part the fourth
Previous turn
-0-0-
Billy thinks maybe the kid’s getting in over his head.
Because he’s not, like, in full out-and-out ohshit love, but not yay-for-casual-hookups distant, either.
He’s getting… invested.
Which Billy’s not sure how to discourage, exactly, because yeah, bringing Sam to tonight’s gig isn’t very discouraging, but.
Jesus.
He’s just a kid.
And Billy’s watching it happen, letting Sam get comfortable and feel around and find Billy’s boundaries, asking permission the first time he does something and never after that.
Like the kissing thing. Asked the first night, in the middle of a handjob, which isn’t fair at all, it’s not like Billy was listening
(and it’s not like Billy’s ever expressly told him no, and it’s not like Billy’s ever tried to hint it, and it’s not like Billy’s ever not wanted him to,)
but.
But he saw how Sam looked at him yesterday, and the night before with the groupie, at the end, when they’d gone in a straight line and wound up back where they started, just the two of them, and Billy could see Sam’s brain ticking off all the ways he wasn’t Jess.
Which.
Which is fucked.
Because that’s what Sam is, that’s exactly what Sam is. Yes. Word for fucking word, all down on paper, Sam is a just a guy from the crowd that Billy thought was hot and Billy wanted to fuck
(and Billy’s in control, here, Billy gets to say how invested anyone is in this, fucking damn it,)
and that’s all, that’s all it is, this is Sam’s fault for getting all presumptuous and taking fucking liberties and.
And setting himself up to fall.
Not Billy’s fucking fault.
And, fuck, he’s got to play a set tonight, and this whole thing is tearing his focus to shreds.
It doesn’t get a whole lot better when Sam comes loping into the greenroom, with a few nods of recognition from the rest of Jennifur, and perches on the counter between Billy and the mirror he’s been glaring at for half an hour.
“Your hair’s gone to shit,” Sam says, by way of greeting,
“Been fucking with it for a while,” Billy grouses, scrubbing his hand through it and tugging against the stiff-dry product and not looking at the kid.
This is a gold-leaf embossed invitation for Sam to fix it, apparently; his fingers twist in it, spiraling up and building each spike separately.
And Billy, just for right now, doesn’t care about anything,
especially not Sam,
so he says, “Feels good,” and meets Sam’s eyes and smiles. It’s his let’s-fuck-soon smile.
Sam’s eyes go a little wider, and turn nearly black, and he shifts his weight so that his knee is pressing in between Billy’s and sinking closer, hips following easily, for a big guy he’s insanely graceful, and wow, twenty centimeters more and the rest of the band will get to see Billy suck a cock again, fun for the whole family.
It’s probably for the best that Collin starts cat-calling, and then all of them laugh, and then a flock of ravens cum techies descends to carry the band off to the stage.
Really quickly, Sam closes his hands on either side of Billy’s face, tilts him up, kisses him, and pulls back with a look in his eyes like he’s going to say
we need to talk later about how we’re sort of dating, okay?
but he doesn’t say it, so Billy ignores it.
-0-0-
Billy. On a stage.
It doesn’t really get old.
With the charisma he can apparently turn on and off at will, and the way he bares his teeth, and the way he sometimes screams along with the vocalist with no obvious design to it.
And okay, Sam likes him.
He doesn’t like him, like some vague middle school crush. He likes Billy’s attitude, the way he walks around and leaves a wake behind him, a ripple in everyone’s lives
but mostly Sam’s
of self-confidence and really, really swollen ego.
And, even now, Sam can feel himself trying to sort out how much of this is the part of Dean Sam can see in Billy, and how much is just Billy and amazing sex and the easy way all of this could fall into place.
And how much is Sam wanting someone to touch him. Which he doesn’t want to think about, because it depresses him a little.
Besides, he knows it isn’t that.
He’s not a complete idiot.
-0-0-
Billy gets off the stage and sticks his tongue down Sam’s throat, which is becoming a really, really awesome custom in the States - practically jerk off in front of a crowd via fingers on strings, then perform an amateur tonsillectomy on some giant, hot guy. Always fun.
They find the back entrance, and Sam sort of humps Billy into it for a second until the push-latch sinks down and they stumble out into the damp alley, with a couple of chicks painted like clowns and sucking down an entire cigarette between them, one long drag each, wow.
Sam’s hand slides across Billy’s shoulders and his fingers tangle in the short hairs at the base of his neck, tight, nearly pulling but mostly steering, manhandling him straight into a rough brick wall and leaning all his weight to pin Billy down, butterfly, pin through the heart, tearing off the wings, Billy needs something in his system to excuse the way his thoughts are swirling and twisting up in circles and knots.
Sam has a hand on his dick but outside his pants, grinding his palm in and tugging up, up, down, shit jesus fuck, and more kissing, and this kid has a way of folding around Billy like a big envelope, address of the sender not included.
When they come up for air, the girls (maybe younger than Sam, definitely younger than whatever’s drinking age down here) are kinda starry-eyed and flushed under the layers of cakey makeup, and they offer Sam and Billy a cig each, “For after you rub off on each other, oh my God, how about that happens right now?”
