SPN fic: "Californication"
I am officially, full-blown sick with a cold/flu thing. If Boy hadn't had this exact same cold, I would think it was from the meds crap but…point.
Point is, here is some fic! I'm all muzzy and cracked out and took two Ny-Quil softgels about 30 minutes ago but poisontaster's very gentle beta assures me that this piece is good to go. *shoos it out of the nest* Fly, little fic, fly! Mommy can't decide if she hates or loves you!
Now I'm going to try and stay awake for another half-hour or so as to not screw my sleep schedule into next week then go to bed. *barking, hacking cough*
I am also fairly certain that PT's fic-writing cylon-osity has merged into my portion of The Brain as she takes a hiatus from her usual frenetic posting pace in order to finish her epic amnesia!Dean story.
~
This very late fic is for estrella30's brilliant good fun All CW All The Time Kink/Cliche Challenge. The prompt I chose was, not surprisingly, "hooker AU".
Title: Californication
Author: mona1347
Word Count: ~ 2,800
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean, Sam/OMCs, Sam/A:tS Character Cameo
Rating: Adult.
Warnings/Spoilers: Hustler!Sam prostituting his fine ass in the Castro and both graphic and implied m/m sex. No spoilers, takes place before the Pilot.
A/N: So remember this? Yeah.
Then coiledsoul said:
my ipod, it has the answers to the universe, or at least the soundtrack to the porn in my head… up comes "Otherside" by the Chili Peppers, my mind goes to the album title Californication and i think, "Ooh! Wouldn't that be a great title for a hustler!Sammy verse?" i giggle then really start to listen to the lyrics of "Otherside." dude this is so Sam's i'm-all-alone-and-lost-and-miss-my-family-and-don't-know-what-to-do-but-i'm-too-stubborn-to-give-up-and-maybe-just-a-little-twisted-so-i'll-suck-cock-instead theme song.
And suddenly I had structure.
And it all turned out a little different than I thought it would (like…several times it took wild-ass left turns and tried to mutate into other stories) but it still, as all hustler!Sam fics do IMHO, owes a debt of gratitude to maygra and her OUTSTANDING fic Room and Board. Thanks for the encouragement, hon :).
As always…I thank poisontaster. Without whom I'd be nothing.
Pic pillaged from Google by my fabulous Boy (das_case) who does not bat an eye when I whirl into the living room w/my notebook at 11pm on a Monday and say "Dude! What does the Castro look like at night?"
how long will I slide? separate my side
They're playing that stupid fucking game with the blue rubber ball again in the hallway. The dull yet wall-shaking thump, punctuated by his dorm-mates cheers or groans, would've driven Sam insane if he hadn't grown up in cheap apartment complexes and motels.
He'd just have to open the door. Walk out with a smile and a laugh and say, "Hey, what the hell are you guys doing anyway? It's too loud not to be fun. I'm Sam, by the way." All Sam's life he'd been able to get people to like him almost immediately with a sunny grin and soft eyes. Dean always called it his "trust me, I'm a big puppy"-face…
Fuck this.
Sam gets up and pulls on jeans - they're getting too tight so he has to suck it in a little to zip them up - and a black t-shirt faded to a dusky bluish gray. He quietly slips through the stairwell next to the door of his room and jogs down to his car. He'd bought a well-used but trustworthy old Ford from a graduating senior two weeks before class started and only had to spend three or four days working on it with second-hand tools before it would chug through an apocalypse. There are certain things Sam knows from being a Winchester that are pretty useful and certain things he wishes he could forget.
centuries are what it meant to me
"Sam?" Dean's voice was rough with sleep and he didn't even sound mad. He didn't sound like they'd all just had a fight of epic proportions, even on a Winchester scale. But he rubbed one hand over his eyes, looked up at Sam and his tired gaze only said, You're leaving me.
"Yeah." Sam crawled up Dean's body from the foot of the bed, crawled until he was bracketing Dean, holding himself by his trembling arms above Dean's bare chest.
Sam didn't dare to kiss him on the mouth. "Yeah. Yeah, it's me. Dean, I…" Dared instead to swoop down and lick at Dean's neck, his chest, one peaked nipple and down. "Dean, it's me." Dared to do what he'd wanted to do since Sam first found out what his own dick was for. "It's me..."
Dean's fingers wound tight in Sam's hair.
"No. Sam, no. No, no. Stop. Sammy, stop it!"
