Part the first
Previous turn
You can't move on until you break the pattern.
-0-0-
There are reports that Sam should be writing right now, long dry books all stacked and waiting in his dorm room. They sit like stones in his stomach, looming and daunting as the old-money facades of Stanford’s buildings.
But his roommate scored tickets to Jennifur’s first show in this area for their tour, close enough to walk. That means that Sam’s profs can go fuck themselves, because Sam doesn’t care, he’s going to see Jennifur.
Sam’s heard Jennifur’s music before, blasting in his lungs some nights while he and Mike traded hits and joints in the weeks and months since he started here.
God, Stanford. Living the dream.
Sam drags hard, holds the sweet-sharp smoke in as he hands the joint to Mike, holds it in as the top of his head turns into a sieve and lets the smoke slide out through his ears and eyes and nose.
In the gloomy, darkened room, Sam uses his hunter-trained and honed night vision to watch Mike, his roommate and best friend at Stanford, turn to fit his lips over Kim’s. Mike’s chest folds in, Kim’s chest folds out - her tight shirt pulls tighter, slips-slides down to let the bulge of her breast bubble out nearly to where Sam imagines her nipple is, whenever he lets himself imagine that kind of thing about Mike’s girlfriend, which is only when he’s high.
Which he is right now.
Yellows are snaking loose when Sam tries to pin them down, and Mike and Kim are trading back the same smoke again, tongues sliding easy and strong over lips, teeth. They drift apart, grinning and puffing the last of it onto each others’ chins.
Sam sets his forearms on the metal security railing, hanging his head low and absentmindedly scuffing his shoes through the gritty, sticky residue all over the floor. The cover band is a little off, the drums a little out of sync, not keeping time at all and throwing the rest of the players out of whatever groove they’re trying to find.
He can hear Dean in his head, ranting about the music, telling him exactly why it’s awful or amazing - no, though, he wouldn’t like this song.
Sam’s heard Jennifur before, and. Dean might like them. A little too recent, maybe, meaning that the songs were written during his life. A little too punk, maybe. Or Dean wouldn’t like them because they’re Canadian, only Sam figures Dean would never know that unless Sam told him.
He rolls his forehead on the cold metal, collecting the water condensation gathering there from too many bodies pressed too close.
Shit.
Fuck.
Fucking Stanford, and it’s been nearly a year since he talked to Dean, his only brother, his only Dean, living the dream without Dean and how can that ever be alright?
Sam’s high, so he’s mellow, way way mellow like a low bass string, and he’s alone and lonely, which aren’t always the same. His skin is crawling, in a good buzzing way, and he wishes someone would touch him, and maybe listening to Jennifur wasn’t a great plan because it’s too much like Dean and Sam can’t breathe in past the yellows and browns.
But he’s right up close to the stage, because he’s pathetic and it might make a difference if they play loud enough to knock Dean right out of his head.
He feels a little sorry for the people behind him, so he hunches down, stays practically bent over double, leaning on the railing, five feet away from the stage. Mike and Kim have gone somewhere, maybe Mike’s fucking Kim on the floor further back or maybe Kim’s blowing Mike against a wall. Sam doesn’t know.
He wishes someone would touch him.
And then the cover band gives up and leaves, and the players from Jennifur crash out onto the stage.
Sam stares at the guitarist.
He’s blond, probably not naturally, hair all sticking up and loud, eyes squinting against the stage lights, breathing smoke out cool and even as he lopes across the stage and into place, the last one out, maybe Sam’s age and maybe his dad’s and probably somewhere in between. Black, tight pants and an old, creased, soft leather jacket, gray shirt and a million cord bracelets that tangle on each other and hide his thin wrists. He handles his guitar like it’s more familiar than his own cock.
There’s a hard, flat, wiry kind of strength in there, and all of a sudden Sam knows that if anyone was going to touch him it would be so fucking hot if that someone was this guitarist.
He has to relearn how to read to get the blonde’s name from the flier/tour info thing they gave him at the door.
Billy Tallent.
And then the drummer pounds them in, keeping time solid like waves on the beach, but Sam’s just looking and looking and looking at this Billy Tallent, who doesn’t seem to care about where his fingers go on the frets, only the sounds coming out are still hard and fast and
Dean.
Sam lets himself drift further back, because fans are crushing forward for the main attraction and Sam’s just not that determined.
He tries to crowd Dean out of his head, let the music rumble through his brain. It’s not working very well, but nothing ever really does.
-0-0-
Billy stares out at the crowd, following the beat automatically, leaving his hands to their own devices as he soaks in the screams he can hear over the speakers loud in his ear. His blood runs thick as syrup through his heart, he can feel every beat, hard and squeezing, but tonight won’t be the night he has a coronary, no.
It’s a small gig, cozy sort of, two hundred people out there tops. He felt perfectly justified in a joint just before, because this way he can relax and perform, loosey goosey, no pressure, much.
There’s just the Technicolor lights, caught up in all the smoke in here - jesus, all their fans are a buncha druggies - and the glacial swirl, the ventilation trying it’s damnedest and getting fuck all done about it but stirring the smoke in circles. Billy watches the swirl of it, and it’s pretty, in a fucking stupid way.
