Fic: they twain shall be one flesh (Robo!Sam/Sam, NC-17)
Title: they twain shall be one flesh
Pairing: Um. Robo!Sam/Sam-Sam. o.O
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sam doesn't necessarily have to kill all the pieces of himself in order for them to be assimilated. Spoilers for 6.22
Notes: This is for akadougal, who bid on me in a charity auction for 2K of this. Here's 3K. You're welcome. ;)
Warnings: There is not really breath-play in this, but there's a suggestion of it, so I shall warn, just to be safe. Also: rough sex.
He should have taken the shot. There was a moment there where he could have done - could have cocked back the butt of the gun into the crook of his arm for leverage; turned and gotten him cold through the heart. Sam knew how to hold a gun, even if he didn't know why. His fingers knew the shape of the trigger and the butt, the slide of blood-warm metal, and right up until the other man turned, he'd meant to shoot.
And then the man smiled, Sam's own face, empty, and Sam's arm was moving before he could think, the gun hurtling out of correct firing position, the barrel slamming hard and immutable into the back of his doppelganger's skull. Sharp crack of metal against bone, and the man was down, all his length stretched out on the grass, but he was alive. Sam swallowed, shifted the gun in his hand. Wondered why.
Something in him, it seemed, didn't want to shoot first and question later, even like this. Even with this man. When he rolled over painfully, face twisted a little in discomfort, Sam raised the gun again, trained on the other man's chest, but he wouldn't pull the trigger unless forced to. He knew that now. "Okay," he said, his voice tight and low. "There's got to be another way to do this. I don't want to kill you."
"Sammy." The man's mouth quirked, sneering. Sam tightened his grip instinctively on the gun, replanting his weight, but the doppelganger made no move to grab it. "I kinda thought you wouldn't have it in you, you know." He laughed, soft and dark and dirty. "You don't have me in you, after all."
Sam felt his expression twitch, uncomfortable. "What?" The gun was heavy, but he'd obviously been well-trained by someone, enough to know that lowering it wasn't the best idea. Through its sights, he saw the other man stretch and shrug.
"That's what this is about, Sam. Getting me inside you - or, technically, you inside me would work equally well, but I don't see that happening. Do you?" The expression on his face was an all-out smirk, now, challenging. Half promise. "One of us kills the other, it's not going to eradicate either of us. This is all about assimilation. Get it?" He rolled his shoulders in the mud; raised his eyebrows pointedly. "Like the Borg. Only way out of here is for you to suck me back inside yourself." His tongue drew out the sibilant, sssssuck, and it ran a shiver down Sam's spine.
Sam shook his head; frowned, brows drawing tight together. "Different pieces," he said, slowly. "I thought you wanted to kill me?"
The other man spread his arms languidly. "More fun than you killing me, far as I'm concerned, but the same result. One Sam." He grinned, nastily, showing teeth. "Course, we seem to have ruled that method out, unless you want to stab me instead. Alternatively - " And he hitched up his hips, so wantonly suggestive that Sam's mouth went dry, more out of shock than anything. This was -
"That's your other suggestion?" Sam's voice rose too sharply at the end, mildly hysterical. "Seriously?"
"Gives a whole new meaning to 'go fuck yourself', huh?" put in the other Sam, mildly. The tone sat wrong with him. Then he stretched up a hand, held it open, as if Sam were a dog he wanted to reassure. Curled it around the barrel of the gun, and, shit, the way Sam's blood stirred at that was wrong, so wrong. It was his hand, after all, his own long fingers, and this was surely a level of narcissism to be avoided at all costs.
Except that the other costs were, Sam had to admit, perhaps greater.
Below him, the other man smiled, twisting his wrist so the gun dipped forward, Sam lurching with it. "Come on," he cajoled, as if he were reading Sam's mind - and maybe, on some level, he was. They were one and the same, after all, at some point of convergence. "We've ruled out fleeing as an option. Tried the fighting thing." Another tug, and Sam was stumbling, transfixed by the narrow-eyed expression, snakelike, on the other man's face; the way his teeth glinted in the light. "C'mon, Sam," he spat. "Let's fuck."
