Blame It On The Alcohol (1/2)
Aug. 30th, 2010 05:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dephigravityTitle: Blame It On The Alcohol (1/2)
Pairing: Sam/ Brady, minor Sam/ OFC
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1427
Disclaimer: If I did own them I wouldn't be on here, now would I?
Summary: While at Stanford, Sam Winchester was practically inseparable from his roommate,Brady. When the two crash a Sorority party and Sam botches a hookup, they find themselves even closer than they could have realized and Sam's deepest held secret finally starts to surface.
Author's Notes: Beta by the magnificent![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dcillusioned
*Written for the![[community profile]](https://s.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo "Drugs/ Aphrodisiacs" prompt.
The door bursts open, the hum of too many conversations and indie music filling the once silent room. Sam takes a step in, the neck of a half empty bottle of Corona clutched tight between his fingers. He lifts his eyebrows high as his head attempts to stop its swirling long enough to comprehend.
"S’fuckin’ pink," he says, his word coming out in an almost comprehensible language. The beer sloshes up the side of the bottle, spilling over his hand as it drips onto the pristine white carpeting beneath his feet. His lips part into a gaping thoughtless expression as he takes in the over abundance of unicorns, rainbows, and various other stuffed animals.
A petite hand slithers around his belly, fuchsia nails catching slightly on the ribbing of his undershirt. He looks down as he feels pressure against the lower part of his shoulder blades; a soft giggle tickles his spine as Carrie or is it Sherry, or Leslie, whoever, she’s a sorority girl, that’s all that counts loops her other arm around his waist.
"Sam?" She whines as he staggers into the horrendously feminine and childish room.
"How’d you girls stan' this stuff? Don’tcha know Unicorns aren’t real?" He asks, losing his balance as Sorority Girl’s grip fails, almost tearing off his back pockets in the process.
Sorority Girl regains her footing, her flip flop discarded a few inches behind her. Not that she notices that, or much of anything really, both her and Sam are completely and utterly wasted on way too many Jell-O shots and that piss water they call beer from downstairs. She attempts to push Sam towards the sea of throw pillows atop her bed, but she gives up and spins around too fast, her equilibrium thrown off whack sending her crashing into the ground.
Sam doesn’t even notice, still awestruck by his descent into the Pepto Bismal colored Wonderland; his vision blurs as he opens his eyes wide to make out an autograph on a poster nearby. Hanson?
Manicured fingernails slap at the door, it closes but fails to latch. Sorority Girl pouts; dragging herself across the floor, she pushes the door closed but forgets the lock. A crystal fairy bounces on the floor, knocked off as she flounders to find a grip on the dresser.
Sam swoons, the room dipping and stretching, he shuffles his boots along the carpet as he reaches down to make sure the bed is nearby. Feeling the soft fluffiness of the duvet, he turns slowly, his ass plopping down hard as the mattress creaks in protest under his weight. He downs the last of his beer and tosses the bottle at the Hello Kitty wastebasket in the corner. The bottle rings around the edge, spilling it out onto the floor. Dammit. He pouts as he considers what the proper punishment could be for the bottle’s defiance.
Sorority Girl attempts one last time to stand, instead her head cracks with a dull thud against the back of the door.
A laugh surges out of Sam, he doubles over as she rubs the back of her head. She tries to be mad at him, but his laughter is just too contagious. A snort from her sends him toppling on his side, the combination of alcohol and lack of oxygen dims the room. The pink cloud he’s on turns to grey before bursting back to its original ghastliness; his breaths are slowing now as the last bits of a chuckle are choked off by a deep sigh against the bedding.
Her brunette hair is cascading down over her hunched shoulders, the hair tie that held her ponytail is thrown away as she crawls towards him. She tries her best to look sexy but images of Selma Blair in Cruel Intentions spring to his mind as he suppresses another bout of snickering.
His eyes close, refusing to cooperate any longer as the room continues its spiral. There is a slight tug at his jeans followed by the tell-tale sound of a zipper. He rolls back on to his back and lifts his ass off the bed, her nails clawing at his hips as she slides the denim down to his ankles.
Sam’s chest swells, much needed air filling his lungs as he gazes lazily up at the ceiling and its prismatic hearts, spinning slower than the room is. He clenches his eyes shut, praying for his head to find some semblance of normalcy and balance. A smattering of kisses falls against his now exposed belly, his undershirt cinched up closer to his armpits. His cock is still limp, possibly due to the alcohol. More likely it was her propensity for teeth, or so Brady had warned before she guided him to her room. He feels her fingers slipping under the elastic along his inner thigh, just as his vision blackens, sending him into the welcome serenity of sleep.
"Sam, Sammy boy. Dude, wake up."
Sam cracks open an eye, light stabbing deep into his skull as he tries to gain his bearings. A blob of color that he assumes is a person is hovering above him, its hand tapping soft against his cheek. He shakes his head to clear the haze. Brady. Of course it’s Brady, who else would it be.
At the back of his mind he wishes it might have been Dean, but there’s no way his brother would be here. Not at Stanford. Not after the way he left the way he did, John screaming curses at him as he stormed away, vowing to never look back.
