Fanfic - SPN: Nothing Left - Side One - Hunt-Fuck

[writingbyebonio]

Title: Nothing Left [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series

Side One: Hunt-Fuck
[042.Giddy]

Darkness gave way to dim light, revealing the mottled blur of a motel room, everything out of focus but the door that was centered in his sight.

"I'm going out for a walk."

Compelled, he moved through the room and out the door without feeling his legs, all his sensations starting in the distance but running their way closer to the core of his system. He was out the door before he realized that he didn't see who he was saying goodbye to and didn't hear a voice reply, but he was already heading from one somewhere to some other somewhere with purpose in his stride.

Funny. The thought hit him a quarter mile away. No nagging.

It was an odd little moment of forgetting. He'd quieted the nagging beforehand, of course, his special-nagging-someone too worn out, too blissed out, to care. Now he was too far away, beyond the door that split home-like comforts from the harshness of the world, and there was no real surveillance out here or … not the kind that could keep him from his goal anyway.

He smiled. Relax.

Senses unfurling, he could feel everything more fully down the road and the starkness of a dark reality bound itself up in the psychic press of others - different, weak, lost others - ones who couldn't quite categorize him and ones who didn't care enough to try. Just inside the city center, the complex energy of thousands rubbed against him until he felt like a starving man in a bake shop, his pulse buzzing urgently, wanting … something … and a lot of it. It didn't help that a woman tensed as he walked by, her fear like a warm hand at the base of his spine just waiting to thrill up his back, but … he shook his head.

Focus. Not the target. Eyes forward. Keep walking.

He wouldn't have even been out tonight, but work hadn't been enough, as if it ever could be. Every day adrenaline and action hit the pavement with him while he was doing that same old job, but the bruises? The blood? The confusion? 'Not enough' meant that he was still caged, still playing the game, still fitting himself into nice little boxes, like he could ever fully feed the need inside, like it wasn't rising by the minute until he could barely grit his teeth and bear it, bottling growls from deep in his gut.

Breathe. Just walk and breathe.

Huffing, he stopped to yank off his jacket, tucking it into his elbow because tossing it over his shoulder seemed far too gentlemanly, a lie wrapped up in the subtlest of gestures. The rundown bank on the corner said seventy-two degrees, but it may as well have said ninety, not that he usually cared. It was just too fucking hot tonight and he knew why, the burn eating its way out of his system and not on his terms.

Find and release before you do something wrong and fuck everything up.

He'd done his homework, as usual, knowing his way there on a map even though his feet were following his instincts and the reach of his intel. Something just fit in the way that he could track his internal tugging down to a dark strip of road tonight, a place where dirty pretty boys disgraced themselves for dirty ugly men, mostly to make enough money to drug themselves dead. The smell of the place made his nose want to twitch, but he didn't let it, eyes flicking from one boy to the next and the next as he slowed his approach to their hunting ground.

Not him. Not him. Not him. Him, but … no good, no fun.

The boy was barely old enough to drink, all bones, bleached hair, and whitewashed skin so thin it would be a wonder if his cuts didn't bleed heroin. There was no spirit in there, no strength, no intriguing light in his eyes, and both he and the boy seemed to work not to frown as they looked each other over, his shoes tapping the concrete as he closed in on his new destination. The faint tattoo on the boy's right shoulder and the dark make-up around his eyes marked him far too well, though. He couldn't ignore those distinctive signs even if he'd hoped for something more.

Fucking perv. Fucking predator. Really worthy only to scream.

This was the boy that broke all the younger ones, took what he wanted from them, 'showed them the ropes', as if half of those new boys didn't still have parents crowding police stations, looking for them. They could still have someplace safe if this little punk just left them all the fuck alone and- … Double-blinking, he found himself looking away for a moment, something taunting him like he was some sentimental fuck who might shed a tear for- … for what? For nothing.

Things that need doing get done.

"BJ?" His voice sounded funny in his mouth, gruff, but he tried to sort-of-smile as he put his stroll on pause in front of his target. He let his shoulders give a bit of a nervous shrug and looked around like he cared about getting caught, clarifying. "How much?"