There were a whole load of reasons why giving into it felt like it'd be the world's most ludicrous mistake, beginning with the fact that this man was, in whatever form, Sam, and not even a part of himself that he liked. The problem was that the same item headed the list of reasons why killing him seemed so difficult a task: right up there before every other doubt came this is me, and I don't want to shoot myself. The heavy feeling in the pit of Sam's stomach was still there, urgent and growing frantic with the certainty that, somewhere, he was needed for something important. This man said he knew their only ways out of here, and Sam had just pretty much ruled out the first one.
Sam's stomach tensed, and there was excitement in it, snaking in amongst the nervousness, something thrilling in the thought of diving into the unknown. He cleared his throat; closed his eyes for a moment's pause. When he opened them, the man was smirking at him again, as if he knew Sam had made a decision. Sam slackened the muscles of his arms just a little, holding the man's eyes, and let himself be pulled forward, just slightly towards the ground.
"Okay," he said, on a sharp inhale " - sure. But if you're lying to me, I swear to God I will kill you right after, you hear me?"
"Sam, Sam." Another tug, and Sam couldn't be sure if the doppelganger was stronger or if he'd just been caught off guard, but the end result was that the gun skittered sideways as Sam landed heavily on his knees, hands planted firm in the dirt either side of the other man's grinning face. It wasn't a nice grin, but none of his expressions were nice. It was pleased and filthy, amused and cocksure, and Sam wanted to smack it off him.
"Can we be fast about this?" he prompted, to distract himself from the feeling. The palms of his hands already ached; no need to make it worse. "I have somewhere to be."
"We've covered that," said the other Sam, mild and innocuously calm. His hands came up idly to bracket Sam's waist, and Sam, in bracing himself to hold back a shudder of distaste, found himself slightly blindsided by the pulse of heat that arrowed down from the hands to his groin, a spark between his legs. He shifted a little.
"So," he said. He had no idea how to go about this. It was weird enough not to be sure whether something counted as gay sex or very involved masturbation; it was weirder still to feel the thick push of an erection lengthening against his hip and to know that it mirrored his own in every way. He swallowed; shifted his weight onto one hand and grazed the other, tentatively, over the hot line of other-Sam's cock. "You wanna get this show on the road so I can leave?"
Really, he should have been expecting the flip, but he wasn't exactly in his right mind just now. The sudden expanse of sky stretched topsy-turvy above him left him blinking until his own face swam up into view, hair fallen forward, mouth curved in a grin. "Impatient little thing, aren't you?" teased the doppelganger, not nicely; and then his thigh came forward, slipping between Sam's and thrusting against the firm line of his cock. Sam bit back a sound in the back of his throat, and the other man's grin became a smirk. "Or, you know. Maybe not so little."
"I don't need dirty-talk, thanks," Sam shot back, but his hips were lifting all the same, breath catching as he pushed back against the onslaught of muscle. Other guy was built like a brick shithouse, maybe fifteen pounds on Sam, and all of it brute strength. There was something foreign and thrilling about being trapped like this, pinioned beneath a force greater than himself; and maybe, he thought, as his hand slid to the small of the other man's back, it was only magnified by the sheer familiarity of the skin under his hands, the knobs of the spine so long and so well known. "If you can - just - "
"Yeah," said the other guy, condescendingly enough that Sam felt a spark of irritation, "it's under control." And then his mouth was on Sam's, teething fierce and ungentle along his lower lip, and the spark caught and billowed into something else; something unexpected and blazing.
Sam hadn't exactly been concerned about his own capacity to perform, here - he was young, after all, and adrenaline could usually be counted on to take care of the rest. But the spike of heat that twisted, serrated, in his stomach was an unexpected development; the tingle along his skin when the other man's hands shoved up under his shirt. He thrust up, urging him on, and the other man only laughed a little, shifted his hands to Sam's belt and tore it open one-handed. "Eager, aren't you?" His breath was hot on Sam's mouth in the moment before it pressed in again, tongue fucking deep to the backs of his teeth, and it wasn't so much a kiss as it was an exercise in domination, but all the same it felt feral and good. There was no lead-up to it, no gentle progression: only the swift press of fingers parting the zipper of Sam's jeans, the ferric taste of blood in Sam's mouth when teeth fastened around his tongue, drew it out and sucked. Sam groaned into it, nails raking blood-deep over the small of the other man's back, and the man only exhaled approval through his nose and brought a hand up to Sam's throat, pinning him down while he bit at his mouth.