But Dean didn't speak until Sam's lips wrapped around his hard cock and Dean's hips bucked up to meet him. He didn't say it until it was too real. Until it was too late. Didn't stop him until Sam knew Dean wanted it too, until he knew--Dean would push him away anyway.
"Sam, we can't… Goddamn it, this is sick! You can't just…"
Dean didn't push him away until Sam left for college with the taste his brother's cock in his mouth, felt the weight of it in the hollow of his tongue, the entire midnight bus ride to Palo Alto.
push the trigger and pull the thread
Sam drives to the nearest station, parks his car and rides the train, his head rolling back against the cool window, all the way into San Francisco.
The Castro is full of light and movement and obscenely costumed pedestrians. It's loud and showy and not one person really sees him. It's perfect. The club's name is Fuse. Sam never learns the guy's name but he had expensive clothes, dark red hair and a thick cock.
He takes Sam back to a motel room and they fuck all night long. Until Sam's muscles are trembling and he's sticky all over and he barely remembers his own name when he passes out in the rumpled bed, exhausted and blissfully numb.
When he wakes the next morning, the man is gone and there's a hundred and fifty dollars on the nightstand.
Sam's horrified for several long minutes, feeling like someone tossed a bucket of ice water over his naked skin. Then he surges up from the bed, suddenly furious, and flings the small table against the wall.
Eventually, though, eventually…
He sits down amongst the splinters of particle board; his skin burns with shame as he looks at the scattered bills on the rug.
He thinks about how easy it would be.
once you know you can never go back
A "full ride" really means tuition, housing and a meal plan. It does not mean several two-hundred dollar law texts per class twice a year or a computer or clothes or school supplies or drinks or pizza or gas and upkeep on his shitty little car.
And this is real life now. It's his real social security number on his school records and this is a real life he's trying to make. Not a pseudonym, a pseudo-life created just long enough to get what you need and get gone. A life set up to run the con, save the people and move on.
It's just his body. He's always given of his body to survive - in the service of others his body has always been a weapon, useful, a tool - and this might be fucked up but at least it's honest. At least it's the up-front exchange of labor and skills for cash. It's not stealing or cheating or swindling. It's real, it's him. It's almost better than hunting because the bruises and scrapes he sometimes gets don't begin to match up to his extant scars and at least they mean he's working toward something.
While "normal" isn't going perfectly to plan, Sam's always been taught to improvise. If there's one thing Sam can do it's think on his feet. And this… gig, is a means to an end, a perfectly safe, non-supernatural end. A life. He made a choice to do this - do it anyway, do it on his own - and the means might be a little messy but Sam knows that about life too.
she wants to know, am I still a slut?
Sam gets a quiet, discreet reputation as the best top working Fuse. He's pretty and young and fucking good at his job. He's got rules. He's got shit he won't do. Sam will suck and jerk and fuck but he'll never be fucked. The fact that the first trick who tried to force him into anything else got a broken wrist, the second ended up with a badly sprained ankle and the very few assorted others received 5 or 6 broken fingers between them says a lot to those looking to rough up some boy-whore for kicks.
It's a job (skin on skin). It's just a job (touch).
Sam stands in front of the long mirror in his dorm suite and zips up his dark jeans, leaves the tank top untucked and grabs his thrift-store leather jacket. Lube and condoms in the pocket (because he may be a whore, but he's not stupid), drag and tug one hand through his hair and he's ready. He's buzzing for it.
Got work to do.
stranger things could never change my mind
Sam's first clear view of the kid's face is as he stands up into the illumination of the alley floodlight and wipes the side of his thumb over his bottom lip. He watches the kid hold out his hand for the cash with a feral grin.
The first time Sam sees the kid see him, predator eyes peek from behind a curtain of chestnut hair and his head turns slightly to follow Sam's movement across the dance floor like he scents him.
Sam should have known then.
But he spends so much time trying so hard to forget everything he's ever known that he ignores this too.
Until something drags Tamara - one of "the girls", the trannies working the club - out the back door when Sam's just leaving the men's room, tucking cash into the special inside pocket of his tight jeans. A fucking forked tail swishes against the frame before the heavy door slams shut behind them and cuts off Tamara's muffled shouts.
It's automatic. He doesn't even think.
