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ro-sham-no · 2 months

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It's his first piercing, probably done against his better judgement. The guy who did it had called himself ‘Tool,’ and he was huge, taller and definitely broader than Sam. Their paths had crossed when he grabbed Sam by the waist and tugged him out of a doorway, turning to glance at him with a wink and a smile as he walked through to the kitchen. Naturally, Sam followed him.

or,

The story of Sam Winchester's safety pin initiation into the punk scene at Stanford.

cw: mild blood/gore, oral sex, wincest themes & references, under-negotiated kink (but Sam's into it, re: he's a whore)

Sam's wearing a shirt that's hopelessly sweat-stained, to go along with where it's literally dripping from his skin and too-long hair. The sweat and grime around him blend in with his own in a heady mix of adrenaline and chaos.

He's screaming his throat raw at a show, throwing fists and elbows just to stay upright along with all the other scumbags down in the pit. His height keeps him from the worst of it, but he still takes hits to his own shoulders and jaw. One solid knock gets him in the gums and makes him bite his tongue and cheek in one go, mouth filled with blood instantly.

It tastes like copper. It tastes like sex.

His blood's all thin 'cause he's drunk, so he's bleeding enough for it to drip out of his mouth- crimson spraying out as he shouts along to the lyrics, the words punchy and mean, scratching out from the back of his throat.

He's got a safety pin shoved through his swollen right earlobe, done two hours earlier in some punkhouse bog that probably carried more diseases than he cared to know about. The alcohol is making the fresh piercing drip blood down the side of his face, adding to the crusty brown trail it's already left every so often whenever his ear gets jostled by the crowd. He doesn't notice.

It's his first piercing, probably done against his better judgement. The guy who did it had called himself ‘Tool,’ and he was huge, taller and definitely broader than Sam, and he wasn't afraid to use it - bodily moving people out of the way as he moved through the overcrowded punkhouse. Their paths had crossed when he grabbed Sam by the waist and tugged him out of a doorway, turning to glance at him with a wink and a smile as he walked through to the kitchen. Sam's heart had stuttered in shock and, to his surprise, crackling waves of lust had splashed down the insides of his torso, settling into a low tingle in the spots where the man's hands had been.

It shouldn't be a surprise, though. Not really. In that moment, Tool had so effortlessly made him feel so small, so delicate, and enveloped in a way he hadn’t been since even before he'd left that godforsaken motel room, forbidden from ever returning. He hadn’t felt this specific, intoxicating facsimile of nostalgia since he’d outgrown the only confining force he’d ever known. John had tried to be that, tried to shove Sam into a box of his father’s creation, but Sam had only ever absorbed it (accepted it, needed it) from Dean.

But the feeling hadn’t left when Sam was finally big enough to win in a spar against Dean or anything like that, no. It had slowly started chipping and splintering away when Sam caught Dean kissing a girl for the first time (and then every time after that, when he caught Dean with a girl, or caught him inside one, or caught him coming home from the bar reeking of that specific girl-scent that was simultaneously exhilarating and rancid coming from his brother's skin-).

It had all finally collapsed for good when he’d just turned 17, and Dean was with a girl in the bed that they had been forced to share because they were tight on cash. It was a common enough occurrence by then, but as Sam was waiting outside the door, he heard Dean calling out the girl's name, Sam- ah- Samantha!

So, Sam hadn’t felt held, felt subsumed since then. A feeling like betrayal itched from under his skin, but he didn’t examine it. And maybe it was an illusion from the drinks he'd had already, or from the rebellious company (or from the crushing loneliness), but this random guy in a shitty punkhouse in the fringes of Palo Alto had recreated that feeling so perfectly, just with a simple, thoughtless gesture.

Naturally, Sam followed him. After a lifetime of slipping in and out of towns and spaces and people’s lives, he weaved through the crowd easily, catching up to him as he was in the depths of the punkhouse fridge (is that mold?). They bumped shoulders slightly as he stood, Sam crowded in too close, but excusably so because of the crowd. The man had two beers in hand, and he immediately shoved one of them into Sam's. Sam had a sinking feeling that the guy knew he would follow after him. He ignored it.

