Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11001042.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Lucifer/Sam_Winchester, Sam_Winchester/Other(s)
  Character:
      Sam_Winchester, Lucifer_(Supernatural), Dean_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      teacher/student_relationship, Underage_-_Freeform, Abuse_of_Authority,
      Daddy_Kink, Trans_Character, FTM_Sam_Winchester, Recreational_Drug_Use,
      Stoner_Sam_Winchester, Art_Teacher_Lucifer, Tattoos, Alternate_Universe_-
      High_School, This_Is_A_Dumpster_Fire_And_I'm_Not_Even_Sorry
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-05-25 Words: 8771
****** You Were High School (And I Was Just More Like Real Life) ******
by trashcangimmick
Summary
     “Can I sleep in your bed? And when I crawl out in the morning, can I
     stay inside your head?”
     Teenaged trans boy Sam smokes hella weed and bangs his douchebag art
     teacher.
Notes
     Did you read the tags bro? This is about underage (17 year old) FTM
     Sam having sex with Lucifer his 40 year old art teacher. There's
     daddy kink. There's a lot of weed smoking. There's a lot of Lucy
     being a creeper and drawing Sam naked. This is morally bankrupt,
     self-indulgent garbage. Caveat Emptor.
See the end of the work for more notes
Sam has been through enough bullshit in his short seventeen years on earth to
know a sleazeball when he sees one.
As soon as he walks into the art classroom, in some red-brick high school in
middle-of-nowhere Colorado, his douchenozzle radar is tripping like crazy. It’s
not Jason Whitt, the football quarterback he’s already had the displeasure of
meeting. It’s not Hector Presley, the class president, soon-to-be
valedictorian, sweater vest wearing social trainwreck who has taken it upon
himself to show Sam around and try to be oh so tolerant and welcoming. It’s not
even Stefan, the goth in knee-high leather boots and a Bauhaus t-shirt who
didn’t get the memo that he’s a few decades late.
Nope. It’s the teacher in the flannel shirt and paint-splattered jeans.
He’s wearing converse chucks. He’s got tattoos all up his arms. His blonde hair
is sticking out from underneath a maroon beanie, and he looks like he’s trying
to blend in with the crowd despite being obviously in his thirties. If not
forties. It rubs Sam exactly the wrong way. And of course, even though he takes
a seat at one of the square tables towards the back of the room, between Hector
and a girl with braces named Marcy, he still gets singled out as the New Kid.
“And it looks like we’ve got some fresh meat today,” the teacher snaps his gum.
He couldn’t be any more unprofessional if he tried. “Pipsqueak in the back,
care to stand up and share yourself with the class?”
“No,” Sam says. Flat. Bored. Dying inside.
Watch the ‘pipsqueak’ moniker stick. It’s not his fault that he’s a grand
height of five and a half feet tall. Just like it’s not his fault that he’s got
a high voice, and a soft face, and narrow shoulders. He layers two sports bras,
a tank top, and a baggy t-shirt to give the appearance of a flat chest. This
year, he even got his dad to stop calling him Samantha.
Hormones are going to be another battle entirely, but if he tries to take life
more than one step at a time he just gets depressed and wants to give up.
“Everyone, Sam Pollock. Sam Pollock, everyone else. My name is Luke. Do not
call me Mr. D’Angolo. I will not respond. Now… back to the mess at hand.
Painting.”
Sam tunes out pretty quick. Hector brings him a canvas. Sam picks up a brush.
Covers the white cloth with splotches of haphazard color. He doesn’t know what
he’s doing, and he doesn’t care. They put him in this class because there
wasn’t room in any other elective. He’s not good at art. He just hopes he’s not
going to be so bad at it that he ruins his GPA.
He’s not sure how long they’re gonna be here. Dean seemed to think it was long
enough to get them an actual sublet, and to snag a job at the local grocery
store. Dad’s long gone, of course. He left them nowhere near enough money in an
envelope on the table, and said to call Bobby if things got dire.
It could be worse, Sam supposes. Overall this school is pretty average, even if
it’s on the small side. The likelihood of him getting hate-crimed seems low.
He’s just gonna keep his head down and phone it in, like always.
 
***
 
It takes three days before the inevitable confrontation. Sam is starting to get
up, to head off to lunch, when he feels a hand on his bicep.
“Hey. Pipsqueak. Do you think we could chat for a second?”
Sam has never done well with passive-aggressive questions. Things that look
like opportunities to say no, even if they aren’t. Part of him wants to scream
‘nope, you can fuck right off!’ but it’s probably not a good idea at this stage
of things.
After all, Sam is a Good Boy. Keeps most of his rage under wraps. Teachers like
him. He turns in his work on time, contributes to class when prompted, and
doesn’t cause any fuss. Doesn’t matter if his internal monologue is dripping
with poison and disdain.
“Sure. What’s up?” Sam swivels in his chair, and forces a smile.
Mr. “Call Me Luke” D’Angolo leans against the table, arms crossed, easy amused
expression hitched across his face.
If they bumped into each other at a gay bar, and Sam had a couple drinks in
him, he’d probably think Mr. D’Angolo was kinda hot. He does have a type. It
trends towards selfish asshole. He starts to drool at overconfident swagger, if
it’s directed at him. Because look at his Dad. Look at Dean. Look at all that
imprinting of real men are gritty, emotionally-stunted cowboys who won’t admit
they love you unless they are in imminent mortal peril.It’s no wonder he’s got
terrible taste.
But Sam is not an idiot. He’s had a lot of experience spotting and avoiding
danger. Mr. D’Angolo might know how to play friendly. He might be well-versed
in the song and dance of a concerned authority figure. Underneath it, though.
There’s a clear predator, licking its’ chops at the little morsel he’s got
alone and cornered.
“I just wanted to see how you were adjusting,” Mr. D’Angolo starts off. Nice
and easy. “I know navigating a new school can be a bitch.”
“It’s fine, I guess,” Sam shrugs.
“That’s good. You’re catching up on all your classes?”
“Yep.”
“Nobody’s given you any trouble, have they? I know this town isn’t the most
inviting place for us queers. If you needed a sympathetic ear, I’m always here
to listen.”
Sam barely keeps from raising an eyebrow at that. Queer. It’s not surprising
that Mr. D’Angolo would admit that. Especially if this is the tacky come-on it
looks like.
“Jason Whitt gets kind of excessive during dodgeball, but I’m fine.”
Mr. D’Angolo rolls his eyes. “Jason Whitt is a moron. Let me know if it gets
any worse, though. I’d like to think I have a little pull around here.”
“OK.”
“Are you out to your parents?”
“Kind of. My Dad isn’t really around enough to care.”
“Ouch.” Mr. D’Angolo turns a slight frown. “That sounds like a fantastic home
life.”
“My brother and I get by.”
Sam would balk at getting asked such personal questions, but it’s nothing he
hasn’t said before. He’s learned to distract people from anything bigger going
on by divulging things that would be concerning for a normal person, but aren’t
even on the top 100 list of his many, many bizarre problems.
“Well, like I said. Let me know if I can do anything for you.”
“Yep.”
“Good talk.” Mr. D’Angolo pats him on the head and walks away.
Interesting. Not as sleazy as Sam thought it would be. Then again, maybe Mr.
D’Angolo is just into the slow burn.
 
