(Getting more sexual. Warnings for asphyxiation. Possibly dubious consent. Guess who thinks Sam is beautiful.)


"Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful."

Not so much as a whine from Sam's mouth but he cranes his head back, lips parted, arching. This is a stranger, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care—he likes to feel good. If that means slipping into a bar with an ID that said he was three years older than in reality, so be it. If it means letting himself be pinned to the bed of the bartender, upstairs, so be it. The bartender is attractive, anyway. A little on the short side, but his eyes, when Sam meets them, are like polished brass, and burn holes into him.

And he calls Sam such nice things.

Over and over and over, a litany of praise. Beautiful, such a lovely boy, so nice like this, so perfect, gorgeous. Sam likes that. It's a different tone from the way Alastair calls him, different from his molasses-dark, veiled compliments. A different kind of heat.

Less like a fever and more like the sun.

It makes that tiny red spot in his mind white out and fade for a moment.

What makes Sam wonder, though, as he listens to the bed springs squeak with the tiniest of shifts, while the bartender moves slowly enough to be noiseless but for his whispered words—what makes Sam wonder, is how easy it all feels. Shouldn't there be resistance, messiness, discomfort, guilt, and so on and so forth? But no. Nothing. It's just like with Alastair, in a way. A little too easy.

Maybe the bartender is something more than he says.

In any case, he sounds very nice when he moans, "good boy."

His grip is like two brands on Sam's hips, and Sam feels like lightning all over, which is strange. Very strange. Tingling through his blood vessels. Hot hands all over him and—he feels, for a moment, like he's ceased to exist completely, and that's never happened to him before but he thinks he might like it.

It also cements Sam's idea that this bartender is not human.

The bartender doesn't kick him out, right away. He makes him lie still in the bed, and personally cleans everything.

The short man actually ends up, on accident, tidying up his entire bedroom while Sam drifts halfway between consciousness and sleep. When he realizes, he's sitting on the floor in front of his bookshelf in the nude, alphabetizing books while Sam watches.

He starts.

"Sorry, kiddo." He drops into bed beside Sam. "I like you. Do you want to stay here all night? I'll make you some waffles in the morning."

Sam shrugs. He signs, "Maybe."

"Alright, you're staying." A crooked grin, and the bartender lays down beside Sam and pulls the blankets up. He reaches over to turn the lamp off, and the room is doused in tarry darkness, split only by the neon letters of an alarm clock in the corner. "Hope you don't mind cuddling, 'cause I'm a burr!"

Sam breathes out the closest thing he has to a laugh, as the man wraps arms around him, surprisingly strong and warm and sturdy.

Very, very different from most of the other men and women Sam has been with.

Sam leaves with the sunrise, and meets Alastair in the basement where they live.

It's a cold and damp location, all concrete and mildew and broken machinery. It's the fourth place they've stayed in the past year since Azazel gifted Sam to Alastair with only the instructions, "Just don't kill him."

It's his least favorite location, if he's totally honest. Wine stains the floor too easily when the glass breaks against the cement. And that's a shame, a shame. But Alastair smiles broad and overly sweet when Sam picks up every little shard and the narrow stem. He says, "Drink it," and he laughs when Sam falls to his knees and licks the wine from the floor.

"Such a greedy boy."

There is wine on Alastair's shoes, so Sam runs his tongue along the leather. Alastair crouches and runs his hand back through Sam's hair. It's getting shaggy, curling into his eyes and past his ears, brushing against the top of his spine if he tilts his head back. Which he does, as he straightens his body and sits on his heels.

Alastair just presses his thumb against Sam's bared throat—pushes down on the soft skin there.

"Silent, silent." A click of his tongue. "Such a tragedy. I would so love to hear your pretty voice."

Sam shakes his head and swallows the last traces of wine in his mouth. Licks it from behind his teeth. Alastair's thumb presses harder—he wraps his fingers around Sam's neck, loosely, gently, almost like a caress, though his thumb still holds pressure. Moves down and pushes at the hollow above Sam's collarbone.

Sam lets out a shallow, hissing breath through his nose.

"July 2nd, 2001. The time is..." Alastair thinks for a moment, as if feeling the atmosphere itself. "8:09... 8:10 am." He stands and pulls Sam up with him and his hand remains around the boy's throat. Fingers brushing against the base of his skull, thumb still bearing down on that soft spot. Harder. He moves into Sam's airspace, like that. Settles his other hand light like a venomous butterfly on Sam's narrow hip. "You are eighteen years and two months old." Tightens his fingers until Sam's breath catches in his throat.

"Fossa jugularis sternalis." He smiles and slides his hand up Sam's side. It catches in the fabric of Sam's shirt for a moment, but only a very short moment. It joins his other hand at Sam's neck and curls together with it, all symmetry and rough fingerprints.

Sam is lightheaded.

"Open your mouth, sweetheart."

Sam does as he is told.

Alastair leans forward, not to kiss Sam, but to breathe his air and hiss it back out—It's like being filled with smoke, especially combined with the dizziness floating through Sam's skull. Alastair's touch, preventing Sam from breathing, simultaneously keeps him oxygenated enough to remain conscious—perks of demonic powers, he supposes. His scalp tingles and his knees weaken, but Alastair holds him up, mouth over mouth, hands like a vice.

"Come, come." Alastair's low mumble is no less discernible despite the proximity of their mouths. He bites Sam's lip and releases him. Sam pulls in a ragged breath—Alastair brushes a finger across his torso and breathing immediately comes easier.

He follows Alastair into the darkest corner of the basement. The coldest, dampest spot. It's where Sam sleeps, most nights, or where he entertains Alastair's thoughtful musings and thirst for knowledge of the inner workings of Sam's body.

The demon's hands are fiery. Where he touches, goosebumps follow, as they are exposed to cool air in the wake of his hot fingerprints. He names off scientific names, as he goes. Bucca, laryngeal prominence, thorax, umbilicus, crista iliaca, et cetera.

"Breathe in," he murmurs against Sam's stomach. So Sam breathes in deeply—allows his belly to rise and his lungs to expand. And Alastair says, "Exhale." So Sam's stomach dips and he lets all of his air out in a long rush.

It's two parts clinical, one part sexual.

Alastair listens to Sam's heart beat and respiration, while his long fingers prod all over and Sam grips the threadbare sheets.

Much too much.

And still, he keeps silent. It's more than habit—it's reflex. It's ingrained. Survival instincts. Alastair can coax him with rotten-sweet words and threats and praise alike, and Sam won't vocalize. He gasps, but his larynx plays no part in whatever breathy sounds he makes, however loud and desperate.

Silence has been instilled in him in such a way that it might never leave.

Alastair doesn't totally mind, though he would like to hear Sam's voice in order to learn more about his body and in order to confirm further domination—dragging just one broken cry from that throat would delight him to no end.

But no.

He focuses, instead, on discovering what, exactly, is required to overstimulate Sam's senses to the point he goes completely limp.

It involves a bit of contortion on Alastair's part, but is worth it in the end.

For the sake of knowledge.