Because Evil Sam is sexy;
Title: weak hands are calling
Pairing: Sam Winchester/Tom Hanniger, Sam/Dean/Tom
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sam is gorgeous, dark and brutal and full of violence. What he says just makes sense...
Warnings: Depravity and gore; non-con; spoilers for MBV
Wordcount: 2550
A/N: This was written back-forth in comments with rei_c & woodstarling - without them it wouldn't exist. Several bits are directly from their fingers and minds, thank you for sharing that, ladies. Many thanks to veronamay as well, for the beta.
Tom meets Sam Winchester at a gas station in Ohio. The guy is leaning against the wall outside, a cigarette between his lips. Smoke curls around him, a halo beneath the neon store light.
"Wouldn't go in there," he says and Tom's hand stills on the door handle. The guy is tall, dark hair hanging in his face and when Tom catches a glimpse of the stranger's eyes they look odd, wrong. It's the light, has to be, to turn those gorgeous green eyes into something black, maybe even something yellow.
Has to be the light.
The metal of the handle is cool beneath Tom's palm, but when he looks through the glass, he jerks his hand away. The cashier is laid out, blood pooling beneath his body. Tom gasps.
"Like I said - " the guy begins.
Tom's hands shake as he reaches for his bottle of pills. He has trouble opening it - child-proof, yeah, right - and fumbles, drops them. Someone else, someone with a large, strong hand, is right there to catch them. Tom looks up, opens his mouth to say thank you, what did you do, anything.
The stranger is right there, holding out the bottle with a smile on his face.
"I'm Sam," he says. "You should come with me. I’ve been waiting."
Tom swallows; looks back to the body inside.
"C'mon," Sam says. He holds out his hand and Tom takes it, hesitant. The scent of gasoline floods his senses, brimstone and fire. Sam leads him to a slick black Porsche, leather interior; flicks the cigarette back as they screech away into the night.
Flames consume the station, a bright fire licking after them in the rear view mirror.
It turns out that Sam Winchester is a very persuasive individual.
Every word that falls from his lips should be crazy, insane even, but Tom's spent ten years trying to run from his terror and it didn't work then - how could it work now?
So he embraces it; stands behind Sam and watches him work. It sinks into Tom's mind, makes his heart race. There are memories dancing in the back of his skull, blood and gore, a deep chasm that aches to be filled. His fingers itch to follow in Sam's wake, to trail over the jagged cuts and dark bruises littering those that Sam touches.
Sam is gorgeous, dark and brutal and full of violence. What he says just makes sense and then there's no reason to stay on his medication, is there? Especially when Sam gets that look in his eyes -
At first, Tom keeps losing time. He hates it, hates the feeling of waking up and not knowing why he's covered in blood and trembling, but. But Sam - Sam strokes his thumb over Tom's cheek, smudging blood and sweat and dirt and tells Tom that everything is gonna be okay. It's all going according to plan.
Turns out Sam doesn't need to use words to be persuasive with his mouth, either.
Sometimes, when Tom dreams, he hears Sarah asking him why, how could you, you aren't safe, you need to get away. But then somehow Sam's there, in his dreams, in his mind, telling him it's all right. And when Tom wakes up and opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Sam. The first thing he feels is Sam. And so he doesn't think about Sarah much, anymore, except that she did something she shouldn't have - and every once in a while, he still hears her screaming while he sleeps.
He feels safe, now. Protected, loved; something he hasn't felt since before that night in the mine, all those years ago. Before the only person he really trusted ran away and left him for dead. Before -
Sam's in him now, making him stronger and steadier than any other presence ever could. He's surrounding him, hard muscles and a steady gaze. Sam sees Tom for what he is and doesn't for a moment make him feel like the shattered shell he used to be. Somehow - god, so deep, so intense - Sam finds a way to slot the broken pieces of him back into place, all the mixed up fragments, some so brutal and terrifying, but with Sam - oh, god, Saaam - he feels whole.
Sam watches Tom carve up a young waitress. She's small and soft and she begs so sweetly before she dies. Tom's covered in her blood, up to his elbows and down his front, fingers twitching. Sam kneels beside where he's hunched over her open chest, cradles Tom's jaw in one large palm. With the other, he pulls the knife from Tom's fingers; not his, a gift from Sam. Said it was special.
Rubbing his thumb along Tom's cheek, Sam coos softly against his skin, bringing him back, and Tom's shaking subsides.
