part the third
Previous part
-0-0-
On Thursday, hiking across town on two different buses and over roughly ten blocks of walking, Sam is pretty pleased with himself.
First off, he hasn’t managed to fail any of his classes - or even fuck up really noticeably in any of them. Even when he gets distracted and it just sort of hits him, all of a sudden, that that guy? Who plays guitar in that band? That band that is pretty popular, actually?
Totally had Sam’s cock up his ass.
Also, tonight, even though Sam’s really really really sure that he’s never going to snort coke ever again ever in his life because jesus that shit hurts for fucking days in like all his joints and bones pretty much constantly…
Despite that part, Sam bought some pot off Mike before his left, so tonight he and Billy can have mostly-mellow sex, and it won’t have to be at full make-your-bones-creak velocity.
Sam’s ridiculously early to the show, which is just sad, because he has a sinking feeling that he’s been bouncing on his toes and whistling the whole way or something, and that’s just.
Billy’s not Dean, and Sam knows that, but even if Billy’s channeling Dean’s very soul, Sam shouldn’t be all chipper like this.
Because a two-night stand does not a relationship make, and it’s intensely pathetic, even if tomorrow night will be one week, and Sam couldn’t look himself in the eye if he ever attached the word ‘anniversary’ to one week, because, seriously, pathetic.
He shows the backstage pass to the bouncer, and the guy just waves him in all easy and simple.
Sam doesn’t feel up to telling Billy, “I was so excited about coming here that I showed up an hour early, and yes, I am in fact a thirteen-year-old girl, despite my cock to the contrary,” so he stays down on the floor, people-watching, marveling that he’s not wearing the condemning under-21 stamp on his hand, and if he orders something at the bar, he won’t even be carded.
Some girls are dressed dirty and torn and angry, up on the stage, setting up, not even playing yet. There isn’t much of a crowd, but enough anonymity for people in the corners to be smoking up already - Sam can smell it, sweet on the back of his tongue.
His elbow jostles the upper arm of someone next to him, kind of hard, like he hasn’t done on accident since he started growing and didn’t stop until his hands were too far away to control properly. He turns right away to apologize, “Sorry, I wasn’t looking.”
She’s gorgeous, soft blue eyes and a pink mouth that’s curled in on the sides, always a little bit happy and smiling, and her skin’s tan all over, and her blond hair falls soft and straight down her back, and, wow.
Sam knows, distantly, that he’s just stuttered to a stop like a grade schooler with a crush.
Because, wow.
She laughs. “This isn’t a mosh pit, you know.”
“Right, yeah,” Sam coughs. “Yeah, I know. It’s just.”
She’s staring, really intensely interested, and waiting for him to either straighten his tongue out or give up entirely. She looks like this is a game she plays a lot, with guys that get all speechless around her.
Sam really doesn’t want to be one of the guys who gives up, but he can’t form coherent sentences, either. “It’s just, I’m really big, and I’m hard to,” he catches the spectacularly amused glint in her eyes, and replays what he just said, and chokes, “Jesus, no, I’m hard to keep track of, I didn’t mean it like that!”
She shrugs with one shoulder, tosses her hair in order to face the stage and look away from him, finally. “Too bad.”
Sam’s pretty sure he’s blushing, in exactly the way he’s tried to train himself out of. “Um. But. Just because I didn’t mean it that way doesn’t. Make it not true.”
She’s still looking away, arms crossed under her chest
(and coincidentally pushing her boobs up and nearly out of her shirt, and, wow).
A slow, sly smile drifts by, which may or may not be for Sam.
(Sam, who’s suddenly aware of noise, and oh, the cover band has started up.)
She turns her head to speak to him, and Sam bends down, because he’s too tall for her, and he won’t be able to hear. Right into his ear, she yells, “Hi, I’m Jess."
“Sam,” he yells back, misjudging a lull in the song and probably deafening her.
“You here with someone, Sam?” Jess asks, all the same, sliding a hand over the back of his neck to keep him down on her level.