Sam sprints down the hallway crowded with bodies in various stages of undress and ecstasy and just barely registers the heavy metal clang of the door when it opens and shuts again behind him as he tumbles out into the alley. The brown-haired kid, the predator, pulls up short next to Sam and draws a pair of long, deadly-looking knives from his tall boots. He tosses one into Sam's hands with a wolf-grin and goes tearing off toward the far end of the alley.
The thing holding Tamara against the wall looks human from here but Sam feels all the hair stand up on the back of his neck as he follows the kid toward it. He longs for his pump-action as he calls out to the struggling hooker and yellow eyes suddenly flash in their direction.
It's over quickly. It fights back, but between the blurry, brutal way this kid moves and Sam's near-instinctive, practiced strength, they take it down; Sam yanks it up against him by one arm wrenched up behind its back and a hand twisted in filthy hair. The kid neatly slices the head from its body with a snarl.
The glamour drops as it bleeds out and it's a demon. An honest-to-Christ demon with horns and skin the color of old blood. Tamara's eyes go round and huge then she just darts back through the alley without a word. A heavy bass line blooms loud and echoing off the brick walls before choking off as the metal door slams shut behind her. Sam doubts he'll ever see her again. Not at this place anyway.
The kid wipes away the trickling blood from his split lip with the side of his thumb. "Well, that was interesting," he says, a fine tremor running through his body. Sam holds out the knife to him hilt-first and he takes it without looking, wipes it on his shirt and sheathes both blades again.
He was deadly efficient as they fought. Scary-fast and obviously way stronger than he looked. Wiry or something. But now that they're done he's panting, ragged around the edges, looking like it's hard to stop the violence coursing under his skin.
"Hey." Sam reaches out a hand - slow and in the kid's line of sight like he would with a spooked animal - and touches his shoulder. "Are you all right?"
The kid turns wide, feral brown eyes on Sam then flings out one arm too quick to see and hurtles Sam back into the brick wall. Jesus Christ, he is strong.
Sam has just enough time to be certain he's about to get his ass kicked by some jacked-up junkie whore when the kid kicks his legs apart and yanks down on his hips to slide Sam's back further down the wall. He slithers in and grinds his hard cock into Sam's with a snarl. He's so quick and brutal and evil that Sam gets rock-hard in record time. The kid is this pinching, clutching, biting, bruising wicked fast little thing and Sam can finally stop thinking for the first time since he left that look on Dean's face…
He practically climbs up Sam's body, wild and writhing, wraps his legs around Sam's hips and squeezes the breath from him for a moment. He bites and licks at Sam's mouth between gasps of "fuck me, do it, come on, fuck me, now."
Time stretches and shrinks and Sam finds himself grinding the kid into the brick wall, his legs slung over the crook of Sam's elbows. Sam lines up his slicked cock, gripping the rubber tight around the base, and pushes into his ass in one long thrust, dragging out a helpless stuttering moan from between red lips.
He talks. He talks the whole time. Nothing that makes any sense or tells Sam anything other than "more, harder, yeah, so fucking good."
There's nothing but white space in Sam's head. Nothing but this and now and feels so good. He thrusts in a steady, fast rhythm, not holding back, not rushing, just a relentless build of heat and pleasure. The kid works a hand between them and the splash of his come against Sam's stomach, the moan ripped from his stretched-long throat sends Sam tumbling after him.
He makes a broken, tearing noise when Sam finally eases out of him and the breath huffing against Sam's collarbone slows and steadies. Then he slides out from under Sam's heavily leaning body and says casually, "Thanks."
He moves down to the mouth of the alley so fast, Sam almost can't pull it together quickly enough to call out "Hey! Dude, wait!"
The kid turns and raises one eyebrow. He looks a little rumpled but not at all like he just killed a demon and had Sam fuck him raw up against a wall. Sam has bruises already but this guy's skin is still smooth and pale.
"What…" Sam's mind flips through about a hundred-thousand different questions like a spinning rolodex before he settles on "What's your name?"
He pauses for a long moment like he's deciding something before replying. "Connor. I'm in your poli-sci class on Thursday night too. The hoodie doesn't suit you like that black mesh shirt you've got on does, man."
Sam manages exactly one shocked blink and then the kid is gone.
turn me on take me for a hard ride
Mostly it's simple, uncomplicated. The desires of the gay hustler-purchasing crowd become almost boring in their regularity.
