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Black Hole Sun, Won't You Come

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Alpha Epsilon Nu is the oldest, most prestigious frat on campus.

That alone wouldn’t normally be enough to make Sam consider joining, but the fact that they’re diverse, inclusive, and support philanthropy for the LGBT community is enough to have him signing up.

He’s already joined the Law Fraternity on campus, as an addition to his major, and Phi Alpha Delta is gonna score him tons of connections in the business world in a few years.

Alpha Epsilon Nu is about to score him some connections in the here and now.

Sam’s not awkward, damned good at making friends, and all the dudes he met at orientation think he’ll be a shoe-in at any frat he chooses. He’s probably not done growing yet, late seventeen, til he hits eighteen later this month with the other unluckily young freshman in his class.

He’s sitting pretty at 6’0, which has made him damned good at basketball, but his older brother’s 6’7, and he can’t help but feel like there are a few more inches lingering in his already aching bones.

Fuck this shit, he thinks, and not for the first time.

Until he’s playing point guard with LeBron, he’s not gonna think of his potentially extreme height as anything other than a curse. Also, like he’s gonna be the one to dispose Kyrie, knee-injury or not.

So, Sam approaches rush with the same single-minded devotion that got him his full-ride to Stanford in the first place.

And he kills it.

He meets Dean on day one, full-fledged brother who looks like he’s about one drink away from vomiting all over his dark blue Sperry’s.

Sam doesn’t care if that’s what costs him the bid, he refuses to wear those godawful creations.

He’ll stick with his high-tops, thanks. He’s got Converses in every color, not to mention like, seven pairs of ‘Brons, cause, let’s be honest, he’s the King.

He’s wearing his  newest pair right now, light blue-jean fabric and bright-neon laces with a gum sole. It’s hard to find a size thirteen out in the world, but it helps that the guy who owns the shoe wears a fifteen himself.

Dean’s eyes glaze over when he sees Sam coming, and Sam thinks he might seem a shade too adventurous for someone who looks like they just did four keg-stands on the Sunday before their eight am.

Dean glances over at him with a really close approximation of contempt, but it’s not quite there, because Sam thinks that emotion involves more energy than the boy has to give. The guy looks like he’s handsome when he’s got a little color in his face, but Sam’s finding out that’s generally true of this frat in general.

His eyes are green, with the slightest shading of gold, but they’re mostly like Heineken beer bottles, a fact that Sam utters before he thinks better of it.

“Ah, fuck,” the guy he will soon know as Dean growls out. “Do not mention that shit to me right now, pledge.” Sam snorts.

“Sam, actually. Think you can tell me your name before you vomit all over your boating shoes?” Sam raises his brow. “Think the sea air’s gonna be good for your hangover?”

The boy’s body actually lurches forward with nausea, and he curses a wide string under his breath.

“Goddamn, shut the hell up,” he breathes, sweat-damp face lifting to Sam’s. “I’m Dean.” He huffs out his air, palms braced on khakis, and returns to his (mostly) upright position.

“One,” Dean begins, quirk of a smile on his lips, “I gotta wear these motherfuckers, but don’t knock it, if we take you, you need a pair too.”

Sam’s eyebrows rise so high they almost take flight from his face. “Like hell. Where’s the door?” Dean snorts again, covers his mouth when some of the other potentials glance in their direction.

“You’ll be fine.” Dean soothes. Sam still looks a little frightened about the idea of having to waste perfectly good money on shoes that he will never EVER wear, but he relaxes nonetheless.

Sam watches as Dean runs his gaze across Sam’s outfit, and it makes the blood pool in his stomach, even though he knows the guy’s just assessing how Sam measures up against the rest of them.

“They’re khaki,” Sam mutters, motioning to his uncomfortable pants, because he hates the fabric.

“You mean you don’t own any pastels?” Dean gasps, eyes narrowing in chagrin, as he leans against the armoire that’s lingering in the middle of the large room.

School history, Sam guesses.

Sam’s eyes widen with false alarm. “Like mint-green, and Blue’s Clues Magenta?” Sam clutches at his heart. “Salmon-colored shorts?”

Dean leans way up into Sam’s personal space, so close that Sam can smell the unmistakeable scent of Jack Daniels underneath the toothpaste and Listerine Dean probably used religiously this morning.

“Technically, they’re called Nantucket Red.” Dean says. Sam guffaws, and then covers his mouth with utmost solemnity.

“Y’know, there’s a page online dedicated to “White Boys In Salmon Shorts,” and I think they say that the first stage is acceptance.” Sam says.

Dean’s body curves into an actual line of joy, and he claps a wide hand onto Sam’s shoulder. “We’re pretty heavily featured on it, warms my dead heart.” Dean rubs at his left eye a bit, jerks his dress shirt out from under the confines of his leather belt.

“They don’t all know about it,” Dean stage-whispers, directly into Sam’s ear. He motions negligently out at his brothers. “Some of ‘em are real protective over their Vineyard Vines, if you know what I mean.” Sam laughs once more, loud and long, and Dean catches the stares of all the people looking at them.

“Something on my face, boys?” Dean bellows, and the potentials trip over themselves backing away, while Dean’s brothers shoot him amused looks.

It’s smooth sailing from there.


Sam’s pledge brothers are all pretty weak-kneed, and Sam thinks that’s too bad. Alpha Epsilon Nu doesn’t generally accept the vast majority of its pledges, something about top-tier rights, or something like that.

Dean explains it to him concisely one day, when he’s just dicking around the frat house in between bouts of what will probably turn into heavy hazing.

“There’s like, an unofficial ranking on campus.” Dean cracks his neck in the den, eighty inch plasma spread out like decadence before them. Dean’s real into The Last Of Us right now, and by extension, so is Sam.

