winterlive (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
winterlive) wrote2007-10-18 12:25 am
winterlive) wrote2007-10-18 12:25 am
Entry tags:
[ the price to be paid ]
here, have a wee ficklet.
sam/ofc/ofc, nc-17. slightly-future-fic.
The Price To Be Paid
Dean's been gone maybe three hours, out at the library because Sam asked. He does that, now.
One girl's already sprawled across Sam's double bed, naked and sticky, a sheet idly tugged over her hip. She's just staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out her own damn name again. Sam has the other one on her knees, his legs braced apart, cupping the back of her head as she bathes his balls with her tongue, her hands small and delicate on his thighs. The whole room reeks of come and human fluid, nobody's in any hurry anymore.
Sam's hair hangs down in his eyes. He likes to be shielded like that, hide things away so that people can't see. Dean likes it that way, too - it reminds him of the old days, before.
Sam looks down at the girl on her knees, grips her hair in his hand and watches as she opens her mouth on him. The wiry dark hair tickles her nose but she doesn't flinch - good girl. Sam pets her head as he pushes his hips against her; she'll get a reward for that.
He's the Winchester who does this, now. These two came from the bar just up the road; walk in and give 'em the sweet eyes and watch them fall all over themselves for it. Oh, he's so cute; oh, he's so sweet. They don't find out until later that Sam's got an itch living under his skin, a subtle passenger that wants what they've got.
He's careful never to hurt them. Now, as he reaches down to guide his dick into the sweet pink mouth of the one on the floor (Sheila? Shelly? whatever) he's careful not to pull too hard. He pushes deep, deeper, making her choke on it, but not for too long; just enough to let her feel the burn, drag her head away with tears in her eyes and catch her breath. He waits patiently, and then she comes back for more.
Sam knew she would. He can always tell.
The girls he's with now don't remind him of Jessica at all. Jess was smart and good, she had a pure soul and she wanted all of him. Sam takes care these days to choose the girls that Dean would have chosen, before - out for a good time with a total stranger, a taste of danger and then home safe, a story to tell herself when she's older about her wild youth. Give 'em what they want, Sam thinks, and you can ask for almost anything.
"Think your friend's getting lonely," Sam murmurs to the one on her knees, stroking her cheek. "Stand up."
The girl obeys on shaky knees, reaching for his shoulders so she can feel safe. Sam obliges, wraps his arms around her for a long few seconds. She'll never know what she's touching. The blood on his hands doesn't rub off on other people's skin; he's learned that by now.
When she's comforted enough, Sam tugs her away and turns her, facing her toward her friend and pressing himself along her back. "You have her in your mouth," he whispers in her ear. "She was on my dick, when you sucked me. You're already there."
The two women blush at each other. Maybe they're friends, Sam imagines. Maybe they go to school together. "I don't know," says the one on the bed, who's definitely named Deb. Those long legs tug together; she wants to be persuaded.
Sam can oblige. "Spread your legs, Deb.” He can feel the ripple of power behind the words, even if they can't - Deb's long, gorgeous legs splay wide and she even reaches between them to rub her fingertips there, just there. Sam nudges Sandra forward until her thighs meet up with the side of the bed, and then rubs a gentle hand over her back, nuzzles her earlobe. "I'm gonna fuck you now," he tells her, and she shivers to hear the naughty word. Sam would be surprised if anybody ever said fuck to her, instead of make love.
The next shuddering words come as Sam shoves into her cunt from behind, deep and thick. "Eat her," he tells Shelly. The words shimmer, heavy in the air.
Shelly moves like she's been hit, pushing her face between her friend's thighs. Deb whimpers, looking longingly up at Sam - she's mostly straight, Sam thinks, but there are surprisingly few straight girls who'll object to getting a hot tongue against their clits when an opportune moment strikes. Sam holds Deb's gaze as he fucks her friend, because women like to know they're all you're thinking about when you're having sex, Sam knows that. In the back of his mind he's figuring out how much time they've got left before Dean gets back (about an hour) and how much of that time he wants to keep them for.
As always, he toys with the idea of giving them to his brother. Dean's been sulking ever since he almost died, but then, he's been pretty withdrawn at the bars, too. He hardly picks up at all anymore. So maybe he wouldn't take it that well.
It's the thought that counts, with gifts, right?
"God," Sherry groans, squirming her hips. Sam can't be bothered to reach underneath; when she starts to whine and pant, Sam knows he's found the right spot and concentrates just a little harder on making those heavy circles they like. If Sherry notices that she's being worked over with the power of Sam's mind, she doesn't say anything, which suits Sam just fine. Her cunt is slicking up nicely and he shoves his hips against hers, spanking her ass with his body. The slap and smack of it makes the beast in his belly lie down and purr - better than the tightest hole, right there. Sherry's ass turns pink and Sam runs his hand over the hot skin, gives it a stinging slap or two with an open palm just because he can.
She whimpers into Deb's pussy and a little flood of come bursts over Sam's cock - beautiful.
