A/N And here's chapter two. Yay! :D ~Sammy
marble hands, marble toes
Chapter Two
Rough hands grip his chin, fingers tight and bruising. There's a muffled curse, low and colorful, and then there's stubble scratching his cheek, burning hot. He's scared, he thinks. Everything's thick and unrecognizable.
"Fuckin' tease," the voice that swore says, "prancing 'round in those damn jeans of yours. It'll cause you all sorts of trouble some day."
'I know', he thinks, and he opens his mouth to say it out loud but his tongue is heavy and too big. All he can manage is a mumble.
"Been thinkin' bout that ass of yours all night, boy. God, the things I'm gonna do to you."
Big hands and rough fingers pull down his jeans.
000
He wakes up to a haze and a pounding headache. His first thought is I'm never drinking again.
His second thought is fuck, I'm late for class because his eyes are closed but internal clock is telling him it's past noon.
His third thought is I need a Tylenol and a shower and- wait, what the fuck because there's a hand carding through his hair and another one resting on his hip.
His eyelids are heavy and stuck together with grime and sleep-dust. He cracks open his eyes just a bit, and god, it's bright out. He groans.
The hand stroking his hair pauses for a moment before continuing, moving slower.
"Shh," a voice says, "it's okay, Sammy. You're okay."
The hand on his hip slips under his shirt and rubs over his skin and he should be panicking; he knows he should be panicking, but he's so tired. His eyelids are weighted and the hands are moving so so gently. His thoughts are cold soup and day old takeout noodles.
He doesn't realize when exactly he falls asleep.
000
He wakes up in a strange bed that's way too comfortable to belong to anybody living in the university dorms, wrapped up in sheets that are silky enough to remind him of the time he spent a night visiting his dad when he was seventeen and resentful and he'd burrowed into his ridiculously high thread-count blankets.
The ceiling is vaulted in a way that makes him feel dizzy and off balance; all high arched cherry wood beams and unfamiliar dark shadows. It looks like the type of ceiling obscenely rich people have to make sure their money piles don't run out of space to grow.
He has no idea why he's looking up at a ceiling like that.
There's a small cough from beside him, and he freezes, because oh shit, he must have been picked up by a Rich Person at the bar last night. Great. Brady's never going to let this go.
The Rich Person coughs again, a strange huff of air that sounds vaguely like a laugh, but short and breathy, like it's being cut off before it can fully form. He turns his head to look at the Rich Person, and wow.
Rich Person is hot.
And also a guy.
A hot guy who's sitting up on the bed and leaning, shirtless, against the solid oak headboard, with eyes so green they should have sonnets written in their honor and lips so plush they can't be real and hair so tousled it's the weirdest combination of sexy and adorable. Not to the mention the freckles.
Rich Hot Guy smiles, a wide flash of white teeth, and yeah, he's definitely got magical powers or something, there's no way can a smile make a hangover headache go away this quick.
"Mornin', gorgeous." Rich Hot Guy says, still smiling like it's fucking Christmas come early.
"Uhm." He says, his mind still foggy and his throat scratchy with sleep, and he clears his throat and sits up, uncomfortable, "good morning, uh…"
"Dean." Rich Hot Guy, Dean, says. He doesn't even look all that put out about having to remind him. He's damn near cheerful about it, in fact. And hell if that isn't even the weirdest thing he's seen in his life.
"Right. Dean. Look, I'm sure last night was great and all, but if you could just get me my clothes, I'll be out of your hair and-"
"You hungry?" Dean asks suddenly, cutting him off. "I bet you're hungry. Whatchya feel like having?"
"You don't have to-"
"I mean, I know it's late, but there's no breakfast police, really." Dean says, and he sounds enthused, "So if you want French toast at two in the afternoon, who's gonna stop you? I'll make you French toast. Unless you want eggs and bacon. I could make you eggs and bacon. And I have Lucky Charms too, if you want. So. What do you want?"
He has to close his eyes for a second and pinch the bridge of his nose when he opens them, because Rich Hot Guy Dean said all that in one big rush without actually stopping to breathe in between and his brain hasn't completely rebooted yet.
"Sam? You okay?" Dean asks, and he sounds so honestly concerned, he feels like a dick for making him worry.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. I'm just a bit hung-over and I need to call my roommate and a taxi to get back home. Any chance I could borrow your phone?"
Dean presses his lips together and shakes his head. "Sorry, but I can't do that Sam."
"Oh. Do you not have a phone? That's okay. I'll find a payphone somewhere."
"Can't do that either."
"What do you mean I can't do that? There's got to be a phone near here somewhere."
Dean just smiles at him. "I mean that I'm not letting you leave me, Sammy. Not again."
There's a flash of pain near his neck.
Unconsciousness follows.
A/N Let me know what you thought in a review! :D ~Sammy