“Alpha Phi is top for the girls.” Dean shrugs his shoulder defensively when Sam snorts his amusement. Sam turns his face back to the screen, PS4 screen winking at them.

They’re still searching for the cure, and Sam’s pouting because he has to be Ellie, while Dean gets to play as Joel. Sam figures it’s because he’s still got pledge status.

“I gotta know this shit, man. I gotta do a bunch of dumb shit, in order to get to the good shit. You feel me?” Sam hums in acknowledgement, even though he doesn’t really understand what Dean just said.

“Presidential duties, man. Gotta know who to set up mixers with, which reminds me, supposed to talk to that Alpha Phi bitch, Ruby--” but Sam’s controller clatters onto the glass coffee table in confusion.

“President?” Sam sputters. “Of what? Like, Of The Pussy?” Dean laughs so hard that some of Sam’s fear assuages itself, but still, what in the actual fuck?

“You telling me you didn’t know?” Dean says, seriously, once he’s slurped his Fat Tire noisily and wiped his eyes.

“Hell no,” Sam says, affronted.

“You looked like a strong gust of wind coulda knocked you down, and your eyes looked just like beer bottles, man.” Sam says mournfully, cradles his head in his hands. “I would've said that to anybody.”

Sam can’t think of how he fucked up this badly. He usually researches. It’s how he stays ahead, plans for problems that have yet to happen. But by the time he knew he wanted this, this brotherhood, the camaraderie, rush was already starting, and he just went for it.

Sam groans internally. His Dad’s always telling him to be more spontaneous, and look where the fuck that’s gotten him now.

“Ah, shit.” Dean claps a hand on the warmth of Sam’s neck, and Sam jumps, startled.

“Is it really that bad?” Dean teases, but there’s an undercurrent to his voice, like he really wants to know.

Sam peeks out from behind his fingers. “You should’ve told me,” he pouts, but Dean stretches, removes the warm blanket of his palm. “And what, have you start shitting your pants around me?” Dean shakes his head in dismay.

“We got a good thing.” Dean pops some Skittles into his mouth and garbles his words around them.

“Pick up your damn controller.” Sam’s still looking at Dean like he has two heads and a fucking horn coming out of his ass, and Dean’s borderline exasperated now, flicks several green Skittles in Sam’s direction.

He hates the green ones now that they’ve switched the flavor to green apple, and Sam finds them everywhere, they’re like Dean’s calling card.

“Pick it up,” Dean repeats, sends Joel hurtling over an abandoned building. “Fucking pussy,” Dean mutters under his breath, and Sam grabs ahold of his controller and rests it over the twitch in his jeans.


There are five of them remaining during the second to last round of hazing.

They’ve got to be extra careful with hazing, especially considering all the flak frats get for it to begin with.

Dean’s adamant about not getting carried away, he’s mad serious when he looks at Sam and tells him that he’s not about to see a kid die on his watch.

Sam congratulates him and asks if Dean thinks he could be knighted for his bravery and moral aptitude.

Dean slaps the back of his head and wonders aloud why he keeps Sam around.

The other brothers like Sam too, fucking love him, if he’s not being too conceited about the entire affair. Derek treats him like he’s his Little already, bought Sam his first pair of Sperry’s, which Sam flaunted for Derek’s benefit, and his only.

Sam hates the fuckers, but he figures he’ll be wearing them a bit more than the one time he planned on.

It doesn’t matter though, they think his shoe collection is dope, and Derek has like five pairs of KD’s that Sam is itching to get his hands on if it turns out Derek’s his Big.

Carter loves Cleveland almost as much as Sam does, and it’s almost a competition between them to see who can get harder over the mention of anything Cavs related. Sam was raised on the team, whole family from Ohio, even though he moved to California when he was fourteen.

Dean’s from Texas and breathes and dies Spurs, and Sam told him that if they ever fell out of sorts, their basketball rivalry would be what does it.  Basketball season is creeping up, and Sam wants to get into the frat before all this shit hits the fan.

Sam probably not-so-secretly hoping that it’ll turn out that Dean’s been slated for his Big all along, but he knows all the pledges probably want him, every year. It’s indisputable that he’s Dean’s favorite, probably the cream of the crop in the House this year, but that doesn’t mean he’s just gonna magically get what he wants.

So, Sam thinks, when Dean tells him what their next task will be, he’s doing it for a greater cause. It’s fine.

It’ll be fun, even.

They have to dress up as girls today.

They’re supposed to head over to Alpha Phi, bringing the ladies there a batch of cookies and roses in appreciation for all they do for campus (and for the dick on campus) but no matter how hard Dean laughs, he won’t let Sam add that to the speech.

Sam has to shave his legs for the nightmare, and he fares better than Evan, who manages to slice a clean line up his shin that needs an industrial-sized bandage to cover.

Evan’s sniffing his way through his left leg, and Sam likes the kid a lot despite his low tolerance for blood of any kind.

Evan’s willing to take shots with Sam, despite whatever classes he has the next day, but Sam also thinks that Evan’s made some sort of Faustian deal with the Devil in exchange for the ability to acquire no hangovers.

Sam once took ten Jagerbombs in one night and the next day he woke up with his pants around his ankles and a vibrator humming halfway out of his ass.

He may have been alone in his room, door shut and locked, underneath his covers, but there is no way he wants to know what happened to bring him to that point.

So, Sam fucking hates pink, so, of course, that’s what Dean picks out for him to wear, evil sheen of brotherhood in his eyes.

Sam holds the short dress up to his chest and blanches at where it ends, like, one inch below where his dick hangs.