***
 
Sam had written off his chances for getting laid in a town like this. But it
turns out that Hector is more open-minded than he looks.
Or rather, he’s a desperate virgin, who is more than happy to let Sam sit on
his dick after they’ve shared a joint.
“Fuck.”
Hector moans. They’re out in the living room. Sitting on the cracked leather
couch. Sam’s in Hector’s lap. Both of them still have their shirts on. Dean
isn’t home. That seemed like such a novel idea to Hector. A house without even
the barest suggestion of adult supervision. Sam honestly expected them to just
do homework. But when he whipped out his drugs, Hector didn’t run screaming,
so…
All and all, Hector actually isn’t bad looking. Sure, he’s got an acne problem
and thick glasses. But he’s got nice hair. Soft brown curls. Soft brown skin.
Sweet smile.
Huge dick.
Sam had to snag one of Dean’s Magnum condoms, because he was not prepared for
that particular twist. He’s not complaining at all. He hasn’t gotten fucked in
weeks. They were on the road too much before they settled down here. No time to
cruise, especially with Dad around.
Sam’s been aching for it. He’s so wet, he didn’t even need to grab the lube.
Nope, he just sank right down onto Hector’s thick, throbbing cock, ready to
enjoy the ride.
He’s taking it slow, since Hector seems a little overwhelmed. Sam usually
doesn’t slut it up with anyone who isn’t at least in their twenties, so he
hasn’t encountered many virgins. But it’s not bad. Kinda flattering, in a way.
Makes Sam feel all warm fuzzy that he gets to do this for someone. Be their
first.
He holds the sides of Hector’s face and kisses him. Never stops rocking down
onto his dick. He’s not really expecting it to last very long.
“That feels so… so awesome,” Hector is all breathless. Flushed. It’s a good
look on him.
Sam grins. “You’re not half bad at this.”
“Really?”
“I’m probably gonna come soon.”
Granted, it doesn’t take a lot to get Sam off. He’s used to jerking it in motel
bathrooms with locks that don’t work. Sometimes, if he is appropriately horny,
he can get it done in two minutes or less. And Hector feels real good.
Stretching him so wide.
Sam reaches down and starts touching himself. Fast and rough. Hector looks like
he might short-circuit. His hands are on Sam’s hips, nails digging into skin.
Sam gasps. Starts to tense.
And in that moment before he shakes apart, maybe he sees a flash of blond hair
and a crooked smile. Wide, inked-up forearms with such promisingly thick
fingers…
Sam comes with an embarrassing squeak. Gushes a little. Makes a mess all over
Hector’s thighs. That’s all it takes to have Hector gasping too.
They kiss some more in the afterglow. Sam feels all loose and lazy. He slumps
forward and rests his head on Hector’s shoulder. It’s nice. Safe. All the
things Sam doesn’t usually have. For a moment, he almost wishes he could be
content in a semi-normal relationship, with an age-appropriate and non-sketchy
partner. He knows, deep down, that it really couldn’t keep him interested for
very long. Hector wouldn’t be able to deliver on half the filthy things that
Sam craves.
Sam’s just been too screwed up for too long. His sense of ‘normal’ is
irreversibly warped. He shouldn’t inflict that on someone with the potential to
lead a nice, boring life.
Nah. After a few more good rides, he’s gonna pass Hector off to Marcy, and
everyone will be happier for it.
 