And it’s then, just at the end of their first song of the set, that Billy sees some tall motherfucker, looming like a tree, head and shoulders above anyone else in that sea out there. Brown hair, in the awkward I’m-growing-it-out-long halfway stage, curling in close around his ears. His eyes are blown wide, and he’s staring right at Billy, which is just fucking hilarious.
Anyone can tell that Tall Stoner is out of his mind, loose-limbed and twisting with the currents of the people as they push past him. And he’s staring, still, really fixed on Billy.
So Billy catches his eye, gives the hot smirk he knows will get him into a lot of pants in the world, and between the opening chords of the next song he just slips his hand down the length of the neck, caressing, slips it back of and catches his fingers on the frets.
Tall Stoner licks his fucking lips, and Billy laughs, once, quiet enough that it doesn’t mess with Lyda‘s vocals, but he’s just a few deep breaths away from laughing his ass off. Dumbass horny kid.
Billy’s heart keeps beating, fast and hard, like the strings he’s picking, He has to concentrate for a bit, for his solo, and it’s tight, a sprint, all his energy funneled into his fingers until he’s breathing hard, too, and he can feel his sweat at his temples. He’s high with the music, now, more than the pot, and he beams as he catches Tall Stoner’s eye again and feels up his guitar, twisting his hand over and around the top for a second and wishing it was his own dick because he’s hard behind the body, hard in his fucking tight pants that don’t give him any room.
Things pretty much go downhill from there, through two more songs and one kind of ballad that Collin likes, and by the time they launch into the last song of the set Billy’s nearly humping into his guitar. He could probably walk on water at this point, he’s so fucking transcendental, but he’ll settle for being able to walk off the stage without a giant come stain all over his front. Should have fucking worn underwear.
He looks at Tall Stoner for the last thirty seconds of the last song, building up to a crescendo that’s almost as good as an orgasm.
Then everyone’s screaming because, yeah, Jennifur is really that goddamn incredible.
There’s a short period of mayhem as fans decide whether they want to leave now or watch the techies strike the drum kit and stuff, and Billy stares right at his personal fanclub over there and rocks into his guitar, languid, like he does it all the time, which maybe he does, he can’t even remember right now. It feels good enough that he does it again, drops his head back, bites his lip to keep from doing something stupid, and then sets his instrument down.
On his way offstage, he crouches down to talk to a security guy. “Hey, that guy,” Billy starts, and gasps a little because he’s so turned on and out of breath that he can’t even get the air in his lungs. “The tall one, high, hot. That one. You see him?”
The security guy, Billy doesn’t know him, just nods. Yeah. How could he miss him.
“If he asks,” except of course he’ll ask, he’s been watching Billy like maybe he forgot to wear anything out onstage today. “If he asks, let him back here. Get someone to bring him to the greenroom. Okay?”
“Sure, Mr. Tallent,” the guy says, and Billy doesn’t say that he’s not mister anything, just hands him a twenty for thanks.
He stands up again, sees Tall Stoner where he left him, and jerks his head in a pretty unmistakable signal for
get your ass over here and fuck me.
He stalks off backstage before any of the girls out there get the dumb idea that he might mean them.
-0-0-
Five minutes later, a nameless techie chick tells him there’s a giant waiting to see him. Billy goes out into the hall, and yeah, here’s Tall Stoner, looking whacked way the hell out but maybe on the downslope of the best of the drugs.
He’s blushing, tripping over his own tongue. “I’m… Hi, I’m. Sam.”
He’s also sexy, fuck, wide in the shoulders, thick in the arms, narrow at the waist, fucking hot and probably right out of the cradle, but Billy doesn’t care at this point.
He knows he’s obvious, can feel his dick heavy and full in his pants, doesn’t have time for pleasantries. He hooks two fingers in Sam’s belt and pulls, leads him along through the maze of the back part of the club’s stage. It’s tiny, but they make up for it by having everything tucked into a different corner, down three different halls that wind in on each other like fucking spirals or something, fuck, he can’t navigate this place when he’s high and horny.
“I’m Billy, kid, and I’m gonna play it straight with you,” he says, but Sam laughs and cuts him off.
“Not fucking likely.”
“Shut up.” Billy puts his hand on a doorknob, the doorknob turns, ergo the door it’s attached to isn’t locked. He’s pretty good at this rocket science stuff. “You’re not here for your sparkling conversation, that’s what I’m saying.”
Billy peers into the dark room - no time or patience to find a light switch - and figures that it’s a closet for, like, hardware tools and shit or something, like if they need to build a platform for the stage. Fine.
He drags Sam inside by the belt, shuts the door, sets his back against the door, lets Sam pin him there with his weight and his thigh
fuck yes right the fuck there.
Billy’s trying to make lists, otherwise he might forget a step.
Sam laughs, sets his hands on Billy’s hips, grinds into him hard. “That works really well for me right now.”