Sometimes they like to make Sam come or watch him jerk himself off but most of the time he doesn't even bother to get hard. The vast majority just want head. They just want to see him gaze up through messy bangs with wide, faux-innocent eyes and his lips stretched around hard cock. They just want to yank on his hair and slam their hips into his face and say lame-ass shit like "Yeah, you fucking slut, you like it? Suck me. Take it all, you little faggot whore."
But there's one, one of his regulars, who likes Sam to hurt him. Sam takes his money with a smile and does it, probably goes too far sometimes but he's not heard one complaint yet so what the hell, right?
The guy's hair is a little too light, full-blond rather than sandy brown, but his eyes are almost green enough and his mouth is full and lush. And when Sam shoves his cock down the trick's throat and makes him choke on it. When he bends him over and fucks him and lashes the guy's own half-sized cat o'nine tails across his back and makes him whimper and sob and thrust back against him. When he begs for Sam to hurt him more, hit him harder - Sam always comes in white-hot, endless bursts of sensation. Comes until he's wrung-out and shaking.
Sam refuses to learn the guy's name and bites back on the one name he wants to say as orgasm fills up then empties his body and mind, the only name he can remember at all some days.
Fuck you, Dean. Fucking hate you. Miss you.
Dean…
It feels good to zip his pants up with a sigh and leave the guy spread out on the destroyed sheets, panting and shivering and covered in sweat and spunk and rising blood-flecked welts. It feels good to slam the door on the man's needy, questioning cry of "Wait! When can I see you aga-"
It feels good to leave the guy lying there, hurting, wondering when or if he'll ever see Sam again.
It feels good to leave.
I heard your voice through a photograph
This one's simple. Easy money. Sam can practically taste it and he smiles, slow and wicked.
A plain-looking guy in his mid-thirties, mousy and desperate with thinning hair and a thinner gold wedding band. He stares at Sam's mouth hungrily when Sam licks his lips. Then Sam runs long fingers up the man's inseam and says quietly into his ear, "Let's go."
Sam looks up, sees his smile in the long men's room mirror, spotted with water and worse things. His mouth is already swollen from a long night, his brown leather jacket is worn and scuffed - the upturned collar framing the golden skin of his neck like an obscene promise - and his hazel eyes look fully green in the sickly fluorescents.
The person Sam sees in the mirror as he sinks to his knees with a wink and a smirk - the man who shows things with his body that his mouth would deny, whose eyes and smile don't match - is Dean.
~ END ~
Point is, here is some fic! I'm all muzzy and cracked out and took two Ny-Quil softgels about 30 minutes ago but poisontaster's very gentle beta assures me that this piece is good to go. *shoos it out of the nest* Fly, little fic, fly! Mommy can't decide if she hates or loves you!
Now I'm going to try and stay awake for another half-hour or so as to not screw my sleep schedule into next week then go to bed. *barking, hacking cough*
I am also fairly certain that PT's fic-writing cylon-osity has merged into my portion of The Brain as she takes a hiatus from her usual frenetic posting pace in order to finish her epic amnesia!Dean story.
~
This very late fic is for estrella30's brilliant good fun All CW All The Time Kink/Cliche Challenge. The prompt I chose was, not surprisingly, "hooker AU".
Title: Californication
Author: mona1347
Word Count: ~ 2,800
Pairing(s): Sam/Dean, Sam/OMCs, Sam/A:tS Character Cameo
Rating: Adult.
Warnings/Spoilers: Hustler!Sam prostituting his fine ass in the Castro and both graphic and implied m/m sex. No spoilers, takes place before the Pilot.
A/N: So remember this? Yeah.
Then coiledsoul said:
my ipod, it has the answers to the universe, or at least the soundtrack to the porn in my head… up comes "Otherside" by the Chili Peppers, my mind goes to the album title Californication and i think, "Ooh! Wouldn't that be a great title for a hustler!Sammy verse?" i giggle then really start to listen to the lyrics of "Otherside." dude this is so Sam's i'm-all-alone-and-lost-and-miss-my-family-and-don't-know-what-to-do-but-i'm-too-stubborn-to-give-up-and-maybe-just-a-little-twisted-so-i'll-suck-cock-instead theme song.
And suddenly I had structure.
And it all turned out a little different than I thought it would (like…several times it took wild-ass left turns and tried to mutate into other stories) but it still, as all hustler!Sam fics do IMHO, owes a debt of gratitude to maygra and her OUTSTANDING fic Room and Board. Thanks for the encouragement, hon :).
As always…I thank poisontaster. Without whom I'd be nothing.
