Night Crawling
Sam x Reader
Word Count: ~3350
Warnings: Some explicit smutty goodness in a dive bar bathroom, some recreational drug use, some Sam feels.
A/N: I really thought I was going to write PWP for once. As usual, some feels snuck in. Set at some vague point in Season 5.
I’ve had the new Miley Cyrus album on repeat all day; inspiration, title, and bathroom graffiti quote all came from “Night Crawling.” Listen to that and “Gimme What I Want” if you want maximum ~atmosphere~ or whatever while reading.
“Another?” Sam asks, leaning in to make himself heard over the music. He gives me a twisted, wicked version of his usual dimpled smile. There’s a drop of tequila clinging to his lip, and I want to lick it off. He’s so close.
My head is still spinning from the last shot and from his attention. I shake it off.
“Bathroom, I’ll be back,” I tell him.
Sam’s in a fucking mood tonight. Not that I blame him. Time is ticking away, faster by the day it feels like; if Lucifer was after me, I’d take whatever escape I could get.
Dean’s at the motel, hopefully putting some ice on his twisted ankle or maybe sleeping, and normally Sam would be fussing over him like an overgrown fucking mother hen. Instead, he suggested that we go “blow off some steam,” looking at me with this glint in his eyes, like he was daring me.
So… here we are, getting fucked up in a grimy rock club, watching some Nine Inch Nails wannabes wail like a porn soundtrack over a dirty industrial bassline.
Sam fucking Winchester. Always full of surprises.
It’s one of those single-occupancy dive bathrooms where I don’t want to touch anything or, like, inhale too hard. It’s impossible to tell what color the walls originally were under the layers of concert flyers and graffiti. There’s probably enough cocaine residue on the chipped porcelain sink counter to get an elephant high. That kind of place.
He wants me almost as much as I want him, I’m pretty sure, but I never thought either of us would act on it. Too many complications, too many ways to fuck it all up… now, though? The entire world is fucked. Might as well get laid before it all goes to shit.
Two lines of red Sharpie scrawl next to the mirror grab my attention: night crawling, sky falling, gotta listen when the Devil’s calling.
Yeah. Well.
I don’t think either of us will make it out of this alive, but he doesn’t want to. That’s what this is all about, really. He started this apocalypse. He’ll never forgive himself if he lives through it. I’ll never forgive him if he doesn’t.
I wash my hands and splash some water on my cheeks, bracing myself. I can feel the chemicals kicking up my spine, now.
If Sam fucking Winchester needs to indulge his self-destructive streak and get out of his head for a night, I’ll keep him company. Fuck knows I’ll never say no to him. I’ll stay with him til the end, if he lets me.
It hits me again: this is the end. The world is about to end, and that sweet, sexy, puppy-eyed motherfucker out there is at the center of all of it. Heaven, hell, good, evil… and Sam. If tonight is what we’ve got — if this is all we’ll ever get — I’ll take it. I’ve always wanted more, but… this’ll do. It’ll have to do.
He’s slouching against the wall, right outside the bathroom hallway. He gives me this dark, hungry grin when he sees me, and maybe whatever was in that pastel blue pill is making itself known, or maybe it’s just Sam that’s sending a wave of prickly heat over my skin… either way, it feels good.
“C’mon,” he says, passing me a cup of ice water, and then he’s gripping me by the wrist, pulling me into the crowd.
Sam doesn’t dance, and he sure as hell doesn’t dance with me, but he’s not fucking around: hands on my waist, hair falling in his eyes as he looks down at me, cheeks flushed, moving with the beat. I rest my free hand on his upper arm, right where the swell of his bicep flexes against the soft cotton sleeve of his t-shirt, and I can’t help but squeeze slightly, feeling hot skin and muscle under my palm. I swallow hard.
Sam leans in closer. I can smell him, the natural scent of his sweat under the spice of his deodorant, and it’s so overwhelming that I shiver.
He gets his lips right up against my ear, the deep rumble of his voice a physical thing that I can feel as well as hear: “Ever just get sick of being yourself?”
Jesus.
“Yeah,” I mumble, mouth dry. I don’t know if he hears me but it doesn’t really matter.