"Winchester, wake the hell up," Brady says again, his hands latching onto Sam’s in an attempt to drag his sorry ass up. Sam resists. Before he realizes he’s even doing it, Sam pulls back, Brady’s muscled form falls on top, smothering him.
"Dude, what the fuck?" Brady asks, startled at first by Sam’s strength.
Sam adjusts his head, his friend’s hair tickling at his lips as he wraps his arms around his torso. For all Brady’s protesting, Sam is surprised that he doesn’t pull away, even as Sam feels the stir of his dick, swelling at the pressure of a body between his legs.
"Where’s?" Sam slurs, his head still swimming and drawing a blank on Sorority Girl’s name, not that he ever knew it to begin with. He lifts his hips without realizing he is, pre-come seeping through his underwear and over Brady’s navel.
"One of her sisters came in and took her to the shower. The two of you are totally trashed," he mumbles into the cotton clinging tightly across Sam’s chest.
Sam’s stroking a hand over the small of Brady’s back, lazy circles tracing into the dip of his spine. He reaches lower, sliding his hand just under the hem, his skin hot to the touch.
"Sam?"
"Hmm," Sam all but purrs, still unaware of what he’s doing, focusing solely on the comfort of another body, warm and soothing on top of him. The weight is more than what he’s used to, but Sam pushes that aside.
"What are you doing?" Brady asks. His head lifts, chin digging into Sam’s collar bone.
Sam’s breaths are slow and deep, his chest rising beneath Brady’s weight. He looks down; something about the glimmering reflection in his friend’s blue eyes flicks a switch somewhere. There are warnings flashing in his head, but he blatantly ignores them.
A burst of breath warms his cheek, Brady groans at the weight now on top of him, crushing him, as Sam somehow flips the two. He leans up, hands pushing against Brady’s shoulders, pinning him to the bed as he grinds harder into his crotch. Sam can almost see the gears turn behind his crystal blue eyes, but he’s too lost in the haze of alcohol and loss of inhibition to dwell on it.
Sam crashes down, the scent of aftershave and Corn Nuts, driving him crazy as he glides his nose over the trail of stubble lining Brady’s jaw. Brady’s hands are pushing at him now, a weak effort to put some space between them. Sam cuts off his attempts to speak when he crashes their lips together, warm tongue shooting out to trace his lips.
Sam can feel Brady’s lips drawing tight underneath his own, teeth clenching tight in a vain attempt to block off the assault. He knows this is wrong, knows that Brady isn’t into guys, into him. He just knows. That is, until he feels a gradual press below his balls and Brady’s dick filling in his jeans.
Part 2
Pairing: Sam/ Brady, minor Sam/ OFC
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1427
Disclaimer: If I did own them I wouldn't be on here, now would I?
Summary: While at Stanford, Sam Winchester was practically inseparable from his roommate,Brady. When the two crash a Sorority party and Sam botches a hookup, they find themselves even closer than they could have realized and Sam's deepest held secret finally starts to surface.
Author's Notes: Beta by the magnificent
dcillusioned*Written for the
kink_bingo "Drugs/ Aphrodisiacs" prompt.The door bursts open, the hum of too many conversations and indie music filling the once silent room. Sam takes a step in, the neck of a half empty bottle of Corona clutched tight between his fingers. He lifts his eyebrows high as his head attempts to stop its swirling long enough to comprehend.
"S’fuckin’ pink," he says, his word coming out in an almost comprehensible language. The beer sloshes up the side of the bottle, spilling over his hand as it drips onto the pristine white carpeting beneath his feet. His lips part into a gaping thoughtless expression as he takes in the over abundance of unicorns, rainbows, and various other stuffed animals.
A petite hand slithers around his belly, fuchsia nails catching slightly on the ribbing of his undershirt. He looks down as he feels pressure against the lower part of his shoulder blades; a soft giggle tickles his spine as Carrie or is it Sherry, or Leslie, whoever, she’s a sorority girl, that’s all that counts loops her other arm around his waist.
"Sam?" She whines as he staggers into the horrendously feminine and childish room.
"How’d you girls stan' this stuff? Don’tcha know Unicorns aren’t real?" He asks, losing his balance as Sorority Girl’s grip fails, almost tearing off his back pockets in the process.
Sorority Girl regains her footing, her flip flop discarded a few inches behind her. Not that she notices that, or much of anything really, both her and Sam are completely and utterly wasted on way too many Jell-O shots and that piss water they call beer from downstairs. She attempts to push Sam towards the sea of throw pillows atop her bed, but she gives up and spins around too fast, her equilibrium thrown off whack sending her crashing into the ground.
Sam doesn’t even notice, still awestruck by his descent into the Pepto Bismal colored Wonderland; his vision blurs as he opens his eyes wide to make out an autograph on a poster nearby. Hanson?
Manicured fingernails slap at the door, it closes but fails to latch. Sorority Girl pouts; dragging herself across the floor, she pushes the door closed but forgets the lock. A crystal fairy bounces on the floor, knocked off as she flounders to find a grip on the dresser.