Tom leaves bloody streaks down Sam's neck, pulling him closer, and kisses him roughly. Sam surges forward, biting at Tom's mouth and presses him to the ground. He can see the girl in the corner of his eye, can smell her blood and he presses his mouth to Sam's ear and whispers, "More."
Tom watches them flock to Sam. He looks at all of them, looks close and hard. Some of them look weak, frail, but he watches one girl push over a man bigger than Sam and sit on his hips. The man fights and fights but he can't get up.
They look weak but they're strong, inside, strong like Sam. Tom wants to be that strong, that powerful, and when he's up to his elbows in blood and viscera, Sam kneels next to him. "They're nothing like you," Sam murmurs in his ear, reaches out and nibbles at his earlobe. "They aren't as good as you are." Tom feels anything but good, yet he flushes at Sam's praise, turning his attention from the body on the floor to stare at Sam's mouth.
One of them is called Ruby. She and Sam disappear every so often. Tom gets jealous at first but Sam always comes back to him, Ruby standing at the door like she can't - or won't - come in to the room he and Sam share. She looks like she envies him, like she wishes she could be where Tom is, next to Sam, under Sam, around Sam.
He resists the urge to stick out his tongue and kisses Sam instead, lets Ruby watch. Her eyes gleam coal-black, blacker than a mine, blacker than the darkness when he loses time and can't remember anything. Before Sam, Tom would have shivered. Now he just laughs at her.
He laughs at her and he laughs at the others, because they look weak but Tom looks strong, and he laughs because he's the one at Sam's side while they kill and kill and kill.
He laughs until Sam leaves with Ruby one day and doesn't come back.
He's cold, most nights, and sleep is as elusive as the memories he tries to dredge up. Happy thoughts, think happy thoughts, days by the creek, his fingers twined with hers, smiles wide and bright. Sunlight dapples through the trees, glinting off her hair and the water is cool and shallow. The rocks are slick.
Tom wakes up gasping, images of blood tricking over skin, brains spilled out over the shore. His skin prickles with the phantom chill of ice water.
He's cold, still. Countless motel rooms, tasteless greasy food and he follows the trail of bodies Sam leaves behind, presses on and on, determined.
He's not being left behind, not again.
He finds them in a church. Bodies litter the floor; some slumped in pews, the dark stain of blood gone black slicking the front of pretty Sunday dresses, rosary beads dangling from limp fingers. A priest lies face down on the steps of the altar, golden cross rising from the torn skin of his back. Light filters through colored glass, painting the scene in vivid greens, harsh yellows, and violent reds. It's beautiful.
And Sam stands in the middle of it all, no shirt, no shoes. Ruby kneels at his feet, head tipped up in supplication as Sam's arms spread. His chest is covered in swirling symbols, blood-inked designs slowly distorting as they melt away with the sweat that covers his skin. He glimmers in the light, eyes dark and wanton and Tom's breath catches at the sight.
It's been too long, too many miles without Sam's touch, and Tom strides up the aisle, kicking aside limbs that fall in the way. The path to Sam is crimson, but it's no matter when Tom's fingers tangle in the dark mess of Sam's hair once again, crushing their lips together. His hands skid over Sam's chest, slick and hot and when he falls to his knees, Tom's palms come away red.
"You left," Tom whispers, deliberately ignoring the glare Ruby shoots his way. He's soured her game, but Tom knows his place now, knows exactly where he belongs. The fond look in Sam's eyes as he looks down upon Tom assures him of that.
"Yes," Sam says, fingers curling around the back of Tom's neck. He pulls Tom up snug, denim scratching lightly against his cheek as Sam angles his face, points his gaze. There's a man huddled against the front pew, eyes wide and unblinking, jaw set hard. He's staring at Sam, emotions churning in his eyes and Tom hisses when Sam's fingers clench tighter, digging into the back of his skull. The man has his face. The man -
Sam chuckles, dark and easy, and lets Tom go. "We had to make a stop to pick up my brother."
There are tiny dust motes floating in the air, swirling around in the dying light of day. Tom remains on his knees, watching, waiting. His throat is dry.
"Dean," Sam says. He beckons the man with a crook of one slender finger. "Come here."
The guy doesn't budge, but makes a choked sound, eyes flitting from Sam's face to Tom's and back. Sam sighs, more weary than Tom has ever seen him.