"… A hundred." The boy seemed hesitant, like he wasn't sure how much cash he could really squeeze out of him, or maybe he just had better instincts than most. It didn't really matter, though, of course. In only a few short minutes, there would be nothing left between them, nothing but sweat and skin, and they wouldn't have to pretend that they were anything more or less than what they were.

"What about more?" He could feel the slick depth of his voice as his long held façade began to slip away and it was hard not to grin when a hint more fear eked into the boy's eyes.

"If you wanna put it in the back, man, it's double that and I don't do greek- … not for two bills anyway." He ducked his eyes, working hard to make his voice breathy, and maybe it was supposed to be sexy, youthful and coy, but it just seemed desperate, anxious and needing. "A boy's gotta eat, right?"

There was a pang in his chest, but he ignored it, offering a reassuring, though intentionally wobbly, smile. "Don't worry. I'm good for a hell of a lot more than a hundred."

The boy shivered, glancing at his friends, spread in singles and pairs down the block, for a moment, but he nodded slowly as he turned back, pursing his lips. "You got a car or something?"

"Thought you might suggest a place."

"Sure. Okay." The boy looked down for a moment, but then he turned and walked towards the nearest alleyway, stammering. "I have a place, but uhh … I dunno if you'd prefer, umm- … I mean, you didn't roll up all shiny and shit, so- …"

"Will anyone care about noise?" The alley was dark enough. He could just throw the boy against the wall and they could fuck until they were both shattered - no one would care - but he wanted to fuck until the burn was soothed, until the boy broke in his hands, and that meant sounds, sounds enough to draw an audience, which he wasn't willing to do.

"Umm." The kid crossed an arm over his chest to squeeze the upper part of his opposite arm, still walking. "They don't- …" He shrugged a little. "No one cares."

He nodded, not - not - thinking about whether or not there was a before for this boy too, if he'd been broken like he broke the others, if he remembered the moment when he realized that no one cared, that no one was coming, that he'd just have to suck it up and- … "How much further?"

"A couple blocks maybe, but I- …" His head angled away and the words seemed to stick. "I could- …" He moved to press himself against his new client, causing them both to stop and breathe in the alley's too-warm, too-sour air while his overconfident hand sought out what he clearly hoped was a tenting fly. "I could give you something … tide you over."

No thought and very little effort was needed for him to crush the boy to him, fingers sliding up to grip the hair above his nape and yank it back. "I'm gonna need a hell of a lot more than a handjob or blowjob - more, even, than you're used to offering up surrounded by filth like this. So, I think you'll want a bed under you when I'm through. Is that clear?"

Eyes widening, the boy struggled, but he wasn't getting free anytime soon and eventually he snapped his body into stillness, scowling in a way that did nothing to help his appeal. "You better fucking pay me."

He allowed himself to really laugh, something rich and dark that made the kid's scowl dissolve, his body shuddering with fear, like his blood was a drink mixing for flavor on the inside. "Of course I'll pay you, but not until I'm through with you. … Five hundred sound good?"

Calculations ran across the boy's eyes as he thought things through, anxious. "Eight."

The money didn't matter one way or another, but he had to make sure that they both understood who was really in control here and his voice hardened. "Five." Or nothing.

Eventually, the boy nodded. "Yeah, okay."

"So, you won't try to run if I let you go right now?"

"You wouldn't let me get far anyway."

The way an attitude barely covered the kid's real knowledge, his real fear, should have made him stop, made him turn around and go somewhere else, but he couldn't. He was committed to this and he needed- … just needed. "That wasn't the question, whore."

Teeth ground over each other as the boy worked to open his mouth after reeling from the slap-in-the-face that was the title of his only profession. There was too much fear, though, and both of them knew that running would be stupid, that it wasn't really effective for survival, just a way to ensure that the runner ended up without payment.

Running is an excuse to hunt, use, destroy.

"I'm waiting."

The boy's shudder told his cock that there'd be something more to look forward to later and a somberly shaken head meant that he could relax his grip. "No, I- … I'll work … for the money."