Pic pillaged from Google by my fabulous Boy (das_case) who does not bat an eye when I whirl into the living room w/my notebook at 11pm on a Monday and say "Dude! What does the Castro look like at night?"
how long will I slide? separate my side
They're playing that stupid fucking game with the blue rubber ball again in the hallway. The dull yet wall-shaking thump, punctuated by his dorm-mates cheers or groans, would've driven Sam insane if he hadn't grown up in cheap apartment complexes and motels.
He'd just have to open the door. Walk out with a smile and a laugh and say, "Hey, what the hell are you guys doing anyway? It's too loud not to be fun. I'm Sam, by the way." All Sam's life he'd been able to get people to like him almost immediately with a sunny grin and soft eyes. Dean always called it his "trust me, I'm a big puppy"-face…
Fuck this.
Sam gets up and pulls on jeans - they're getting too tight so he has to suck it in a little to zip them up - and a black t-shirt faded to a dusky bluish gray. He quietly slips through the stairwell next to the door of his room and jogs down to his car. He'd bought a well-used but trustworthy old Ford from a graduating senior two weeks before class started and only had to spend three or four days working on it with second-hand tools before it would chug through an apocalypse. There are certain things Sam knows from being a Winchester that are pretty useful and certain things he wishes he could forget.
centuries are what it meant to me
"Sam?" Dean's voice was rough with sleep and he didn't even sound mad. He didn't sound like they'd all just had a fight of epic proportions, even on a Winchester scale. But he rubbed one hand over his eyes, looked up at Sam and his tired gaze only said, You're leaving me.
"Yeah." Sam crawled up Dean's body from the foot of the bed, crawled until he was bracketing Dean, holding himself by his trembling arms above Dean's bare chest.
Sam didn't dare to kiss him on the mouth. "Yeah. Yeah, it's me. Dean, I…" Dared instead to swoop down and lick at Dean's neck, his chest, one peaked nipple and down. "Dean, it's me." Dared to do what he'd wanted to do since Sam first found out what his own dick was for. "It's me..."
Dean's fingers wound tight in Sam's hair.
"No. Sam, no. No, no. Stop. Sammy, stop it!"
But Dean didn't speak until Sam's lips wrapped around his hard cock and Dean's hips bucked up to meet him. He didn't say it until it was too real. Until it was too late. Didn't stop him until Sam knew Dean wanted it too, until he knew--Dean would push him away anyway.
"Sam, we can't… Goddamn it, this is sick! You can't just…"
Dean didn't push him away until Sam left for college with the taste his brother's cock in his mouth, felt the weight of it in the hollow of his tongue, the entire midnight bus ride to Palo Alto.
push the trigger and pull the thread
Sam drives to the nearest station, parks his car and rides the train, his head rolling back against the cool window, all the way into San Francisco.
The Castro is full of light and movement and obscenely costumed pedestrians. It's loud and showy and not one person really sees him. It's perfect. The club's name is Fuse. Sam never learns the guy's name but he had expensive clothes, dark red hair and a thick cock.
He takes Sam back to a motel room and they fuck all night long. Until Sam's muscles are trembling and he's sticky all over and he barely remembers his own name when he passes out in the rumpled bed, exhausted and blissfully numb.
When he wakes the next morning, the man is gone and there's a hundred and fifty dollars on the nightstand.
Sam's horrified for several long minutes, feeling like someone tossed a bucket of ice water over his naked skin. Then he surges up from the bed, suddenly furious, and flings the small table against the wall.
Eventually, though, eventually…
He sits down amongst the splinters of particle board; his skin burns with shame as he looks at the scattered bills on the rug.
He thinks about how easy it would be.
once you know you can never go back
A "full ride" really means tuition, housing and a meal plan. It does not mean several two-hundred dollar law texts per class twice a year or a computer or clothes or school supplies or drinks or pizza or gas and upkeep on his shitty little car.
And this is real life now. It's his real social security number on his school records and this is a real life he's trying to make. Not a pseudonym, a pseudo-life created just long enough to get what you need and get gone. A life set up to run the con, save the people and move on.
It's just his body. He's always given of his body to survive - in the service of others his body has always been a weapon, useful, a tool - and this might be fucked up but at least it's honest. At least it's the up-front exchange of labor and skills for cash. It's not stealing or cheating or swindling. It's real, it's him. It's almost better than hunting because the bruises and scrapes he sometimes gets don't begin to match up to his extant scars and at least they mean he's working toward something.