Sam flings the fucking shirt-dress over his shoulder and stares Dean down, which is kind of hard cause he’s an inch shorter than the other guy, but still. He’s growing. He can feel it.

“How am I supposed to sit in this thing?” Sam shudders in thought. “Are they this short on purpose?” Sam tugs at the bottom of the dress, hoping to stretch the fabric, like one inch, even.

“Is there like, a dick to pussy ratio they’re trying to reach here?” Dean snorts out a loud laugh, and the other guys are dying too, but Sam’s dead serious.

He’s low-key panicking. Still gonna do it though, cause it’ll be funny if nothing else, but they might see Sam Jr and the Supremes if they’re not careful.

Derek slaps a heavy arm around Sam’s shoulder in comfort.

“Just tuck and duck, Samantha.” Dean cuffs Derek in the head before Sam gets the chance to, knocking his arm from where it’s perched on Sam’s stiff shoulder.

Dean deposits his own arm around Sam’s neck and looks down at him. “It’s fine. They’re used to it, see it every year.” Dean grins, and it’s a little lopsided, the way it always is when he’s had like, four shots he shouldn’t have touched.

“Don’t let Ruby touch you, though,” Dean commands. “You’re just her type.”

Sam’s brow furrows in honest concern. “What type is that?” Sam says, to the snort of his soon-to-be (hopefully) brothers. “Breathing? Disease-free?” Sam quips.

Dean rolls his eyes, but laughs nonetheless.

“Nah, man, hot.”


Evan trips four times on the way to the Alpha Phi house, and he’s in flats.

Sam wants to laugh his way to tears, but he has no idea whether or not his mascara is waterproof, and this fucking wig itches so damn bad.

He’s wearing some kind of like, high boots, riding boots, he thinks, and he didn’t even know they made them for feet as big as his own.

He’s actually kind of pissed that they make them, cause now this ordeal is just that much easier for him.

Sam’s got his dick and nuts taped against his thigh, and kind of tucked into his taint, in the most elaborate, uncomfortable trap he’s ever experienced in all his life. He has to struggle not to waddle.

He’s wearing--let it be known--a matching pink thong, fuschia, Dean tells him with pride, like this is his favorite part of the hazing ritual.

His dress is fucking skin-tight, and you can literally see the outline of his six-pack, and Sam thinks that’s the only thing he doesn’t have to be ashamed about during this entire process.

Brad’s on his other side, grinning like he’s won the damn lottery, even though he has actual dangling earrings in his ears. His dress is made of some weird velvety fabric, but at least it’s green, for God’s sake. Brad’s wig is some auburn pixie cut, and Sam laughs deep in his chest just looking at it.

Brad sniffs in Sam’s direction, but knocks elbows with him on purpose.

“This shit is good for my skin tone,” Brad says, his voice so damn high that Sam leans away from him on instinct.

“Yeah, you’re beautiful, Blanche,” Sam says snidely. “Can we get this over with?”

The other two guys are Shane and Eric, and Sam regretfully doesn’t think they’re long for this frat.

In most other frats, the guys going through hazing would know if they were golden by now, but Alpha Epsilon isn’t as nice as all that. There’s a final cut, right before the last ritual, and Sam’s gonna miss these two.

They’re kind of quiet, though, and Sam thinks you have to be loud to survive in this frat. You have to have a purpose.

Sam remembers what Dean said, and stands up straight, pushes the emptiness of his push-up bra up and at ‘em.

Brad cocks his hip and Sam almost doubles over from laughter when Evan allows the spaghetti strap from his robin-blue dress to slide off of one tan shoulder.

Shane rings the doorbell.

Sam assumes that it’s Ruby who answers, blonde hair framing her face like a halo. She’s exceptionally pretty, and Sam’s halfway to hitting on her when he remembers why he’s here, and also, he’s in a long-sleeved pink mini-dress.

The wind feels fucking strange on his upper thighs.

Sam holds up the basket of cookies, Evan’s too clumsy to carry things long distances, and Brad’s nails were freshly done (he’s way too committed), so Sam almost thrusts the wicker into her arms.

Ruby looks more amused than anything, and Brad compliments her dress in his grating falsetto. She snorts a little, and Sam can see that like, the entire sorority is trying to cram themselves through the doorway behind her.

“Shit, who’s the tall one,” Sam hears, and he preens a little, because he’s the tallest in the group, he checked.

“We just wanted to tell you, ma’am,” Sam begins, affecting a southern drawl for no other reason than non-southerners tend to lose their shit over it, and, like half of Sam’s family is from below the Mason-Dixie line.

“That Alpha Phi continues to be a boon and a light on this campus.” Sam says with a flourish, amidst a titter of giggles from where Ruby is standing, good-naturedly. Brad claps a hand on Sam’s shoulder, then seems to remember that girls don’t do that, and curls a hand around Sam’s waist, instead.

“Also, your commitment to research and philanthropy is astounding.” Brad’s grinning, and God, he’s an ugly woman, Sam thinks fondly.

Evan stretches his non-scarred leg out in what Sam assumes he thinks is a sensual pose. “Philanthropy in what?” Ruby asks, her voice just as sharp as Sam imagined.

Evan’s bird-leg freezes in its sexy assault, and Sam can actually feel Brad’s sharp nails slice into his side.

“Female heart health,” Sam says quickly, remembers Dean quizzing him during Call of Duty Zombies, and he’s half amazed he managed to remember anything at all.

Ruby flips the basket open and sniffs at the contents. “They’re warm,” she says, loudly, approvingly. Sam huffs out surprised air.

Eric leans forward, presses the orchids into Ruby’s hand. There’s enough for every girl in the house, Dean made him count, three times.

