gorgeous man in some bar in some town where even though it’s midsummer there’s no heat outside. The air is wet, like cooled sweat, smelling like dirt, and you can smell the guy’s heart as it works in his chest.
It’s these thoughts-if you opened up that chest there would be a door to Hell just behind that busy little organ, and maybe the blood pumping through all the vessels would be enough to lubricate pulling Dean out.
So instead you stand unsteady in a back corner of the bar, watching and drinking. Some nights when you have these thoughts, more whiskey makes the ideas sound horrible, like case studies Abnormal Psych professors jack off to. But some nights, the alcohol makes the thoughts seem wonderful, and you feel a little bad that you don’t feel ashamed by what’s swirling around in your head, and those nights are the nights that you move.
Because the world’s got a quota that needs to be filled up with Winchester crazy, but now you’re the last one left so it’s up to you to make ends meet. You’re not good at being (left) alone.
That beautiful man across the room is just one in a line of them that pass by when you’re so deep in your cups that you’re blind, and this isn’t about sex so it doesn’t even matter if the last thing your blood wants to do is gather in your dick. Because your blood’s busy, too, busy carrying the alcohol up to your brain and screaming for Dean.
You wonder if there’s a demon you let out called Grief. If you’re possessed. You’ve never felt like this before. Not even after Jessica, because then there was Dean all around you. You think this must be how Dad felt, why he thought it was acceptable to drag two little boys through the dusty capillaries of the country, headlong and full-tilt after whatever monsters were unwise enough to let him catch their scent.
Now though-now you’re Dad and you’re one of the monsters, and that’s why you drink. And you don’t just miss Dean sitting there in the driver’s seat being crazier than you. It’s deeper than that.
The man across the bar, he catches your eye, cocks his head and you’re off.
He must be used to dark places. He’s one in a line but he’s the first one that doesn’t look around your squat and make a face. He just looks around, calculating the best place for this to go down. He sidles up close, the warmest thing in the room, breathing against your clavicles as he knocks you out of your clothes and asks you how you want it.
You shove him back, push him against a dresser that doesn’t have any drawers. He says something but you don’t listen, too busy coiling your big hands around his wrists and holding him down wondering if he’ll burst if you press hard enough.
Except that isn’t how you want it. Even though you can just picture every detail of how interesting he’d look spread out on the top of the dresser filled up with cock, that isn’t what this is about. You have no desire to stick your dick into something that might be real. How do you separate the real hot clench from the one in your head, and what if this one’s better than any you remember from before?
So you shove him away and fall hard on your knees and paw his clothes away, too. He slams his eyes shut and grips the back of your head, fingers laced through your hair that needs cutting and a shampoo pretty bad by now. By the time your mouth is hot and tight around his pretty cock he’s babbling about heaven.
You scrape teeth over a curlicue of veins in response. Reprimanding. Nobody gets to talk like that while Dean’s in Hell. He swears, tugs on your hair, but you lave the spot and swallow your way to forgiveness.
You stare at the bracelets of fingertip-shaped marks surfacing on his wrists while he fucks you, your head turned to the side to bare the length of your throat to him. He’s balanced on hands braced on either side of your head. You’re not sure why face to face seemed like a good idea, but then he scrapes across the little pad of your prostate and your vision whites out.
He’s gone when you wake up a few hours later. You’re gone, too, moving on to another town, another dingy room, another bar.
End.