“I think too much. I don’t want to think tonight. Is that okay?”
I suck in a breath. “Don’t need to explain, Sam. I get it.”
“Yeah?” he asks, heavy-lidded, golden skin shining with sweat in the flecks of light coming off the disco ball. “Dance with me.”
“Yeah. Yeah, Sam, anything you want.”
I toss back the cup of water, gulping it down, too eager; some of it trickles down my chin. I don’t care. I drop the cup and run my hand up Sam’s chest. His eyes flutter closed and he licks his lips, sinful, gorgeous. For a moment I think he might say something but instead he spins me around and hauls me closer, my back to his chest.
The song is filthy, all thudding funk hooks and wild drums. There’s this frantic heat behind it that has me sinking under the surface, swimming through the riff, and the pulse of it wriggles down my spine and works itself out through my hips as I toss my head. It’s the kind of rhythm that’s made for sweating all over a stranger.
Sam might as fucking well be a stranger right now. I never knew he could move like this.
His hips swivel and twist, and his hands slide down to my thighs, pinning me against the solid muscled heat of his body. I feel reckless. I feel high and overstimulated and utterly fearless, and I can feel his touch echoing through me, inside me, throbbing down my belly to where I’m empty and suddenly aching.
As soon as I think about it, the emptiness hits me hard. My cunt is clenching around nothing in time with the gritty slap of percussion. I arch my back and rub myself against Sam shamelessly.
He’s hard against my ass, hard and getting harder with every shrieking lick of guitar, and the awareness of it sends a thrill down through the core of me, like a bolt of lightning striking between my legs. My breath catches and hisses out of my lungs like I’m a punctured balloon. I feel dizzy.
It’s all so intense right now. Every inch of my skin is fizzing, and the simple curl of his fingers around my wrist has me shuddering like he’s stroking something much more intimate.
On any other night I would try to step back, to get myself under control… I’d start thinking, and I wouldn’t be able to stop, and I’d get stuck in my head instead of giving in to the mind-blowingly intimate thrill of his fingertips pressing into my pulse.
We’re not thinking tonight. I couldn’t think straight even if I wanted to.
The beat changes, segueing into something low and slinking and goddamn obscene. I’m dripping with sweat — mine or Sam’s? I can’t tell — and my skin is on fire, and I want Sam in this awful, all-consuming way that I’ve never wanted anything or anyone.
So I don’t think about it; I just turn, twisting in his arms until we’re face to face, or rather, face to chest. He’s biting his lip, expression almost pained as he grips my waist and slots a thigh between mine. I snake my arms around his neck and roll my hips, feeling the seam of my jeans dragging up the sensitive spot between my legs, and I’m absurdly grateful for the way the music drowns out any embarrassing noise I might make.
There’s a drop of sweat sliding down the corded muscle of his neck. It trickles to a glittering halt right at eye level, in the hollow of his throat, and I can see his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. I could fall down and worship whatever god invented the v-neck.
I don’t fall to my knees, but I do lean forward and taste his skin. Salt floods my tongue.
Sam’s hand runs up my back, cups the nape of my neck, and he doesn’t so much guide me as yank, tilting my head to meet the rough urgent sting of his teeth and the soft slide of his tongue. I groan into his mouth, and his hands flatten at the small of my back, pulling me impossibly closer. I want to shove myself against him until I can burrow under his skin.
His mouth. He nips and sucks and explores, lips on mine with crushing force one second, whisper-sweet the next.
I’m melting. I must be melting.
I hold on for dear life, delirious, drunk on the way he’s kissing me. I’ve imagined this before, but I never imagined it like this.
We’re still dancing, or something like it anyway; his hips swivel, and I rut against him, my entire body throbbing with animalistic need. Sam shifts his weight, grinding against me, and I can feel the fat stiff length of him right up against my center. I whimper, desperate and wanton.
One hand slides up my back, around my ribs, up, until he can trace the curve of my breast with his thumb and then pinch my nipple through my bra. When I buck against him, he does it again. My knees don’t want to support me any more.
I’m a half-second away from coming just like this. I’m shaking.
“The fuck are we doing?” Sam says roughly. He nips my earlobe.