Ruby smiles, wide, at Eric and Sam nods to himself. Maybe Eric just has quiet ass game.

Ruby returns her gaze to him, and there’s something predatory in the look, and Sam tugs the bottom of his dress down lower. Shit, is it cold out? Are his tits showing?

Sam smiles hard for her, and she turns around, shoos the girls inside. They look back, laughing to themselves, and Ruby presses the basket back into his hands.

“They’re for show,” Ruby explains. “They’re never gonna eat all these.” Sam’s offended. He slaved away for these. Hot stove. An apron.

I mean, they’re Toll House, but still.

Ruby reaches up a small hand and pats his shoulder.

“Formal’s coming up. After that, I promise, they’ll be more than willing.” Sam supposes this makes sense in girl world, but Brad’s already practically genuflecting goodbye, and Evan’s running his hand across the expanse of his collarbone in some weird ass mating technique.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind her, Sam kicks off the boots and races the other four back.

He has to hold his dress down using his fingertips, and clutches his boots with his other hand, and Evan beats him by a hair, leaning heavily on his gimpy leg.


There’s a giant party on the last night, and later, Sam will say that everyone on Greek Row is there, but Dean tells him it’s only certain houses, for reasons he doesn’t really care about.

Sam can say with certainty that everyone there is pretty, or drunk, and most a combination of the two.

It’s just he, Eric, Evan and Brad left, and tonight's the night that someone, or someones, will be let go.

Ruby’s draped over Carter like a wet blanket, and Carter’s shaking his head, mumbles that she needs to sleep it off, and his floor’s hard but he’s not sleeping next to that she-demon, hell no, not again.

Sam knows they’re all supposed to find out tonight, but he doesn’t think anyone’s up for the telling.

Sam’s had, like too many shots to count, trying to keep up with Dean, who has a cast-iron stomach and can do keg-stands like a gymnast, doesn’t need anyone’s help to stay upright.

It’s kind of an art, really.

Brad and Eric are passed out upstairs, entangled together in a way they’ll find incredibly homoerotic, come morning, Sam thinks.

Evan is hooking up with some Alpha Phi chick, or they were, but Sam knows how Evan snores, and he can hear it through the walls as he stumbles downstairs in search of Dean.

Sam hears him cussing at a videogame, and then there are other voices, Derek’s and Mike’s and some dude named Scott that’s pretty quiet, but real nice when Sam actually gets the chance to talk with him.

Sam trips down the stairs, and he thinks he’s whispering Dean’s name, but it must be louder than that, cause they all turn to look at him in unison.

Derek’s face splits open, and Dean looks between them, his brow furrowed.

“Pledge!” Derek says happily, and Sam’s halfway across the room, launches himself into Derek’s open arms with a grin. Scott slaps his back in good humor and Mike reaches up to ruffle his hair, but drunken aim makes him rub his shoulder, instead.

Dean grunts. “Offa him,” Dean says, shoving them apart briskly. Sam’s confused, but Derek doesn’t pay it any mind, only snatches up his controller from where he dropped it.

Dean’s still looking at him strangely, and then he motions about the room. “Get cracking, Sammy,” he says, and Sam groans. They always have to clean up when a party is over, and the place is trashed.

“Consider it your final ritual,” Dean says with a yawn, which dissolves into a growl when he gets a shitty gun from the Mystery Box.

Scott eyes him, brown eyes warm with alcohol and mirth. “Kind of a shitty last haze, Dean. Make him wear the dress while he does it.”

Dean grunts. He stops to look at Sam again, and Sam feels flushed all over, kind of sways in place.

“Alright, man. Clean in the dress and you’re done.” Dean’s back is kind of stiff and Sam almost trips in place. He tugs his shirt off and over his head, gets it stuck on his neck, but then it’s gone. He shoves his pants down in one swoop, and his boxers slide down with them.

He put his shoes away earlier, he doesn’t like the idea that his collection might get damaged in his drunkenness, and he’s a little lightheaded when he realizes he’s just stripped naked in front of like, four very heterosexual frat stars.

He has a moment of hysterical laughter where he understands he just threw his bid down the toilet.

“The dress,” Sam murmurs, wheels on his feet to go get it, cause he’s gonna finish with a bang, the way he does everything else.

“Stop,” he hears loudly, behind him, and it’s Dean’s voice, raspy the way it gets when he’s been yelling chug too loudly, or singing I Hate College at the top of his lungs with freshman girls.

The other three are looking at him, intently, Sam realizes, and he freezes in place. “Don’t bother going back upstairs, Sammy, you’ll wake the whole damn house.” Sam nods in agreement. He will. He’s a loud drunk.

“Just clean it up and then we can go to bed.” Dean’s voice is thin, kind of like he’s running out of air, but Sam drops to his knees, crunching Solo cups underneath his thighs. He bends over, grabbing like four at once, cause, he really wants to get dressed and get to bed after this is done.

“Jesus,” he hears, and it’s so low he doesn’t think it was meant for him.

“Fucking ass, Christ.” Sam’s fingers stutter over trash.

It’s Scott, he realizes, dulcet tones, and it’s going straight to his drunk-ass dick. “Bend over real pretty, Sam,” Scott whispers, and Sam grabs a cup to drown out the words, lets it crackle in the night.

“Fuck,” he hears, and he knows without looking up that it’s Derek this time, and it comes out reluctantly, at best. “Fucking perfect hole.”

Sam’s head is swimming.

Are they fucking with him?

“Fucking whore, bent over like that, like he doesn’t know what he looks like.” Sam whimpers. Shit.



This is beyond not good.

This isn’t something he wants anyone to know about, he’s been ignoring it as long as it started occurring, fourteen years old and hard as a rock when he heard what Mr. Newsome called him, right after Jason’s pool party.