While "normal" isn't going perfectly to plan, Sam's always been taught to improvise. If there's one thing Sam can do it's think on his feet. And this… gig, is a means to an end, a perfectly safe, non-supernatural end. A life. He made a choice to do this - do it anyway, do it on his own - and the means might be a little messy but Sam knows that about life too.
she wants to know, am I still a slut?
Sam gets a quiet, discreet reputation as the best top working Fuse. He's pretty and young and fucking good at his job. He's got rules. He's got shit he won't do. Sam will suck and jerk and fuck but he'll never be fucked. The fact that the first trick who tried to force him into anything else got a broken wrist, the second ended up with a badly sprained ankle and the very few assorted others received 5 or 6 broken fingers between them says a lot to those looking to rough up some boy-whore for kicks.
It's a job (skin on skin). It's just a job (touch).
Sam stands in front of the long mirror in his dorm suite and zips up his dark jeans, leaves the tank top untucked and grabs his thrift-store leather jacket. Lube and condoms in the pocket (because he may be a whore, but he's not stupid), drag and tug one hand through his hair and he's ready. He's buzzing for it.
Got work to do.
stranger things could never change my mind
Sam's first clear view of the kid's face is as he stands up into the illumination of the alley floodlight and wipes the side of his thumb over his bottom lip. He watches the kid hold out his hand for the cash with a feral grin.
The first time Sam sees the kid see him, predator eyes peek from behind a curtain of chestnut hair and his head turns slightly to follow Sam's movement across the dance floor like he scents him.
Sam should have known then.
But he spends so much time trying so hard to forget everything he's ever known that he ignores this too.
Until something drags Tamara - one of "the girls", the trannies working the club - out the back door when Sam's just leaving the men's room, tucking cash into the special inside pocket of his tight jeans. A fucking forked tail swishes against the frame before the heavy door slams shut behind them and cuts off Tamara's muffled shouts.
It's automatic. He doesn't even think.
Sam sprints down the hallway crowded with bodies in various stages of undress and ecstasy and just barely registers the heavy metal clang of the door when it opens and shuts again behind him as he tumbles out into the alley. The brown-haired kid, the predator, pulls up short next to Sam and draws a pair of long, deadly-looking knives from his tall boots. He tosses one into Sam's hands with a wolf-grin and goes tearing off toward the far end of the alley.
The thing holding Tamara against the wall looks human from here but Sam feels all the hair stand up on the back of his neck as he follows the kid toward it. He longs for his pump-action as he calls out to the struggling hooker and yellow eyes suddenly flash in their direction.
It's over quickly. It fights back, but between the blurry, brutal way this kid moves and Sam's near-instinctive, practiced strength, they take it down; Sam yanks it up against him by one arm wrenched up behind its back and a hand twisted in filthy hair. The kid neatly slices the head from its body with a snarl.
The glamour drops as it bleeds out and it's a demon. An honest-to-Christ demon with horns and skin the color of old blood. Tamara's eyes go round and huge then she just darts back through the alley without a word. A heavy bass line blooms loud and echoing off the brick walls before choking off as the metal door slams shut behind her. Sam doubts he'll ever see her again. Not at this place anyway.
The kid wipes away the trickling blood from his split lip with the side of his thumb. "Well, that was interesting," he says, a fine tremor running through his body. Sam holds out the knife to him hilt-first and he takes it without looking, wipes it on his shirt and sheathes both blades again.
He was deadly efficient as they fought. Scary-fast and obviously way stronger than he looked. Wiry or something. But now that they're done he's panting, ragged around the edges, looking like it's hard to stop the violence coursing under his skin.
"Hey." Sam reaches out a hand - slow and in the kid's line of sight like he would with a spooked animal - and touches his shoulder. "Are you all right?"
The kid turns wide, feral brown eyes on Sam then flings out one arm too quick to see and hurtles Sam back into the brick wall. Jesus Christ, he is strong.
Sam has just enough time to be certain he's about to get his ass kicked by some jacked-up junkie whore when the kid kicks his legs apart and yanks down on his hips to slide Sam's back further down the wall. He slithers in and grinds his hard cock into Sam's with a snarl. He's so quick and brutal and evil that Sam gets rock-hard in record time. The kid is this pinching, clutching, biting, bruising wicked fast little thing and Sam can finally stop thinking for the first time since he left that look on Dean's face…
He practically climbs up Sam's body, wild and writhing, wraps his legs around Sam's hips and squeezes the breath from him for a moment. He bites and licks at Sam's mouth between gasps of "fuck me, do it, come on, fuck me, now."