“Not thinking, remember?” I snap, and then I’m stumbling back, almost falling, tugging him by the wrist as I start to weave through the crushing press of bodies. My heart is pounding. Everything blurs together. My skin feels too cold without him all over it.
There’s one open bathroom, no line, no reason to hesitate. The heavy door closes behind us and the deadbolt slides home with a metallic echoing thud.
He’s already crowding me back, hands on my cheeks, tip of his nose brushing mine. I grab at the front of his shirt, fingers twisting in the sweat-damp fabric. My ass hits the counter and I surge up clumsily to kiss him. The angle’s off; our teeth clack together.
We laugh and fit ourselves back together, bodies like puzzle pieces in that fucking song Sam would never admit he loves, and I could cry with relief at the way he feels under my hands. I can feel him breathing, the harsh rise and fall of his chest, and I can feel the heat of him, blood and sweat and bone, solid and real and here and mine, at least for tonight.
He fumbles with the button of my jeans and kisses me like he’s drowning. Then he curls two long fingers up and into me, grinding the heel of his hand against my clit. I lean back, heels skidding on the dirty tile as I try to brace myself and rock my hips up all at once.
“Need you to fuck me,” I bite out, remarkably steady considering the way I’m trembling.
“You gonna regret this tomorrow?” Sam asks. He twists his fingers, knuckles stretching me open, so good my eyes roll back in my head.
Tomorrow… we’re not going to think about tomorrow.
“Might regret waiting this long,” I groan. Understatement of the century.
“You ‘n me both. You sure?” He’s staring down at me and he looks wrecked: pupils blown, lips swollen, hair clinging to his temples where his skin is streaked with sweat.
“Do you feel how close I am?” I grab his wrist with one hand, holding him there, fucking myself on his fingers as I try to pull my jeans down with the other hand.
Sam’s mouth drops open and his eyes go unfocused for a second. Whatever self-control he had left is gone. He pulls his hand away, and I whine at the loss, but together we get my pants down, and I kick them off as he gets his belt open. He’s just as big as I always imagined, proportional to those sinfully long elegant fingers, and my mouth fucking waters as I watch him stroke himself.
He bites his lip, chest heaving, and tugs me up onto the very edge of the grimy sink counter. Before I can find my balance he’s right there, hooking an arm under my knee so that he can spread my legs wider, and he’s guiding the hot velvety head of his cock down my center and in, and the slick blunt pressure of it makes me claw at his back, trying to get him closer even though I can barely handle how good that first thick inch feels.
“Fuuu - unnhhhhh - fuck, Sam, I need…” I choke out, and then all I can do is pant breathlessly, incoherent, as he rocks his hips and starts to stretch me open. I’m helpless like this, no leverage to do anything but sit there and take it, and he moves so maddeningly slow that I’m going out of my skull.
“God, look at you,” he breathes. “So fucking good. Always wondered what you’d look like taking my cock. Always imagined you begging. Are you gonna beg for me?”
“If you don’t shut the fuck up and give it to me, Sam, I swear —”
“Yeah?” he growls. He grips my hips hard enough to bruise.
I wrap my legs around his waist, hooking my ankles together, leaning back on my hands, and then I can arch my back and pull him deeper, working myself onto his cock.
“Sam —” I start, but before I can say anything else he slams home, grinding in hard and fast, and my voice cracks on a stuttering, incoherent whine. It’s blindingly good. He’s steely-hard and so goddamn thick I feel like I’m about to split open, like one wrong move is going to pull me apart. His first rolling thrust sparks this wrenching wave of pressure that fills me up and shakes me down to the tips of my toes, my entire body rippling with feverish heat.
“That’s my girl,” he pants. He pulls me against him and twists up, rough and filthy, and I shudder against him, writhing, mindless and overwhelmed.
“Sam,” I choke out. My voice is high-pitched and squeaky-thin, and the next sharp thrust makes me forget whatever I was going to say beyond, “Nnnnhhhhhyesohgod.”
“There?”
“Fuck. Yes.”
He moans, low and broken, and finds that perfect spot again, grinding into it with eye-popping force.