***
 
“Sam, I gotta be honest with you here. I’m a little worried about you…”
Mr. D’Angolo is staring down at the slipshod painting Sam threw together in
time for critique. It’s bad. Sam knows it’s bad. Just a bunch of color smears,
in fiery red and orange. The barest outline of something dark and menacing in
the distance. Hints of claws, teeth and terror. Yknow. A regular Tuesday night.
“I’m not good at art,” Sam shrugs.
“Who told you that?”
“Nobody had to. I just know.”
“This,” Mr. D’Angolo taps the edge of the canvas, “is the most raw, vibrant,
emotional outcry I have seen in a good long while. It’s powerful. It’s a
tangled mess of fear and pain. That’s what has me concerned.”
“With all due respect, Mr. D’Angolo, I think you’re reading too far into this.”
“Luke.”
“Hmm?”
“Call me Luke, you little shit.” He lightly swats Sam on the back of the head.
The classroom is empty by this point. Hector is out sick today. Sam wasn’t
particularly looking forward to eating lunch alone, so it’s not like he’s in
some sort of rush.
“OK, Luke,” Sam might roll his eyes a little. “It’s just a painting. Honest.”
“You know, I didn’t always plan on being an artist.” Mr. D’Angolo plops down in
the chair next to Sam. Folds his hands on the table. “I’ve got a degree in
Psychology.”
Christ.
“So, you gonna diagnose me or something?” Sam snorts. He can’t help himself.
Some of the sarcasm has started to seep in around the edges. They’ve been in
town for almost three weeks.
“I don’t know enough about you to do that.” Mr. D’Angolo cocks his head. “But
from what I have seen, you’re quite the troubled young man. Withdrawn. Self-
deprecating. Unstable home life… my heart goes out to you. Seems like you have
it pretty rough.”
“Everybody has it rough.”
“How about this?” Mr. D’Angolo licks his lips. It’s impossible not to track the
motion. “I’ll tell you anything about me that you want to know, if you return
the favor.”
“Um… OK?”
“Go ahead. Ask me something.”
“Why are you trying so hard to make a bunch of teenagers think you’re cool?”
Mr. D’Angolo laughs at that. It’s a genuine laugh. The corners of his eyes
crinkle. The little mole under his left eye has always been intriguing. Sam
maybe has a hard time looking away.
“Honestly? I spent a lot of my youth being nerdy and unpopular. Maybe I have a
complex about it. Maybe I’m afraid of getting old. I don’t feel old. Once the
years start rushing by, it all gets pretty surreal.”
“That’s fair I guess.”
“Tell me about your father.”
“Could you be any more stereotypical?”
“Don’t dodge the question.” Mr. D’Angolo nudges Sam with his elbow. It’s an
oddly intimate gesture. Friendly. Teasing.
Sam has to admit, the guy’s good. Charming, but just shy of smarmy. Walks a
strange line between pretentious and genuine. It seems like he gets more
attractive by the day, but then again, maybe Sam’s just going stir-crazy.
“Fine.” Sam drums his fingers on the table top for a moment, thinking. “My Dad
goes on business trips a lot. He’s always been a workaholic. My mom passed away
when I was really young, and I don’t think he ever got over it. He was a
soldier, and he raised me and my brother like soldiers. I learned how to shoot
a gun when I was nine years old. He drinks more than he should, and tends to
yell when drunk. The two of us haven’t gotten along in a years. He was nice to
me when I was younger. Used to buy me dresses and dolls. When I cut my hair off
and started wearing my brother’s hand-me-downs, he didn’t like it. I think he
wanted a daughter pretty bad, and is still upset that I won’t be that for him.”
Sam’s heart is pounding in his throat. He’s not usually quite that honest with
people. Granted, it’s far from the whole truth. No talk of demons or monsters
or things that go bump in the night. But still.
He’s not prepared for it, when Mr. D’Angolo puts a hand on his shoulder and
squeezes. It sends a sharp thrill through him. The sensation of being wanted.
It’s addictive.
“Thank you,” Mr. D’Angolo says softly.
“For what?”
“Telling me something real. A lot of people try to bullshit me. But you’re not
like most people, Sam.”
Ain’t that the truth?
They sit in silence for a little while. Mr. D’Angolo still holding Sam’s
shoulder. In effect, his arm is draped around Sam. All the warning signals
should be flashing. Sam might be in over his head here—which is a rare thing
indeed.
Funny enough, he doesn’t want to pump the breaks. If anything, he wants to dive
in deeper.
 
***
 
Apparently, Mr. D’Angolo has a bit of a reputation. Sam starts asking around,
and finds out plenty. The guy’s had multiple rumored affairs with students. The
sort of shit that should get him arrested. But everyone likes him too much.
He’s the best art teacher the school’s ever had. Nobody wants to get rid of
him.
So the rumors stay amongst the student body, and skirt the teachers, or anyone
who’d feel inclined to do something about it.
From Sam’s understanding, the guy at least tends to go for seniors. Maybe
because he likes to pick a new one every year, and doesn't want the fuss of the
last one getting jealous. With someone graduating soon, there's a built-in
expiration date. Maybe he waits until they're eighteen so that it's just kind
of wrong instead of unquestionably gross.
It's mostly been girls. One or two guys. Maybe more and it's just not common
knowledge.
Sam should know better. He should keep his distance. But Mr. D’Angolo has
already Taken An Interest.
Deep down, Sam is a dirty little whore.
He tells himself it's better, because he's not going in blind. He's far from
inexperienced. Far from Naive. He's not being taken advantage of if he gets
exactly what he wants.
He knows it's all a rationalization. An excuse to do something ill-advised.
He's running on fumes and nothing matters.
Why not bang his douchebag teacher?
 