Sam holds the merry little death stick like he doesn’t know what it’s for, and pockets it, while Billy plays it up a little and gives one of them a smoker’s kiss to light his off hers.
“Nah, but hey, ya like the show?” he asks, because of course they’re from the venue, misty with perspiration all over their skin.
“Yeah, it was,” one of them says, and the other says, “Oh holy Jesus,” and the first says, “My brother’s band was the opener,” and the second says, “Shutupshutup this is that guy,” and the first says, “Fucking shit you're in Jennifur."
Billy sticks his fingers through Sam’s beltloops and smirks like,
Yeah, I am exactly that amazing.
The girls stagger off, giggling and shushing and squealing at each other and glancing back at their brush with fame.
Billy pulls on Sam’s pants. “Come on. My vice of choice tonight is drink.”
“Oh, so I get to be your Ganymede,” Sam deadpans, but follows.
“What?”
“Dionysus. God of drink, music, and women.”
“Drugs, sex, rock’n’roll?”
Sam sounds like a bard, singing a story, an odd cadence to the words. “He had a consort, the demigod youth, beautiful and sweet Ganymede.”
“So you’re Ganymede the boywhore, not Ganymede like the celestial body.”
“Hey, my body’s pretty fucking celestial.”
“Too fucking right.”
And then Billy stops dead. They're in front of a 24-hour liquor store.
He rounds on Sam, considering. “You want a club or bar, or get a case and hole up in my room and fuck?”
This gives Sam pause, like a serious need to weigh the options, and his eyes rake up and down Billy. “Well,” he says eventually. “If we go to a club, I can’t buy my own drinks, and I’ll end up fucking you in the bathroom and you’ll scream loud enough that everyone will hear. If we go to your hotel, we’ll get drunk and not go deaf from the music and I’ll fuck you into a bed and only everyone on the floor will hear.”
Billy kind of gapes at him, because he didn’t know he could get this hard this fast, and he’s a little out of breath, gut-punch and all.
“Club it is,” he gasps, and Sam smiles cheerfully and smugly and bashfully and adorably and, ew, Billy’s growing fucking ovaries or something because he could cry from the tragedy of everything in the world, but especially everything in the States, because nothing falls to wreck and ruin like this in Canada.
There’s a place up the street, Billy can hear the music pulsing from here, so off they go.
-0-0-
Sam can’t get a deep breath into his lungs, because first of all isn’t it illegal to smoke indoors in California these days and second of all Billy dancing is like a vine climbing up a wall and squeezing the cracks and Sam’s about ready to crumble apart.
The drink Billy secured for him is mostly empty, and it’s the fifth or sixth one, and every time Sam feels the liquid weight shift and spin around in there the ink from the under-twenty-one stamp on his hand sort of sizzles, like it’s glowing neon bright and everyone can see.
Sam’s like the best pre-law student ever.
Which is more ironic because he’s first or second in his class, he can’t remember which, he hasn’t thought to check the standings for a couple weeks, it always reminds him of when he tricked Dean into helping him study for the SATs during junior year.
Sam’s maybe a little past tipsy, for being the best pre-law student ever, but that’s fine because it’s not like any blood is actually moving in his body, because it’s just all in his dick and has been there since Jennifur’s show.
And Billy keeps doing this thing where he stares at a piece of Sam and pretty clearly tries to remember if he’s marked it up yet and licks his lips and silently promises to do so later, whether or not, so.
So Sam bends low and wraps his arms around Billy’s hips and makes a hickey right below his ear and snarls over the music, “What I said, about the bathroom?”
Loud and loopy and clear enough for the entire dancing orgy going on around them to eavesdrop on accident, Billy shouts back, “You mean about fucking me so the whole place’ll know?”
“Yeah, that.” Sam sticks his fingers down the back of Billy’s tight-tight-punk-rock pants and twists their hips together. “Right now.”
Billy clutches at Sam’s shirt and closes his eyes, and he opens them Sam can see stars spinning inside.
“Fuck. Yeah,” Billy says, with the succinct stone-cold deliberateness of someone who can’t talk without slurring if he isn’t paying attention.
The crowd parts for them, because they all already know, which is fine, because now they won’t walk into the bathroom and interrupt, which was maybe Billy’s plan with the announcement thing.
They’re in a stall before Sam can think and everything’s blurry and still moving even when it’s not, and.
And they’re kissing and Billy’s unbuckling his belt and slithering out of his pants and lubing himself up, making porn faces and putting on a show because Sam is so hot for this he can’t do anything but stare.
Sam kicks himself in the face to get going, or sort of tries to, except his foot is heavy as lead and he couldn’t find his face with a mirror, so instead he just gives himself a shake and digs around in his pocket for a condom.
Then, Billy’s propped up against the flimsy metal wall and squeezing his knees into Sam’s ribs and Sam’s inside and
oh fuck yes oh god yes shit
and Sam can’t tell if he’s just made good his promise to get Billy screaming or if that’s his own voice in his ears.
