Chapter Text
He likes this town. It isn't pretty. It isn't big. It hasn't any cool places to visit. The school isn't exactly up to any standards Sam's sure the government has set. But damn - it's into sports.
Sam's fingertips graze the crumpled piece of paper in the inside of his jeans' pocket. Staring up at the ceiling, he replays today's afternoon, that initial kick of getting introduced to someone new, someone sympathetic, someone hot.
Marc's twenty. Marc has a smirk that's not as tough as he obviously thinks it is. Marc's skin is tanned and under thin maple brown bangs there's an endless universe of freckles. Marc plays football. Marc gave him his phone number.
Sam mourns his lack of privacy and a working telephone. But only for a second. Because he learned to lie before he learned to tie his shoes. "We just moved here, the phone company is a bag of lazy dicks" - Sam knows his lines. Knows how to bat his lashes. Recognizes that hungry spark these Marcs or Stans or Chads usually throw at petite blonde cheerleaders. But some magical way, they forget about their girlfriends and braided pigtails and the concept of heterosexuality when Sam appears. Not all of them, hell no; to most people or guys and especially to girls, he's invisible, thinner than air. Just another bony, awkward teenager with no haircut and falling-apart clothes. But to these guys, he's fire and ice and they need to have him and Sam knows before they do. Sam knows his boys.
Flat on his back, Sam's the perfect image of a giddy, love-struck teenager, he just knows he is. Smiling like an idiot, cheeks maybe a bit flushed, cock halfway hard since that moment all these hours ago when Marc and him had noticed each other. But he's alone right now, Dad and Dean somewhere he doesn't care, talking to some fortuneteller two towns over about some family grudge that's been going down here lately. It's a dick move to do but Sam thanks the being who killed four people by now for bringing his family into this stupid town that inherits this pretty boy he'll see this evening.
"Training's over at nine today." - "I can pick you up then." - "Pick-up instead of phone call? Hell of a deal I'm gettin' here. Whatcha wanna do then? Should we grab a movie or…?" - "Let's just hang out a bit. You'll surely be tired after training-" - "Not if I have something good to look forward to afterwards."
Sam's grin goes so wide it hurts. The guy's adorable. Trying so hard to be relaxed, to sound casual. Sam wonders if he's the first boy Marc looks at this way. Quite possible.
It has been some time since Phil. Three months to be exact. He had kept attention to stares from the side, to his back, gasps, dilated pupils, parting lips. But nothing. The last few cities they'd been in had held blatant nothings. Sam's not worrying too much about looking too needy and greedy though. He's excited and impatient, because, well, fuck, he'd seen Marc in his football gear and can only imagine what he looks like underneath. And even this little bit of imagination it takes makes every cell of his body ache in pure need.
He likes them muscled. But not buff like bulls, no, just firm muscle, broad back, narrow hips, strong thighs. Something to hold on, to bite into, to bounce on. Likes when they hold him tight, sometimes down, possessive, dominant; when he has to put effort into not being crushed by their palms and hips. When they kiss him with soft lips and a bit too much spit and let him fall asleep on their chests with their arms around him.
Marc has a pretty mouth. Sam wonders if he is mocked for it like Dean was sometimes, being called "cocksucker" by his teammates maybe. Wonders if his giant fists can punch through nasal and cheek bones like Dean's can. He replays the soft brush of calloused fingers over the back of his hand when he was handed the careless scribble of numbers and is very positive about his assumption.
The door flies open. Sam is startled by the sudden sound and startled again by the fact that he is startled. His upper body lifts up the bed in one fluid swing and his heart punches against his ribs angrily. He hadn't heard the Impala roar down the road and into the parking lot right outside their motel room. Used to quick change of events and amount of privacy, his dick goes completely limp in a matter of seconds. Sam knows he looks annoyed when he stares at his brother in the doorframe. But he also knows he's got unlimited puppy license, so why give a fuck?