He let go fully, sighing, and let his lips tilt back up into a smile as he gave the boy room to maneuver. "Good."

They kept walking.

---
The kid's keys seemed to stutter in the lock, shaking a bit like their owner, but the door opened when the boy felt crowded enough, his john keeping his back warm with the heat of his body pressed in close. Once the boy fumbled his way into the room, it was clearly tiny, but the furniture seemed clean enough in the dark and they weren't going to fuck on the floor so … it would do fine.

"Leave the lights off." He didn't wait for permission to enter, tossing his jacket over the nearest chair and making the space his own. Then he walked across to the window, putting his back to the boy as he looked out on the shadowed street, sporadically lit by scattered lights that flickered like there wasn't nearly enough power to go around. "And take the clothes off."

"… I want to see the money."

A grin flared up on his face and he couldn't fight it down. He just went into his back pocket, opened his wallet, and let half of his biggest bills flutter their way to the filthy floor beside him. "That enough to get you on your knees, Marcus?" It's not going to help you.

"How do you- …" The scent of the room spiked with fear-bled sweat. "Did Eddie send you? 'Cause … I swear to god, I'm gonna pay him- … god, I swear- … He said I had 'til Sunday. I'm not stupid, man- … Fuck." Cloth rustled as fingers twisted it and scrambled their way up to tear at hair. "You gotta let me work tonight. I gotta get the rest of it. I thought you- …"

"Shut up." His face fell as the rushed breaths he heard made him wonder for a moment if the boy would be stupid and keep talking, but he was smarter than he looked. "I don't work for Eddie." He turned and leaned back against the windowsill, blocking most of the light. "Eddie works for me."

"I don't- …" The boy blinked, mind churning visibly until his breathing ramped up, marking him as a flight risk.

"A lot of people work for me. Here and so many other places … anywhere you'd want to run … any job you could hope to do … any friend you might make. Eventually, you'd need to explain yourself." Tilting his head, he let his lip tilt into something sharp with hardly the pretence of a smile, though it was clearly smug. "Do they even use my name down here? Or is what I am enough?"

"Shit." The poor guy probably wanted to go somewhere, but he was stuck, jittering where he stood. "I was gonna- … I'm gonna pay him- … I mean, I'm good for it by Sunday, I swear."

"Really? Word around town says you've been lazy lately, getting other people to do half your work, getting kids to do half your work - thirteen, fourteen - even after Eddie told you to send them home. That doesn't sound like you're good for anything except stirring up trouble."

There was more fight in the boy than he'd thought, enough for him to sniff and turn his head away. "I dunno what you're talking about."

He was up in a blink, the back of his hand connecting with the side of the boy's face hard enough for him to teeter in place like a bottom-weighted boxing target. "We don't run kids."

The boy rocked a little, but didn't seem all that dazed, tongue flicking nervously, perversely, over dry lips. "Some of 'em are really good and we used to have tons of- …"

The next blow would've sent the sick fuck to his knees, but he just yelped, taking all the force as he stood rooted in place. "Maybe that's how this strip used to work, but I don't care. You've had plenty of time to adjust to the new management and we don't run kids!"

"Everybody's gotta start somewhere."

"Not here." He worked to burn the words through the guy's eyes to the back his brain.

Grumbling, the boy wiggled his abused jaw with one hand. "What do you want from me?"

His breath came in slowly and the words followed it out with proper rhetorical weight. "… Can you give back the innocence you stole?"

"What?" The boy huffed, eyeing him like he'd just asked for directions to Belize. "Are you serious?"

"Can you even put a price on it, so you can work off your debt?"

"I don't- … What?"

"'Cause you're gonna do a hell of a lot more than five hundred dollars worth of work tonight and maybe, if you're good, you'll work down your debt enough so you don't have to die just to keep Eddie's hands clean despite all the shit you've been stacking up in our territory." His calm had run out again, leaving him agitated and hot with anger. "Does that sound good, you little fuck?"

"Yeah, okay, man, just- …" He held up his hands plaintively, as if they could shield him as well as reveal that he was unarmed. "Okay."

"Good. … Clothes off."