“New to the scene, huh? Pretty sure I would’ve remembered a face like that, otherwise,” his gaze scraped Sam raw from head to toe, jaunty smile searing itself into his brain.

Sam smiled ruefully with a nod, blush forming on his face and neck despite his best efforts. “Yeah, just moved here, so…”

He returned the other's gaze quickly, almost unconsciously- he was built, and Sam had to look up to meet his eyes, an uncommon occurrence ever since he'd outgrown John. He had an undone mohawk that was bleached to shit, basically straw- spikey and stiff in a way that suggested he usually put it up with copious amounts of heat and hairspray. Piercings littered his ears and face, with the beginnings of tattoos poking out from all edges of his crew-cut collar. He was dressed similar to Sam, layered shirts that were all various stages of slouchy, but his were all torn up, even worse than Sam's. Worn and repaired repeatedly, it seemed, safety pins and roughshod patches holding together parts of his ratty jeans, t-shirt holes exposing more glimpses of tattoos over his torso. The flash of arousal from earlier returned with a vengeance, starting up a burning heat in Sam's gut.

The guy offered him a hand, “Well, I’m Tool, then.” Sam took his hand instinctively in a firm grip before his brain caught up, right- a name, and obviously “Tool” wasn’t the guy’s government name, and duh, of course, we shouldn’t say our real names, so he scrambled to think of anything that wasn’t his own and the silence was stretching and they’d been shaking hands for slightly too long and-

“Dean! I uh. I'm… Dean.” What the fuck. DEAN?

Tool raised his eyebrow with a slow nod like, Sure it is.

Sam ducked his head with a sheepish smile in response, acknowledging, Yeah, that lie totally sucked. But it didn’t matter. Tool knew why. “Dean” knew why. It didn’t matter.

Tool let him off easy with a clap to the shoulder and a raised beer, “Welcome to the fuckin’ fold, man. Hey-” He turned to somebody slightly off to the side, keeping one hand on Sam's shoulder and using the other to jostle the person for their attention, “Hey, this guy’s a punk virgin, ‘ve you got any pins?”

He turned back to Sam, “We’ve gotta christen you, kid. You’re too clean-looking- they’ll eat you alive if you turn up to the show like that.”

A wad of safety pins, all strung together onto one bigger safety pin, sailed into the side of Tool’s head with a jingling thwack. Sam went to catch it as it fell without much thought, only belatedly noticing with a thrill how close he had to get to the other man to reach for it.

The thrower shouted a loud GOAL! that had Sam laughing as he handed over the pins, “Christen me, huh? What, one beer in, and that’s all I get?”

And if it came out a little flirty, Sam blamed the alcohol. And besides, why not? Wasn't this what college is for? Because you gave him your older brother's name as your own, THAT'S why not.

Tool grinned, “Hell yeah, dude, gotta get you deflowered.”

Sam felt the flush build on his face once more. Deflowered. He looked Tool up and down again, catching minutely on the curve of his bulge in his threadbare jeans before quickly snapping back to his face. He huffed a laugh with a casual, low-toned, “Yeah, alright.” He gestured to Tool's piercings, which gleamed tauntingly in the dim light, “You know what you're doing, right? You wanna stab me?”

A rush of satisfaction ran down his spine as the other man's gaze darkened, roaming down across his body, tongue flitting out to wet his lips as he grinned, “Dean, shit dude- I was just thinking we'd fuck up your threads. You wanna get pierced?”

DeanDeanDean-

Sam nodded, his blood thrumming. It was impulsive, sure, but he needed to get closer to this guy, to get him alone. To soak in the first familiar thing he’d experienced the whole time he’d spent in California.

Tool's grin grew sharp at his nod in a way that made Sam shiver with anticipation, the prey part of his brain lighting up in a warning that had him adjusting himself in his increasingly too-tight jeans.

“Sick, man, let’s move,” he drew out all the vowels, in that funny Californian vocal-fry way. Sam couldn’t help but think about sounds drawn out for different reasons (Sam- ah- Samantha!).