"Heya Sammy!" Dean's grin is honest and loose. The interview must have been a success. When he catches a glimpse of Sam's mimics, he stiffens, sensing, questioning. "Interrupted something here? Caught you jackin'?"
"God, Dean," Sam moans, practically jumping from the bed now, annoyed, annoyed, annoyed, and Dean laughs at his reaction and it just makes it worse. His fist clenches the precious paper in his pocket. It starts sweating, cheeks sting from boiling blood. Helpless, like always, he grabs his hoodie and Chucks instead of waiting for Dean to finish his laughter.
"Wow, I meant no harm, milady!"
A grunt is all he's getting in response. Laces are tied blindly and quickly. It's nowhere near nine yet but Sam has to get out. Now.
"Hey!"
Sam looks up from where he's bent over his feet. Dean's always so tidy with his clothes. He's seen these jeans a thousand times and always wonders how they can still look so new.
"Where're ya goin', Sammy?"
"Nowhere," Sam tells him, sharp, short - a tone that Dean knows and accepts most of the time. He gets up to his feet, hoodie in his hand. Growing has become his body's newest hobby so they're almost at eye-level now. It just makes this harder - lies are more easily told through heavily hung lashes.
"Uhu," his brother grunts and Sam smells extra-onion in his breath. Dad had taken him to celebrate today's good work. He never takes Sam for anything for his countless A's. He bites the one certain bump of flesh on the inside of his cheek.
"Fuck off, Dean." Patience never got him anything. So why pretend he has it now?
Strong arms cross over broad chest. Freckles disappear in wrinkles around Dean's nose. "Sure sounds important for 'nowhere'."
Sam's tired. He's horny. He has no time for this. He's got a quarterback waiting for him. So he plays out the biggest trump he has - the truth. Or. Well. Bits of it.
"You got a condom for me?"
It's so hard not to break into laughter when Dean, Dean who taught him how to confuse people, Dean who studied facial signs for nervousness and insecurity together with him, falls for his shit. It's short but there's that little blank moment in this face of steel, followed by bare question marks. "What'd you need that for?"
It's not hard to throw another bitchface at this question. "What do you think, jackass?" He's holding out his empty palm. "So what, yes or no?" It's not much of a lie. He really doesn't have one. And in the back of his head the hope is blooming that maybe he is going to need it tonight.
Dean's stare doesn't falter when he blindly searches his pockets. Slow and a bit off, since he's thinking hard while he's moving. It's a good thing he keeps his shit together during hunts, Sam thinks. Scary to think how easy it is for Sam to hit him this unprepared.
Plastic finds the inside of his hand. He grabs it without paying much attention to the scratch of gun-worked fingertips. Sam has places to go. There will most likely be a jockstrap involved. And those things are awesome. "Thanks, bye!" he chirps halfway over his shoulder as he passes his brother. While he crams the sacred little package into his jeans, Sam almost knocks his father's teeth out with his forehead.
"Hey," John grunts. Even without trying, he is towering, always towering, right now right in the doorway, exactly where Sam would love to pass, but now impossibly can. The sweat in his palms drops several degrees at once. "Where'you goin'?"
Sam opens his mouth already while thinking. Thinking fast. Better fucking fast. "I-" He cannot stutter, not pause, dad would know, lying to dad is the worst you could do, he catches you and you only see the outer world for endless laps of running until you puke on the sidewalk and fuck he doesn't know what to say but he has to speak, now. "-'m seeing a friend. Some guy. Wrestling team. I thought maybe I'd join. You know. For practice. As you said, I suck at it, so. Yeah." Wow. Awesome job on the 'not stuttering' there, idiot.
John frowns and Sam wants to cry because he's surely busted now, John noticed, fuck, damn, shi-
"Alright. But remember you gotta get up at five tomorrow, you hear me?"
He can't believe it. It worked. It worked! "Okay, sure, yeah," Sam mumbles and shoves past his father. He just then smells the whiskey. Thank God for alcoholism.