And then Sam remembers.
About Billy.
“Um, I know someone in the band,” he says, feeling a slow twist of guilt coil up his spine, because Billy will probably mind Sam picking up someone else when he’s supposed to be waiting for more post-show sex from Billy.
Jess waves at the grunge girls onstage. “Which one?” but her tone is a little disappointed.
“Not a woman,” he says, laughing a little because, no, definitely not. “Not in this band. Jennifur. I know the guitarist,” in the sense of drugged-up-casual-sex.
She tugs hard at him, shocked, surprised, adrenaline-sudden. “You know Billy Tallent? Oh my God.”
He nods, and they’re not looking at each other, but he can feel her pressing her smile, lips and teeth, into the side of his neck.
“Oh my God!” she squeals. “Can I, will you introduce me? I’ve been a fan since, I could, I can’t even, he’s so hot!”
Sam chuckles a little ruefully, because shit, he’s just lost both of his prospects for sex tonight, probably. To each other. “Yeah, he’s really goddamn hot.”
She pulls back to study his face, but her nails are playing with the hair at the back of his neck, so Sam can’t stand up straight, and it’s a
we could be kissing
moment.
“Oh, are you two…?” she mouths, because Sam can’t hear her, and this band is kind of shitty, all drums, can’t hear the singer’s voice at all.
He shrugs, and nearly bumps their foreheads together. “Sort of?”
“Well.” She’s still holding the back of his neck, and now her other hand is smoothing flat over his shoulder and bicep, and pulling his arm to show him how to hold her waist, and she’s kissing him, slow and sweet and promising. She licks at his ear, and asks, “Would you mind company, though?”
And oh, fuck yes.
-0-0-
Billy doesn’t see Sam before he goes out onstage.
Which doesn’t mean anything, since it’s not like they’re dating or anything, or like Billy’s been drawing hearts around the only three letters he has to call the kid by, or anything like that. He has been trying to get over the lingering headache because, yeah, okay, cocaine always seems like a better idea when you can’t remember what the hangover’s going to be like, which is epic and incredibly sucky.
Lyda and Collin and Josh were mostly just sadistically entertained by Billy’s suffering, the bitches, and they still made him practice everyday, and twice when they weren’t going out anywhere.
Except that on Wednesday, yesterday now, they took a field trip to Stanford, because it’s all chock full of history. Billy didn’t go, mostly because it’s dumb - what does he care about history, they always get it wrong in the States anyway - and a little bit because what if he ran into Sam?
Billy’s fine with making Sam come to him, only meeting him on Billy’s turf, because it’s not a pussy move when the kid’s a giant leafy ambulatory tree and it’s all Billy can do to keep control of the situation, drowsy headachey comedown sex aside.
But that doesn’t seem to matter anymore, much, since Sam doesn’t show and it’s time for the playing-music part, and Billy loves that part, so Sam’s not-showing isn’t going to ruin it.
When he marches out for the crowd’s entertainment, a tall fucking shaggy-haired pothead is beaming at him from the crowd, and he’s got an arm around the waist of a blond chick with really genuinely superb tits, and Sam’s making very eloquent gestures that basically translate into
How do you feel about threesomes?
and Billy kind of sneers back and he hopes the power and bass he keys into his opening chords come across as
Fuck yeah
like he means them to.
-0-0-
Sam and Jess both wait outside the band’s dressing room, and he can feel her energy, the way she’s trying to be cool about this and still bouncing up on her toes to peek in the door whenever a tech person goes in or out.
Sam’s hand is tucked in her back pocket, and he can feel the round, perfect curve of her ass, and he’s going to be fucking her soon, maybe, and, God.
Yay, he thinks.
“Yay,” Jess whispers, like she’d be screaming it if she wasn’t ashamed of her own fanaticism. “Oh my God, Sam. Thank you for this.”