But then he was being pulled out of the kitchen via the hand that Sam hadn’t realized was still on his shoulder, though it was now migrating towards his bicep, gripping just on the right side of too-hard. Following Tool's lead, Sam drained his beer, and they tossed their crumpled cans into a pile in the corner of the kitchen as they exited.

The bathroom - more of a bog, really - was just around the corner from the kitchen, where Tool dragged him inside before shoving the half-hinged door into the frame to effectively wedge it upright and shut. Holes were punched in various places in the drywall, and it reeked of piss and various smokable substances. A lighter was helpfully attached to the (doorless) sink cabinet by a string. The floor gripped at their shoes with an undeniable stickiness.

It was foul. It was perfect.

The toilet didn’t have a lid or even a seat, so Tool guided Sam to sit on the sink counter, face now just at the chest height of his soon-to-be piercer as he stood in front of him. The hand on his arm finally left it, leaving a cold spot in its wake as Tool pulled up the hanging lighter and got one of the safety pins out of the bunch.

“You thinking of an ear?”

Sam shrugged, “Figured I should start off with something simple.” He bared his neck and ear towards the front, his hair subsequently falling down and obscuring it. Sam twitched his hand up to fix it, but Tool got to it before he could, dragging his fingers through Sam’s hair more than a few times, raking through it, soothing and nice. Sam thought it was probably just to make sure the hair stayed on the other side of his head.

He nodded at Sam’s response, flicking the lighter on under the opened safety pin. “The right one? That how you want it?” He met Sam’s eye with a raised brow. He didn’t just mean the placement of the earring.

Sam held his eye as he bit his lip, giving a slow, purposeful nod; he knew what it meant.

Tool knew what it meant, too, giving him a crooked, wry smile. “Me too, but you knew that,” he spoke out in a low register, voice caressing the air. Sam shivered, swallowing heavily and leaning into the hand that was back in his hair.

Tool used it to tilt his head slightly back into the light, letting go to line up the supposedly sterilized pin to his ear: no ice, no wipes, just a raw, soot-covered safety pin.

“Fuck, ‘s gonna look so good on you…” it came out absently like he didn’t really mean for Sam to hear it. Sam’s hand came up involuntarily to rest on the other’s waist in front of him, holding him close as he thumbed almost fondly over Sam’s ear. His hand was cupping Sam’s face in the process, big enough to fully span the side of it. He crowded in closer, to the point where Sam’s nose and chin bumped along his chest and upper abdomen (just to steady him, surely).

Sam couldn’t help but lean in, inhaling the scent of sweat and stale cigarette smoke that permeated the shirt he was now resting his face against.

He looked up to see Tool bite his lip (obviously just in concentration) as he finally began to line the safety pin up, Sam feeling the prick of it against his earlobe. “You want a warning, kid?”

Sam hummed a “no,” eyes now closed and pressed up against the man in front of him. He was held. Subsumed. At peace, even if it was just for a moment.

Tool finally grabbed his ear, bracing a finger against the back of his earlobe and holding it firm as he placed the pin against it. The pinching sensation increased sharply with the applied pressure until it quickly crested and Sam felt it stab through him, making his breath catch in a rush of pain-hot-arousal.

He slowly exhaled, though it quickly turned into a groaning hum as Tool fiddled around with the safety pin to close it, tugging and moving the pin around in a way that already ached. It shouldn't have been erotic, feeling the metal minutely slide back and forth inside of him, but it had Sam shifting uncomfortably in his jeans all the same.

The torso Sam was resting against rocked with repressed, disbelieving laughter and a muttered fuck as the fingers on his ear slid off the pin and snapped down onto his earlobe. It made a jolting, swollen pain ring dully from Sam’s ear straight down the inside of his torso, washing down low into his gut and warming him from the inside out. He managed a minute flinch, trying to keep up appearances, but it was belated and unconvincing.

In a voice full of amused apology, Tool spoke up, “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, man, it's making it all slippery.”