***
 
The last bell rings. Instead of heading outside to catch the bus, Sam heads
downstairs, towards the west corner of the building. There are still people
milling through the hallways, but it's emptying out fast. It is a Friday after
all.
Dean gave Sam money for a motel room this morning. He wanted the apartment to
himself to hook up with some girl from the store. Sam doesn't mind. He’s got
plans of his own.
Luke is standing in front of the large, metal sink at the front of the room,
washing paintbrushes. He's got his sleeves rolled up. Looks pleasantly
disheveled. He hears the door squeak as it swings shut and turns his head.
“Well hello there, Sam. What a nice surprise.”
Sam plops down at the nearest table. They sit in silence for a few minutes,
while Luke finishes up what he was doing. He turns around, drying his hands on
a dish rag, and raises an eyebrow.
“What can I do ya for?”
“Free, if you play your cards right.”
Luke grins at that. “Always so sassy. But seriously, what's up? It's the
weekend. Shouldn't you be scampering off to cause some trouble?”
“Probably.”
Luke settles down next to him. “Something on your mind, pipsqueak?”
“Do you have a partner?” Sam thought a lot about the best way to approach this.
He's pretty sure he could straight-up throw himself at Luke, no finesse, and
have a reasonable chance of success. But he has a little dignity.
“Not at the moment,” Luke smiles. Bemused, but not upset. “Do you? Seems like
Hector has been giving you some pretty serious moony eyes.”
Huh. So he's been watching. Not surprising.
“Yeah. We hooked up a couple times. But he’s a little young for me.”
“Sammy, don't tell me you're out there messing around with closeted frat boys.
That only ever ends in tears.”
“Personal experience?”
“Unfortunately, yeah. Took me a little while to learn my lesson.”
“College boys are still too young for me.” Sam says it in a perfect deadpan.
Watches it hit the mark like a ton of bricks.
Luke tries to hide his reaction. But Sam still sees him flex his fingers. Take
a few measured breaths. There's blood in the water.
“Well. Sounds like you’ve got specific tastes. More than I could say for most
kids your age.”
“Yeah. I guess when you lose your virginity to your older brother's friend, the
age gap thing kind of sticks.”
“How much of a gap are we talking, Sammy?”
“Well. I was fourteen and Dustin was twenty.”
“Jesus.”
“It was my idea, if that makes you feel any better about it. Though, from what
I’ve heard, you and I are two sides of the same coin.”
“Oh?”
“You have a history of being unable to resist sweet, young things.”
Luke lets out a long sigh. “That rumor is gonna haunt me the rest of my life.”
“It's not true?”
“Parts of it are. I did have an affair with a student about seven years ago.
Lilly. Just in the last few months of her senior year. We dated for a little
while after that. But she went to college and broke it off. Probably for the
best.”
Hmmm. Sam's not sure if he believes that's the whole story. It's interesting,
if Luke is lying. Trying to preserve the air of a repentant sinner instead of a
repeat offender.
“That's all?” Sam prompts.
“Well… maybe there’ve been a couple incidents here and there. But I swear it's
not half as bad as they make me sound. It was mostly when I was younger.”
“I see… so you're not interested?”
“In what?”
“Fucking my brains out.”
Sam isn't the most patient boy in the world. Sometimes even when he tries for
coy, he ends up sounding slutty. Because sex isn't that big a deal, and he
doesn't understand why everyone gets so bent out of shape about it.
“I… really shouldn't do that.” He sounds almost physically pained.
“But you want to?”
“Of course I freakin’ want to. Just look at you.”
“So, let's go.”
“Are you sure?” Luke puts a hand on Sam’s knee. “I mean, just because I’ve
slipped up before doesn't mean I think it isn't wrong. You're so young. I
should be looking out for you, not taking advantage.”
“Is it really taking advantage if I’m the one instigating it? Besides. This
isn't exactly my first rodeo.”
Luke gives him an odd look. Might be a mixture of lust and pity.
“OK. Walk down to the corner of 15th and Pine. I’ll pick you up there after I
finish putting everything away.”
Luke stands up again, and goes back to cleaning the room. Sam's a little
shocked. But he gets himself together and starts walking. Makes sense that they
shouldn't leave together.
After all, this isn't Luke’s first rodeo either. He’s never been caught before.
Which means he must have been at least somewhat smart about it.
 