It wasn't sufficient pressure to cut off his air supply, not really, but the promise was there, making Sam's mind go fuzzy at the edges, lessening the violence of his own grabs and snatches at the other man's skin, at his shoulders and hips and ass. When the hands at his zipper found their way under the waistband of his underwear, tugged it down under the rise of his backside, he felt no urge to attempt resistance, and he wondered idly whether that was the effect of the pressure, the fingers wrapped around his throat that said let me and demanded he obey. The mouth on his slid down over the bolt of his jawbone on a graze of teeth; found the vein throbbing beneath his ear and bit, and Sam hitched up into it, felt the pressure in his head intensify and spread. "Shit," he got out, the word twisting, fingers clutching at the other man's back pockets to haul him in. "I can't - just - "
The man laughed his dark, dirty little laugh into the soft skin below Sam's ear, breath hot on the mark he'd made, and said, "Flip."
It was as if he'd been bewitched. On some level, deep and visceral, all Sam wanted was out out out, back to whomever it was who needed him, and sure, that was part of his pliability. But he had expected it to be all, for the urgency to be his only motivator, here, and it wasn't, now, not when the long fingers on his hips made him want to move with them, to roll over without a word. Behind him, the bulk of the other man was massive and close, and a part of Sam welcomed that weight against him, the big hands curling under his thighs to hitch him up, spreading his knees. Even the wet-earth smell of the grass smushed under his cheek, the sharp-edged slivers of bark and leaves - even these only rasped up the edges of a different sort of urgency, setting his blood burning with it. Sam breathed in, clenched his fingers in the mud, and groaned in his throat, fighting the tangle of denim around his knees to keep his legs wide. "C'mon," he muttered, only hurrying things along, but, shit, suddenly he wanted it. It was horrifying and true, how much he wanted it, this stranger splitting him open on all fours in the grass, fucking his sense of self back into him. "Come on. Do it."
It was years since he'd done this, Sam was pretty sure, and his partner, he knew only too well, was a big guy. All the same, something in him sparked when he heard the spatter of saliva and realised it was all he was going to get. Not a good thing in him, not even anything he understood or remembered, but something buried and dirty and desperate that wanted the burn, wanted the heat of it to go on for days. The guy worked in a finger brusquely, twisted it, and it hurt, but Sam only pressed back into it, something very cold at the core of him seeking the fire.
The guy slammed in like a jackhammer, without warning; two inches on the first thrust and then further, unrelenting little stabs of his hips until he was flush to Sam's skin. It stung, every frictioned slide ripping a cry from Sam's throat, but the other man didn't stop and Sam didn't want him to, not even when a hand left the spur of his hipbone to clamp down over his mouth.
"Sssh," said Sam's own voice, rough at the nape of his neck. "You're gonna take this, Sam, you hear me?" He rolled his hips, dragging his cock against the dry insides of Sam's body, chipping sparks off that spot inside him even through the ache. "Take it like the pathetic little bitch you are." Another violent thrust, and Sam groaned into it; bit into the folds of the palm pressed to his mouth, swallowing the burn.
"Yes." It was easy, now, to dip lower toward the grass, the sinuous curve of his spine making the angle better. "Yes, come on, come on."
The guy pulled out almost all the way, long rough drag until only the tip of him was still inside, and when he slammed back home, Sam couldn't bite back his shout. There were fingerprints bruising over the rise of his hip; he could feel the blunt, blood-deep ache of them as they formed, and the man said, "This is what you wanted, Sam, isn't it?" Snap, withdraw, roll forward, and Sam was shuddering with it, cock drooling precome into the muddied grass without a hand on him. "You want me inside you, Sam? You want me to fuck us into one animal?"