Time stretches and shrinks and Sam finds himself grinding the kid into the brick wall, his legs slung over the crook of Sam's elbows. Sam lines up his slicked cock, gripping the rubber tight around the base, and pushes into his ass in one long thrust, dragging out a helpless stuttering moan from between red lips.
He talks. He talks the whole time. Nothing that makes any sense or tells Sam anything other than "more, harder, yeah, so fucking good."
There's nothing but white space in Sam's head. Nothing but this and now and feels so good. He thrusts in a steady, fast rhythm, not holding back, not rushing, just a relentless build of heat and pleasure. The kid works a hand between them and the splash of his come against Sam's stomach, the moan ripped from his stretched-long throat sends Sam tumbling after him.
He makes a broken, tearing noise when Sam finally eases out of him and the breath huffing against Sam's collarbone slows and steadies. Then he slides out from under Sam's heavily leaning body and says casually, "Thanks."
He moves down to the mouth of the alley so fast, Sam almost can't pull it together quickly enough to call out "Hey! Dude, wait!"
The kid turns and raises one eyebrow. He looks a little rumpled but not at all like he just killed a demon and had Sam fuck him raw up against a wall. Sam has bruises already but this guy's skin is still smooth and pale.
"What…" Sam's mind flips through about a hundred-thousand different questions like a spinning rolodex before he settles on "What's your name?"
He pauses for a long moment like he's deciding something before replying. "Connor. I'm in your poli-sci class on Thursday night too. The hoodie doesn't suit you like that black mesh shirt you've got on does, man."
Sam manages exactly one shocked blink and then the kid is gone.
turn me on take me for a hard ride
Mostly it's simple, uncomplicated. The desires of the gay hustler-purchasing crowd become almost boring in their regularity.
Sometimes they like to make Sam come or watch him jerk himself off but most of the time he doesn't even bother to get hard. The vast majority just want head. They just want to see him gaze up through messy bangs with wide, faux-innocent eyes and his lips stretched around hard cock. They just want to yank on his hair and slam their hips into his face and say lame-ass shit like "Yeah, you fucking slut, you like it? Suck me. Take it all, you little faggot whore."
But there's one, one of his regulars, who likes Sam to hurt him. Sam takes his money with a smile and does it, probably goes too far sometimes but he's not heard one complaint yet so what the hell, right?
The guy's hair is a little too light, full-blond rather than sandy brown, but his eyes are almost green enough and his mouth is full and lush. And when Sam shoves his cock down the trick's throat and makes him choke on it. When he bends him over and fucks him and lashes the guy's own half-sized cat o'nine tails across his back and makes him whimper and sob and thrust back against him. When he begs for Sam to hurt him more, hit him harder - Sam always comes in white-hot, endless bursts of sensation. Comes until he's wrung-out and shaking.
Sam refuses to learn the guy's name and bites back on the one name he wants to say as orgasm fills up then empties his body and mind, the only name he can remember at all some days.
Fuck you, Dean. Fucking hate you. Miss you.
Dean…
It feels good to zip his pants up with a sigh and leave the guy spread out on the destroyed sheets, panting and shivering and covered in sweat and spunk and rising blood-flecked welts. It feels good to slam the door on the man's needy, questioning cry of "Wait! When can I see you aga-"
It feels good to leave the guy lying there, hurting, wondering when or if he'll ever see Sam again.
It feels good to leave.
I heard your voice through a photograph
This one's simple. Easy money. Sam can practically taste it and he smiles, slow and wicked.
A plain-looking guy in his mid-thirties, mousy and desperate with thinning hair and a thinner gold wedding band. He stares at Sam's mouth hungrily when Sam licks his lips. Then Sam runs long fingers up the man's inseam and says quietly into his ear, "Let's go."
Sam looks up, sees his smile in the long men's room mirror, spotted with water and worse things. His mouth is already swollen from a long night, his brown leather jacket is worn and scuffed - the upturned collar framing the golden skin of his neck like an obscene promise - and his hazel eyes look fully green in the sickly fluorescents.
The person Sam sees in the mirror as he sinks to his knees with a wink and a smirk - the man who shows things with his body that his mouth would deny, whose eyes and smile don't match - is Dean.
~ END ~