Gangly and still on the short side, fat drops of water sluicing down his back and into the waistband of his swim trunks.

Mr. Newsome calls him a cockslut, says he’s nothing but jailbait, out there looking like that, when he knows better. He should know better.

Mr. Newsome eventually fucks him in the same pool he first noticed Sam in, and Sam’s been exclusively seeing girls since.

“Shit, Dean, he’s blushin.’”

Somehow, it’s worse when they include Dean, but Sam’s hammered out of his mind, and he thinks it’s kind of like an Alice In Wonderland-induced coma.

Dean hasn’t said anything yet, and Sam leans forward again, wants the Bud Light bottle near the back of the couch. There’s a high groan from somewhere above him, and he looks up before he can catch himself.

Derek’s openly palming his dick, controller hanging limply from his hands. He’s looking at Sam in much the same way he’s been looking at him all recruitment, but there’s a harder edge in his eyes now, and it makes Sam’s dick twitch against his leg.

Scott’s sitting sloppily, legs akimbo, and he’s breathing heavily.

Mike’s drunk out of his mind, and his hand is entirely down his pants, while Dean’s mashing every single button on the controller and studiously not focused anywhere near Sam’s person.

Sam whimpers a little bit, cause that’s so fucking unfair. His probably-best friend at Stanford thus far doesn’t want to have anything to do with him?

Fuck it, then.

“Pussy’s so pretty, Sammy,” Sam hears, and he literally chokes on his own air. He rocks back on his heels, and Scott’s suddenly closer, wide palm brushing against the white-hot burn of his shoulder.

“Why you so red, baby?” Scott whispers, and Sam thinks it’s kind of fucked up that this is the most he’s ever heard the guy say since he’s been here.

Sam shakes his head, hair falling across his entire face.

Scott slides his hand under Sam’s chin. “Fucking gorgeous cockslut, you know that?” Sam’s dick’s so hard, with that one word, that he reaches a hand in between his legs, wants to touch, just a little bit.

Scott’s fast, wraps his hand around Sam’s wrist and stills it entirely.

“So fucking desperate for it,” Scott breathes, “look how hard you are. Fuck, you’re a bitch for this.” All of a sudden, Sam remembers they’re not alone. Derek slides off of the couch so that he’s squatting next to Sam, runs a free hand down the side of his face.

Derek’s bold, always has been, and he brings his palm to Sam’s spine and drags it down until he’s cupping the firm flesh of Sam’s left cheek.

Sam’s so fucked up, he humps the hand on accident, brings his body to a sharp stop. Derek laughs lowly, and Sam can feel the wet jerk of his dick.

“Can’t even help it, can he?” Derek wiggles two fingers into the crease of his ass and Sam moans a little, cause his fingers are so close.

“Gotta say it, baby,” Derek demands, dry drag of his index along the the dusky line. “Tell me what you need.”

Sam wants to, because there’s too many of them, and he can smell the sticky-musk of hard dick and arousal, Scott’s pants are unbuckled, and Derek’s shoving his basketball shorts down to collect under his swollen balls.

Sam doesn’t get the chance to, because Dean’s suddenly looming over him, and he looks bigger than Sam remembers.

Fucking Absinthe.

“Gonna say it, sweetheart?” Dean’s voice is barely a growl at this point, and Sam thinks he can be forgiven for the way his hips hitch up and hump into nothing.

“Spread your legs, baby. Wanna see how big of a whore you are for me.” Dean drops to his knees, one big fist shoved down the front of his running shorts, free hand bracing his weight as he leans back on his haunches.

Sam’s legs spread without volition, and he wonders where all his fucking words went, why he can’t shoot the shit with Dean right now.

He figures it has something to do with the fact that he wants Dean to tell him what the fuck to do, and exactly how he looks doing it.

Scott groans, and it’s the loudest the guy’s ever been, and Sam’s legs scoot an inch wider at the sound. Dean leans closer, and his eyes look starving, pupils engulfing the entirety of green.

“Look at him,” Derek breathes, wet sound of his dick sliding through his loose fist.

“Such a goddamned slut for it,” Scott agrees, and his teeth are bright and shining in the darkness.

Dean’s there again, and Sam goes from feeling overwhelmed, and yes, pretty fucking ashamed, to wanting to expose every part of himself to this boy who’s seen right through him from the start.

“Bend over, baby.” Dean’s voice is reed-thin, and Sam’s head is swimming as he gets on his knees and sways for a second.

“Careful,” Derek says, and he adjusts Sam’s arms so they’re far enough apart for him to balance himself adequately.

Dean’s hand is there, suddenly and his finger rubs, hard and dry against the furl of his hole, and Sam mewls, sound leaking from his throat like shame.

Scott’s body lurches forward with the noise, and Dean’s finger digs in briefly, like he just can’t help it. “So fucking nasty, Sammy.” Sam’s body shakes, and he can feel the blaze of his dick against his leg, and it’s jerking without pattern at the way Dean’s voice drags in the air.

“You get off on this? Wanna fuck yourself up and down on my dick cause you can’t keep your legs closed?” Dean’s voice is barely audible, it’s so deep, and then he’s leaning down, pressing his face in between Sam’s cheeks.

“Oh shit, please, Dean, God, please,” he whimpers, and his voice is slurred with arousal and drink, and Derek curls his fingers in his hair and jerks his head back.

“He’s asking so nice, Dean,” Derek says, leans forward to nibble at the line of Sam’s jaw with vicious teeth.

“Mhm,” Dean agrees, still not doing anything but blowing cool air against the wrinkle of Sam’s hole. Sam twitches in place, shoves his hips back, but Dean’s hands are solid and strong on his hips, and he doesn’t move an inch.