Sam can feel her weight shifting, because he’s got his hand in her back pocket, and he met her about an hour ago, and they made out for about twenty minutes of that before they broke off to drool at Billy being a sexass onstage, and they’re going to have sex with Billy, and Sam’s hard and being really obvious about it, but he doesn’t really care.
Jess pulls a bit of Sam’s hair. “Hey,” she says, pulling him out of his reverie and making his dick harder, because why does Sam like it rough, this doesn’t make any sense, it reminds him of Billy now, that’s why.
“Hey,” she says again, and he stoops down to kiss her, wet smack and then slide, and he can feel the glossy lipstick on his mouth, now.
“Thank you for this,” she says again. “I don’t want to intrude, but, Billy Tallent.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sam says, moving his hand and groping her ass through the packet’s thin wall of fabric and pulling her against him, and she’s tiny and fragile and Sam doesn’t use any teeth with her, won’t, not ever.
They break apart when Billy comes out, followed by a put-upon, red-faced girl who might be Sam’s age. Billy’s eyebrows shoot up, but in that faked, sarcastic way that means he’s not genuinely pissed.
“If you’re busy,” he starts, and backpedals one step.
Sam grins, holds Jess to him when she tries to step back, self-conscious. “Billy, this is Jess. Jess, I guess you know who this is.”
Jess is smiling bashfully, all that confident teasing from before dried up. “Hey,” she murmurs, different from how she said it to Sam just a minute ago.
Billy jerks his chin up, a little challenging, a little in recognition. “I’m Billy.”
He steps close to Sam and raises his chin a bit more, invitation, and Sam accepts it and kisses him, quick and simple. He can feel Jess watching, tense against him.
Billy breaks it, and Sam lets go of Jess as Billy turns to her, and Billy’s hands are in her hair behind her ears and he’s kissing her, no simple about it, tongues flicking out and over sometimes, Jess drawn in until they’re pushed together.
Sam’s counting the glances they’re getting from the backstage guys all dressed in black like avenging angels. One, two. Three. Four and five from the same girl. Not all of them are disapproving, but not all are envious.
“Cool,” Sam laughs, sliding one hand out of her back pocket and settling the other at the small of Billy’s back. “Let’s call a cab, guys?”
Jess is breathing hard, breasts pushing into Billy’s chest every time, and Billy’s smirking at Sam, like,
You’re so fucking hilarious, sometimes. First you get all coked up and speak Latin, and now you’re completely sober and hooking up a threesome. I don’t get you, but I’m trying to, anyway.
Sam wonders how much of that he’s just wishing is there, and then they’re all walking out to the street.
-0-0-
Billy’s pretty sure that cabs are smaller in the States, because there doesn’t seem to be enough room for all three of them in the back of this one.
Jess is sprawling over Sam to tongue Billy’s ear, and Billy’s staring down at where Sam’s giant hand is slowly, inexorably sliding up Billy’s thigh, and Billy asks, “Either of you got any shit?”
Sam pinches thumb and forefinger together and puts them to his lips, for pot. Jess sits up, and Billy hadn’t realized that she was actually straddling the kid this whole time, and Jess takes Billy’s hand with Sam’s and pushes them both up, under her shirt, until Sam’s fingers are over and around Billy’s, and they can both feel the shifty-heavy-powdery weight tucked into the bottom of her bra. Coke.
Sam takes his hand back, out of her shirt, and shakes his head. “Not for me, no. I’ll stick with what I’ve got.”
Okay, so Billy’s scared the kid off of the hard stuff, which might be a little too Good Samaritan, but whatever, Billy hasn’t scared himself off, yet. He’s about to ask if she’ll share with him - she will, she’s star-struck just like all the fans are when he buys or bums shit off them - but then Sam’s hand on his thigh becomes Sam’s hand on his zipper becomes Sam’s fingers exploring Billy’s habit of going commando on performance nights, and what the hell, “Me neither. But feel free, yourself.”
Billy takes his hand out of her shirt, too, but goes right back to her tits, under the layers of cotton, soft and pillowy and firm in the right places and she’s arching into him and, it looks like, rubbing up on Sam the right way, because Sam cuts a sound off in his throat and turns his face into Billy’s product-stiff hair.