"Yes," Sam spat, and fuck, he did, he did; lifted his hips as far as he was able and pushed back into thrust after punishing thrust. Behind him, the other guy full-on growled, almost inhuman, and his thrusts began to speed, settling almost mechanically into a rhythm so deep and fierce that Sam felt himself shoved forward a little with the impact of every stroke, on and on and on. He was breathless, now, desperate, mud crusting under his fingernails as he dug them in deeper as if it could somehow anchor him, but the fucking went on and he was anchorless, keening and close.
"Shit," rasped the other man behind him, voice finally wavering, and then he clamped down hard on the nape of Sam's neck, teeth fastening firm around the uppermost vertebra of Sam's straining spine. His groan shot down the nervous pathways all the way to Sam's cock, all heat and energy, and Sam was done, buckling, biting at the back of his hand until the blood came.
"Fuck," he spat, "fuck!" He felt crazy, unhinged and unbalanced, as if something were coming undone at the base of his skull. The other guy was still thrusting, bruising and rough, but Sam needed, shit; freed one hand with an effort and held himself on one trembling arm for the time it took to get in a good stroke, curl his fingers around his leaking cock and squeeze.
He came like a bullet from a gun, whole body torquing with it, come pulsing out of him in long strings that spattered on the grass. It almost hurt, it hooked him so deep in the pit of his stomach, arrowing out of him in a way that made his blood fizz, the edges of his vision blur. It wasn't until the man inside of him froze on the crest of a wave, swelled up and spent, that Sam realised why - wasn't until the cry bitten into the back of his neck was suddenly emerging from his own mouth that he understood what the vertigo really meant.
His heart was racing double-time as he lurched forward into the grass, head suddenly reeling drunken and crazed. He could still feel the clench of his own body hot around his cock; could feel himself leaking down the backs of his thighs, and shit, it was so wrong, it was all so fucked up he couldn't even begin to process it now, not when - fuck. Not when there was so much that had to be attended to.
"Dean," he whispered, closing his eyes for a moment. "Shit - Dean!"
He was on his feet in a second, blocking out all the knots and aches in his body long enough to wipe off his palms on his jeans, button himself back up. "Dean!"
There was a road snaking through the woods; he remembered that. He set off towards it at a run. It seemed the likeliest path.
*
I will now crawl away into a hole.
Pairing: Um. Robo!Sam/Sam-Sam. o.O
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sam doesn't necessarily have to kill all the pieces of himself in order for them to be assimilated. Spoilers for 6.22
Notes: This is for akadougal, who bid on me in a charity auction for 2K of this. Here's 3K. You're welcome. ;)
Warnings: There is not really breath-play in this, but there's a suggestion of it, so I shall warn, just to be safe. Also: rough sex.
He should have taken the shot. There was a moment there where he could have done - could have cocked back the butt of the gun into the crook of his arm for leverage; turned and gotten him cold through the heart. Sam knew how to hold a gun, even if he didn't know why. His fingers knew the shape of the trigger and the butt, the slide of blood-warm metal, and right up until the other man turned, he'd meant to shoot.
And then the man smiled, Sam's own face, empty, and Sam's arm was moving before he could think, the gun hurtling out of correct firing position, the barrel slamming hard and immutable into the back of his doppelganger's skull. Sharp crack of metal against bone, and the man was down, all his length stretched out on the grass, but he was alive. Sam swallowed, shifted the gun in his hand. Wondered why.
Something in him, it seemed, didn't want to shoot first and question later, even like this. Even with this man. When he rolled over painfully, face twisted a little in discomfort, Sam raised the gun again, trained on the other man's chest, but he wouldn't pull the trigger unless forced to. He knew that now. "Okay," he said, his voice tight and low. "There's got to be another way to do this. I don't want to kill you."
"Sammy." The man's mouth quirked, sneering. Sam tightened his grip instinctively on the gun, replanting his weight, but the doppelganger made no move to grab it. "I kinda thought you wouldn't have it in you, you know." He laughed, soft and dark and dirty. "You don't have me in you, after all."
Sam felt his expression twitch, uncomfortable. "What?" The gun was heavy, but he'd obviously been well-trained by someone, enough to know that lowering it wasn't the best idea. Through its sights, he saw the other man stretch and shrug.
