Patent leather shoes, impeccably tailored suit. Sam leaned up against a craggy brick wall in a town he remembered like a tattoo, inhaled the cherry-smoke of an incredibly overpriced price cigar. He checked his watch, tapped his foot and waited. He wasn’t in his own time, he wasn’t even in his own dimension. But, he had an itch that hell couldn’t satisfy.
Three minutes past the hour and there he was, Dean with his lanky body, shirt too tight, jeans too thin. He was fumbling with his lighter and Sam knew he didn’t smoke, he just pretended. See, there were perks to running hell. He knew every sin, every moment of guilt. Dean fucked for money because he had no choice. Sam could still remember those long, cold Decembers. Heater went, money went, and then he was hungry. But, big brother fixed it, didn’t he? Yes, Dean always came through.
Smiling serenely, Sam hummed a little tune as he slipped from the shadows into the lamplight. Strike, extend, smile. Dean was staring up at him like a deer in headlights, from match flame to face and back again.
”Uh, thanks…” Dean took a drag and wiped his palms nervously on his jeans. It was game on, but he wasn’t seasoned. “So, you looking for…?
”Yes, but I’m looking for something a little more… exotic?” Sam’s lips pursed, and Dean’s stomach rolled. “I’ll pay for it, naturally.”
Sam long fingers reached into his breast pocket and fanned out the cash, crisp bills, enough for everything Dean needed but couldn’t pay for. Suspiciously, he stared at Sam’s billfold. “Why?”
”I want to hurt you.”
Dean took a step back, but Sam didn’t acknowledge it.
”I want to hurt you in ways you can’t imagine.” He said silkily, “I want to see you cry, want to use you up and leave you broken. More to the point, I want to pay for the privilege of you asking me to do it. I want you to beg.”
Dean’s face didn’t flicker, but Sam could taste the fear and it made it better. Inside him the memory of some other Sam was gnashing his teeth, but that was just part of the game. He wanted blood and pain and force, wanted to pry Dean’s rug-burned knees apart and spit on him, slap his cheeks rosy and fuck his untried throat. But, he wanted permission.
See, that was the trick. Devil’s always do.
”Fifteen,” Dean looked back at the window, where little Sammy would sleep on never knowing. “Fifteen, and you can do whatever you want.”
You stood in the breathing silence of Garrett Jacob Hobbs’s, the very spaces he moved through. Tell me, Will did they speak to you?
Quit being such a tease Will.