This, right here.
This is really, really, fucking hot.
-0-0-
Jess is stretched out on the bed, on her back, legs spread so far her knees are almost on the bed, shit, and she’s glowing on the inside, humming, because she just came, and that’s the salt-sour taste on Sam’s lips, mixing with the lower greenish blue of the pot, all mixed up in circles, coiled, Sam’s so so so turned on.
Sam’s kneeling between Jess’ legs at the edge the bed, and then Billy’s there, kissing him, biting his tongue, fucking his mouth, hot, hot like burning, why does Sam want him so much, so much more than Jess.
“Sam,” Jess says, and Sam pushes one finger into her, two.
“Sam,” Billy says, and he’s slicked his fingers, he’s pushing into Sam like Sam’s doing to Jess, they’re not kissing anymore but Sam keeps leaning into Billy and Billy’s leaning into Sam, like they would be kissing if Billy wasn’t fingering him with one hand and holding the joint with the other, if the angle wasn’t too awkward.
Sam can hear music, low low, Dean’s humming along to Metallica again, Enter Sandman, sleep with one eye open, the guitar part.
And then he figures out that it’s in his head, but Billy’s playing the guitar tabs with his fingers, the ones in Sam, and, fuck.
“Fuck,” Jess moans, clenching around Sam’s fingers, “Fuck me.”
She says it again, and Sam turns his face up to Billy, mouths it with her, uses her voice to steal her words until she doesn’t have any besides, Fuck me.
Billy pulls his fingers out, digs around somewhere, hands Sam a condom, hands Sam another.
Sam grins, unwraps them both, and tries to put one on himself while he holds the other between his lips and tries to put in on Billy. Neither attempt goes extremely well, but at least Billy doesn’t have any teethmarks on his cock, and at least Sam won’t saddle Jess with a crackhead baby.
And Billy’s pupils are black black, slow and aroused and high, and he’s, fuck, maybe he’s comparing all the naked skin, the skin tones, because Sam’s been doing that ever since Billy got Jess out of her shirt in the elevator up here, before they even found the right hallway, where anyone could wander over and see.
Sam climbs up on the bed, over Jess, between her legs, and she’s relaxed and heavy from coming, He picks up her hips, lets her ass rest high on his thighs, pushes in, tighthottight, and out, and pulls her up the bed to the headboard, so her can lay down (almost) with his ass still up, for Billy, the let Billy in, Sam wants that, he wants, “Billy,” and he’s kissing Jess and thrusting, in again, out again, kiss kiss, tongue until neither of them can breathe.
Weight on the bed behind them, behind and between Sam’s knees, and Billy sliding in so easy, so easy, pushing Sam into Jess, and pulling out so Sam has room to back up enough to set his elbows down and stop crushing her
(she’s so tiny, not like a tiny girl, but tiny next to Sam, just like Billy’s not small but Sam’s too big, but he’s always felt like Dean’s a perfect match, big like a football player, big in his ego, big enough to fight Sam and win most of the time, fuck fuck don’tthinkaboutit)
and Billy’s slamming in, Sam’s seeing stars, Jess is moaning-shrieking, because Sam’s usually so careful with girls, they can’t take all of him, it’s so easy to hurt them, they end too soon inside, oh God Sam hopes he hasn’t like bruised her cervix or something just because Billy doesn’t understand how not to hurt the person he’s with, Sam can take it but what if Jess can’t.
