Sam/Dean. R. ~800 words. Hooker!fic.
The first year of college, Sam figured out there were just some things you couldn’t run from.
The first year of college, Sam figured out there were just some things you couldn’t run from. You’d think a revelation like that would be a deep philosophical insight into the mind of a man and the things that shaped him, but it turned out to be a lot more practical than even Hume.
He’s strapped for cash and doesn’t really have the gear for this anymore. The white, ribbed wifebeater is his (hand-me-down) and the jeans (brand new; he got too tall) are tight and low on his hips. The eyeliner he smudged around his eyes belongs to Jessie, a girl one floor below his. He swiped it the last time he helped her with Bio, along with the cherry gloss he keeps licking off his lips.
This is the first time he’s gone out without backup. By the time he took his turn on the streets, his size had been enough to warn off certain types but the shadow down the alley had always been there. Pimp, he’d say, and wonder if the john could see the gunmetal glint.
California’s nights are hotter than he’s used to. When the first guy to give him a serious eyeballing strolls up, all cocky swagger and bright, charm-your-pants-off smiles, there’s sweat beaded in the small of Sam’s back. The guy stops less than a foot away and blatantly sizes up Sam’s crotch.
“Could kill for a cold one right now,” Sam says.
The guy looks up lazily. The dim streetlight can’t hide the shocking green of his eyes. He hasn’t got that much on Sam, couple years at the most, but his eyes are older, sharper. That gaze cuts through Sam, pins him, short of breath, to the dirty brick wall, and there’s nothing he can do to wriggle free of it. “Could buy you one, if you want it bad enough.”
Sam swallows the surge of his heart and grins. The main event’s never been what he’d call disappointing but this part’s pretty good too. He likes how the easy banter smoothes over the rough promises beneath.
“I’m parched. Been waiting right here for you to come along.”
The guy laughs, doubting it and pleased just the same. It’s a good laugh, smooth with just enough bite. A heavy, thrilling weight settles low in Sam’s gut.
“You know a place?” the guy asks.
“You’re buying, you pick.” Sam pushes away from the wall he’d been holding up, hooking a thumb through a beltloop and watching the guy’s gaze dart down to the sliver of bared skin. “Fair’s fair.”
“Well,” the guy says, surprised but covering it fast. “Okay then. What do I call you?”
Sam falls into step beside him. “Sammy.”
“Not anything I want?” Another bright flash of teeth.
Sliding a hand into the guy’s back pocket, Sam leans in close and says, “I wanna hear the best you got when your dick’s jammed down my throat.”
The guy’s chest hitches, like he’s already imagining how Sam will look his knees, mouth open wide and fisting his cock ’cause this one wants to see how much he likes it.
They’re barely inside the cheap room the guy pays for in cash before he’s got his tongue shoved in Sam’s mouth. It’s hard and fast, just what Sam wants when he’s keyed up like this, and the guy’s hands are already down the back of his jeans to get at his hole.
“Gonna fuck me instead?” Sam asks, canting his hips to make it easier for the guy to scrape a nail over delicate skin. “Costs extra.”
The guy pauses, one fingertip barely pushed up inside him, and smiles like a shark. “You got rubbers?”
Sam starts to say no but the guy’s pressing in harder, threatening to spread him open with nothing but a bit of sweat to slick the way and it feels fucking incredible. A dry fuck isn’t exactly his definition of a good time but this, the suggestion of it, the idea that the guy’s thinking about it and could probably do it, that makes the room spin.
So then again, maybe playing hooker for his brother does say something about the way Sam’s mind works after all.