***
 
Luke has a small house on the outskirts of town. Nice and private. Even has a
garage, so if the neighbors happened to feel nosy, they still wouldn't see Sam
getting out of the car.
Sam’s heart is pounding as he follows Luke through the door, into what looks
like the kitchen. It's cramped, and cluttered, but undeniably homey. Dishes in
the sink. Brushes, paint pots, and sketch pads stacked on the small wooden
table. The refrigerator is decorated in a collage of postcards from all over
the country, along with pictures of what must be friends and family. All
available wall space is covered with art. Framed paintings. Canvases hung on
their own. Even drawings stuck to the wall with tape or thumb tacks.
It never occurred to Sam to wonder what Luke’s art was like. Sure, he's seen
the guy help people in class. But it's much different to look at his personal
collection.
He’s really good. There's a mix of intricate detail and impressionism.
Photorealism of nude women with gigantic bird wings. Vibrant landscapes filled
with abstract jungle creatures. Children wearing animal masks, holding axes and
knives. Every piece has something just a little off about it. Something that
makes you look harder, and feel more uneasy the longer you stare.
There's a lot of sex. Copulating bodies. Slick, dripping orifices. Some tends
more towards suggestive than explicit. Then there are a few graphic close ups
of penetration, lips wrapped around cocks, fingers in holes. Some of the
magical realism bleeds over into what can only be called tentacle porn.
He knew Luke was a pervert. Seeing it up close and personal just makes Sam
kinda wet.
“Did you want a glass of water or anything? A beer? My bong is in the living
room…”
Luke steps in close. The top of Sam’s head barely comes up to his shoulders.
It's exhilarating. Finally being here. Sexual tension in the air so thick you
can taste it.
Sam reaches up and tugs Luke down to his level. He might be small. But he's not
some delicate flower.
“I want you to fucking ruin me,” Sam breathes.
Luke groans. Leans in for a kiss that’s all hunger and raw adrenaline. Sam’s
barely parted his lips before Luke grabs his ass and lifts him off the damn
ground like he weighs nothing.
Next thing he knows, he's sitting on the edge of the counter, Luke standing
between his legs. They're about the same height like this. So Sam can knock
that stupid beanie off Luke’s head. Grab his hair. Tug. Nip at Luke’s lips.
Give as brutal as he's getting.
It feels so good to be pressed up against someone broad-shouldered and solid.
Someone who is undeniably a man.Rough skin, ropey muscle, a few days worth of
stubble on his chin. Sam always pines after people who could break him in half.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been thinking about this,” Luke breathes.
“I think I might.” Sam squeezes at the growing bulge in Luke’s jeans. Oh so
promising. “You're kinda a sleazy bastard.”
Luke huffs out a laugh, pressing into Sam’s hand. “Yeah. And you're a brat.”
“Gonna teach me a lesson, Daddy?” Sam’s a twisted little cookie. He likes to
play games. This is one of his favorites. He wouldn't admit it, but just saying
the word out loud makes him throb.
“Doubt it’ll do much good, but I’m sure gonna have fun trying, baby.”
Obviously, it’s a game that works for Luke too. Because he's already scrabbling
to unzip Sam’s pants and tear them off. Sam’s boxers wind up on the floor,
along with his jeans. He’s so sticky. Wants it real bad.
He's not expecting Luke to drop to his knees. Sam figured that he’d be more
selfish in bed. Maybe get you off as an afterthought, if you’re lucky.
Sometimes, it's fun to be wrong.
Luke drags his tongue between the slippery folds of skin. Messy kisses. Hands
resting on Sam’s inner thighs, spreading him apart nice and wide. When he
starts licking Sam’s cock, it's a lot to cope with. Almost too much, not
enough, holy mother of god.
Sam shudders. Comes with a choked off whine. Luke just keeps going. Face
drenched in slick. He slips a couple fingers in, and Sam is gonna die. He's
torn between rolling his hips to get more friction, and trying to squirm away
from the beautiful overstimulation.
“Daddy,”it comes out all high-pitched and pathetic. Sam is too spun out to
care. His head tilts back. Knocks against the wood of the cabinet behind him.
He spasms around Luke’s fingers. Moaning like a bitch in heat, clutching at the
edges of the counter in an effort to remain upright. Breathing is difficult.
There’s so much blood rushing downstairs, he’s dizzy.
“You OK, honey?” Luke pulls back just enough to give Sam the most insufferable,
smug smile. “Do you need me to stop?”
Sam shakes his head. In for a penny. Besides, he's never been one to back down
from a challenge. He knows he can have at least ten orgasms before passing out
cold, because that's what happened the first time he tried a hitachi.
Luke is right back to it. Tongue flat and dragging across Sam’s dick just
right. Three fingers now. Gentle, but insistent. Sam knows he's making all
sorts of embarrassing noises. He can't help it.
Sam doesn't even remember the last time someone went down on him. Clearly, it's
something he needs to start demanding more often.
Luke makes this low humming noise. Sam tenses and comes hard enough to white
out for a second. He gushes so much it starts dripping down into the floor.
He is floating somewhere soft and warm. Feels Luke stand up more than he sees
it. Kisses taste like ocean water. Then just soft skin.
“Are you on the pill or anything?”
Sam manages to nod. At the back of his mind, he knows fucking without a condom
is a terrible idea. But this all sorts of bad anyway. What's one more poor
decision in the name of pleasure?
“I’m clean.” Luke murmurs. “I really wanna feel you, baby boy. When was the
last time you got tested?”
Good question. The free clinic back in California? Had to have been about six
months ago. But he doesn't make a habit of raw dogging it. He was fine then…
“I should be good.”
Sam opens his eyes in time to get a view of Luke stripping. He might
unconsciously spread his legs a little wider. Because Damn.
Luke isn't in perfect shape, exactly. There's some definite muscle tone. His
broad chest is covered in soft blonde fuzz. He’s got a little bit of a beer
belly. Which Sam has always found absurdly attractive. The tattoos go all the
way up Luke’s arms, across his shoulders. Sam hasn't gotten the chance to
really stare at them before. But it's apparent that Luke must have drawn some
of them himself.
“You ready, sweetheart?” Luke fists his own cock. It's uncut. Shiny at the tip.
Average length. Really fucking thick.
“Yes, please, Daddy. Put it in me.” Sam might whimper a little.
“God, you're filthy.” It sounds almost like adoration.
Luke lines himself up and presses forward. Sam gasps. He's already such a mess.
Too hot all over. Lost in a fever dream of flesh.
“So tight, baby. You feel fantastic.” Luke starts to thrust. Slow and deep. He
circles his arms around Sam’s body, cradling him close like something delicate.
Sam clutches at Luke’s shoulders, wraps his legs around Luke’s waist. He’s
split open. Laid bare. Everything is pure, overwhelming sensation. Sweat and
racing blood. Pleasure so sharp it's almost painful.
Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, please don't stop.
Luke kisses Sam’s neck. Starts to pick up his pace. He shift the angle just a
little, then every powerful motion punches a groan out of Sam.
“You like that, honey? Like Daddy’s cock in you?”
“Yes.”
“You gonna come for me?”
“Uh huh. ‘M close.”
“It's so easy to get you off. I fucking love it. Such an eager little slut for
me.”
Sam can feel the tension coiling. He’s surfing the edge. Luke slides a hand
between them. Rests his fingers on Sam’s hip. Dips his thumb down to drag it
across Sam’s cock.
Falling apart completely never felt so good. Sam squeezes down around Luke’s
dick. Head thrown back. Lips parted. Eyes closed. He's checked out. Elvis has
left the building.
He barely notices when Luke goes still. Grunts. Adds to the mess inside him.
Fuck. Luke came inside him. That shouldn’t be so hot.
Sam’s limbs are jelly. He's not confident in his ability to walk at any point
in the near future. He's almost grateful when Luke scoops him up, carries him
bridal-style across the house.
They pass through the living room. The walls are just as crowded as the
kitchen. There’s a dumpy couch, a TV, and a record player. The coffee table is
just covered in weed paraphernalia. A bong, several glass pipes, lighters, a
grinder, and a goddamned mason jar full of pot. What a burnout.
Then they’re in the bedroom. It's a mess. Clothes all over the floor. Bed
unmade. The top of the dresser is cluttered in all sorts of trinkets and  junk.
There are christmas lights zig-zagged across the ceiling, casting a dull glow
over the scene.
Luke sets Sam down on the bed. Kisses him gently before disappearing into what
must be the bathroom. He comes back with a glass of water, that Sam happily
chugs.
Sam’s exhausted. He can feel his eyelids drooping. Luke sits on the edge of the
bed and smiles down at him, stroking his hair.
Maybe Sam could just doze for a minute…
 
