SAM WINCHESTER
FRIDAY
'Here we go,' Sam groans to himself. Even before he opens his eyes, a wave of nausea swells, sour, in his mouth. A bass drum pounds at his right temple. This is nothing new; it's the story of his life. A migraine and his penis in someone else's hand, like most mornings.
He half-heartedly argues, but soon finds his own hand pressed hard enough into the small of a back to leave a wide, pink print in the expanse of pale flesh. The fingers of his other hand curl around a sharp hipbone. Sweat burns Sam's eyes. It drips thick from the edge of his nose and slides salty between his lips.
A hoarse voice barks from beneath him. "Harder, Sam. Harder. God damn it, fuck me harder. Oh my God. Yeah. That's my big boy. Like a … unh. Like an animal."
Sam's mind shuts off. Teeth grit. Hips pound like pistons. He fucks like a pet machine.
"Oh, yeah. Make me pay. Make me pay, baby. Give it to me, Sam."
His eyes squeeze tight. "I'm gonna come."
The body below him pulls away. Sam shudders at the loss and grabs the base of his cock. Denim blue eyes peer up at him. Castiel's lips wrap around the head of his cock. Expert fingers knead Sam's sac as Cas greedily drinks him down. Sam whimpers. He molds into the touch like putty.
Then, it's over.
The pleasure declines too quickly. It leaves his head spinning. His insides churn noisily, all queasy-hollow. Sam's heart beats too fast. Bile still coats his tongue. For a moment, panic overtakes him. 'Am I going to throw up? Oh god. I'm going to throw up. All over the bed.'
By some minor mercy, he doesn't, though. He slumps forward on trembling, weak hands and knees. 'Like a whipped slave.' Sam sniffs loudly. He wipes the mucus and sweat from his burning hot face with the back of his arm. He drops himself heavily, breath still labored.
Castiel rolls his eyes and jerks the pillow from underneath Sam's head to cover his erection, flushed what must be a painful purple. "You know how much I hate it when you stare."
Sam mutters a worn apology.
Eventually, Castiel twists his body around him, constrictor close. Sam's skin crawls as cold fingers draw patterns on his chest. He imagines himself pushing away, rolling aside, covering up, running, yelling, crying. In reality, he just lays there, staring up at nothing while Castiel toys with him. "You still love me? You love me, don't you? You're not still angry at me, are you, baby?"
Castiel purrs like a house cat, but he is feral and savage. He can and does bite.
Sam lays motionless, hands limp at his side like cornered prey, his eyes fix on the ceiling fan. "No."
"Of course you're not." Cas teases over the tip of a long, jagged scar that licks around from the back of Sam's thighs.
Those ugly, old wounds are behind him, both figuratively and literally. Sam easily forgets about them until moments like these, when Castiel reminds him. "My naughty boy. You must have been so bad. Bad like me, when you were little. Wish I had known you back then. You're too good, now. Too good, Sam."
The way he strokes is cruel in its gentle relentlessness, like Chinese water torture. Cas leans on his elbow and gazes into Sam's face with a devilish grin that fades with the timing of a stage performer. "He didn't mean anything to me, you know?"
"I know." Sam sits up. He tosses his unsteady legs over the edge of the bed.
The drummer in Sam's head is doing a bebop solo now. He pours four of the extra strength Tylenol he keeps on the bedside table into his palm. He downs them dry and gets up to go to work.
DEAN SMITH
FRIDAY
Dean's eyes rove around the office. It's about the size of a broom closet. No windows.
Probably never been aired out, which would explain why it reeks. Smells like every sweaty kid that ever sat in conference left behind his dirty socks and armpit odor. On the other side of the white cinder block wall, he can make out the muffled laughter and clanging of locker doors.
New school, same routine. Story of his life. Dean has been in more schools than he has fingers and toes. You go in. Do what you got to. Keep your head down. Don't get attached. Don't let anybody get attached to you. Easy.
Dean deliberately straightens his spine and rests his right ankle over his left knee. Left arm
draped along the thigh. Right elbow on right knee. Chin poised thoughtfully in right hand. Face
muscles relaxed, but engaged. This is 's third position to "convey confidence and command control." In quick succession, he unfolds himself and tries out position four, then five, before he settles for the classic slouch. At least he had nailed the handshake.
The old man sits back in his chair and clasps hairy knuckles over that little bit of paunch that seems to plague all guys over 40. Dean makes a mental note to do sit-ups every day for the rest of his life. There's a scuffed up name plate on the desk: Coach John Winchester.
"So, let me get this straight, son. You want to play ball, but you don't want anybody to know about it."
Son. 'There it is.' Dean doesn't say anything about it. He crosses his arms tight against his chest. He needs the coach to take this seriously. This is his only condition, but it's non-negotiable. "I just can't be in the papers."
"You do realize that the local paper writes something about high school ball every week. You're saying I should ask them not to include any articles that feature my new starting quarterback?" The coach's eyebrows raise as he waits for an answer.