When he stepped back and the boy stripped, there were already bruises, some from needles, some not, and part of him wanted to turn away, wanted to take down a police sketch and track down the suburban john with two kids and a high-powered wife who liked to sink knuckles into flesh that wasn't his, but- … The boy flinched at his soft laughter. Pleasure and justice and necessity all got a little blurry in the dark and the world was getting darker every day now.

Good for me. Bad for you.

The boy began to breathe a little faster as the room warmed and the way his body flushed almost made him beautiful in the bits of light that his skin could snatch from the window. He whimpered, though, when he began to feel it on the inside, twisting as if he could get away, as if it wasn't a fire burning deep under his skin. His sounds were exquisite, confused and pained and afraid, and he curled in on himself as he was shoved onto the bed.

Break. Cry. Bruise. Bleed. Scream. Scream. Scream. Scream.

He could see a spine curved by the pain he'd gifted and part of him ached to pop every disc out of alignment, fill his ears with keening sounds, but he just let the hidden fire blaze a path that made the boy arch, made him dance a kind of living anguish with a chorus of choked shouts. Slowly walking around to the side of the bed, he leaned over and put his hand to the back of the boy's neck, dragging him to face the cock that he would service tonight. There were whimpers edging toward pleas as he let the heat rise, but he muffled them, unzipping his fly and making them into a private recital for his dick, his interest rising even as the tongue massaging his cock stammered from mounting pain.

"Mmmm. Not bad." He cracked his neck as he let the boy warm him up, but he needed the main course more than this shaky little appetizer and his fingers twisted viciously in the boy's hair. "But you're gonna love the main event. I mean … it's probably more your style."

Pulling out, he kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed, yanking the boy up like a doll and maneuvering him into a kneeling position so that the front of his body leaned against the wall where there should have been a headboard. Then he sighed gratefully, letting a genuine smile fall into place as his fist sunk into a strip of muscle just under one shoulder blade and its partner repeated the action on the other side. He moved in, towards the spine, and out, towards the sides, with punches meant to bruise more than break and bruise where they wouldn't make the boy's work all that harder, even with the aches. His knuckles lingered deep in each imprint as they made it, like the fangs of some pain-eating vampire, and he drank it all down.

"Do you work them over first? Or … are they scared enough to just open up, huh?" Leaning in close, he wanted to make sure the little fuck heard him, that he understood, even as fists thudded steadily into his body. "I mean … am I not hurting you enough?"

He thought he might come right then as the boy truly began to shudder in front of him, pale hands balled into fists beside ears as he knocked his head against the wall like that would drive back the heat that had spread while his back felt something a little more real. It just made things all the more amazing when he slicked up and drove into a hole that resisted but was no match for him, even though his hands were wet with torrents of the boy's sweat as he gripped hips and began to pump. His own sounds joined the fray and he could barely hear his mark, grinning into the boy's neck as he rectified the situation, pulling a yelp as he thrust in hard and found a nipple to squeeze. He was so caught up in enjoying the ride, in giving the pain, that he almost missed the way the boy's noises spilled into real words as he started to sob, from fear as much as pain.

"Oh god, oh god … forgive my sins, forgive my sins … Mary, Mother of God- … please- … blessed are you- … please pray for me- … oh god, please- …"

His teeth gnashed as his hand flew up to cover the boy's mouth and nose, rage stuttering through his system as he rode him harder, feeling the trickle of something not sweat running down his own face. He all but screamed, growling through his teeth as he pounded in hard and deep enough to break something, crushing in closer while the body under him shook. His words were strained and low when they fell into the air because his mouth wanted to tear into something and taste blood more than it wanted to speak, but he couldn't lock it away anymore. "I hate you. I hate you. I don't care- … I don't care how you got this way. You deserve everything. You deserve everything."

With a choked gasp, he let himself shake apart, groans bleeding into shouts as his high came into reach and he fucked and fucked his way home. Then the fire in the back of his mind and the power he'd shoved into every part of his trembling, weeping target exploded, a joyful yet vengeful release. He just breathed his shattered pieces back into himself and sighed at the feel of a room that was finally starting to cool down. It was only then that he realized the body beneath him had stopped moving, stopped crying, stopped working to moan or pray or scream, and he wanted to shake his head, to deny the truth that he'd made real, but he just swallowed, prying himself and his fingers away, and he told himself that it didn't really matter.