***
 
It's raining. The sound of water droplets pattering against the window wakes
Sam up gradually.
He’a sprawled across a queen-sized bed. Naked from the waist down. It takes a
second to remember where he is and why.
“I was wondering if you were out for the night.”
Sam blinks a few times. Luke is sitting in a chair by the door, scribbling on a
sketch pad with a sharpie. He's got on an unzipped hoodie and a pair of boxers.
“Are you… drawing me?”
“You're cute when you sleep. I mean, you’re cute all the time. But you looked
so peaceful. Couldn't resist.”
He pauses and flips the paper around. It definitely looks a lot like Sam. If he
had bat wings, and had been sleeping with them folded around himself.
Luke goes back to what he was doing. His eyes are a little bloodshot. The room
smells like weed.
Sam stumbles off to the bathroom to go clean up. He catches a glimpse of
himself in the mirror. He’s got a huge hickey at the base of his neck. He
doesn't even remember that happening, but he's not upset about it. He likes
getting marked up. Being able to press at the bruises later if he starts to
feel lonely. There's nothing like a physical reminder of being wanted, at least
momentarily, to keep the bad thoughts at bay.
When Sam gets back to the bedroom, Luke is hitting taking a rip off a chillum.
He holds the smoke for a moment before exhaling and offering it out to Sam.
Turning down free drugs is a sin of the highest order, so Sam gladly takes a
rip before sitting on the bed again.
“It's kinda late.” Luke glances over at the clock digital clock on the dresser.
Sam follows his gaze. 9:09 PM. Christ. He was asleep for hours.
“Oh wow.”
“Do I need to drive you home or something?” Luke starts filling up the chillum
with fresh weed.
“I’m probably staying at a motel tonight. So sure, if you wanna drop me off at
the cheap one by the highway,” Sam says without thinking.
“What now?” Luke gapes.
“My brother wants the apartment to himself tonight.”
“So he told you to go to a motel? What the fuck.”
“I mean, it's cool. I don't mind. He gave me money for it.”
“Do you want to stay here… ?”
“Oh… um… really?”
“Yeah. I mean, you don't have to, obviously. But if we aren't pressed for time,
I can think of several things I’d love to do to you.”
His smile is almost wolffish. It makes Sam want to shiver.
“OK,” he finds himself mumbling. Starting to feel warm again.
“First, what do you say we order a pizza? I, for one, am super stoned and
starving.”
“Hell yeah.”
“Cool. I’ll go call. Weed’s in the living room. Help yourself if you want.”
Luke tosses his sketch pad on the dresser, stands up and stretches. He nudges
his chair out of the way and walks out, presumably towards the kitchen or
something. Sam gets off the bed, headed for the living room.
But he's always been too curious for his own good. He can't resist picking up
the drawing Luke did, and flipping back through the pages to see if there's
anything else.
He’s not disappointed.
There's a page of detailed closeups. His face. Hands. Feet.
A sketch from a very specific view, looking up at him. Legs spread, mouth open.
What he must have looked like a few hours ago, when Luke was on his knees.
Sam keeps expecting a change of subject. But as he flips back further, it's
still more of him. Sitting in art class, head down. Standing in the hallway.
Walking down the sidewalk, backpack on his shoulders.
There are a few that should probably concern him. Like a clearly imagined scene
of him with his wrists tied above his head, whip marks on his ass. Or him in
some faceless guy’s lap, riding a cock. Or the one where he's on his knees,
surrounded in a semicircle of naked men, with a dick in his mouth and one in
each hand, covered in jizz and god knows what else.
Mostly, he's just kinda impressed with Luke’s ability to capture his likeness
from memory. And also inappropriately turned on by the fact that Luke’s been
drawing him into porn for weeks.
“What do you think?”
Sam nearly jumps out of his skin. Luke is standing there, leaning against the
door frame, not a trace of shame in his expression.
“You’re a dirty old man.” Sam puts the sketch book down. He's wet again.
“Kinda seems like you’re into it.”
Luke steps forward. Hands on Sam’s ass. Sam presses up against him. Smiles.
“Do we have time to fuck before the pizza gets here?”
Luke responds by shrugging out of his hoodie and pushing his boxers down. He
walks towards the bed, leading Sam along with him. Luke lies down on his back.
Sam climbs on top of him, straddling his thighs. He shouldn't be this turned on
already. But he's not the only one. Luke is hard again. It's easy to just grab
the base of his dick and sink down into it.
He’s kinda sore from earlier. Luke gave it to him good. But Sam has always
liked it to hurt a little.
He takes his time. Rocking down onto Luke’s cock. Just enjoying the slide of
skin. Luke runs his hands up Sam’s thighs. Grabs his ass.
“Yeah, baby,” he murmurs. “You look so good… bouncing on my dick like a little
slut.”
Sam gasps. It's something he doesn't exactly love to admit to himself. But
being humiliated. Used. It gets him real fucking hot.
Luke must notice that Sam speeds up a little. Gets even wetter. Because he
smacks Sam’s ass and grins.
“You like being Daddy’s whore, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Fuck… I’d love to see all your holes stuffed at the same time. I should invite
some of my friends over here. We can find out how many cocks you can handle at
once. I bet you’d make Daddy proud.”
Sam shivers. Tries to touch himself, but Luke knocks his hand away.
“Well, if you want to do that maybe you should ask nicely.” Luke cocks an
eyebrow. He’s still smiling. But there's a different edge to it now.
Sometimes, Sam hates himself when he’s stuffed full of dick. Because all his
ideas about dignity and self-control go right out the window.
“Please, Daddy,” he hiccups. Actually tearing up a little bit. “‘Please—it
just—it feels so good.”
“I think you can be just a little more patient.”
Luke smacks his ass again. Hard enough to sting. Sam’s rhythm stutters. His
thighs are trembling. Luke starts thrusting up into him. Hard. Deep. Sam stops
moving. Just braces himself, hands on Luke’s chest.
The room is an echo chamber of filthy slick sounds. The tension coiling inside
Sam is inescapable. He can't usually finish without direct stimulation on his
dick. But he's having trouble keeping his breath steady. Luke keeps dragging
over a spot inside him that makes everything feel like a technicolor spiral of
urgent need.
“Daddy. I’m so close. Please can I?” Sam’s a sloppy fucked-out mess. He’d do
anything. Say anything. Just as long as he’s allowed to have an orgasm ASAP.
“Mmmm. So greedy.” Luke laughs. “It's like I didn't get you off three times
today already.”
“Please, please, please. Touch me Daddy. It hurts.”
“I’m hurting you?” Luke slows down. Somehow, that makes things even worse. Sam
squirms. Tries to push back against him.
“No!” he wails. “I—um—I wanna finish so bad it hurts.”
“I see. Don't scare me like that, baby.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I know you’re not used to being denied what you want. It must
be hard to cope with.”
Sam might be halfway to for-real crying now. He did learn that turning on the
waterworks increases his chances of getting what he wants at a very early age.
But he's also feeling overstimulated, and off balance, and desperate to come.
So y’know.
“Daddy,” Sam sobs.
“Fuck,” Luke grunts. He tenses. He’s coming inside Sam. Again. Grunting and
gasping. He rubs his fingers across Sam’s cock as an afterthought.
Uncoordinated. Half-hearted. It's enough. Sam collapses forward. Whole body
spasming. Blissed out.
It takes at least a few minutes before he gets the feeling back in his
extremities. Luke is rubbing his back absentmindedly. Sam kisses him like he
wants to drown in it.
There's good sex, and then there’s the steep slope of addiction. This feels
kind of like the latter, and Sam’s not even mad about it.
 