Sam swoons, the room dipping and stretching, he shuffles his boots along the carpet as he reaches down to make sure the bed is nearby. Feeling the soft fluffiness of the duvet, he turns slowly, his ass plopping down hard as the mattress creaks in protest under his weight. He downs the last of his beer and tosses the bottle at the Hello Kitty wastebasket in the corner. The bottle rings around the edge, spilling it out onto the floor. Dammit. He pouts as he considers what the proper punishment could be for the bottle’s defiance.
Sorority Girl attempts one last time to stand, instead her head cracks with a dull thud against the back of the door.
A laugh surges out of Sam, he doubles over as she rubs the back of her head. She tries to be mad at him, but his laughter is just too contagious. A snort from her sends him toppling on his side, the combination of alcohol and lack of oxygen dims the room. The pink cloud he’s on turns to grey before bursting back to its original ghastliness; his breaths are slowing now as the last bits of a chuckle are choked off by a deep sigh against the bedding.
Her brunette hair is cascading down over her hunched shoulders, the hair tie that held her ponytail is thrown away as she crawls towards him. She tries her best to look sexy but images of Selma Blair in Cruel Intentions spring to his mind as he suppresses another bout of snickering.
His eyes close, refusing to cooperate any longer as the room continues its spiral. There is a slight tug at his jeans followed by the tell-tale sound of a zipper. He rolls back on to his back and lifts his ass off the bed, her nails clawing at his hips as she slides the denim down to his ankles.
Sam’s chest swells, much needed air filling his lungs as he gazes lazily up at the ceiling and its prismatic hearts, spinning slower than the room is. He clenches his eyes shut, praying for his head to find some semblance of normalcy and balance. A smattering of kisses falls against his now exposed belly, his undershirt cinched up closer to his armpits. His cock is still limp, possibly due to the alcohol. More likely it was her propensity for teeth, or so Brady had warned before she guided him to her room. He feels her fingers slipping under the elastic along his inner thigh, just as his vision blackens, sending him into the welcome serenity of sleep.
"Sam, Sammy boy. Dude, wake up."
Sam cracks open an eye, light stabbing deep into his skull as he tries to gain his bearings. A blob of color that he assumes is a person is hovering above him, its hand tapping soft against his cheek. He shakes his head to clear the haze. Brady. Of course it’s Brady, who else would it be.
At the back of his mind he wishes it might have been Dean, but there’s no way his brother would be here. Not at Stanford. Not after the way he left the way he did, John screaming curses at him as he stormed away, vowing to never look back.
"Winchester, wake the hell up," Brady says again, his hands latching onto Sam’s in an attempt to drag his sorry ass up. Sam resists. Before he realizes he’s even doing it, Sam pulls back, Brady’s muscled form falls on top, smothering him.
"Dude, what the fuck?" Brady asks, startled at first by Sam’s strength.
Sam adjusts his head, his friend’s hair tickling at his lips as he wraps his arms around his torso. For all Brady’s protesting, Sam is surprised that he doesn’t pull away, even as Sam feels the stir of his dick, swelling at the pressure of a body between his legs.
"Where’s?" Sam slurs, his head still swimming and drawing a blank on Sorority Girl’s name, not that he ever knew it to begin with. He lifts his hips without realizing he is, pre-come seeping through his underwear and over Brady’s navel.
"One of her sisters came in and took her to the shower. The two of you are totally trashed," he mumbles into the cotton clinging tightly across Sam’s chest.
Sam’s stroking a hand over the small of Brady’s back, lazy circles tracing into the dip of his spine. He reaches lower, sliding his hand just under the hem, his skin hot to the touch.
"Sam?"
"Hmm," Sam all but purrs, still unaware of what he’s doing, focusing solely on the comfort of another body, warm and soothing on top of him. The weight is more than what he’s used to, but Sam pushes that aside.
"What are you doing?" Brady asks. His head lifts, chin digging into Sam’s collar bone.
Sam’s breaths are slow and deep, his chest rising beneath Brady’s weight. He looks down; something about the glimmering reflection in his friend’s blue eyes flicks a switch somewhere. There are warnings flashing in his head, but he blatantly ignores them.
A burst of breath warms his cheek, Brady groans at the weight now on top of him, crushing him, as Sam somehow flips the two. He leans up, hands pushing against Brady’s shoulders, pinning him to the bed as he grinds harder into his crotch. Sam can almost see the gears turn behind his crystal blue eyes, but he’s too lost in the haze of alcohol and loss of inhibition to dwell on it.
Sam crashes down, the scent of aftershave and Corn Nuts, driving him crazy as he glides his nose over the trail of stubble lining Brady’s jaw. Brady’s hands are pushing at him now, a weak effort to put some space between them. Sam cuts off his attempts to speak when he crashes their lips together, warm tongue shooting out to trace his lips.
Sam can feel Brady’s lips drawing tight underneath his own, teeth clenching tight in a vain attempt to block off the assault. He knows this is wrong, knows that Brady isn’t into guys, into him. He just knows. That is, until he feels a gradual press below his balls and Brady’s dick filling in his jeans.
Part 2