“Little more, Sammy.” He slaps at the soft of Sam’s inner thighs, and Sam opens so wide that he falls onto his torso, ass suspended in the air for their consumption.

Scott’s hand comes out and rests just on the curve, and Derek hums in appreciation.

“Please, wanna feel your mouth,” and Sam’s cringing, because this isn’t him. This cock-hungry slut isn’t him, at least, it hasn’t been since the Newsomes moved away, and Sam moved on with a passion.

Dean’s tongue snakes forward then, and he rubs the flat of it down the entirety of Sam’s crack, slurping so noisily that Sam tries to hump the floor, but finds that his ass is too high in the air for him to make contact.

Dean rears back and spits, loud in the silence, and he feels it slide against his hole and glide down, toward his balls.

“Come on, reach back.” Dean’s voice sounds urgent, and Sam wastes no time, reaches back one long arm so that he can pad at his hole with his index.

“Wanted something inside you so bad, here you go,” Dean continues, and Sam twists his head uncomfortably from where his cheek is smashed against the floor. Dean is raising one eyebrow in that douchey frat-star way he has, and Sam’s cock shivers in response.

He slides the tip of his finger in, and rocks back a little, so damn ravenous for it.

“C’mon, Sam,” Dean repeats. “You’re hard up for it. Wanna be split open so bad.” Sam shoves his finger in entirely, and starts to hump his hand in earnest, shoves punched-out breaths from between his teeth.

“Say it, baby. Tell me you’re a bitch for this.” Dean leans down, rubs the edge of his dick around Sam’s slack mouth, and Sam can feel the tackiness of pre-come.

“Say you’re a bitch for me.” Dean hisses the last, and then jerks Sam’s finger free, only to push all three of his fingers in at the same time. Sam cries out, and he can feel the hot chill of sweat on his spine.

Scott’s the first to come, jacks himself off against Sam’s ass, and Sam whimpers when it slides down his crease to intermingle with Dean’s spit and his fingers.

“Easier now, baby?” Scott gasps out, pries Sam’s ass wider so his fingers glide in faster.

Sam’s now supported fully by his face, and his toes curl and clench against the wood. His wrist is burning with the uncomfortable way he’s fucking himself, but he’s so hard and he wants to get off so bad it’s a burn in his lungs.

He reaches down a hand for his dick, just one touch and he thinks he could shoot off like this, and Dean slaps his hand down, startling a sob out of Sam’s throat.

“Nah, Sammy. You’re gonna keep fucking yourself like the bitch-slut you are, and maybe you can take a little more.” Sam gasps but then he can’t talk, cause Derek’s taking Dean’s place, and he’s sliding his index finger right in alongside where Sam is pumping for all he’s worth.

Derek’s moan is guttural and he presses his free hand into the dip in Sam’s spine, shoves his finger in deeper than all of Sam’s combined.

“Jesus, Sam, fucking comeslut,--” Sam’s dick is hard and heavy between the obscene V of his legs, and he can see the tip, edging towards red-blush, he aches so bad.

Their words hit him somewhere low and nasty, and he fucking loves it, the way they think he’s just a hole, think he’s so damn nasty and thirsty for this. He’s so open and exposed this way, he knows how shameless he looks, and he rocks back into Derek’s finger in relief.

“Want it, wanna be your slut,” and Sam can’t really tell who he’s referring to, but he wants them to keep giving him the bright hot-thrill he’s got right now.

Derek’s come splashes over the pale of his ass and he shudders, feels Derek rub the excess in between his crack, shove it into the gape of his ass.

Derek tugs his finger free and smears his come around Sam’s swollen rim, slaps it lightly even though Sam’s fingers are still dragging in and out at a furious pace.

Sam’s dick spasms violently and he’s gonna fucking cry, he needs to come now, and they’re not being fair.

It must show on his face, cause Dean smiles at him, rude-ass smirk that makes Sam want to beg him for anything he’ll give.

“Wanna come sweetheart?”

Sam nods vigorously, and Derek and Scott are standing, and Sam can see how drunk they are, they fall into one another like dominoes.

“Looks even worse from up here,” Scott mumbles, brings his palm down hard against the apple of Sam’s ass, and Sam jerks in arousal and shock.

Derek drags Scott up the stairs behind him, and then Dean’s alone, tugging on his balls, and Sam’s paying attention again.

Dean slaps his dick once and Sam keens, probably way too loudly for the tomb of the frat house.

“Like that?” Dean says, so dirty that Sam moans and shoves his ass back. “Love it,” Sam gasps out and Dean slaps it again, right, then left, hefts the solid weight in his palm only to slap it again, brings tears to Sam’s eyes.

Then he caresses it, runs his thumbnail across the frenulum and massages the crown with the cup of his palm. Sam’s balls draw up underneath him and his breath stutters in his throat.

He’s so goddamned close.

Dean’s hand closes into a fist around the base of his dick, and Sam’s actually sobbing at this point, and he wants to make Dean look at him like that again.

“Want me to let you come?” Dean asks. Sam grunts against the floorboards, face flushed, hand faltering in his self-fuck.

“Tell me you’ll give me that ass whenever I want it.” Dean’s jacking himself off, slip and slide of his fist, hitch of his hips as he groans next to where Sam’s open and wide for him, dried come and saliva.

“Tell me you’ll let me fuck you like the bitch you are.” Sam doesn’t think that’s a price to pay, goddamn reward if he really thinks on it, but he’s nodding, hiccups of air in his throat.

“Anything, Dean, w-whatever you want, spank me, beat me, fuck me--” and Dean’s hand is trembling when he slips it behind and between Sam’s sore thighs, jerks him from base to tip with a twist at the head, and Sam shoots all over Dean’s palm as he collects it.