"Dean," he repeats. Sam's voice is shot through with meaning and he lets his arm drop at his side. "Don't make me - come here."
The guy's face scrunches up, eyes slipping shut in agony. He rises from the pew and walks over, every motion jerky, like a stop-motion film Tom remembers seeing once upon a time. His eyes are shiny and wet when he finally comes to a halt beside Sam, throat working hard. Sam wraps one hand around Dean's arm and pulls him against his side, then looks back down at Tom.
"This," Sam says, stroking his thumb over Tom's cheek - petting, placating - "is my brother. He doesn't - how can I put this - doesn't approve of our mission."
Dean snorts, then gasps, the sound echoing against the high ceilings, as Sam digs his fingers into Dean's side. Turns his attention away from Tom and places the very same hand that had been caressing his cheek on Dean's.
"But he's a good soldier, aren't you, Dean?" The guy shudders, attempting to twist his face away when Sam presses their foreheads together, breathes hot and heavy against Dean's cheek. Tom can see the outline of Sam's cock in his tight jeans, knows how the heat of blood trickling down his arms, the helpless thrash of his victims leaves him wound up and ready to fuck. A flash of anger slides through Tom, sharp knife through butter, and he wants to pull his blade from the sheath at his side and ram it up into Dean's gut just so. His hands tremble with want when Sam leans in and slides his tongue over Dean's lower lip, promise in his words. "Just needs a bit of...convincing."
Jealousy flares inside Tom as he watches Sam manhandle Dean over to the altar, pressing him face down against the marble slab. He'd go willingly, he would, and there's no reason for Sam to -
"Quiet!" Sam hisses, and both Tom and Dean flinch at the sound, the command in that voice. Ruby chuckles beside Tom and rises to her feet.
"As fascinating as this little display is sure to be, Sam," she says, "I've seen enough of it to last the next few decades." She squeezes Tom's shoulder as she walks by and he pulls away. Slicemurdermaimcutthatprettyfaceapart and then she's gone, the church doors banging loudly behind her.
White-hot fire burns behind Tom's eyes, the rage alive and thrashing inside him. The feeling only intensifies when he looks back to see that Sam has stripped Dean down, clothes strewn about the altar, pale, freckled skin tossed upon it in offering. The bare slope of Sam's naked skin does little to quell the anger rising.
"Come," Sam commands, and Tom follows his order, happy or not.
Dean thrashes atop the slab, crying out in agony when Sam shoves himself inside; Tom doubts there was any preparation involved. Sam fucks like he fights, rough and brutal, pinning Dean's arms down, riding out the struggle Dean makes. Tom stands to the side and stares.
"Gonna remind you, Dean, gonna - god, so tight." Sam's hips snap furiously, sharp cries falling from Dean's lips and Sam shoves in harder, faster. One hand comes up to pull Tom in by his shirt. "Get it out," Sam says, sliding his palm down to cup Tom's cock.
Tom does as he's told. It's easier than waking up from the darkness.
"Gonna fill you up, Dean," Sam's whispering now. He's pressed tight to his brother's back, fingers clutching Dean's hips so tightly that Tom can see purpling marks begin to bloom in their wake. "Tom here - Tom's a good boy too, always such a good boy for me - Tom's gonna shove his hot, pretty cock down your hot, pretty throat and the two of us," and oh, there's a wave of pleasure at the praise that races through Tom's body, makes him ache with want, "we're gonna slit you right open, Dean. Make you remember what it feels like to belong, to be mine."
It's fast and furious. Dean's face is flushed red when Tom forces his way past his lips, drool and salt-slick tears easing the way. He trusts, matching the punishing rhythm that Sam sets, watches Dean's eyes go wide with pain, watches the reflection of himself gag and choke and the thrill shoots up Tom’s spine faster than he could imagine.
Sam pulls Tom in by the nape of his neck, tongue thrusting into his mouth, dirty filth falling from his lips when they part, when Sam gasps and fucks in deep one final time and Tom shorts out, can feel every nerve burning with the fire of Sam's touch, of Dean's mouth on him, of -
"Gonna have him lick me out of you," Sam says, breathless. His palm skirts over the knobs of Dean's spine. "Gonna let you have him, too. Gonna share."
Tom pulls away, watches Dean's eyes slide shut, hears the agonized whimper he makes while pressing his cheek to the cold, hard marble. "Come, Tom," Sam says.