"That's what this is about, Sam. Getting me inside you - or, technically, you inside me would work equally well, but I don't see that happening. Do you?" The expression on his face was an all-out smirk, now, challenging. Half promise. "One of us kills the other, it's not going to eradicate either of us. This is all about assimilation. Get it?" He rolled his shoulders in the mud; raised his eyebrows pointedly. "Like the Borg. Only way out of here is for you to suck me back inside yourself." His tongue drew out the sibilant, sssssuck, and it ran a shiver down Sam's spine.
Sam shook his head; frowned, brows drawing tight together. "Different pieces," he said, slowly. "I thought you wanted to kill me?"
The other man spread his arms languidly. "More fun than you killing me, far as I'm concerned, but the same result. One Sam." He grinned, nastily, showing teeth. "Course, we seem to have ruled that method out, unless you want to stab me instead. Alternatively - " And he hitched up his hips, so wantonly suggestive that Sam's mouth went dry, more out of shock than anything. This was -
"That's your other suggestion?" Sam's voice rose too sharply at the end, mildly hysterical. "Seriously?"
"Gives a whole new meaning to 'go fuck yourself', huh?" put in the other Sam, mildly. The tone sat wrong with him. Then he stretched up a hand, held it open, as if Sam were a dog he wanted to reassure. Curled it around the barrel of the gun, and, shit, the way Sam's blood stirred at that was wrong, so wrong. It was his hand, after all, his own long fingers, and this was surely a level of narcissism to be avoided at all costs.
Except that the other costs were, Sam had to admit, perhaps greater.
Below him, the other man smiled, twisting his wrist so the gun dipped forward, Sam lurching with it. "Come on," he cajoled, as if he were reading Sam's mind - and maybe, on some level, he was. They were one and the same, after all, at some point of convergence. "We've ruled out fleeing as an option. Tried the fighting thing." Another tug, and Sam was stumbling, transfixed by the narrow-eyed expression, snakelike, on the other man's face; the way his teeth glinted in the light. "C'mon, Sam," he spat. "Let's fuck."
There were a whole load of reasons why giving into it felt like it'd be the world's most ludicrous mistake, beginning with the fact that this man was, in whatever form, Sam, and not even a part of himself that he liked. The problem was that the same item headed the list of reasons why killing him seemed so difficult a task: right up there before every other doubt came this is me, and I don't want to shoot myself. The heavy feeling in the pit of Sam's stomach was still there, urgent and growing frantic with the certainty that, somewhere, he was needed for something important. This man said he knew their only ways out of here, and Sam had just pretty much ruled out the first one.
Sam's stomach tensed, and there was excitement in it, snaking in amongst the nervousness, something thrilling in the thought of diving into the unknown. He cleared his throat; closed his eyes for a moment's pause. When he opened them, the man was smirking at him again, as if he knew Sam had made a decision. Sam slackened the muscles of his arms just a little, holding the man's eyes, and let himself be pulled forward, just slightly towards the ground.
"Okay," he said, on a sharp inhale " - sure. But if you're lying to me, I swear to God I will kill you right after, you hear me?"
"Sam, Sam." Another tug, and Sam couldn't be sure if the doppelganger was stronger or if he'd just been caught off guard, but the end result was that the gun skittered sideways as Sam landed heavily on his knees, hands planted firm in the dirt either side of the other man's grinning face. It wasn't a nice grin, but none of his expressions were nice. It was pleased and filthy, amused and cocksure, and Sam wanted to smack it off him.
"Can we be fast about this?" he prompted, to distract himself from the feeling. The palms of his hands already ached; no need to make it worse. "I have somewhere to be."
"We've covered that," said the other Sam, mild and innocuously calm. His hands came up idly to bracket Sam's waist, and Sam, in bracing himself to hold back a shudder of distaste, found himself slightly blindsided by the pulse of heat that arrowed down from the hands to his groin, a spark between his legs. He shifted a little.
"So," he said. He had no idea how to go about this. It was weird enough not to be sure whether something counted as gay sex or very involved masturbation; it was weirder still to feel the thick push of an erection lengthening against his hip and to know that it mirrored his own in every way. He swallowed; shifted his weight onto one hand and grazed the other, tentatively, over the hot line of other-Sam's cock. "You wanna get this show on the road so I can leave?"