Sam could feel the drops of blood already sliding down his neck, backing up his story. He laughed softly in response, giving his own muttered apology with a shrug, still resting against the other man with his eyes closed.

After a moment of continued fiddling, Tool clicked his tongue and gripped Sam’s hair none-too-gently with his less-bloody hand to pull his head back further into the light, ripping Sam away from his warm resting place. The separation caused a protest to escape the younger man’s throat before he could stop it, the pull in his hair then making his breath pick up in a way he couldn’t quite get a handle on.

Tool tsk-ed again after another failed attempt, more of that pinching, sore pain racing down Sam’s spine as he missed, making the younger man slowly open his eyes just in time to see Tool stick his bloody fingers in his mouth and then wipe them down the front of his shirt, getting them dry once more.

That was Sam’s blood in Tool’s mouth, Sam’s blood down his throat when he swallowed-

He moved his face in extra close next to Sam’s ear so he could see, breath tickling the side of his neck. He gripped Sam’s ear and the pin ever so carefully, and with a muttered fucking finally, he got it closed. He dropped his head onto Sam's shoulder, suffering a quiet bout of exasperated laughter that fanned onto Sam’s skin.

Sam laughed with him, sliding the hand he had on the man’s hip up to pat his back sarcastically, “Jesus, man, talk about a first try.”

Tool laughed harder at this, finally pulling back to wipe a hand down his face. “Fuck- Dean- I’m sorry, I swear I’ve done this before- you’re just bleeding so much, dude, it’s everywhere…” he trailed off, looking over Sam’s ear which was still tilted toward him. He bit his lip as he looked down at Sam, “It looks sick, though. You should leave it like that for the show, the blood goes hard.”

(“Fuck- Dean-”)

Sam stood up from the counter then, the two men just barely fitting between the wall and the sink as they faced each other. He still had to tilt his head up to meet Tool’s eyes, and he did so with a deceptively sweet smile that turned sharp just at the last second, “I should leave it for the show, or I should leave it for you?”

All at once, he was being manhandled again, shoved up against the opposite wall where Tool had just been standing. Tool’s hands were in his hair and gripping his face, his middle and ring fingers framing Sam's right ear and brushing the brand-new piercing in the process. Sam groaned into the thin sliver of air between them as his ear throbbed, the pain more and more insistent ever since Tool had really begun to fuck with it, trying to get it closed.

Tool was breathing heavily into the space between them, tongue darting out over his lips and looking for all the world like he was about to swallow Sam whole. Sam’s lips parted in response, inhaling on Tool's exhale, head tilted back and eyes fluttering with desire-lust-need, tauntingly pushing his chin up to tease at a kiss, trying to goad the other into it.

He succeeded, Tool moving in on cue like he aimed to devour, laying a claim he didn’t have the authority to enforce. Their lips pressed together hard, mouths opening to each other far too soon, brutal and wet and dirty. Lips got caught harshly between teeth - though Sam wasn't sure whose - and then everything tasted like blood and spit.

Kiss, “Fuck, look at you,” kiss, “just a punky little fag, huh?” kiss, “You want dick that bad,” kiss, “just willing to shout it out to everyone,” kiss, “who sees you with that pin?”

Sam was actively gasping for air, trying not to waste his limited breath on a moan but trying to nod at the words. Needy, like a whore who wouldn't even get paid by the man molesting her oh-so-perfectly, but to whom she would return over and over again, instantly addicted and helpless to it.

Tool crowded in closer and closer throughout their kiss, pressing himself in a long hard line up against Sam, up against the disgusting, smoke-stained wall. Sam gave back in kind, opening his legs to slot them further together, hot brands pressing against each other through their zippers. Tool didn’t waste a second in gripping Sam’s hips, putting one knee between both of Sam’s and hiking the younger man up his own thigh, Sam now straining on his tip-toes to accommodate the position and still keep their mouths deliciously connected.