I can feel it, pleasure cramping through me with every movement, coiling up, building around the deep throbbing ache where he’s fucking into me. I feel like a wild animal, primal and lost.
“Good girl. Fuck, feels so good.”
I clutch at his shoulders, muscles quaking, burying my face in his neck as all that white-hot pressure peaks inside me. I let out an ugly, anguished sob, can’t hold it back, and then all I can feel is the all-consuming spasm of my orgasm, tension rocketing through every inch of me, sending me out into space for a long paralyzed moment. The first pulse of it is so scary-intense that I can’t breathe, can’t control myself, can’t keep track of my own body…
Then it all comes back at once, and I’m exquisitely aware of Sam against me as he fucks me through it, hips surging forward as I squeeze around him and urge him deeper.
“Thought about this so many times,” he’s confessing, ragged and raw.
“Me too,” I gasp.
He sucks in a shaky breath, moving slower as I start to come down, and I can feel him holding back now. “Think about you so fucking much, I can’t —”
“Me fucking too, Sam.”
He kisses me, gentle in a way that could very easily destroy me.
“This isn’t how it was supposed to go,” he whispers, forehead sweaty where it rests against mine.
“Fuck, Sam, don’t — this is —”
I feel so strange and strung-out, caught between the shivery aftershocks in my belly and the startling tenderness in his voice as he mumbles, “Wanted to take my time.”
“Sam.”
“Wanted to take my time with you,” he repeats. He moves against me with this slow, snakelike undulation. “Wanted to lay you out and kiss you everywhere and fucking worship you.”
“We can. We can — I want that.”
“Never gonna be enough,” he chokes out. “I knew — I knew, if I did this, I’d never want to stop.”
My skin is lit up with the feel of him, liquid heat gathering in my gut as my body responds to every perfect touch, but I’m afraid my ribcage is about to split open with the way my heart is hammering.
We’re in a goddamn dive bar bathroom, for fuck’s sake, and I’m fucked up, and maybe this will feel cheap and tawdry and silly in the morning, but… somehow I don’t think it will. Somehow this feels like the most important thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Why’d we wait this long?” I ask. There’s an embarrassing wobble in my voice.
“Because I’m a fucking idiot,” he grits out. “Because I was scared.” Before I can respond, he kisses me, all teeth and desperation, twisting his hips and swallowing my moan. He slides his hands under my shirt, sliding them up my back, and drags his fingernails down in trails of stinging heat. It’s pleasure and pain and fucking obliteration, and the sensory overload has me spiraling out again.
“Fuck that,” I half-laugh. My back arches and my voice breaks, and I bite his lip hard enough that I taste copper.
He groans, full-throated and shameless, and ducks his head, sinking his teeth into the sweat-slick curve of my neck. He sucks, nibbles, and it sets off fireworks behind my eyelids.
“Close, Sam. So close,” I babble, breathing harsh and heavy. I tangle my fingers in his hair and pull, and I can feel him moan. “Never thought it’d feel like this. It’s — this is so much better —”
He shudders against me, lets out this long, guttural sound, and then he shifts and pounds into me harder, and all I can do is cling to him, pulling him closer like I’m never going to let go. “C’mon, then. Fuck. Tell me what you want.”
“Please, Sam. Just — please. Please.”
“I’d do anything for you,” he growls. “You know that, right?”
“Anything?”
“Anything.”
“Don’t leave me,” I blurt out, as the unbearable tension starts to crest. “Don’t leave me, Sam. Please.”
I know he hears it. He gasps like I punched him. I can feel him jerk, twitch, fingers clawing at my back, cock twitching and swelling inside me as he starts to come. I bite down on the meat of his shoulder as I let go. My orgasm feels like it’s ripping something loose, an earthquake in my core, and I don’t trust myself not to say exactly what’s on my mind. There’s a surge of pleasure, one glowing wave of it then another, and I’m dimly aware of shuddering against Sam as he rocks into me one more time, clutching him close… as if I could get close enough to keep him here with me.
It’s impossible to be sad right now. I’m chemically incapable of sadness, still soaring high, but this is so much bigger than sadness anyway. I just feel like I’m about to break.