Really, he should have been expecting the flip, but he wasn't exactly in his right mind just now. The sudden expanse of sky stretched topsy-turvy above him left him blinking until his own face swam up into view, hair fallen forward, mouth curved in a grin. "Impatient little thing, aren't you?" teased the doppelganger, not nicely; and then his thigh came forward, slipping between Sam's and thrusting against the firm line of his cock. Sam bit back a sound in the back of his throat, and the other man's grin became a smirk. "Or, you know. Maybe not so little."
"I don't need dirty-talk, thanks," Sam shot back, but his hips were lifting all the same, breath catching as he pushed back against the onslaught of muscle. Other guy was built like a brick shithouse, maybe fifteen pounds on Sam, and all of it brute strength. There was something foreign and thrilling about being trapped like this, pinioned beneath a force greater than himself; and maybe, he thought, as his hand slid to the small of the other man's back, it was only magnified by the sheer familiarity of the skin under his hands, the knobs of the spine so long and so well known. "If you can - just - "
"Yeah," said the other guy, condescendingly enough that Sam felt a spark of irritation, "it's under control." And then his mouth was on Sam's, teething fierce and ungentle along his lower lip, and the spark caught and billowed into something else; something unexpected and blazing.
Sam hadn't exactly been concerned about his own capacity to perform, here - he was young, after all, and adrenaline could usually be counted on to take care of the rest. But the spike of heat that twisted, serrated, in his stomach was an unexpected development; the tingle along his skin when the other man's hands shoved up under his shirt. He thrust up, urging him on, and the other man only laughed a little, shifted his hands to Sam's belt and tore it open one-handed. "Eager, aren't you?" His breath was hot on Sam's mouth in the moment before it pressed in again, tongue fucking deep to the backs of his teeth, and it wasn't so much a kiss as it was an exercise in domination, but all the same it felt feral and good. There was no lead-up to it, no gentle progression: only the swift press of fingers parting the zipper of Sam's jeans, the ferric taste of blood in Sam's mouth when teeth fastened around his tongue, drew it out and sucked. Sam groaned into it, nails raking blood-deep over the small of the other man's back, and the man only exhaled approval through his nose and brought a hand up to Sam's throat, pinning him down while he bit at his mouth.
It wasn't sufficient pressure to cut off his air supply, not really, but the promise was there, making Sam's mind go fuzzy at the edges, lessening the violence of his own grabs and snatches at the other man's skin, at his shoulders and hips and ass. When the hands at his zipper found their way under the waistband of his underwear, tugged it down under the rise of his backside, he felt no urge to attempt resistance, and he wondered idly whether that was the effect of the pressure, the fingers wrapped around his throat that said let me and demanded he obey. The mouth on his slid down over the bolt of his jawbone on a graze of teeth; found the vein throbbing beneath his ear and bit, and Sam hitched up into it, felt the pressure in his head intensify and spread. "Shit," he got out, the word twisting, fingers clutching at the other man's back pockets to haul him in. "I can't - just - "
The man laughed his dark, dirty little laugh into the soft skin below Sam's ear, breath hot on the mark he'd made, and said, "Flip."
It was as if he'd been bewitched. On some level, deep and visceral, all Sam wanted was out out out, back to whomever it was who needed him, and sure, that was part of his pliability. But he had expected it to be all, for the urgency to be his only motivator, here, and it wasn't, now, not when the long fingers on his hips made him want to move with them, to roll over without a word. Behind him, the bulk of the other man was massive and close, and a part of Sam welcomed that weight against him, the big hands curling under his thighs to hitch him up, spreading his knees. Even the wet-earth smell of the grass smushed under his cheek, the sharp-edged slivers of bark and leaves - even these only rasped up the edges of a different sort of urgency, setting his blood burning with it. Sam breathed in, clenched his fingers in the mud, and groaned in his throat, fighting the tangle of denim around his knees to keep his legs wide. "C'mon," he muttered, only hurrying things along, but, shit, suddenly he wanted it. It was horrifying and true, how much he wanted it, this stranger splitting him open on all fours in the grass, fucking his sense of self back into him. "Come on. Do it."