They ground together gracelessly, Sam keeping his hands clutched around Tool’s head and neck, not unlike the way girls would often do with Dean, alternating between putting his thumbs at the man’s jaw, gripping the back of his neck, and sliding up further to grip at the strip of hair from his ‘hawk. In turn, Tool groped everywhere he could reach - Sam’s ass, his sides, his chest. Tweaking his nipples, harsh and mean, eliciting a sharp sound from the back of Sam’s throat, who pushed his chest up into the grip wantonly, encouraging, begging as the other man abused his flesh.

The caresses migrated upward, up and up until Tool was thumbing at the piercing again, Sam’s nerves lighting up with pain - sore and aching and making him weak at the knees. Such an innocuous spot of skin made into such a fiercely erogenous zone, all from a simple piercing. Entering onto a higher plane of existence that only pain can bring you to, as Sam knew well.

The tugging on his lobe made him cry out viscerally, cock throbbing in his jeans, breaking the kiss to gasp out, “Please, unh- please-”

He didn’t know what, exactly, he was asking for - he’d never even done anything like this with a man before, now just acting on pure instinct and unadulterated lust.

But Tool seemed to have an idea as he pulled his head back, panting harshly, responding, “Yeah- ah, Dean- yeah.”

He gave one more devastating grind of his thigh into Sam’s groin before ripping himself away and leaving Sam to sag against the wall with a whine. But Tool kept them connected, pushing his hands down on Sam’s shoulders until the younger man couldn’t help but fall to his knees with a painful thud onto the sticky floor.

(“Yeah- ah, Dean-”)

Tool gripped his chin with one hand and undid his belt and zip with the other, forcing Sam’s head up to face him, “You wanna be a faggot so bad, Dean? Fucking prove it.” He shoved his jeans and boxers down, letting his, fuck, extremely proportional dick swing tantalizingly in front of Sam’s face.

Sam swayed forward instinctively, mouth sagging open and eyes fluttering as he inhaled deeply, salt and days-old sweat permeating the air in a way that should’ve been revolting, but just made Sam’s cock leak in a way he could feel.

His thoughts were like syrup. Dean. A giant dick waving in his face, reeking and gorgeous. Dean. His mouth watered.

A mean laugh sounded above him, “Already cock stupid, of course. Undo your zip, but don’t take your pathetic excuse for a dick out. You won’t need it.”

Sam quickly fumbled to do as he was told, entirely cock drunk just as Tool predicted, not even comprehending the insult but turned on further nonetheless. His cockhead showed obscenely through the giant wet spot on his boxers, poking out of his jeans and catching on the zipper teeth.

“I’m gonna fuck your face, and you’re gonna like it, got it?” Sam moaned pathetically with a nod, feverishly anticipating it.

He reached his hands up to grab Tool’s hips to steady himself but was slapped away, “Hands behind your back, you don’t get to fucking touch.”

Sam hurried to comply, gripping his hands together at the small of his back, dropping his mouth open further with his tongue out instead, leaning forward desperately with an open-mouthed moan to try and get Tool’s cock in his mouth. Aching to get his first ever taste of man-sweat-sex - real and tangible, not just something he could faintly smell on Dean's skin after midnight in a motel room.

Tool’s hands gripped his hair painfully tight, making Sam’s dick weep into the fabric covering it. The hands held his face back, pushing his head into the wall and keeping it there, pinning his arms and hands awkwardly between his back and the wall. The man shuffled forward, shoving a boot between Sam’s legs as he went, Sam’s hips fucking forward onto it even as he tried to stop himself, trying to be good.

Sam kept his jaw limp, eyes crossing as he focused on Tool’s dick as it pushed forward. Tool used Sam’s hair to tilt his head this way and that, rubbing his cockhead against his face, demeaning and dreamy, wiping pre-cum all over. Sam was whimpering embarrassingly with each initiation of contact, twitching his face to try and tilt it into his mouth.

Finally, Tool acquiesced, muttering through a laugh, fucking cockslut.

The slide over Sam’s tongue was slow and oh-so-blissful, Tool feeding him his dick steadily and not stopping, even when Sam gagged, instead pushing further into Sam’s throat with a groan. He kept it there, adjusting Sam’s head slightly to rub the crown over the closure of Sam’s throat, making him cough and wretch further, completely unused to the stretch in his esophagus.

