Bar Room Blow Job
Harry Potter/Sam Winchester
Sam is fairly sure that he is drunk. There's a beautiful man that's just walked into the bar, and he's got black as witching hour midnight hair and eyes so green that plants would die of envy. He's wearing robes too, but that's alright seeing as how it's midnight on Halloween. It's the first Halloween that Sam has known away from Dean, and Dad – but mostly Dean. Sam knows he isn't taking the isolation well. He shifts in his seat, thinking about leaving; when he looks up those captivating green eyes are watching him. Sam isn't really aware of the stranger approaching him, not until smooth fingers brush his cheek.
"Hello there." His voice is like a burbling spring, fresh as English tea.
"Hi, uh…" Sam thinks about scooting back, away – but those eyes and those fingers draw him closer: Sam is breathing in what oxygen the beautiful man above him is exhaling. His breath smells of wild grown lilies and a breaking storm: Sam inhales it. Lips twitch, almost a smile – almost a frown.
"Harry." His beautiful stranger has a name, and Sam will treasure it for fantasies later.
"S-Sam..." He manages to get out, just to keep those eyes focused on him.
Harry takes a seat at the booth – his booth, and Sam sees blue jeans beneath the robes and a shirt that's see-though gold. Harry's chest is smooth and defined, and his nipples make Sam's throat go dry.
"What are you dressed as?" Sam asks, just for something to say. Harry leans closer, licking the shell of Sam's ear.
"What I am." Harry says with a smile that makes Sam's joints ache to move – to get closer, to kiss those lips, to feel the prickly sensation of his facial hair and the scent of his skin. Sam keeps his distance, and breaths in that scent that calls to him – but he thinks. Thinking is both his greatest disadvantage with girls, Dean would say – and his best weapon in the business of hunting, where creatures that leave the trails and traces can be anything and it all is like a big puzzle you have to solve to survive. So, Sam thinks, and he stays still. Danger tugs low in his belly, the danger in this – it's beneath the seduction and need and smell and lust and want to taste…
"W-what are you?" Sam cuts his own thoughts off with the words, and Harry blinks at him, slow and deliberate.
"Tonight?" Harry asks, with a tilt of his head that brings his lips even closer to Sam's neck. Sam feels his pulse jump and his breathing speed up. He doesn't know it but Harry watches carefully as a drop of sweat from his hair tucks shyly into the turtleneck sweater Sam is wearing.
"Yours." Harry purrs the word, licking the trail of sweat on skin. Sam catches his breath; it stutters and starts like a poorly cared for engine. He feels Harry's lips curve into a smile against his skin. There is only one word Sam can think or feel to say to that.
"Yes." Sam groans, neck arching and his body feeling heavy and limp on the plush booth seat. He feels too alive, every nerve seeming to awaken just from being near Harry.
Harry growls against his body, feeling that release – that submission.
Sam can't help but do nothing more then watch as Harry slinks down in the booth, fingers finding and playing with his zipper, running it down, unbuttoning the metal oval and slithering his hand inside Sam's pants. Harry makes a noise like a groan and a gasp, and his head bows over Sam's crouch. Sam looks down at that black head and can't think of what Harry is doing – what Harry is going to do next?
A wet burst of heat and need touch Sam right at the tip of his cock. He bites his lip so not to make a sound, afraid that Harry will stop. Is he serious? Sam thinks, and when that tip of tongue touches cock again, sliding from tip to base, where tongue tangles with wiry public hair. He can't help but gasp, hips jerking up eagerly. Harry pauses and looks up at him, green eyes glittering in amusement. Tease. Sam thinks, and that tongue creeps out to lick at lush lips. With no words but those expressive eyes, Harry promises more to come.
Harry bows his head over Sam's lap, like a worshiper at alter, with that feeling of awe and reverence in the air. Harry's lips set around his tip, sucking at bitter pre-cum, Sam can't help but spread his thighs like some obscene offering for the divine. Slick tongue slides and swirls around him like a living current of pure sensation. Sam is aware that he's panting and gasping and moaning and begging and pleading – he doesn't know what he's saying, but he'd say anything to keep Harry. Sam bucks his hips and Harry takes it, those lips curling over Harry's teeth so Sam can fill the cavern of his throat and touch his tonsils. Harry groans – or makes some kind of noise – and it fills Sam up, vibrating up and down his spine. Sam cries out, his heart flying out of his chest – souring into heaven – it feels like dying, like Sam can't get any better in life then right here and right now and he wants this forever. Harry licks cum off his lips and gives Sam a kiss.
Sam returns it, burns with it.
"What are you?" Sam asks with wonder and awe, his mind gone with his heart.
Harry smiles and his eyes fill up with shining light, like tears – vibrant and very much alive. He isn't human. Sam couldn't feel cold or fear even if he wanted to. What he wants is right in front of him: Harry.
Harry traces a finger from his eye to chin. As if he trails the path of Sam's past (or future?) tears.
"I am the last." Harry says softly, full of sorrow.
"Last?" Sam asks, wants to say last what? But does not – he'll know soon enough, if he only waits.
"Wizard." Harry whispers against his lips.
Sam shudders underneath him, as Harry swallows his gasp, his words, with a kiss. Sam knows what Harry is now, understands – when God created Heaven he made Angels, when God created Earth he made Wizards.
"They all died out, how?" Are you here -alive, Sam says when Harry lets him.
Harry curls against him, tucks his body against Sam, they fit together in angles and length.
"The end is coming, He says." Harry closes his eyes, at ease – at peace, even as his words bring Sam's thoughts to a turbulent storm. Sam does not ask who He is, for there can only be one He. All his life Sam has prayed to God, and wondered if anyone – anything heard, or cared. Now he knows, and wonders how much was heard in Sam's prayers.