Tom does.
Pairing: Sam Winchester/Tom Hanniger, Sam/Dean/Tom
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sam is gorgeous, dark and brutal and full of violence. What he says just makes sense...
Warnings: Depravity and gore; non-con; spoilers for MBV
Wordcount: 2550
A/N: This was written back-forth in comments with rei_c & woodstarling - without them it wouldn't exist. Several bits are directly from their fingers and minds, thank you for sharing that, ladies. Many thanks to veronamay as well, for the beta.
Tom meets Sam Winchester at a gas station in Ohio. The guy is leaning against the wall outside, a cigarette between his lips. Smoke curls around him, a halo beneath the neon store light.
"Wouldn't go in there," he says and Tom's hand stills on the door handle. The guy is tall, dark hair hanging in his face and when Tom catches a glimpse of the stranger's eyes they look odd, wrong. It's the light, has to be, to turn those gorgeous green eyes into something black, maybe even something yellow.
Has to be the light.
The metal of the handle is cool beneath Tom's palm, but when he looks through the glass, he jerks his hand away. The cashier is laid out, blood pooling beneath his body. Tom gasps.
"Like I said - " the guy begins.
Tom's hands shake as he reaches for his bottle of pills. He has trouble opening it - child-proof, yeah, right - and fumbles, drops them. Someone else, someone with a large, strong hand, is right there to catch them. Tom looks up, opens his mouth to say thank you, what did you do, anything.
The stranger is right there, holding out the bottle with a smile on his face.
"I'm Sam," he says. "You should come with me. I’ve been waiting."
Tom swallows; looks back to the body inside.
"C'mon," Sam says. He holds out his hand and Tom takes it, hesitant. The scent of gasoline floods his senses, brimstone and fire. Sam leads him to a slick black Porsche, leather interior; flicks the cigarette back as they screech away into the night.
Flames consume the station, a bright fire licking after them in the rear view mirror.
It turns out that Sam Winchester is a very persuasive individual.
Every word that falls from his lips should be crazy, insane even, but Tom's spent ten years trying to run from his terror and it didn't work then - how could it work now?
So he embraces it; stands behind Sam and watches him work. It sinks into Tom's mind, makes his heart race. There are memories dancing in the back of his skull, blood and gore, a deep chasm that aches to be filled. His fingers itch to follow in Sam's wake, to trail over the jagged cuts and dark bruises littering those that Sam touches.
Sam is gorgeous, dark and brutal and full of violence. What he says just makes sense and then there's no reason to stay on his medication, is there? Especially when Sam gets that look in his eyes -
At first, Tom keeps losing time. He hates it, hates the feeling of waking up and not knowing why he's covered in blood and trembling, but. But Sam - Sam strokes his thumb over Tom's cheek, smudging blood and sweat and dirt and tells Tom that everything is gonna be okay. It's all going according to plan.
Turns out Sam doesn't need to use words to be persuasive with his mouth, either.
Sometimes, when Tom dreams, he hears Sarah asking him why, how could you, you aren't safe, you need to get away. But then somehow Sam's there, in his dreams, in his mind, telling him it's all right. And when Tom wakes up and opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Sam. The first thing he feels is Sam. And so he doesn't think about Sarah much, anymore, except that she did something she shouldn't have - and every once in a while, he still hears her screaming while he sleeps.
He feels safe, now. Protected, loved; something he hasn't felt since before that night in the mine, all those years ago. Before the only person he really trusted ran away and left him for dead. Before -
Sam's in him now, making him stronger and steadier than any other presence ever could. He's surrounding him, hard muscles and a steady gaze. Sam sees Tom for what he is and doesn't for a moment make him feel like the shattered shell he used to be. Somehow - god, so deep, so intense - Sam finds a way to slot the broken pieces of him back into place, all the mixed up fragments, some so brutal and terrifying, but with Sam - oh, god, Saaam - he feels whole.
Sam watches Tom carve up a young waitress. She's small and soft and she begs so sweetly before she dies. Tom's covered in her blood, up to his elbows and down his front, fingers twitching. Sam kneels beside where he's hunched over her open chest, cradles Tom's jaw in one large palm. With the other, he pulls the knife from Tom's fingers; not his, a gift from Sam. Said it was special.
Rubbing his thumb along Tom's cheek, Sam coos softly against his skin, bringing him back, and Tom's shaking subsides.
