Don't Dream It's Over – Chapter 3 – Sammy Goes a-Whoring
Money isn't hard to come by when you are prepared to do anything you have to do to get it. There are places in every city - even in every nameless backwater burg - where men go to satisfy their particular hunger of the flesh. For Sam, it was a simple matter of finding those places, parking himself, and hanging out that metaphorical "For Rent" sign.
After packing his meager belongings and leaving a terse but not unkind note for Bobby, he had jumped in the Impala and hit the highway. As he put miles behind him, something tight and ugly inside him relaxed just a little. He rolled down the window even though it was barely 40 degrees. But since that night he didn't seem to have any perception of things like temperature, or distance, or even time except as they served to advance or hinder his purpose.
He was headed to the Tillamook County region of Oregon, having heard through the hunter grapevine that an unusual number of demons seemed to be gravitating there for reasons as yet unknown. Sam cared less about the reasons than about the opportunity this presented to interrogate a number of hellspawn about Lilith's whereabouts.
He had had a surprisingly brief conversation in his head on the way - the upshot: of all the methods he could use to make money he would avoid those that involved direct violence or overt criminal behavior that might bring him unwanted attention. Almost no money left, though; he had spent his last eighty dollars topping off the Impala's hungry tank, so he needed to score some cash quick; he was hungry, thirsty and wanted a hot shower and a real bed. He briefly considered finding a pool game to hustle, but it turned out he had a taste for something else tonight.
Sam sat at the end of the bar in a not-at-all-bad-looking food-&-watering-hole on the edge of downtown (if you could call it that) Grand Island, Nebraska after driving the I-80 for the previous 9 hours; he'd bought a shot of Jack and a bottle of Samuel Adams – throwing back the former in one swallow and then taking a healthy swig of the latter. It was around 11pm on a Tuesday; the place wasn't crowded. He took another swallow and did a casual visual circuit of the room.
There; alone at a table near the hallway to the men's room. Dark, expensive suit, medium height and build with dark hair chasing a receding hairline - not unattractive for all that, early 40's maybe, but ruined by the sour aura of furtive guilt that Sam could almost smell across the room as the man's eyes met his for the briefest instant. Obviously on the DL then, Sam thought, nodding almost imperceptibly and slanting his eyes toward the hallway. He slid off his barstool, sauntered across the room and down the short hallway to the men's room. It was no more than two minutes before the mark pushed open the door to the wood-paneled restroom with its old-fashioned, smoked-glass lighting and brass fixtures. There were three roomy stalls; Sam was in the last one – the door still open. He could hear the mark's uncertain steps approaching. Sam reached out and pulled the mark inside. The guy seemed stunned – maybe he was used to being the one in control of such encounters – but Sam's training and instinct demanded that he retain absolute control over these transactions and the easiest way to do that was to immediately put the mark off balance. As soon as the man was in the stall Sam closed and latched the door, backing the mark against it using the hard length of his body.
Sam took the man's head – not ungently - between his long-fingered hands and kissed him vigorously and thoroughly, stealing his breath and any words he might have been planning to say. When Sam finally released the mark's mouth, the man sagged a little as if his knees might give out, his eyes unfocused and hazy with lust. "Ummh..."
Sam leaned down, brushed his lips across the mark's ear, down the side of his neck and back up, whispering, "I know what you want."
He slid his hand down the mark's arm, grabbed his hand and pressed it into the front of his own jeans. "Like that don't you? Want that in you..."
"How – how much?"
"Hundred."
Without hesitation, the mark reached his free hand in a side pocket of his pants, withdrew five twenties and pressed them into Sam's hand.
" Gonna rock you, man – so good," Sam breathed into his ear.
How chilling yet how satisfying it was to be able to infuse his voice with heat and excitement when he felt neither! No – not quite true, to be honest. His dick was feeling quite a lot, throbbing away in his pants. The rest of him was absent – he felt as if he were watching himself from some distance away - seeing himself turn the mark around smoothly and push him forward until he stood with legs spread over the commode – his hands flat against the wall behind it. Sam stepped up behind him, aroused, yet strangely relaxed now, completely in control and seething with a feral energy. Sam reached around with both hands, deftly undid the mark's belt and trousers; he could smell the sweat, almost taste his arousal mixed with fear. He grabbed the mark's right hip, and pulled him toward him as he simultaneously guided his slick, sheathed dick to the mark's butt cheeks, easing them apart…
Soft, guttural moans interspersed with low, growled whispers issued from the last stall for some minutes, ending in a choked, gasping shout of release, then only a breathy silence for a time. Sam stepped back and away from the mark, his dick in its spent rubber still achingly hard. He rolled off the rubber and tossed it in the commode, then wrestled himself back into his jeans. The mark turned to face him, fumbling with his clothes.
"Ummh, what's your name?"
"Val."
"Val." The mark breathed it out on a sigh. I – that was - if I wanted to find you again, how could I?"
"You can't." Without another word, Sam walked of the stall, out of the restroom, and out of the bar. The hundred felt good in his pocket and Sam considered it easy money. Not as profitable as hustling pool maybe but it required less effort, all things considered. Anyway, Dean has always been - (No. Can't think that name - not now. Especially not now.)
It was still early enough to make more money, and even though he wanted only a shower and sleep, he turned in the direction of downtown and headed for the train depot where he'd be likely to snag some well-heeled businessman.
Sam came awake completely and all at once – chased out of sleep by God knew what nightmare. Pale light suffused the room; dawn, by his reckoning. Work to do.
He would make new ammunition for the Colt. He had just the one bullet left (the one he had saved for himself), so he needed more for the other, non-demon killing he had to do. First thing was to inventory whatever silver he possessed then acquire enough to cast a dozen .45 caliber bullets. He found he didn't have much. Time to go to church…
Churches were like a hunter's Home Depot. After visiting several houses of worship, Sam had selected a rather drab-looking Catholic church, its Gothic, shadowed, darkly-wooded interior housing a number of weighty pure silver candelabra, snuffers, holy water basins, censers, salvers and the like. After jimmying open a rectory door, Sam went methodically from room to room collecting the items he sought. He stopped last at the marble basin near the door, dug his flask out from a hip pocket and filled it with holy water. Returning to his room, Sam assembled his equipment and set to it. He worked with nerveless precision and focus, sweat rolling down his temples, down his neck and into his collar as he bent over the glowing crucible with its cache of liquefying silver. There were incantations to be chanted, sigils to be carved into the bullets at each step, and as he worked, Sam fancied that the black energy that fueled his desire to destroy Lilith would likewise infuse itself into each bullet as it was cast – supercharging it with the lethal intent of its maker.
By nightfall, Sam had 12 silver bullets standing upright on a pure white linen altar cloth. They were beautiful, perfect, their hand-finish gleaming. And there was still time to catch a couple hours of sleep before work.