There was a broken body under him, a still and broken body, and his stomach flinched, but he couldn't feel it anymore.

He hadn't planned it this way. It just happened, as unfortunate things were apt to do on occasion. He wanted to ache, in a way, but if he did, he knew it would mean that this mattered and it couldn't- didn't. There was a drumming of darkness somewhere deep in him that wanted him to enjoy the kill, wanted him to say 'oops, sorry' and laugh, but it wasn't strong enough yet to make him believe. The boy's death was a bad thing. He knew that - knew that - and he knew that he should feel bad about botching a simple rough-up job, about taking more than he needed, but … this didn't really matter.

The Rise is All.

He climbed off of the bed and did what he had to: feet in shoes, cock tucked, and fly zipped. He wasn't supposed to care about this and he didn't. Breathing out, he stretched his fingers and turned back to survey the damage - not because it meant anything, but because he had to know how to clean up the mess. This was necessary - or, if not directly necessary, it was indirectly necessary and it didn't negatively affect him or any of the people that mattered, so that was enough. It wasn't just necessary; it was a non-issue.

Let it go.

His eyes lingered longer than needed as they swept over the body bent on the bed, limp and leaning, almost smashed, against the wall. Some nagging bit of him kept saying that there was a wrongness factor here that he was overlooking, but he just couldn't see it. He didn't understand what that part of him was trying to tell him, as if it spoke some ancient language that required the skills of a gifted translator and- … He'd wasted enough time here already.

You have to get back.

Jacket over arm again, he moved towards the door, but stopped mid-step, turning and walking back to the window where he squatted to pick up his discarded cash. Recoiling, he stood in a rush when the bills seemed red in the moonlight, hot and sticky-wet. It made his mind flip to long moments in dark rooms, of him waiting his turn, blood on his hands, smoke in his breath, and screams in his ears. He bared his teeth, not innocent and knowing too much.

Tainted.

The room broke under him as he threw his body - shoulders, fists, knees, and booted feet - into anything and everything that wasn't already in ruin. It hurt and he thanked the pain, remembering the learning, the laughing, the living. He was better- … better and almost- … So close. He just closed his eyes and soaked up the strength in memory, in now, in plans, and willed his stomach to calm. Then, he slowly folded the clean but blood-bought dollars back into his wallet and headed for the hallway, pausing to do … something … in a moment of blur, heat at his back as he closed the door behind him.

"Vindico te Infernum Aeternus. I claim you for the house of my father and his father before him." You remain unforgiven.

As he walked out of the building and down the street he smelled smoke and looked back in the direction he'd just left. In the window of some room, the bright beginnings of flame were throwing shadows as if they were living beings, fight-dancing with each other, and he tried not to think they were beautiful, but it was hard to turn away. It seemed like a long time that he stood there, feeling the warmth of something he wanted to join, to let rush over and take him, something he knew that he had to leave behind. Yet, when he finally turned away, there were still no sirens sounding in the distance and it felt somehow fitting that whenever help arrived, they would be too late.

In the end, there'd be nothing left to save.


One - Two - Three

Comments

[trias-cube.livejournal.com]

OMG...that was intense! The first part was hard to read but then when I got to the part "I hate you. I hate you. I don't care- … I don't care how you got this way. You deserve everything. You deserve everything." everything fit and made sense (I mean to me - in the way I'm interpreting it). I felt that it was Sam kind of saying that to himself. How he hates himself, thinks he is only evil, can't see that he was once innocent. Maybe Sam might have prayed like that himself....*hurts to think that*.

The killing was so hard and powerful and then was that Sam claiming the boy for hell? Complete destruction.

Great work!

[writingbyebonio.livejournal.com]

Thank you ever so much! This meant to be tough and intense and I'm glad it gave you food for thought regarding Sam and his experiences. Let me know what you think of the rest of it. No pressure. ;-)