The sorry tiny room in this faceless building doesn't deserve another second of his attention - neither do the people inside. No questions, acting fast, not looking back - Winchester repertoire. Sam's steps are faster than they need to be, keeping the clock in mind, but somehow never fast enough, keeping what lies behind him in mind.
It's dark outside already but the field is well lit with spotlights. It's cold on the empty tribune and he's too far away to actually get a good look at the guys down there to get a bit warmer. But still better than sharing a room with these two. He's been worse for far less private time.
This one's Marc, probably. It's a bit hard to tell with the helmets and shoulder pats. They're all giants. Sam's alone out here so he can shamelessly hunch over his boner while following a tiny fantasy that possibly includes the whole team, him, a piece of soap and the showers. Maybe. Eventually.
Nine rolls around slowly, too slowly for a teenage boy who is really desperate to get laid. But Sam endures it. Even when they all leave for the showers. Without him. Spoilsports.
He climbs down to where he thinks Marc will exit and then struts a bit off from there. It's nothing official. He isn't official. Whatever would happen later would never be official. He's someone's slip-up tonight, someone's experimental phase. Someone's 'I'm so drunk I don't know what I'm saying anymore so I'll tell y'all about this one time I fucked a boy up the ass in high school'-story. It doesn't sting when he doesn't think about it like that. When he tells himself he's the one who lets this happen, who chooses to let it happen, that he's the one getting way more out of this than the other guy. After all, he'll be the one bailing town in a few days' time. Or weeks, at most. He's using him. Not the other way around.
There can be shadows even at night, with such clear sky and crescent moon light like tonight. So Sam watches from underneath the nearest tree when the boys leave the gym, halfway hidden. He makes the calls. He could very well leave Marc standing and waiting here like an idiot. Yes. He could. He controls this game.
Marc emerges last. He's laughing about one of his many friends' jokes. His smile is so pretty it makes Sam's heart flutter. He really wants to kiss that mouth. He remains leaning against the tree and waits. He wants him to notice him, search for him. Show interest, come on. Show me you're as excited as I am.
And he is. He so is. As soon as his mates are vanished around the corner, his head pops right up and he searches the place for a hint of that little brat that stole his brain in that hallway earlier. Like a good doggie looks for his master, Sam thinks, and oh is he pleased with how that sounds. Marc finds him even in his hide-out and flashes a relieved smile. Sam returns it with a tiny burst of laughter, because oh, is he cute. Two hundred and thirty pounds of pure muscle and he has it melting with only one glimpse of his.
"Hey," Sam offers while Marc catches up with him. The casual jogging pace he's moving in wouldn't let anyone tell that he's been training these past hours. It reminds Sam of the way he usually leaves motel rooms and the Impala.
"Hey," Marc parrots but it's rough, gruff, oh, Sam loves it already. That word could be all Marc had to say tonight and it'd be enough. Just put it on repeat and that's taken care of. Marc isn't too much of a shy one and the only thing that really puts him to a halt is that one blade of grass about one feet from Sam's toes. Sam smells soap and aftershave and he's very thankful for the tree's support of his giving knees.
They've never stopped smiling and Marc's hand reaches out, places itself right next to Sam's head on the trunk. They're almost touching but not quite, staring at each other without knowing what to say but with so much left to say. Like earlier in the hallway, there's this attraction, undeniable, strong, like a force-field. It's like it's too much for both of them, like they aren't sure what to do next, or if it's okay for the other one. Sam blinks once, twice, Marc once, and Sam hovers away from the tree right into Marc's chest and his lips press onto his and, shit, yes, this mouth was worth waiting for.
It's careful, unsure, now Marc's shy all of a sudden. His first time kissing a boy, Sam figures, and it's cute. He surely wasn't this uncertain when kissing his first girl. Sam feels special. One of the many things he loves about this… whatever he should call it. Blessing? Curse? This thing where straight guys fall for him and only for him. Where he charms them. Makes them forget how to count to ten. It makes it okay for Sam to be just as light-headed as them when pillow-soft lips like these welcome him, take him in, let him sink in and forget and just relax and enjoy himself.