Billy’s riding hard and fast and dirty, and Sam pushes back on him to save Jess the impact, still going fast to match Billy’s pace but not so hard, not so hard, and Jess is pulling Sam down to kiss, and Billy’s pausing to stretch around, somehow to kiss her over Sam’s shoulder, and then Billy’s kissing Sam, hard sharp rough, leaving marks, and Sam’s lost in it, Billy’s fucking into him hard and Sam’s probably fucking into Jess hard, and then Sam’s groaning because he’s close, and Billy’s mouth disappears, and Jess’s nails dig in his biceps to leave her own marks on him, and Billy’s back and breathing pot smoke into Sam’s mouth
(he flashes on Mike and Kim, that first night, back before he met Billy, which is unimaginable now with Billy inside and pushingpushing hard on Sam’s prostate, whiting out the sides of Sam’s vision, and the pot is making him lightheaded because how long has it been since he breathed air? How long have Sam and Billy been kissing, Billy breathing into Sam breathing into Billy, back and forth, and)
Sam’s coming and Sam’s suffocating and Sam’s out.
-0-0-
Billy and Jess get the kid rolled onto his back on the bed, and Billy gets his condom off and thrown away properly, and he and the girl look at each other for a second now that their bridge is burned, and the blue of her eyes is swirling, cotton of her shirt over her chest under his fingers in the cab, cotton candy swirled around the stick, and Billy says, “You over eighteen, Jess?”
Jess grins. “Yeah, of course.”
Billy does this whole-body shrug that means
You wanna?
“Yeah,” and she’s on all fours on the bed, and he’s changing the rubber he used for Sam for a clean one, and sliding in, and it’s hard and hot, and no wonder the kid goes for guys if he thinks that girls can’t like it rough, because oh, this chick is screaming for it in minutes.
-0-0-
When Sam is finished being passed out, Jess is over him, getting fucked by Billy, straightening out a line of cocaine on Sam’s stomach with her fingers, cursing and giggling sometimes when her long, straight
(curling in on itself in some places?)
blonde hair sweeps some of it out of place.
She closes one nostril and snuffles over Sam’s skin for a few seconds, trying to get the last of it up, and then meeting his eyes and winking and mouthing his half-hard cock, and then he’s in her throat, and he’s making noises, and she starts feeling the coke because then she’s screaming like every nerve is directly wired to whatever Billy’s doing with his dick back there, and then she can’t blow him and breathe at the same time so she stops the first thing, and then she’s coming, and then she’s moaning and sucking a hickey into the crease where Sam’s leg meets his groin, and then she’s coming again and then she’s syrupy, oozing up next to Sam on the bed, on her side, twitching with nervous energy that she can’t back up with enough to get her moving.
Billy collapses on Sam’s other side, panting hard, but he didn’t come, hasn’t yet, and he’s too tired to do anything, and the condom he’s wearing is slicky-glistening with Jess.
(Sam doesn’t think: Why didn’t I ever take Dean up on it when he joked about a threesome with some girl? It would have been so easy, to have an excuse to touch him like that, accident or not. He doesn’t think about it, because he can’t think of anything beyond the way Billy’s rubbing his hand in a circle on Sam’s stomach, where Jess didn’t get all of the chalky white off.)
So Sam gets up, finds the box (still mostly full, must’ve been new) and puts on a condom, finds the lube and stretches Billy just enough because Billy’s tired and relaxed and staring with the fixation of the stoned at the way Jess is having a personal moment with the texture of the bed’s coverlet.
And Sam gets the joint from where it’s burning a black spot on the bedside table, takes a hit, lays down over Billy, slides in, and shotguns the hit over to him, because turnabout is fair play, and the smoke is even sweeter when Billy blows it back at him.
So Sam fucks Billy, and Billy locks his heels together around Sam’s waist and lets him, kissing him slow when Sam finds his mouth, and Jess watches, head cracked open so her words spin and fall down drunk-dizzy before she says them, and they all circle the drain together, around and around, because this is sweet, sweet, no-words-just-emotions, and Sam’s maybe a little bit completely fucked.
-0-0-
Sam wakes up to Billy’s mouth around his dick, which is officially his favorite way to wake up ever, as of now.
Jess’ hair is spread out over his pillow, and she’s lying on her side, examining his face in excruciating detail.
“Morning,” Sam croaks, embarrassed by Billy’s blonde hair brushing the very bottom of Sam’s stomach on every downstroke. He’s really, really determined not to moan with Jess sharing the pillow, three inches away.
