[personal profile] thecatevari
This is a very old partial. It's supposed to be part of Blood in the Water; I'm just reposting it here...well, because. Sam/Connor.

Sam swallows dryly. He's done this once--exactly once--and that... Well, Sam has rather mixed feelings on the subject and it's not exactly what he'd call experience anyway. "Connor... I don't... I've never really..."

Connor grins at him, the pleased Cheshire smile and reaches for Sam with slick, sticky fingers. "That's okay," he says. "I have."

It's different with Connor, which...yeah. Is a rather hilarious thing to say, under the circumstances. But far from the hasty and incomplete preparation he'd had before, Connor seems to take an inordinate amount of time working first one, two, and then three fingers inside Sam, playing with him until he's liquid and writhing, begging for more, begging for Connor to finish it, to fuck him to just...do something, something more than this teasing dance over his prostate.

Connor just watches him, an interested and somehow speculative light in his pale eyes, like this is another test—of Sam, of his endurance, his—oh God, and now a fourth digit—his tolerance. Only the light, panting race of breath through Conner's half-opened lips shows he feels any involvement at all. Sam feels his skin flush sanguine, a blend of arousal and embarrassment, both razor keen.

"Please," Sam pants, unshed tears burning in the corners of his eyes as he arches again. His stomach trembles wildly. All his muscles do. "Oh, fuck Connor, please… His hand closes over Connor's wrist and feels the bones like iron.

Connor cocks his head. "Someone," he says, his voice strong and clear, almost disinterested, "someone's done this to you before."

Sam's breath catches on a sob, aching and throbbing and wanting and completely robbed of his ability to lie by the pressure-friction of Connor inside him—fuck, so deep inside him. "Yes," he says finally, and hopes the other boy will leave it at that.

Connor bends closer, his eyes flicking avidly as his other hand closes over Sam's twitching cock. "If you tell me," he murmurs, "then I'll fuck you. I'll fuck you and I'll let you come."

Sam is so stretched, spread so thin under Connor, malleable and half-helpless with the pleasure of it. He closes his eyes; as if by doing so he can shut Connor—and all of this out.

"No," Connor says, and there's something feral and dangerous in his voice. "Open your eyes. Look at me."

And Sam does, hips thrusting, lips bleeding from how hard he's biting down. He looks and he sees the truth he's been avoiding all this time. That while he, Dad, and Dean may be a step up and a touch smarter than the sheep, Connor is a predator. One on the right side of the line, maybe, but a full on predator. And right now, Sam is walking a thin line between ally and prey.

Connor's hand flexes around Sam's dick as he thrusts deeper, making Sam grunt in combined pleasure/pain. "Who?"

"Dean," Sam gasps as Connor strokes him and then squeezes, low down near the root. "Ah…It was Dean."

He's incapable of saying more, twisting and writhing amid the sheets, but Connor only says, "Dean," in a soft and considering voice that sends chill shudders over Sam's skin in waves before his fingers go and leave Sam emptied and panting.


"Shhh." Connor climbs over him, his skin hot and strangely silken and thrusts his tongue into Sam's mouth. Connor's hands trail slow and sensuously over Sam's skin, outlining the clavicles, the pectoral with a brief stop to tease the nipples into hard wakefulness, down the trembling concavity of his stomach and back to Sam's aching, dripping cock.

Connor touches him, and that's almost enough to make Sam come right there except for the preternaturally fast movement of Connor's hand to grip Sam tightly just above the balls. "No," Connor says. "Not yet. Not like that."

Sam doesn't understand until Connor rises up to straddle him, still holding Sam in that taut one-handed fist. Connor's smiling, but it's not a friendly smile and Sam has to wonder if there's anything not predatory about him.

And yeah, okay, so technically he's topping but motherfuck it certainly doesn't feel that way as Connor sinks down on him, thighs strong and smoothly steady and not shaking anymore at all. Sam yelps, bucking up into the searing enclosing heat of Connor (fuckhotsohot). "Don't come," Connor orders, working his hips to slide further down onto Sam. He's tight; Sam hadn't imagined it would feel like this, to be enclosed so tightly, so firmly. "Fuck!" Connor's head falls back on his neck for a moment, his voice trembling so slightly over the word Sam's not sure he heard it.

When he's seated on Sam to his liking, Connor rides Sam fast, hard and ruthless, one hand gripping the headboard for leverage and the other clutching at Sam's shoulder so hard Sam knows—from experience—there will be five perfect fingerprint bruises circling his deltoid tomorrow to compliment the rest of the marks from tonight.

Because this always leaves marks, under and in and on his skin.

Connor's hair hangs into his eyes, wet and dripping, as the two hot coals of his eyes stare out at Sam. Still unnerving, still almost unbearably intense. Sam thrusts up hard again and again, but their look doesn't change; only the slight catch of Connor's breath betrays him.

Sam slides his free hand up and over Connor's hip, his flank, his chest, his neck and slips two fingers between those sinful red lips. Connor sucks them into his mouth with a moan, still staring into Sam's face.

Sam has no leverage, no ground to stand on, just trusting gravity and Connor's slight weight to keep him on the bed. He's holding on, riding out, giving in as Connor writhes and growls and it's so wild he feels the blush, the rush of blood, rise up his neck and into his cheeks.

Connor snarls and bites down on Sam's fingers when he comes, hard and furious and messy all over Sam's chest. And Sam doesn't know if it's the pain, the clutching clench of Connor around his cock or simply the look on Connor's face that does it, but it brings him right to that bleeding edge and shoves him off. The fingers of Sam's other hand—curled around the flat plane of Connor's hip—will leave their own imprints as he arches up and pulls down, burying himself as deep as he can go as the orgasm takes him.

For that broken moment, Sam doesn't know whose name is on his tongue. His breath catches as he calls it back and swallows it down. But when he opens his eyes to look at Connor again—now relaxed and sleepy-eyed—the smile the other boy gives him gives Sam the suspicion Connor already knows.

"That was nice," Connor says casually. He winces a little as he lifts himself off Sam. "Thanks."

"Connor—" Sam lunges up and catches Connor by the arm—not without some painful twinges of his own.

"It's cool," Connor pats Sam's hand, then twists out of his grip with a catlike gesture. "I'll see you later."
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