Marc shaved very eagerly and his cheeks are soft when Sam rubs his own against them. It smells like alcohol and this alcohol he loves like nothing else, smooth and rough and sexy. It makes his mouth water, he wants to lick it, but the kiss is too good, so he licks Marc's fat lower lip instead. It has the guy flinching. Fucking flinch at a lick. A lick from Sam's mouth. Damn.
The kiss is broken, Marc pulls back. "We should, ehm." He clears his throat. For a second, Sam thinks it's over, he'll get the 'Ooops this was a mistake, sorry'-speech and that's it for tonight, or well, ever. But Marc continues and it's music in his ears. "Let's go somewhere else. Okay?"
Sam smiles again, wide and bright and proud. "Yeah," he spills and drops his head, exactly in that way where it makes his bangs drop to his eyes and he looks gorgeous. A giant arm wraps around his shoulders and they walk a bit, God knows how far or for how long. Surrounded by warm, firm flesh like this, Sam would walk the fucking desert.
Their feet stop and Sam recognizes the Ping-Pong table from the schoolyard. It's a bit off from anywhere else, surrounded by fully green bushes and trees. Marc turns him around and kisses him now, uncertainty left right on front of the gym, shoving his tongue right between Sam's teeth that part willingly for it, of course. Face framed in sweaty palms, Sam's ass is pushed against the concrete table. He stables himself with his hands, spread flat on the cold top. Cornered. As if Marc knew exactly how much he likes this. Probably doesn't, though. Isn't even aware of what he's doing. Sam just prays he doesn't stop, pushes himself up on his toes, needs to get more of this mouth, deeper, oh, this tongue, for God's sake.
Marc gets the idea and grips Sam by the waist, pulls him off the ground and onto the tabletop like he weighs nothing, follows right up, slides between Sam's knees like this is a dance, fucking ballet. These jeans he is wearing - Sam chose them for a reason. They're tight as fuck. People over the age of thirteen shouldn't wear these jeans. When Marc's hips press forward in between Sam's thighs, their cocks meet in the most perfect way; hot and damp and concrete is nothing against this. Both gasp into the kiss and Marc looks like someone kicked his baby puppy, which makes Sam laugh because oh God, the guy forgot he was making out with another guy, someone with a cock. Marc keeps staring and Sam keeps smiling, both panting while Marc slowly grinds into Sam's crotch, tests the pressure, the heat. Another good point about these jeans is that the friction is unbelievable, by the way.
"Feels nice?" It's more mock than real question since Sam can hardly hold back his affection for this helpless monkey in his arms. He loves to be passive but, hm, maybe teaching could be great every once in a while as well?
There's no answer, just staring. The grinding grows stronger and Sam forgets his smile over a bite to his bottom lip. It's a mean trick to do. He's aware of that. With leverage from his hands behind him, he pushes back into the movements, watches Marc choke on his own lungs before they pick up a steady rhythm against each other. It's delicious. Thin film of sweat on Marc's forehead already, lips pink and fat from kissing, parted in a tiny 'o' as in 'oooh fuck you little slut, my dick is so hard for you and I didn’t even know that was a thing'. Sam loves them like this.
Hands roam around his lower back, slide underneath hoodie and tee, hook into the hem of his jeans. Oh, these jeans. How much he owes to them. Marc pulls him closer and Sam groans at the pressure, the jeans' seams cutting into his flesh in all the wrong places, but fuck, it's hot, too hot to stop. He knows he's dripping wet already. Judging by how they feel against each other down there, Marc's too. The image has Sam sighing. "I'll… If we keep doing this, I'll…," he confesses as soon as the fact becomes clear to him. It's been too long. He doesn't realize how close he already is until Marc takes his mouth again, licks into and sucks at it, and he can't help but moan. "Not in my pants," Sam whines, more to his dick than to Marc but it is said Marc that very suddenly and very hastily struggles with button and fly of his jeans.