She blinks hazy-slow, and winces, and forces her eyes to open again. “Hey. Sam.” And her voice has enough of a wobble in it, enough of the really very sucky cocaine hangover, that Sam knows she doesn’t trust herself to remember right.
He nods, just a little. “Jess.”
Billy opens his throat and presses his nose into Sam’s pubic hair, then he pulls off and says, “Billy,” like anyone could have forgotten.
Then he’s right back down, and Sam agrees, “Billy,” and Jess is still four inches away so Sam tells her, very very serious, “Best known cure. Why d’you think they call it blow?”
She laughs until she groans, and Sam reaches over to Billy’s bedside table for the aspirin.
By the time Sam comes, it’s over Billy’s fingers, with Billy’s nose tucked into his shoulder and Billy’s cock in his hand. And Jess is feeling better, so she digs around for a while and comes up with her clothes, and Sam is pretty sure he remembers her wearing a bra but doesn’t object to the way her nipples show through just her shirt.
Billy’s asleep again, spread all over half the bed, so Jess kisses Sam and holds up his phone
(stolen from the pockets of his jeans, which are probably somewhere around)
and makes a short production of programming in her number. She’s gone with a wink and a smile, and Sam’s staring at his phone in his hand and wondering how he doesn’t have Billy’s number.
He naps for an hour before his internal Winchester alarm clock goes off and he vaguely recalls a bullshit Poetry class that he has to pass for English credits, but it’s not like he can’t afford to blow it off.
Billy wakes up, suddenly, sitting straight up and staring around and around and, finally, down at Sam, like he totally doesn’t remember the sex they definitely had this morning.
Billy presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “Wh’t’re you doin’ here?”
“Haven’t left yet,” Sam yawns.
Billy accepts this. “Time’s it?”
“About two.”
Billy makes a sound that conveys his general displeasure at the world.
“Yeah, I know,” Sam huffs. He pauses, watches Billy scrape his tongue with his teeth and make faces at his morning/afternoon breath,
(doesn’t think about how Dean always woke up earlier than him, even when Dean had a hangover and Sam didn’t, always straight up and making Eggo waffles in the toaster or something)
and ventures, “So. Last night.”
Billy feels around on his scalp, inspects his ruined, depressed hair. “What about it?”
We weren’t fucking
Sam bites back. “Was that okay?”
Billy laughs, dry scrape in his throat. “The groupie chick?”
“Jess.”
“No, fine. The more, the merrier.” One side of his mouth draws up, curves around on itself, circle swirl. “This once, Joe and I had five girls and two guys hanging on the both of us at the end of the night, and we all figured, y’know, why the fuck not? and had at it. For, no lie, twelve straight hours.”
“Who’s Joe?” Sam asks, and it’s the wrong thing.
Billy scowls, and snaps, “Just a guy,” and glares out the window and asks, “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
Sam’s blundered right off a fucking cliff, so he gets up and gets his clothes on and resigns himself to attending fucking Poetry.
He puts his phone in his pocket and stirs the conversation around again. “You got a cell?”
“Nah, don’t get coverage up here.” Billy’s still staring out, away.
And one last shot. “Got another show this weekend?”
“Saturday. Tomorrow.”
Every other time - well, both times - it’s been Billy inviting Sam. So Sam stands there, lets the silence stretch, can’t bring himself to be desperate enough to beg,
Can I come?
Billy looks down at his legs under the sheet, eyelashes perfectly turned down, and then locks on Sam with almost painful intensity, daring him to answer either way. “Can you come? You got time?”
Sam blinks, nonplussed. “Yeah, sure. I still have that card, and,” if he gets two papers and a composition exercise done before the show, “Sunday’s free. For whatever.”
Billy nods and waves him off. “See you then. Before the show.”
He doesn’t pitch it like a question, but it feels like one, so Sam says, “Sure,” before he goes out the door.
One week today.
Next turn