He was tearing up enough as he gagged that it spilled onto his cheeks, head in a haze as his oxygen was cut off. Through the haze, Sam idly noted that it must’ve been his lip that split earlier, during the kiss, as the drag of Tool’s dick into his mouth brought in a fresh wave of blood that made the truly eye-watering taste all the more sweet.

Tool finally started to fuck into Sam’s mouth, pushing Sam’s head against the wall and drawing back with his hips just to thrust forward, again and again, at an entirely heady pace.

He grabbed roughly at the piercing, clearly an obsession at this point, groping Sam’s bleeding ear with a sickeningly smug moan, muttering, “Getting so wet, fuck,” as he shoved his cock further down Sam’s newly devirginized throat, his fingers covered in Sam’s blood.

Sam gave an instinctive, unavoidably high-pitched squeal that came out garbled and obscene, combined as it was with the disgustingly thick, wet sounds of getting face fucked within an inch of his life. He twitched uselessly, both into and away from the grip on his ear, indecisive of wanting or hating it, effectively rocking into the rhythm set by Tool’s hips. The man let go at his squeal but moaned with the vibrations, clearly expecting the response and reveling in it.

After his ear was let go, the movement of Tool’s legs was enough to draw Sam's attention back to his own neglected groin, the steel-reinforced toe of Tool’s boot shifting against and underneath him, shoved far back enough to tease at his balls. It ground into him almost painfully hard and without remorse, ratcheting up Sam’s arousal further and further, the combined sensations of the pressure from Tool’s shoe and the friction from his own zipper and boxers entirely intoxicating.

Sam’s head kept knocking into the wall with the force of Tool's thrusts, arousal too twisted up in his guts to brace himself, and the man above him not doing a thing to stop it. It was disorienting, more than the blood leaking into his mouth or from the side of his head or even the distinct lack of air making its way into his lungs, keeping him solely focused on the repetitive thud-thud-thud of his head slamming into the wall.

He barely had enough cognizance left to register the deep uh-uh-uhs that Tool was steadily letting out in time with his set rhythm. His breath was getting harsher and harsher, hands turning fidgety and restless, accidentally wiping blood further onto Sam’s face. It was far enough forward on his cheekbone that Sam could look down and see it, a deep, shiny crimson.

It was all Sam could do to stay upright, compliant like putty in Tool’s hands, dutifully gasping in air when allowed, and obediently keeping up as much suction as he could manage, even though his jaw ached with it, unused to the awkward strain. All of it combined to raise Sam increasingly higher into the aether, senses inundated with the thrillingly new and yet heartbreakingly familiar ministrations of masculine domination.

Sam was fucking up onto Tool’s boot in earnest now, whining and twisting in place, desperate for friction but keeping his arms demurely locked behind his back, willingly following orders for the first time in his life. He blinked pretty cocksucker tears out of his eyes as he let his gaze roam over Tool’s figure in front of him, taking in as much as he could, memorizing it, leading Tool to meet his eyes with a punched-out groan, reaching down to thumb away a tear track on Sam’s cheek.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty like this. Gorgeous little whore, drooling all over the place,” he pressed his boot up even further under Sam’s dick as he continued to slam into the back of Sam’s throat, making Sam drive onto it harder, Tool’s laces and his own jeans’ zipper chafing his cock raw. “That’s it, slut, grind that dick on me… ‘s it turning you on, getting off on my boot like that? Bet you’d wanna get stepped on, huh? You’d let me grind you into the fuckin’ floor.”

Sam nodded with a pitiful moan, inhibited by his mouthful but captivated by the imagery of Tool’s words, hips pumping and surging forward erratically, pushing him humiliatingly closer to the edge. So, so close, but it wasn’t enough, tears of frustration welling up as he just couldn’t quite manage to get there.

Tool read the expression on Sam’s face like a book and laughed at him, gripping his hair tight, “Aw, Dean, you’re so close… What's stopping you? Not a good enough whore to get off on just this?”