It was years since he'd done this, Sam was pretty sure, and his partner, he knew only too well, was a big guy. All the same, something in him sparked when he heard the spatter of saliva and realised it was all he was going to get. Not a good thing in him, not even anything he understood or remembered, but something buried and dirty and desperate that wanted the burn, wanted the heat of it to go on for days. The guy worked in a finger brusquely, twisted it, and it hurt, but Sam only pressed back into it, something very cold at the core of him seeking the fire.
The guy slammed in like a jackhammer, without warning; two inches on the first thrust and then further, unrelenting little stabs of his hips until he was flush to Sam's skin. It stung, every frictioned slide ripping a cry from Sam's throat, but the other man didn't stop and Sam didn't want him to, not even when a hand left the spur of his hipbone to clamp down over his mouth.
"Sssh," said Sam's own voice, rough at the nape of his neck. "You're gonna take this, Sam, you hear me?" He rolled his hips, dragging his cock against the dry insides of Sam's body, chipping sparks off that spot inside him even through the ache. "Take it like the pathetic little bitch you are." Another violent thrust, and Sam groaned into it; bit into the folds of the palm pressed to his mouth, swallowing the burn.
"Yes." It was easy, now, to dip lower toward the grass, the sinuous curve of his spine making the angle better. "Yes, come on, come on."
The guy pulled out almost all the way, long rough drag until only the tip of him was still inside, and when he slammed back home, Sam couldn't bite back his shout. There were fingerprints bruising over the rise of his hip; he could feel the blunt, blood-deep ache of them as they formed, and the man said, "This is what you wanted, Sam, isn't it?" Snap, withdraw, roll forward, and Sam was shuddering with it, cock drooling precome into the muddied grass without a hand on him. "You want me inside you, Sam? You want me to fuck us into one animal?"
"Yes," Sam spat, and fuck, he did, he did; lifted his hips as far as he was able and pushed back into thrust after punishing thrust. Behind him, the other guy full-on growled, almost inhuman, and his thrusts began to speed, settling almost mechanically into a rhythm so deep and fierce that Sam felt himself shoved forward a little with the impact of every stroke, on and on and on. He was breathless, now, desperate, mud crusting under his fingernails as he dug them in deeper as if it could somehow anchor him, but the fucking went on and he was anchorless, keening and close.
"Shit," rasped the other man behind him, voice finally wavering, and then he clamped down hard on the nape of Sam's neck, teeth fastening firm around the uppermost vertebra of Sam's straining spine. His groan shot down the nervous pathways all the way to Sam's cock, all heat and energy, and Sam was done, buckling, biting at the back of his hand until the blood came.
"Fuck," he spat, "fuck!" He felt crazy, unhinged and unbalanced, as if something were coming undone at the base of his skull. The other guy was still thrusting, bruising and rough, but Sam needed, shit; freed one hand with an effort and held himself on one trembling arm for the time it took to get in a good stroke, curl his fingers around his leaking cock and squeeze.
He came like a bullet from a gun, whole body torquing with it, come pulsing out of him in long strings that spattered on the grass. It almost hurt, it hooked him so deep in the pit of his stomach, arrowing out of him in a way that made his blood fizz, the edges of his vision blur. It wasn't until the man inside of him froze on the crest of a wave, swelled up and spent, that Sam realised why - wasn't until the cry bitten into the back of his neck was suddenly emerging from his own mouth that he understood what the vertigo really meant.
His heart was racing double-time as he lurched forward into the grass, head suddenly reeling drunken and crazed. He could still feel the clench of his own body hot around his cock; could feel himself leaking down the backs of his thighs, and shit, it was so wrong, it was all so fucked up he couldn't even begin to process it now, not when - fuck. Not when there was so much that had to be attended to.
"Dean," he whispered, closing his eyes for a moment. "Shit - Dean!"
He was on his feet in a second, blocking out all the knots and aches in his body long enough to wipe off his palms on his jeans, button himself back up. "Dean!"
There was a road snaking through the woods; he remembered that. He set off towards it at a run. It seemed the likeliest path.
*
I will now crawl away into a hole.