“That,” he says, with an ugly sound, half-laugh, half-sob. “That’s what I was afraid of. That I wouldn’t ever want to leave.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Let’s just — let’s not think about it. Okay? Can we go back to the motel and — can we do that again? Take our time?”
“Just for tonight?” he asks raggedly.
“Just for tonight. We’re not going to think about what comes next.”
He nods. We both know it’s a lie.
,
,
,
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Will be discussing Halloween (2018) and the original 1978 film on November 3rd, 2018 on the cleanup forum for the Complete Monster film. Pretty excited for it. A rough draft of the Bogeyman’s EP..
BEWARE OF SPOILERS:
What is the work?
Halloween is the classic 1978 horror film directed by director John Carpenter. Many of us already know the premise; a masked killer returns to his hometown of Haddonfield, Illinois, to continue his killing spree only to get thrown into conflict with teenage babysitter Laurie Strode. I don’t even need to get into how much of an impact the film left on the horror genre or how Michael himself became the progenitor of future slashers. Forty years after the events of the 1978 film, a direct sequel was made, ignoring all the events from the sequels up to and including the second film. During that timeframe, Laurie herself had become a paranoid old woman who had spent the remainder of her days preparing for Michael’s eventual escape. Her obsession with killing Michael had since driven a wedge between her and her family, her having suffered two divorces and her daughter being taken. But of course, her paranoia proves to be correct.
Who is he?
Michael Myers. The Shape. The Bogeyman. Evil on Two Legs. Michael Myers started off as a seemingly normal young boy until one Halloween night. In 1963, after his older sister Judith finished having “fun” with her boyfriend, Michael goes to her room and stabs her repeatedly with a kitchen knife until she died. Shortly afterward, Michael’s parents arrived, speechless to what had transpired. Michael was six-years-old at the time. Michael is then taken to the Smith’s Grove Sanitarium where he is placed under the care of psychiatrist Dr. Samuel Loomis. After spending a few years trying to reach Michael, Dr. Loomis realized that there was nothing salvageable to be found within the child, concluding that he was purely and simply evil. So, he spent the last few years ensuring that Myers would never escape his incarceration. But evil always finds a way…
What has he done?
In the first film, Dr. Loomis and his assistant Marion Chambers are tasked with picking Michael up from the Smith’s Grove Sanitarium so that he could be taken to court. They discover that several patients of the sanitarium were freely roaming the road. Loomis goes out to investigate, leaving Marion unarmed. Without warning, Michael attacks her, forcing her out of the car before driving away. Upon returning to Haddonfield, Michael kills a man for his uniform, and breaks into a hardware store, stealing a few knives, rope, and his signature white mask.
Soon afterward, Michael starts to stalk Laurie Strode and her friends. Michael follows them to their neighborhood with them not being the wiser. Annie Brackett, a friend of Laurie’s who was babysitting at the time, received a call from her boyfriend, asking her to pick him up. While waiting in the car, Michael materializes from the back and starts strangling Annie before slitting her throat. After a few more murders, Michael takes the bodies of Laurie’s slain friends and places them into some morbid art piece, completing it by placing the tombstone of his deceased sister on the bed. Laurie arrives to investigate only to get ambushed by the deranged killer. After a grapple with Michael – and stabbing him in the eye with a clothes hanger-- Dr. Loomis arrives, and shoots Michael six times. Michael plummets off the balcony to his assumed end, but when Loomis turns back to look, Michael vanishes. Apparently during that lapse in time, Dr. Loomis tried to shoot Michael only to come short of killing him by Officer Hawkins.