Sam lit up with simultaneous shame and arousal, his brother’s name firing up neurons he didn’t know existed, sending nauseating arousal racing right through him, reeking of guilt and disgust.

Tool’s own rhythm was starting to falter now, jostling Sam’s whole frame as he started pulling his face forward to meet his thrusts. He was biting his lip, not focused on Sam at all - using him like a toy, just a cocksleeve for him to fuck.

In his distraction, he moved his grip from Sam’s hair to the sides of his head, clutching around the back of it with his fingertips and subsequently grinding the palms of his hands into Sam’s ears, smashing Sam’s bloody earlobe and safety pin harshly between his hand and Sam’s skull-

An absolutely wrecked, screaming moan ripped its way out of Sam’s throat, tears instantly pouring down his cheeks from the sharp, violent pain. He choked and gagged on the cock in his mouth, torso twisting around involuntarily with the raw intensity of it, completely electrifying. The cumulative tenderness of a fresh piercing that had been fucked with over and over again in such a short time ultimately resulted in a specific kind of agony, unlike anything Sam had ever felt. Unlike being shot, stabbed, scratched, bitten - unlike even a thumb being shoved inside an infected wound, which was its own special sort of pain.

A fresh wave of blood poured out from Sam’s ear, splashing all warm and wet down the side of his neck as Tool pulled away, startled by the sound of his scream. The air filled with the smell of rust.

The hot-mean-lightning sensation still rang through Sam’s system even after Tool let go, forcing him deliciously close to the edge. His hands shot forward to grip Tool’s leg and keep it from escaping, exerting the strength he’d gained from years of grappling big, buff older brothers. Trapping Tool’s leg between his own, thrusting against it, keeping the man's cock deep in the recesses of his throat.

The pain, the smell of blood, the cocksucking adrenaline - they all combined to finally, finally scratch the itch in his brain just right, and he shot over the edge with a wail, coming so hard he could see stars. He kept thrusting against Tool’s leg through his orgasm, pinning him against the sink and humping him like a dog, whining and scrabbling with his hands against anything he could grab, ending up with fistfuls of denim and cotton and the skin underneath.

He pulsed shot after shot of hot, sticky release into his boxers, all drawn out as he felt Tool’s dick twitch and throb in his throat as he clutched at Sam’s hair with a stunned, moaned-out warning of his own release, shaking apart above him. Sam drew back just enough to get the satisfaction of salty, bitter come sliding down the back of his tongue and throat as he swallowed it down with a moan.

He kept suckling and teasing at the man’s dick, feeling more than a little mean now that his high was starting to taper off, still forcing Tool up against the sink and making him just take it.

“A-ah! Stop- dude,” he was actively pushing at Sam’s head now, voice a little shaky, which made Sam laugh around him before he gave one final sucking, too-rough pull on his cock, just to be an asshole, and then finally letting him go.

Sam leaned back against the wall, collapsing into (more than slightly hysterical) giggles, still a little drunk, high off of adrenaline and remembering Tool’s scared reaction when he’d screamed in pain, which was supremely funny to him in that moment, for whatever reason.

Tool shoved his pants up past his ass in an attempt to save himself from potential health hazards and then collapsed down to the disgusting floor with him, joining in on the laughter as they both panted through the sharp afterglow. They were soaked with sweat, clothes and hair wet with it, more than a little blood spread between them, belatedly drying on their skin as they cooled down.

They sat for a second before Tool spoke up, infuriatingly smug, “Dude, your ear is gonna be so fucked.”

And when Tool didn't make it to the show later? Well, Sam thought, surely his freshly-broken nose had nothing to do with it.

#5k+ words #bloody sam winchester #my beloved #do NOT @ me about the accuracy of the 90s NorCal punk scene okay #i wasn't there i'm SORRY #(#18+#under-negotiated kink #mild blood and gore #wincest #but only mentioned/referenced #sam winchester/original male character #spn #sam winchester #punk sam winchester #ro writing tag #)

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