----------------------
Manufacture The Situation
----------------------
There is a hand between his legs, pumping, squeezing too hard, but that's alright. It's what he needs. What he wants. The fingers twist upwards at the head, long strokes, then short, but always fast, always too tight, constricting. His breath is rushing out quick and slanted, eyes shut, mouth clenched and teeth cutting into his tongue.
It's finished too soon, a rush, a dull roar of out and over, his hips jerking automatically, his head falling back as he swallows a gasp. His Adam's apple bobs above the thunder of his pulse and he pushes the hand away, cleaning himself with spat-on toilet paper and an efficient hand. The owner of it smirks up at him from where it kneels, waxy red mouth in a too-knowing expression. She stands, black-ringed eyes sly, and pushes a kiss on him, harsh. Steps back with a breath of laughter, leaves with a slam of the toilet door, a smattering of outside's noise echoing.
He drops his head, breaths pulled in through his nose, knees unsteady. When he's ready he walks out of the stall, splashes water on his face and doesn't look in the mirror. He's living life like he's some kind of actor, and he doesn't need to see the falsehood playing his life to know it's true. He doesn't want to see what he's become – becoming. There's been too many nights like this, silent and swift, secret. There'll be too many more. The women always know, they can see him for those scarce minutes where he's up against a grimy wall, panting under their mouths or hands, and it's all the same. Nothing new. What he wants. What he needed.
He can't live like this forever, but for now it's what he has. He walks back into the bar and plops back into the seat next to his brother, watching the world in all its ordinary madness go by – the civilians' surety that everything is just as they perceive it, no more, no less.
"Aw, com' on!" a man shouts a couple of tables over, gesturing with his beer at the TV screen, where some faceless player has let him down. A chorus of groans travels around the bar in sympathy.
"You 'bout ready to go, Sam?"
He looks up from the trapped action of shredding his beer label; "Yeah, Dean. Let's go."
----------------------
Season 2 Sometime... Sam pov. OFC.
Song Inspired By: Action by Powerman 5000.
Uh… dark? And scary? And we hope Sam really doesn't do things like that? Chyeah.