Sam’s body slams heavily to the ground, index still buried deep inside his hole, and he can feel it twitch around the digit, he’s come so damn hard.

Dean’s palm is right there then, hovering next to his face, and Dean’s still hard. “Clean it all up, bitch.” Dean says the term gently, and Sam kind of wants to get hard all over again. Instead, he drags his tongue across Dean’s hand, pokes the tip in between the webbing of his fingers.

He smears it all over his mouth because he’s too weak to sit up, and he settles for licking his lips clean, groaning at the dirty taste of himself, salty-beer taste of Dean’s fingers.

He’s wholly unprepared for Dean’s eyes to glaze over at the sight and then he sees Dean’s dick entirely, bigger than Sam allowed himself to imagine (when he allowed himself to think about it at all,) and he sees the ridged head pass through the loose circle, and then Dean’s coming across his face, thick, wet stripes.

He drags the tip across Sam’s eyelids, down his cheekbones and across his lips, slaps it dry on each cheek.

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” Dean breathes, and Sam can barely open his eyes cause they’re so sticky with Dean’s jizz.

He reaches up a limp hand to wipe himself off, and Dean’s hand curls around his wrist with brutal force.

“Don’t fucking touch it.”Dean says. Sam whimpers loudly and when Dean helps him stand, he can feel the come begin to slide down his face, trail headed near his mouth. Dean’s looking down at him like he’s starving, like he wants to consume Sam entirely.

Dean’s following behind Sam’s rickety pace when they both stop, whirl around to realize that Mike’s passed out on the couch, both hands cupped around his nuts.

“M’telling you,” Sam mutters in between snorts, “Mike’s like eighty years old.”

Dean’s covering his mouth to muffle his laughter, and when he speaks it’s low in courtesy. “Nah, Sammy, if he couldn’t stay up for that, he’s closer to fucking dead.”


Sam considers jumping to his death when he wakes up the next morning.

First off, opening his eyes is like an exercise in torture, and about halfway between prying his eyelashes apart with his thumbs, he remembers exactly what’s crusted on there.

“Oh Mary Mother of God.” Sam’s naked in his bed, ass twitching in a phantom ache, and Dean Winchester, President of Alpha Epsilon Nu’s come is fucking painted across his face like a mask.

Sam’s gonna be sick.

He’s gonna vomit, and then he’s gonna die, and if he’s lucky he’ll choke to death on his throw-up and kill two birds with one stone.

Sam is trying to figure out how to climb out of the tiny ass window in the far corner of the room when his door crashes open unceremoniously.

Derek barely blinks at him when he shuffles inside, just ruffles his hair like every other morning Sam’s passed out here on accident and not made it back to his dorm on West Campus.

“Downstairs, Sam. Final cuts.” Derek grunts, and then he’s gone.

Sam thinks he’s gonna shit himself and then faint, and he is terrified he’s gonna do one and not the other. He really needs death to hurry its ass up.

Sam’s in grey sweatpants when he comes downstairs, some old Metallica shirt that he’s pretty sure he stole from Dean like three weeks ago.

He thinks of Dean telling him that he wanted his ass, anywhere, anytime, and Sam feels a resurgence of every single shot he downed last night in his throat.

How does he make a deal with the Devil, exchange his worthless life for, what? Sam’s crossing over to Evan (who, of course, looks as fresh as the dew on a goddamned flower petal) in order to ask him just how he managed to sell his soul to Lucifer himself, when Dean drags himself in, Derek and Scott in tow.

Sam decides he’ll figure out if he got in or not before he stabs himself in the heart, not that the decision will change his mind, either way.

Dean blinks sleepily, ACDC shirt clinging to his shoulders like fucking saran wrap. His pajama bottoms hang lazily on the jut of his hips, and Sam’s heart is about to fall out of his ass.

“All y’all motherfuckers went apeshit last night,” Dean starts, eloquent til the end, Sam thinks dryly.

“Normally, we take three a semester, but m’not in the mood to cut anyone. Finish pledge season and you’re full brothers for initiation in two weeks.” Dean slumps back against the mahogany dining table in exhaustion, like he just ran a marathon and followed it up with a speech to Congress.

Evan throws his hands up to the heavens in joy, and Sam’s like, ninety percent sure Brad’s legitimately wiping a sheen of tears from his eyelids. Eric just looks like he knew it would all work out, and they’re clapping him on the back, but Sam can only blink stupidly, because

He was fucking ass up, face down, naked on THAT floor last night, and every one of the top brothers in the House came




and he doesn’t think Dean’s words have changed that.

Evan’s asking him if he’s down for IHOP, they’re celebrating, but Sam absently waves them off, tries to catch Dean’s eye. When he finally does, Dean only smiles the same way he’s been doing for months now, dirty-slow smirk, of what Sam realizes now, is fucking ownership.

“I’ll drive over,” Sam promises, claps his new brothers on the back as they pile into Evan’s Challenger.

Sam knows the other brothers are dead to the world, it’s ten in the morning, and the only reason Dean and company are awake is to tell them the news.

Sam holds his breath. This is it.

They’re gonna kill him. Sam’s wondering who’s gonna eat his heart and who gets to slit his throat when Dean rolls his eyes and sighs.

“Stop thinking so damn loud Sammy,” and Sam smiles against his will. “This where you call me a fag?” Sam says, attempts the same brevity he’s known for.

Dean’s smile hardens.

“That’d make us hypocrites, don’t you think?” Dean says coldly, and Sam’s ashamed. He hadn’t figured brotherhood meant this damn much to them.