Forty years later, two podcasters – Aaron Korey and Dana Haines respectively – make a documentary about the 1978 Haddonfield murders and wish to interview Michael Myers who hadn’t uttered a word for years. Dr. Loomis had since passed, being replaced by his pupil Dr. Ranbir Sartain. Aaron tries to invoke some sort of response from Michael by producing his mask, but it didn’t seem to have much effect. Aaron and Dana try to convince Laurie to speak with Michael before he was sentenced to maximum security, but that’s a no show. On the night the bus was to leave, it crashes, releasing the inmates. A father and son were riding at the time, and the father gets out to inspect the crash. The preteen boy leaves the car after his father disappeared, only to discover his lifeless body, his neck having been broken in inhumane fashion. The boy goes back to the car…only for Michael to then kill him by smashing his head against the window until it cracked. Michael goes onto murder the two podcasters as well as a clerk at a gas station, and an engineer so he could take his clothes. Arriving at Haddonfield, Michael goes on a small killing spree, killing a mother with a hammer and another woman with a kitchen knife for no other reason than he could. After murdering Allyson’s friends, he tries to go after her before being run over by Officer Hawkins. Before he could finish him off, Sartain kills him with his pen knife, explaining that he wanted Michael to live so he could use him for his purposes. Unfortunately for him, Michael regains consciousness and forcefully drags him out of the car, stomping his head into a bloody pulp (why can’t they learn that evil isn’t a toy).
Michael follows Allyson to Laurie’s house, and murders two police officers, having turned one of the poor bastard’s heads into a jack-o-lantern. He then kills Ray and goes after Laurie after taking a moment to recognize her. After seemingly succeeding at killing her by throwing her out the window, he gets shot by Karen as part of a Wounded Gazelle Gambit. Laurie returns, forcing Michael into the saferoom and she activates metallic bars to trap Michael inside. Gas fills the saferoom as a flare is dropped into the room, setting it and Michael ablaze. Michael is last seen angrily glaring at Laurie with his one good eye, fully aware he was thoroughly screwed. So, yeah. Michael is “dead.” Well, I guess that means that he is truly gone forever. It’s not like the producers were considering making sequels if the film did well. Oh wait.
Freudian Excuse? Mitigating factors?
No excuses, whatsoever. Michael has no tragic backstory or anything of that sort. Myers initially was a “normal” kid until that Halloween night where he knifed his sister to death in an unprovoked attack. Given that the sequels were ignored in this continuity, there is no connection to some evil cult to draw from, no familial connection between Laurie and Michael…At the very least, one of the recurring elements behind Myers’ character is that he is simply a psychopathic killer. From the time he murdered his own sister to his years living in Smith Grove’s Sanitarium, Myers was nothing more than a psychopath. He was utterly born into it. One of the more notable things about Michael is his sadism. He pins Lynda’s boyfriend to the wall with his knife before placing a bedsheet on himself and making her believe that he was her boyfriend. Or there was that time that he desecrates his sister’s grave by stealing her tombstone and making some crude piece with it and the bodies of Laurie’s friends. But that is nothing compared to his actions forty years later.
One of the first things he does when he escapes? He murders a father and his son by breaking their necks, with the boy, he repeatedly smashes his head against the car’s window until it breaks. This also marks the first time in the series where Michael kills a preteen victim (not counting the comics). Or when he goes to retrieve his mask? He killed a clerk by pulling his lower teeth out before showing them to Dana. He takes Aaron and slams his face on the stall door until it opened. When he finally gets to Haddonfield, Myers decides to recreate his original spree. Only here? It’s even more brutal than before. His kills are more random, one of them being where he grabs a hammer and beats a mother to death with it. As for sparing the woman’s baby…really, leaving a completely defenseless baby to fend for itself because its mother is dead? And the possibility that the baby could die if no one decides to check on the mother? Yeah…not really redeeming. With each of these kills, they all perpetuate that Michael has no logical reason to do what he does. He simply chooses to. Hell, the film even makes it ambiguous on whether he wanted to get revenge on Laurie as he appeared disinterested in facing her again until literally being taken to her abode.
Heinous standard?
Meets it, obviously. Aside from Michael holding the moniker of being the progenitor of a slew of slasher films that played Follow the Leader, Michael has a sizable body count. While his original spree ended with five people falling victim to him (which is low for a horror movie), the direct sequel quadruples that. He ends the movie with roughly around 16 victims killed. In addition, the kills this time around are especially gruesome such as repeatedly slamming a person’s head on a stall door; decapitating a man and hollowing the head out to make a jack-o-lantern; stomping a person’s head to mulch, etc. Need I also mention that one of his victims was a child? Other than that, Michael obliterates the heinous standard.
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