The palm wrapping around his throbbing cock is too sweaty, the pressure wrong, off, the technique worse than when he had touched himself for the very first time. All of it… it's so perfect Sam wants to cry.
Two tugs is all it takes. While Sam labor-pants into Marc's mouth, his cock decides it actually is a lawn-sprinkler and shoots all the way up to his chin and God knows where else. His next moan is half pleasure and half humiliation and that's when Marc's hips buck up into his. There's a grunt and against his jeans-clad thighs foreign, quivering muscles jump as involuntarily as he knows Marc's cock is doing in his jeans right now. His eyes roll back into his skull. He can't believe his luck. He can't believe this handsome guy is so crazy for him that he creams his pants just as desperately as Sam - without a question - would have done if Marc would have acted about two seconds later than he actually had.
Marc's bottom lip quivers, so Sam licks it better. The palm around his cock slows and eventually stops; the mouth on his own doesn't. After a while, Marc sinks into him some more and Sam relaxes his back a bit until they slump down on the Ping-Pong table. Sam wraps an arm around the quarterback to feel his impressive muscles underneath his sweat-damp Henley shirt. He could care more about the fact that they're flooded in both of their come and sweat on a school yard at like ten past nine on a weekday after five seconds of making out. But that would require Sam's brain to push past the impressive army of endorphins after what feels like an eternity of loneliness and horniness and self-doubt, so it isn't happening.
It's hard peeling the warmth of a very handsome body off of himself, even harder to say "I gotta go". It's easy smiling at an adorable pout and easier to return a kiss this slick and heavy with post-coital pheromones.
"Will I see you again?"
Sam's heart reenacts a minor traffic accident in his chest. "If… that's what you want?"
Marc's honest gleam makes it into a mayor one. "Fuck yeah."
The streets are black and deserted when Sam walks back to the motel. He's spent and tired and so light-headed he feels like lifting off the pavement with every step. Even with his hoodie off, he isn't cold.
How he's missed this. This feeling of freedom, power, happiness. Tomorrow; tomorrow, again, same place, same time. He wouldn't mind getting a tattoo of these words to remind him of the fireworks they evoke in him.
Just to be sure Dad and Dean are asleep when he gets there, Sam peeks at their window from a safe destination. He takes another walk around the block when he finds it alit, another and then another until it's dark like the rest of the building.
Sneaking in and out of rooms is something he has been trained on, so he's good at it. Dad stirs in his sheets and grunts something, lifts his head in question. "'S jus' me, Dad," his son whispers while he replaces the salt line, hunched over his come stained hoodie and jeans even in this pitch black darkness, back turned to the beds at the end of the room. Dad falls silent again and even before Sam reaches the bathroom door, he hears not one but two calm breaths in the nothingness.
Clothes peeled off, he washes them first and then himself. The tap water is cold but with enough soap, his hoodie will be wearable again by tomorrow. Sam decides he doesn't want to loose Marc's taste on his mouth yet and pulls on sweatpants and t-shirt without brushing his teeth.
He would consider sleeping on the couch, he really would, but even for someone two heads shorter than him, the one in this crappy room would be worse than the blank floor. So he climbs under the sheets next to his brother like he had done so many years, countless times in countless motels in countless states. With the years, he grows, and with him the certainty that this is inappropriate for two grown boys, even for brothers as close as them. It had been alright until Sam started getting into puberty and the business of morning wood and awkward boners and wet dreams and Dean's mocking about every second about any of it. Just for once, he wishes he could wake up in his own room in his own bed and have his self all for himself. Just for once.
Behind his back, Dean doesn't move, asleep deep and hard like a rock, warm like a boiler, smelling like onion and gun oil and sweat. Creating a gap big enough not to be aware of any of it is impossible. Behind closed eyelids and with his arms and legs folded tight against his body, Sam chases the memory of wet skin against his own.
Sleep. Fall asleep. Tomorrow. Tomorrow.