La petit mort, he thinks fondly - Jess used to call it that when she was feeling especially pretentious. But no sooner does the thought of death cross his mind than he jerks his attention over to Pamela Anderson's tits, which he's convinced are now made out of pure weapons grade plutonium and thus impervious to harm. He can't think of death or he feels the tingling in his fingertips that means stuttering heartbeats, skipped breaths and that rabbit look in their eyes. He forgets his strength, and the last thing Dean needs to be dealing with right now is walking in on Sam nursing a girl's broken arm - or disposing of the bodies. He'd get that hurt look in his eyes, and Sam can't stand to see it, so he's careful.
When Sheila's done, leaving her claw marks on Deb's hips and inching away from Sam, he draws out of her and then throws her onto the bed, to the side. Deb's ankles are right there, and Sam grips them and drags her down, bedspread burning her ass. She only reaches for him, ready, and so he leans down and pushes inside, feeling the tight heat, the aftermath of the last few hours. "You're wet enough," he tells her, tracing the lines of her face with his fingertips. "I could fuck your ass, if I wanted."
She wrinkles her nose, shakes her head. "Just like this," she begs, clinging to his shoulders. "Please?"
Sam considers making her, but to be honest, her pussy's tight enough that it doesn't matter. Mostly he just wanted to make her squirm.
Later, Dean comes home with a bag full of burgers and fries. Sam can smell it, even over the stink of bodies in the air, before Dean's three-time tap on the door. Lying on the bed, Sam's pretty worn out, so he just thinks the deadbolt open.
Dean comes in, wearing the same tight-lipped grimace he often does now. Sam sighs. He can't shake the feeling that Dean isn't happy, but it doesn't much matter, at the end of the day. So he's uncomfortable. At least he's alive to feel it.
"Good night?” Dean asks, tossing the burgers on Sam's bed.
Sam aims a hopeful smile at him, rubbing a hand over his belly, t-shirt catching. "Good enough. How about you, get anywhere with the librarian?"
Dean drops his keys on the table and sits on the edge of his own mattress, taking his boots off. "Yeah, actually, I think so. There was a map I marked off - think we might be dealing with a Black Agnes."
That's not what Sam meant, but it'll do. "Sure it's not that Native American thing?"
"Nah," Dean says, shrugging his shoulder. "There's no water anywhere near, so I'm pretty sure it's time to load up on a little dynamite."
Sam smiles. Dean almost met his eyes, just there; first time in two weeks. "You just wanna blow something up."
"Dude," Dean says, like that's obvious, and digs into the bag.
It's not much, Sam thinks, grabbing a handful of french fries. But it's a hell of a lot better than nothing.
sam/ofc/ofc, nc-17. slightly-future-fic.
Dean's been gone maybe three hours, out at the library because Sam asked. He does that, now.
One girl's already sprawled across Sam's double bed, naked and sticky, a sheet idly tugged over her hip. She's just staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out her own damn name again. Sam has the other one on her knees, his legs braced apart, cupping the back of her head as she bathes his balls with her tongue, her hands small and delicate on his thighs. The whole room reeks of come and human fluid, nobody's in any hurry anymore.
Sam's hair hangs down in his eyes. He likes to be shielded like that, hide things away so that people can't see. Dean likes it that way, too - it reminds him of the old days, before.
Sam looks down at the girl on her knees, grips her hair in his hand and watches as she opens her mouth on him. The wiry dark hair tickles her nose but she doesn't flinch - good girl. Sam pets her head as he pushes his hips against her; she'll get a reward for that.
He's the Winchester who does this, now. These two came from the bar just up the road; walk in and give 'em the sweet eyes and watch them fall all over themselves for it. Oh, he's so cute; oh, he's so sweet. They don't find out until later that Sam's got an itch living under his skin, a subtle passenger that wants what they've got.
He's careful never to hurt them. Now, as he reaches down to guide his dick into the sweet pink mouth of the one on the floor (Sheila? Shelly? whatever) he's careful not to pull too hard. He pushes deep, deeper, making her choke on it, but not for too long; just enough to let her feel the burn, drag her head away with tears in her eyes and catch her breath. He waits patiently, and then she comes back for more.
Sam knew she would. He can always tell.
The girls he's with now don't remind him of Jessica at all. Jess was smart and good, she had a pure soul and she wanted all of him. Sam takes care these days to choose the girls that Dean would have chosen, before - out for a good time with a total stranger, a taste of danger and then home safe, a story to tell herself when she's older about her wild youth. Give 'em what they want, Sam thinks, and you can ask for almost anything.
"Think your friend's getting lonely," Sam murmurs to the one on her knees, stroking her cheek. "Stand up."
The girl obeys on shaky knees, reaching for his shoulders so she can feel safe. Sam obliges, wraps his arms around her for a long few seconds. She'll never know what she's touching. The blood on his hands doesn't rub off on other people's skin; he's learned that by now.
When she's comforted enough, Sam tugs her away and turns her, facing her toward her friend and pressing himself along her back. "You have her in your mouth," he whispers in her ear. "She was on my dick, when you sucked me. You're already there."