Tom leaves bloody streaks down Sam's neck, pulling him closer, and kisses him roughly. Sam surges forward, biting at Tom's mouth and presses him to the ground. He can see the girl in the corner of his eye, can smell her blood and he presses his mouth to Sam's ear and whispers, "More."
Tom watches them flock to Sam. He looks at all of them, looks close and hard. Some of them look weak, frail, but he watches one girl push over a man bigger than Sam and sit on his hips. The man fights and fights but he can't get up.
They look weak but they're strong, inside, strong like Sam. Tom wants to be that strong, that powerful, and when he's up to his elbows in blood and viscera, Sam kneels next to him. "They're nothing like you," Sam murmurs in his ear, reaches out and nibbles at his earlobe. "They aren't as good as you are." Tom feels anything but good, yet he flushes at Sam's praise, turning his attention from the body on the floor to stare at Sam's mouth.
One of them is called Ruby. She and Sam disappear every so often. Tom gets jealous at first but Sam always comes back to him, Ruby standing at the door like she can't - or won't - come in to the room he and Sam share. She looks like she envies him, like she wishes she could be where Tom is, next to Sam, under Sam, around Sam.
He resists the urge to stick out his tongue and kisses Sam instead, lets Ruby watch. Her eyes gleam coal-black, blacker than a mine, blacker than the darkness when he loses time and can't remember anything. Before Sam, Tom would have shivered. Now he just laughs at her.
He laughs at her and he laughs at the others, because they look weak but Tom looks strong, and he laughs because he's the one at Sam's side while they kill and kill and kill.
He laughs until Sam leaves with Ruby one day and doesn't come back.
He's cold, most nights, and sleep is as elusive as the memories he tries to dredge up. Happy thoughts, think happy thoughts, days by the creek, his fingers twined with hers, smiles wide and bright. Sunlight dapples through the trees, glinting off her hair and the water is cool and shallow. The rocks are slick.
Tom wakes up gasping, images of blood tricking over skin, brains spilled out over the shore. His skin prickles with the phantom chill of ice water.
He's cold, still. Countless motel rooms, tasteless greasy food and he follows the trail of bodies Sam leaves behind, presses on and on, determined.
He's not being left behind, not again.
He finds them in a church. Bodies litter the floor; some slumped in pews, the dark stain of blood gone black slicking the front of pretty Sunday dresses, rosary beads dangling from limp fingers. A priest lies face down on the steps of the altar, golden cross rising from the torn skin of his back. Light filters through colored glass, painting the scene in vivid greens, harsh yellows, and violent reds. It's beautiful.
And Sam stands in the middle of it all, no shirt, no shoes. Ruby kneels at his feet, head tipped up in supplication as Sam's arms spread. His chest is covered in swirling symbols, blood-inked designs slowly distorting as they melt away with the sweat that covers his skin. He glimmers in the light, eyes dark and wanton and Tom's breath catches at the sight.
It's been too long, too many miles without Sam's touch, and Tom strides up the aisle, kicking aside limbs that fall in the way. The path to Sam is crimson, but it's no matter when Tom's fingers tangle in the dark mess of Sam's hair once again, crushing their lips together. His hands skid over Sam's chest, slick and hot and when he falls to his knees, Tom's palms come away red.
"You left," Tom whispers, deliberately ignoring the glare Ruby shoots his way. He's soured her game, but Tom knows his place now, knows exactly where he belongs. The fond look in Sam's eyes as he looks down upon Tom assures him of that.
"Yes," Sam says, fingers curling around the back of Tom's neck. He pulls Tom up snug, denim scratching lightly against his cheek as Sam angles his face, points his gaze. There's a man huddled against the front pew, eyes wide and unblinking, jaw set hard. He's staring at Sam, emotions churning in his eyes and Tom hisses when Sam's fingers clench tighter, digging into the back of his skull. The man has his face. The man -
Sam chuckles, dark and easy, and lets Tom go. "We had to make a stop to pick up my brother."
There are tiny dust motes floating in the air, swirling around in the dying light of day. Tom remains on his knees, watching, waiting. His throat is dry.
"Dean," Sam says. He beckons the man with a crook of one slender finger. "Come here."
The guy doesn't budge, but makes a choked sound, eyes flitting from Sam's face to Tom's and back. Sam sighs, more weary than Tom has ever seen him.