“I mean, fuck, guys--” Sam tries, but then Dean’s right in front of him, and he’s has to look up to meet pale eyes.

“You liked it, didn’t you?” Dean demands.

Sam sniffs.

“I didn’t...not like it,” Sam says sullenly, and suddenly they’re all laughing, Derek loudest of all, hanging off of Scott’s shoulder.

“Everything, Sam,” Derek says, “Everything’s a damn joke to you.” Sam lifts his shoulder in silent agreement. He’s not wrong.

After Newsome, Sam couldn’t afford to let anything get too serious ever again.

The atmosphere changes as soon as Dean wraps a hand in Sam’s hair and jerks his neck back.

“See, here’s how I thought it’d work, Sammy.” Sam can’t breathe from this angle, but if he’s gotta die now, he’s glad it’ll be by Dean’s hand.

His Adam’s apple clicks in his throat, and he nods to show he’s listening.

“You let us do whatever the fuck we want to you, cause that’s what brothers are for. Doesn’t matter to us either way, what you like.” Sam’s mouth is dry as sandpaper.

“We just know you wanna spread your legs wide open and let us stuff you full of dick.” Dean growls.

Sam moans deeply, and now it’s out there, and he can’t pretend he was just a horny-ass drunk. Dean chuckles against him, and he wishes he could see Scott and Derek now.

“Fucking come-hungry whore, and we get it, man.” Dean says, and Sam’s nodding, despite himself. They understand. Dean knows.

Dean releases him and smiles.

“Get naked. We’ve gotta eat breakfast, and you still ain’t gotten yours yet, have you?” Dean says. Sam’s shoving his sweats down with ease, and he sees Dean’s gaze turn predatory when he realizes that it’s his shirt Sam’s stripping off of his body.

“Under the table, baby,” Scott croons, and Sam’s on hands and knees crawling before he can put together a coherent sentence.

He can see Derek’s dick, flushed and open, poking out from the fly in his boxers, Scott’s pushed up over the elastic of his own sweats.

He looks for Dean’s but then he feels his best friend behind him, spreading his ass so roughly that Sam squeaks in shock.

“Gotta have something in here all the damn time,” Dean grumbles, loud enough for the other two to hear. Derek reaches down underneath the frame of the table and tucks two of his fingers into Sam’s open mouth.

He can feel Dean press his fingers inside Sam’s ass for the first time, and Sam’s cock is brick-solid, thinks he’s gonna come cause Dean’s fingers are so thick, and they’re scissoring him open with spit and lube, which means Dean was prepared.

He planned for this.

Sam’s grunting around Derek’s fingers and humping Dean’s hand with wet-slaps of his ass.

It’s too damned early in the morning for this shit, Sam thinks wildly.

Dean’s humming proudly at the display, and Sam can hear his hitch of breath. “Ah, Jesus, Sam. Need my dick in that ass. Fucking nasty as hell,” Dean says, and Sam blushes when he hears Scott agree.

Dean’s hands leave him abruptly, and Sam’s whining, but then Dean’s opening him up around something bigger, cool and fat, with thick ridges lined down the middle.

Sam’s got about ten seconds to realize he’s being speared open on a plug before Dean pushes and it slips past his rim with a dirty squelch. Scott’s hand squeezes at the base of his own dick with the sound, and Derek’s knees slap the edge of the table.

Sam’s moan is so loud he shakes with embarrassment, and then Dean shoves it in hard, pressing the base against the slip-shine of his puffy rim.

Dean’s breathing like he’s won a race when he’s finished, slaps the plastic hard with his knuckles, and Sam feels the damn thing grind into his prostate.

His dick is dribbling precome onto the dusty floor beneath them, and he could shoot off like this, Dean slapping that damn thing around inside him. Dean hits it, full force, and Derek’s fingers shove a little deeper, and he gags at the fullness.

Dean jerks his balls downward and slaps at his dick, five times, until it gets itself back under control, and Sam can breathe again.

He thinks it’s over, and he thinks of how big these dicks are, how musky they smell, and how hard he’s about to choke on them, when he feels the cool brush of metal against his cock.

He whimpers as Derek scissors his fingers in his mouth, and then Dean’s fitting the cock-ring at the base of his dick, and he’s locked in.

He humps the air lewdly at the feeling, tears pooling in his eyes.

Dean grabs a handful of his ass and squeezes until Sam’s crying, and then he leans forward, whispers directly in Sam’s ear.

“Gonna stay like this all day. Under this table, sucking us off.” Sam nods eagerly, cause why pretend that’s not exactly what he wants?

“Come so much you’re gonna look fucking pregnant, baby.” Dean promises.

Sam’s dick jerks so hard he hears the metal around his base clink, and whoa there, new kink.

“‘M’not gonna let you come, not once, all day,” Dean finishes, and Sam could drop dead right now, cause he knows Dean’s as good as his word.

Scott’s bare foot reaches out and he taps his toes against Sam’s dick, and Sam humps into the light friction, bitch in heat.

“Gonna be like this for weeks, Sammy, til initiation.” Dean continues, sex-gravel of his voice working Sam into a ridiculous frenzy.

“But after that,” Dean says, and Sam’s making bitten off noises as the heel of Scott’s foot brushes the crown of his dick.

“Only dick you’re gonna be sitting on is mine,” Sam flashes hot and then freezing at the admission, because what does that mean? Does that mean Dean wants him, alone, for himself?

Dean pinches Sam’s ass, hits the plug with the side of his fist. Sam chokes around Derek’s fingers one more time.

“M’not real good at sharing, Sammy, and what’s mine, stays mine.”

Dean leaves him there, like that, with those words, and Sam’s pretty sure Alpha Epsilon Nu is the best damned decision he’s ever made.