The two women blush at each other. Maybe they're friends, Sam imagines. Maybe they go to school together. "I don't know," says the one on the bed, who's definitely named Deb. Those long legs tug together; she wants to be persuaded.
Sam can oblige. "Spread your legs, Deb.” He can feel the ripple of power behind the words, even if they can't - Deb's long, gorgeous legs splay wide and she even reaches between them to rub her fingertips there, just there. Sam nudges Sandra forward until her thighs meet up with the side of the bed, and then rubs a gentle hand over her back, nuzzles her earlobe. "I'm gonna fuck you now," he tells her, and she shivers to hear the naughty word. Sam would be surprised if anybody ever said fuck to her, instead of make love.
The next shuddering words come as Sam shoves into her cunt from behind, deep and thick. "Eat her," he tells Shelly. The words shimmer, heavy in the air.
Shelly moves like she's been hit, pushing her face between her friend's thighs. Deb whimpers, looking longingly up at Sam - she's mostly straight, Sam thinks, but there are surprisingly few straight girls who'll object to getting a hot tongue against their clits when an opportune moment strikes. Sam holds Deb's gaze as he fucks her friend, because women like to know they're all you're thinking about when you're having sex, Sam knows that. In the back of his mind he's figuring out how much time they've got left before Dean gets back (about an hour) and how much of that time he wants to keep them for.
As always, he toys with the idea of giving them to his brother. Dean's been sulking ever since he almost died, but then, he's been pretty withdrawn at the bars, too. He hardly picks up at all anymore. So maybe he wouldn't take it that well.
It's the thought that counts, with gifts, right?
"God," Sherry groans, squirming her hips. Sam can't be bothered to reach underneath; when she starts to whine and pant, Sam knows he's found the right spot and concentrates just a little harder on making those heavy circles they like. If Sherry notices that she's being worked over with the power of Sam's mind, she doesn't say anything, which suits Sam just fine. Her cunt is slicking up nicely and he shoves his hips against hers, spanking her ass with his body. The slap and smack of it makes the beast in his belly lie down and purr - better than the tightest hole, right there. Sherry's ass turns pink and Sam runs his hand over the hot skin, gives it a stinging slap or two with an open palm just because he can.
She whimpers into Deb's pussy and a little flood of come bursts over Sam's cock - beautiful.
La petit mort, he thinks fondly - Jess used to call it that when she was feeling especially pretentious. But no sooner does the thought of death cross his mind than he jerks his attention over to Pamela Anderson's tits, which he's convinced are now made out of pure weapons grade plutonium and thus impervious to harm. He can't think of death or he feels the tingling in his fingertips that means stuttering heartbeats, skipped breaths and that rabbit look in their eyes. He forgets his strength, and the last thing Dean needs to be dealing with right now is walking in on Sam nursing a girl's broken arm - or disposing of the bodies. He'd get that hurt look in his eyes, and Sam can't stand to see it, so he's careful.
When Sheila's done, leaving her claw marks on Deb's hips and inching away from Sam, he draws out of her and then throws her onto the bed, to the side. Deb's ankles are right there, and Sam grips them and drags her down, bedspread burning her ass. She only reaches for him, ready, and so he leans down and pushes inside, feeling the tight heat, the aftermath of the last few hours. "You're wet enough," he tells her, tracing the lines of her face with his fingertips. "I could fuck your ass, if I wanted."
She wrinkles her nose, shakes her head. "Just like this," she begs, clinging to his shoulders. "Please?"
Sam considers making her, but to be honest, her pussy's tight enough that it doesn't matter. Mostly he just wanted to make her squirm.
Later, Dean comes home with a bag full of burgers and fries. Sam can smell it, even over the stink of bodies in the air, before Dean's three-time tap on the door. Lying on the bed, Sam's pretty worn out, so he just thinks the deadbolt open.
Dean comes in, wearing the same tight-lipped grimace he often does now. Sam sighs. He can't shake the feeling that Dean isn't happy, but it doesn't much matter, at the end of the day. So he's uncomfortable. At least he's alive to feel it.
"Good night?” Dean asks, tossing the burgers on Sam's bed.
Sam aims a hopeful smile at him, rubbing a hand over his belly, t-shirt catching. "Good enough. How about you, get anywhere with the librarian?"
Dean drops his keys on the table and sits on the edge of his own mattress, taking his boots off. "Yeah, actually, I think so. There was a map I marked off - think we might be dealing with a Black Agnes."
That's not what Sam meant, but it'll do. "Sure it's not that Native American thing?"
"Nah," Dean says, shrugging his shoulder. "There's no water anywhere near, so I'm pretty sure it's time to load up on a little dynamite."
Sam smiles. Dean almost met his eyes, just there; first time in two weeks. "You just wanna blow something up."
"Dude," Dean says, like that's obvious, and digs into the bag.
It's not much, Sam thinks, grabbing a handful of french fries. But it's a hell of a lot better than nothing.
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