***
 
It's probably sad how fast they fall into the routine. But it's not like Sam
has anybody around to ask why he’s getting home at midnight, smelling like jizz
and weed. Luke doesn't seem to have any obligations besides showing up to work.
So after school, Sam waits on the corner of Pine, and Luke picks him up. They
go back to Luke’s house and get stoned. Drink beer. Eat takeout. Sometimes,
Luke even cooks.
They spend a lot of time fucking, sure. That's what it's all about. But Sam
will also sit on the couch in borrowed sweatpants and do his math homework
while Luke reads, or plays games, or draws him. It's weird—how normal it feels.
Almost domestic. Sam doesn't do domestic. Just straight up, the opportunity had
never presented itself before.
He kind of likes it.
He kind of really likes it. Beyond getting fucked so hard he see stars. He
likes taking showers together. Eating meals together. Sometimes falling asleep
together, on weekends, when neither of them has to be anywhere the next day.
Luke is a cuddler. He’ll pull Sam close, and hold him tight, and it feels so
good, Sam hardly minds the rumbling snores.
It's not something Sam should get used to. He knows it's temporary—like
everything in his life. But it's nice to pretend, just for a second, that
someone cares about him enough to let him hang around and it's not going to get
taken away.
Luke’s house is peaceful at night. Sam is used to sleeping next to windows that
face highways, or apartments above train tracks, or just in the backseat of a
moving car. There aren't any streetlights out here. There's more nature than
man made structures. The quiet, the darkness, the stillness of it all should be
unnerving… but sprawled in Luke’s bed, it's almost pleasant.
Maybe it's because Sam’s stoned. He’s been stoned for a solid twenty-four
hours. Luke made hash brownies and then they've been smoking sporadically on
top of that. They've had less sex than usual since neither of them wants to
move much.
Sam’s not even sure the last time they said something out loud. Luke’s awake.
His eyes are open. They’ve just been lying here quietly, curled around each
other.
“Daddy?” Sam’s voice is rough. Mouth all cottony.
“Yes, kitten?”
“Can I have some water?”
“Of course.” Luke sits up enough to grab the glass next to the bed. It's mostly
empty. He gets up to fill it without complaining.
Sam hates how it makes his stomach flip. The only time anyone brings him food
or drinks is if he's sick as a dog, laid up in bed, and even then it's only if
Dean’s not working. He likes being pampered.Even if it's something small and
practically meaningless.
Luke returns, with the water, a beer, and a freshly packed pipe. He lights up
while Sam has the water. Drinks the beer when Sam takes a hit. They proceed
like that until the weed is gone, and the pleasant lassitude has dragged them
horizontal again. Sam is facing the wall now, his back against Luke’s chest.
If he shifts his head, he can see what Luke has dubbed The Museum Of Sam. It's
the most extra thing. So many drawings, even a few paintings, hung up in the
far right corner.
It's the tamer stuff. The more abstract stuff. No explicit nudity or sex. Luke
keeps those tucked away somewhere else. Which is probably for the best if he
wants to avoid prison. But it's still a lot to handle. Sam’s almost asked him
to take it all down before. Except then Luke smiled, and said how much he likes
seeing Sam when he wakes up—whether they had a sleepover or not. Sam is a
sucker, apparently.
Luke’s hand wanders, still slow and lazy. Tracing across Sam’s stomach. They
both sleep naked now. Which is kind of a thing. Because Sam doesn't like being
shirtless most of the time. But Luke never stares. The skin on skin contact is
nice.
Sam is wet. He tends to stay wet all day when they do this sort of thing. He’s
kind of expecting Luke’s fingers to end up between his thighs. He’s not wrong.
Exactly. But Luke switches course at the last minute. Opting instead to start
teasing over Sam’s asshole.
“God,” Luke murmurs. “You’re still all slick and open, baby…”
As if to illustrate his point, he slides two fingers into Sam’s hole. It’s a
stretch. But doesn’t really burn. Luke spent a truly admirable amount of time
working him open earlier. Sam’s not surprised he’s still pretty much ready to
go. That he still l wants to go, even though he’s puffy and sore.
“What do you think, sweetheart?” Luke kisses the back of Sam’s neck. “Can you
handle having Daddy’s cock in your sweet little ass again?”
“Yes. Please. I want it.” Sam’s already babbling. Pushing back against Luke’s
hand. He’s past the point of caring that he acts like an idiot whenever they’re
naked.
Luke pushes another finger in him. Shifts around on the bed. Sam hears the cap
of the lube click. Luke’s fingers are replaced by the fat head of his dick.
It’s just on the edge of pain. But it’s that dirty sort of pain. The kind that
almost feels good. Like pressing against a deep muscle ache. Like running past
the point where your legs start to wobble and threaten to give out.
It stays pretty mellow. Luke just gently rocking into him. Sam whining.
Spreading his legs wider. He hooks one of his knees over Luke’s thigh for a
better angle.
Luke wraps both arms around him. Keeps kissing his shoulders. His ears. It
makes him shiver. He’d been fucked in the ass before, but he never liked it all
that much. He doesn’t have a prostate. With Luke though… it still feels pretty
damn good. It would never make him come on its own. But it’s still definitely a
worthy use of his time.
Sam is talking. He knows he is. Just doesn’t really know what he’s saying. It
might be nonsense words. Jumbled variations of Daddy, please, fuck me, feels so
good, more, deeper, need it.
Luke rolls them both over, so they’re lying on the other side of the bed. Sam
kind of loves how Luke can pick him up, or throw him around, or just position
him however he feels like without much trouble. Luke starts rubbing Sam’s cock
with his clean hand. Then Sam’s moaning. Shuddering. Coming. And Luke doesn’t
stop. No. He keeps right on thrusting. Slips his fingers into Sam where he’s
slick and throbbing. Having something in both holes is a relatively novel
experience. Luke has thick fingers. Sam feels too full. Like he’s going to
break.
Luke thumbs his cock, and Sam squirts. Almost screaming. Daddy, daddy,
daddy.There’s a very large wet spot. Luke curses. Goes still.
They lie like that, panting.
“We probably need to shower.” Luke sounds so gruff. As wrecked as Sam feels.
Sam can’t do the words thing right now. So he just nods. Nuzzles against Luke’s
shoulder. Luke still has an arm wrapped tight around Sam’s waist. It’s
grounding. Comforting. All the things he’s never had.
 