Dean sits up straight again. He swallows, despite his dry mouth. "They can write whatever they want, as long as they don't use my name."
Coach Winchester's whistle taps against the edge of the desk when he sits forward. He rests his elbows there and clasps his meaty hands in front of him. "You in some kind of trouble, son?"
'There it is again.' Dean does his best to just ignore it. He's had enough men who aren't his father call him 'son' over the years to know that it's an entitlement old men feel.
Or it's something else.
The coach is not bad-looking and his players seem to respect him. Dean hasn't decided yet. He's not sure how he'll react if all this paternal attention morphs into something else. He's been down that road enough; he'll know when it's coming and then decide whether he rolls with it or knees the guy in the balls.
Dean Smith only gets fucked on his own terms.
No matter their intentions, these men don't seem to give a shit that words like 'daddy,' 'father' and 'son' are like a loaded gun pointed right at their temples. Dean has freaked out enough over those words over the years that he's finally able to just let them slide down his back like water off a duck. He looks right into the coach's dark eyes and lies. "No."
"No, sir." The coach corrects.
Dean's eyes narrow. Then, he lets them land on the shelves of trophies in the glass case behind the coach. "No, sir."
"Mmhm." The old man flicks a thumb over his shoulder. "You ever earn one of those?"
Dean shakes head. He slumps down in the steel chair again. "Don't stay anywhere long enough for that. Like I said: probably be gone again before spring."
"You know, son, I haven't seen the caliber of tryout you gave in a long time. You keep giving me your A-game and I will make sure you remain anonymous. There anything else you need?"
"No, sir." That was all Dean needed to hear.
He stands to shake the man's hand and get the fuck out of his claustrophobic office. On his way out of the door, the coach calls after him, "By the way, Mr. Smith. My daughter informs me that you had the honor of being her first kiss."
Dean's entire body goes stiff as a board as he freezes in the door well.
Daughter? First? Honor? What? The? Fuck?
"I only got one rule for the boy who dates my little girl: You make her cry, I make you cry."
Dean Smith has banged more than his fair share of eager girls all around these great United States. That being the case, he maintains a strict 'no virgins' policy. It's a long story that he doesn't tell.
He glances around to make sure he doesn't have an audience before he creeps under the bleachers in the otherwise abandoned gymnasium. He cocks his head at the heavenly sight of a tight ass in tight jeans. Jo even brought a picnic blanket and is on her belly, reading. He had considered not showing up at all. Standing them up sends a clear message. But this is situation has just become delicate.
She smiles up over her shoulder before sitting upright to face him. Dean groans at her strawberry pink lips and soft, cornsilk hair. As she leans toward him, he raises an accusing finger in her adorable face. "You're the coach's kid?"
"So?"
"Why aren't you a cheerleader?" That wasn't what he meant to say.
She has the looks and the body. Even if she wasn't any good at it, her father is all the connection she needs.
Jo frowns, "My dad says people make assumptions about cheerleaders."
'He's not wrong.'
"I'm in the band."
"And you told him about …" Dean flicks that same incriminating finger back and forth between them.
"I tell my dad everything."
He puts another few inches between himself and that buttermilk skin. "That's not normal."
Jo folds the corner of her page and closes the book. "He's not as scary as he seems."
"He seems like ex-military?"
She nods, exchanging the book for something that crinkles from her backpack. "Marines."
"I'm assuming he owns weapons."
"Everyone around here does." Jo opens the package and offers Dean a Twinkie.
He flinches away from the snack cake like it's of the Devil. "How is that not scary?"
She takes a dainty little nibble and he can smell the damn thing. All that high fructose corn-syrupy goodness whistling at his nostrils like a siren singing 'Enter Sandman.'
"He really likes you. Or your arm, but it's kind of the same thing with my dad. He's happy we're dating. He told my mom that watching you play was like being alive for the second coming."
Dean ignores the compliment. Bigger fish.
Jo is licking creamy filling from her lips. The worst part? This girl doesn't even know what she's doing. The blood rushes from his brain directly to his boxers. He takes a deep breath and wills himself to look away from her.
That gives his mind at chance for a quick replay. " Wait. Are we dating?"
"You're so silly." Jo laughs and presents the second delicious vending machine pastry.
Dean narrows his eyes at it. For the first time, he feels genuine sympathy for Adam's dilemma.
And that chick only had an apple.
"It's fine. I swear. I already told him that I would invite you to his birthday party." Jo is still holding out the golden sponge cake, waiting for him to take it.
"You told him I was coming?"
"I told him I would ask you." Her head tilts to the side, real cute. She's asking.
Dean's fingers twitch with the temptation to brush her hair back over her shoulder. "So, in other words, if I say no, you gotta go back and tell your dad I turned you down?"
She just shrugs, as if she hadn't thought of that.
Dean snatches the Twinkie from her hand and stuffs the whole damn thing into his mouth. "Awesome."