Billy doesn’t have any great illusions about fucking, because he really isn’t going to last that long, but Sam
(hard long burning into his thigh)
doesn’t seem to have any illusions, either, so that works. Billy sticks his hand between them, rubs Sam through the loose and sliding jeans.
Sam growls, low in his throat, and hitches his leg into Billy’s crotch harder, fuck, fuck, it hurts a little, enough to snap off some of the adrenaline of the stage and settle him into his own bones. Billy’s whining, which he doesn’t care about right now, because he’s busy rubbing himself off on Sam.
Who says, “Hey, mind if I turn on the lights?” and what. the fuck. ever.
“Go for it, if you find the switch, man.”
Florescent lights above, and Billy didn’t realize that he leaned his head back against the door until just now, offering his throat up for some random fuck after a gig.
Long fucking fingers rub into his scalp, messing up his hair, which is really fucking hot and dripping tingles down his spine.
Sam speaks low, next to his ear. “You care if I kiss you?”
Which is good, yeah, because Billy hates it when people assume that they can take anything they want when all Billy wants to give is a handjob or something. Billy grabs a chunk of hair between Sam’s neck and ear and pulls, doesn’t tear, knows his limits, pulls Sam down to kiss the sweet pot taste out of both their mouths, tongue out and wet warm inside and he can feel Sam trying to breathe him in or something, what, what.
Sam tumbles headlong into the kissing part, until the humping part seems mostly incidental, which is a shame since Billy’s pretty sure he wants to get off this train right now.
Like, yesterday.
Quickly.
Billy pops Sam’s button, bullies his fly down when it catches, and sticks his hand down Sam’s boxers, which conveniently give him plenty of room to maneuver.
Sam’s trying to figure out Billy’s pants, which fasten with a weird latch thing just for shits and giggles, so Billy helps both of them out with his free hand.
Sam gives up on kissing coherently, and just folds himself over Billy
(jesus this kid is tall)
and occasionally attempts to eat his ear, all tongue and teeth and hot panting.
“You’re not wearing anything,” Sam says, with a startled kind of reverence. “Under your pants. You’re not…”
Billy bites at Sam’s collarbone, twists his wrist so his palm runs all over the crown like he did to his guitar earlier, and Sam moans and moans and comes all over Billy’s hand and his own boxers.
Billy’s staring at Sam’s face, can’t really look away, and then Sam’s eyes are burning down at him and Sam’s tongue is licking and sucking his own come off Billy’s fingers, Sam’s hand wrapped around the cords Billy wears like bracelets.
“That whole time you were on stage,” Sam says, and drops to his knees all graceful and eager. “That is so fucking hot.”
And then Sam’s blowing him, and Billy just sort of agrees, because, fuck, he’s too close for this.
He says the kid’s name for the first time, and his voice is hoarse. Thank Christ his vocals aren’t worth shit anyway, or he could never get laid. “Sam,” and it’s half warning, half thanks.
Sam swallows, which is hot, and licks him clean, which is also hot, to the point of hurting over sensitive nerves.
Then they lean against the wall, Sam’s weight covering Billy again, trying to catch the air they’ve let go and put it all back inside.
“Shit, I gotta walk back,” Sam says, finally.
“I gotta call a cab anyway, I’ll drop you off,” Billy volunteers, and then they’re tucking themselves back in and straightening up and Sam’s trying to fix Billy’s hair, but probably he’s really just playing with it.
They ride in the cab, and it’s all pretty normal, not making out again, but comfortable next to each other with their legs pressed together, a kind of
hey, I had your cock in my hand/mouth about ten minutes ago, there’s not much more to be embarrassed about at this point.
As Sam’s getting out, because Billy’s an idiot and he doesn’t want to play the stupid if-we-screw-will-you-still-respect-me-in-the-morning game again tomorrow, Billy says, “You got plans, uh,” quick check of his phone for the time, “in about twenty hours?”
Sam bends down to lean in a little. “Why?”
“I’ve got another gig. It’s a little farther, though, and in a different direction, I think. Fuck, I dunno, the LowgrenHaven?”
Sam licks over his teeth. “Yeah, I know about it. Your show’s sold out, though.”
“Oh, really? Damn, never mind, I must be some kinda fucktard,” Billy sneers automatically. “Nah, just come in the back, dumbass. Hang on.” He digs through his gym bag of shit he got out of the greenroom, and comes up with a pass, which they give to band members apparently for the sole purpose of bringing their fucks backstage - not like any one of them actually knows anybody on these tours, especially in the States, especially in California.
Billy shoves the card out toward Sam. “Try not to lose it.”
Sam smiles, a little sadly, and takes it. “You remind me of someone I know. Here.” He messes up Billy’s hair again, dragging him into another kiss, this time just with teeth and no tongue. For a second, Billy thinks Sam’ll just keep tearing into his bottom lip with his pointy incisors until there’s blood everywhere.
But Sam lets go, and it doesn’t feel like there’s any lasting damage.
“Don’t be such a bitch,” Sam advises, and then shuts the door so the cab can drive off.
For a random post-gig fuck, that was pretty fun.
Next turn