***
 
Dean usually works weeknights. So when Sam walks through the door at ten pm,
and he hears a clatter of movement, he's instantly on edge.  
There's a suitcase by the door, as well as a box of kitchen utensils and non-
perishables.
Well shit. Dad has been gone for almost two and a half months. Sam should have
been expecting this. But he'd been entertaining himself with a pretty fairy
tale about John never coming back.
Dean appears, holding a duffel bag full of weapons.
“Sammy! There you are. Start packing. Dad called. He wants us to meet him in
Phoenix.”
“We’re… leaving?” Sam tries not to sound too depressed.
“Yeah,” Dean snorts. “I can't wait to get out of this shithole. Ain’t nothing
to do. I thought you'd be excited to head for a city.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Sam sighs. “We have to drive overnight?”
“Whaddya mean ‘we’? Last time I let you behind the wheel we almost got
arrested. Now go get your stuff.”
It was too good to last. Having any semblance of a stable life or routine was
just a pipe dream.
He grabs his backpack from the closet and starts gathering his clothes. The
routine is all so familiar. It almost makes things easier to stomach.
Sam doesn't usually have anyone to leave behind. When Dad swoops back in to
pick him and Dean up, nobody misses him. Luke probably won't care. It's stupid
to hope he would.
Sam is numb by the time he finishes. Dean’s already carried most of their
belongings downstairs. He slings the bag of guns over his shoulders.
“Cheer up, buckaroo,” he claps Sam on the shoulder. “We can get pancakes for
dinner or something. I just got a new credit card.”
“OK,” Sam tries to smile.
Sam is usually a contrary bastard, but his brother’s authoritarian tendencies
aren’t entirely off-putting. Dean is a soldier. A protector. He’s always done
his best to take care of Sam. It's not really his fault that he sometimes fucks
up. He’s barely old enough to drink—in the legal sense. He’s been responsible
for Sam’s well-being since they were in elementary school. It's too much to ask
of somebody. Dean's sacrificed so much. Even if Sam wants to hate him
sometimes, he can't bring himself to stay mad.
Together, they walk down to the parking lot. Sam gets into Dean’s rusty pickup
truck, holding his backpack close to his chest like it's an anchor.
Dean turns the key in the ignition, and Zeppelin blasts over the speakers.
Babe, I’m gonna leave you. And they say fate doesn't have a sense of humor.
They pull out of the parking lot, trundle down the road towards the interstate.
Sam leans back in his seat, trying to relax. If he’s lucky, he might fall
asleep soon. He doesn't feel like eating. Or talking. He just want to curl up
into a ball.
 
***
 
Is everything OK?
Sam isn't used to getting texts on his burner phone. Dean is usually driving,
or otherwise on the move, so he prefers to call. Dad is the same way.
It's been two days. Sam’s sitting in a motel room in Tempe. He figured he’d
hear from Luke at some point. He just doesn't really know what to say.
family issues.
That doesn't sound good.
it's not.
Anything I can do to help?
sadly, i don't think so.
When will you be back at school?
i won't. we moved.
What?
Sam chews on his lip. It's a terrible idea. But he’ll have a new phone soon
anyway. It's not like Luke will ever see him again.
The least he could do is offer a little closure.
i’m really not supposed to talk about it. but we’re in a witness protection
program of sorts?
So your father is a criminal?
yeah.
Christ.
he’d be really upset i just told you that.
I mean, I know nothing about him. It's not like I could rat him out to anyone.
I don't even know where you are.
There's a long pause.
Is Sam your real name?
yeah.
Good.
I’m very glad to have met you, Sam.
yeah. you too.
I know it's probably a bad time to say this, but I do have feelings for you. I
will miss you terribly.
Sam’s not gonna cry. But there's a very uncomfortable emotion welling up inside
him. He has to look out the window, at the expanse of asphalt parking lot,
surrounded by succulent plants.
i wish i’d gotten to say goodbye. but when we have to go, it's usually sudden.
I understand.
i’ll miss you too.
I think we’ll see each other again someday.
yeah?
You’re almost eighteen. I could try to get a teaching job somewhere else.
I don't think it would be at all infeasible.
If it's something you want.
i think i'd like it a lot
daddy
Good boy.
End Notes
     Title from the Front_Bottoms song. I listen to it and cry about Sam
     Winchester at least once a day tbh.
     I got the tumbles. Come say hi or something.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!