"Dean," he repeats. Sam's voice is shot through with meaning and he lets his arm drop at his side. "Don't make me - come here."
The guy's face scrunches up, eyes slipping shut in agony. He rises from the pew and walks over, every motion jerky, like a stop-motion film Tom remembers seeing once upon a time. His eyes are shiny and wet when he finally comes to a halt beside Sam, throat working hard. Sam wraps one hand around Dean's arm and pulls him against his side, then looks back down at Tom.
"This," Sam says, stroking his thumb over Tom's cheek - petting, placating - "is my brother. He doesn't - how can I put this - doesn't approve of our mission."
Dean snorts, then gasps, the sound echoing against the high ceilings, as Sam digs his fingers into Dean's side. Turns his attention away from Tom and places the very same hand that had been caressing his cheek on Dean's.
"But he's a good soldier, aren't you, Dean?" The guy shudders, attempting to twist his face away when Sam presses their foreheads together, breathes hot and heavy against Dean's cheek. Tom can see the outline of Sam's cock in his tight jeans, knows how the heat of blood trickling down his arms, the helpless thrash of his victims leaves him wound up and ready to fuck. A flash of anger slides through Tom, sharp knife through butter, and he wants to pull his blade from the sheath at his side and ram it up into Dean's gut just so. His hands tremble with want when Sam leans in and slides his tongue over Dean's lower lip, promise in his words. "Just needs a bit of...convincing."
Jealousy flares inside Tom as he watches Sam manhandle Dean over to the altar, pressing him face down against the marble slab. He'd go willingly, he would, and there's no reason for Sam to -
"Quiet!" Sam hisses, and both Tom and Dean flinch at the sound, the command in that voice. Ruby chuckles beside Tom and rises to her feet.
"As fascinating as this little display is sure to be, Sam," she says, "I've seen enough of it to last the next few decades." She squeezes Tom's shoulder as she walks by and he pulls away. Slicemurdermaimcutthatprettyfaceapart and then she's gone, the church doors banging loudly behind her.
White-hot fire burns behind Tom's eyes, the rage alive and thrashing inside him. The feeling only intensifies when he looks back to see that Sam has stripped Dean down, clothes strewn about the altar, pale, freckled skin tossed upon it in offering. The bare slope of Sam's naked skin does little to quell the anger rising.
"Come," Sam commands, and Tom follows his order, happy or not.
Dean thrashes atop the slab, crying out in agony when Sam shoves himself inside; Tom doubts there was any preparation involved. Sam fucks like he fights, rough and brutal, pinning Dean's arms down, riding out the struggle Dean makes. Tom stands to the side and stares.
"Gonna remind you, Dean, gonna - god, so tight." Sam's hips snap furiously, sharp cries falling from Dean's lips and Sam shoves in harder, faster. One hand comes up to pull Tom in by his shirt. "Get it out," Sam says, sliding his palm down to cup Tom's cock.
Tom does as he's told. It's easier than waking up from the darkness.
"Gonna fill you up, Dean," Sam's whispering now. He's pressed tight to his brother's back, fingers clutching Dean's hips so tightly that Tom can see purpling marks begin to bloom in their wake. "Tom here - Tom's a good boy too, always such a good boy for me - Tom's gonna shove his hot, pretty cock down your hot, pretty throat and the two of us," and oh, there's a wave of pleasure at the praise that races through Tom's body, makes him ache with want, "we're gonna slit you right open, Dean. Make you remember what it feels like to belong, to be mine."
It's fast and furious. Dean's face is flushed red when Tom forces his way past his lips, drool and salt-slick tears easing the way. He trusts, matching the punishing rhythm that Sam sets, watches Dean's eyes go wide with pain, watches the reflection of himself gag and choke and the thrill shoots up Tom’s spine faster than he could imagine.
Sam pulls Tom in by the nape of his neck, tongue thrusting into his mouth, dirty filth falling from his lips when they part, when Sam gasps and fucks in deep one final time and Tom shorts out, can feel every nerve burning with the fire of Sam's touch, of Dean's mouth on him, of -
"Gonna have him lick me out of you," Sam says, breathless. His palm skirts over the knobs of Dean's spine. "Gonna let you have him, too. Gonna share."
Tom pulls away, watches Dean's eyes slide shut, hears the agonized whimper he makes while pressing his cheek to the cold, hard marble. "Come, Tom," Sam says.
Tom does.