Sam’s just unzipped, so his pants are still up around his hips, so Billy finds the cigarette in his pocket and pulls a lighter out of his own jacket and lights up with a deep suck.
Sam’s staring at his lips and fucking up into him and he takes the cigarette and has a puff himself, and he’s smoked enough pot to know not to just open his lungs to it but just to mostly keep the smoke in his mouth, and it takes ten seconds and then the light-headed rush pounds between his ears, and he turns his head to blow it away from Billy and get the world to stop circling around in a fun tilt-a-whirl panorama full of Billy tight around his cock.
“God, fuck, Billy,” he says, like Billy might commiserate with him about how unspeakably something this is, this whole thing.
But Billy’s staring at the ceiling, losing himself in the circle-swirl.
So Sam hitches down and slams up hard, and grinds the cigarette out on a smooth patch of not-tan skin on the inside of his thigh.
Billy hisses and gasps and squirms and curls in to rub his dick over Sam’s stomach. Sam’s holding him up, so if Billy needs a hand with that he’ll need to provide it himself.
And then Sam has a way-too-vivid flashback of the first time he heard that joke, Dean sitting on the bed and laughing down because Sam’s just woken up from a nearly-but-not-quite-wet dream and Dean jerks his hand in the air and says if Sam needs a hand with that…
And for just a second, it’s Dean’s knees leaving red marks on Sam’s ribcage, and Dean’s thigh with an angry burn, and Sam chokes and he’s three strokes away from coming.
And then the body’s too compact and wiry, and Dean would never poke the underside of Sam’s chin with his gel-stiff spikes, and this is Billy, and the building orgasm sort of dissipates a little, and Sam has enough time to juggle him around enough to jerk him off so Billy comes just a little before.
And then they’re tight-loose and unwinding, spilling unraveled into each other, and Billy sinks onto shaky legs and wipes up with toilet paper and wrestles his pants up, and Sam ties off the condom and just tosses it in the toilet and flushes and checks his fly is zipped.
When they leave the bathroom, there’s a line of guys that didn’t want to interrupt, and they get a smattering of warm applause.
And Billy’s coolly marched around on a stage to screams and cheers, but it’s this little amused congratulations that turns his cheeks and ears and neck red, and.
And, fuck.
And maybe Sam loves him, just a little tiny bit.
So.
Fuck fuck fuck.
So he follows Billy in circles around the city and washes up on his hotel bed and he lets Billy fuck him because he’s fucked anyway and because he wants it so bad his bones are humming for it.
-0-0-
When he wakes up, Billy hates everything that has ever existed in the universe ever times a hundred hundred million.
His hatred burns with all the energy in everything that he hates, a thousand thousand thousand suns that only build it brighter.
And then a heavy arm squeezes around his middle and Billy’s gonna throw up and all that hatred, and there’s a lot it, it’s all focused right on fucking Sam.
So Billy wobbles out of bed and into the bathroom and upchucks his actual gallbladder, he knows that’s what it is, it’s all purple and wobbley and a bladder full of gall.
And Billy’s been hung over enough times in his life, so he starts drowning himself with glass after glass of tap water, and then he throws it all up again five minutes later, and then he keeps drowning himself.
At the end of all that he still hates Sam, but if he goes back into the main room, he might not try to find something sharp to cut Sam in the fucking face with, necessarily.
So he staggers out and rifles through the bedside table drawer and doesn’t look at Sam, and he finds his blessed over-the-counter analgesic, and hooray for aspirin.
Should be a, like, should be embroidered in the fabric of space and time. Hooray for painkillers.
And then Sam wakes up, slowly, and moves his head and coughs and melts into a gooey pile of hungover shit and groans,
“Fuuuck,”
and it rattles around and fucks with Billy’s headache so Billy growls,
“Shut the fuck up,”
and Sam cracks an eye and says,
“You shut up, dumbass,”
and oh, it’s fucking on.
“Goddamn whore.”
“Tiny dick.”
“Cockmonger.”
“Come-guzzling gutter slut.”
“Fucking stay in school, druggie.”
“Grow the fuck up and get a real job.”
Billy snorts, because that’s hilarious, it’s a real job with a real fucking big paycheck.
And he says it out loud, and Sam laughs, too, and says, “Well, I’m fucking staying in school, full goddamn ride at Stanford.”
And they both keep laughing, because they really don’t know each other well enough to cut deeper than paper, and Billy doesn’t hate Sam, he’s gotten turned around on that somewhere, and they snicker like kids forever.
Right up until Sam scrambles away to go throw up his own vital organs.
And before Sam leaves, Billy says, “Saturday in San Fran,” and Sam says, “Only people who’ve never been there call it that,” and then, “I’ll be there.”
Billy sticks his head out the door and calls down the hall after him, “And where the hell did you get come-guzzling gutter slut?”
Sam stares at him, brought up short, and opens his mouth and reconsiders and says, “My brother,” like there’s more meaning in that than Billy could ever know.
-0-0-
Next turn