nu_breed: (Evil!Sam)
[personal profile] nu_breed
Can I just preface this by saying... I have flu. My brain is not right.

Title: Weight of It All
Fandom: Supernatural/Friday Night Lights
Pairing: Demon!Sam/Matt Saracen
Wordcount: 513
A/N: Crack. But not the funny kind of crack. Unbetaed. Spoilers for SPN 2x14 and general FNL S1 spoilers.




You’re not stupid and when he walks through the door, you know it’s not him. There’s something off about him, something not right and it hangs in the air between you because he knows that you know.

But that doesn’t stop you from letting him and he smirks as he holds your wrists above your head and just… looks.

“You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you? Breakable, fragile. I can see why he hangs onto you.”

You groan as his teeth graze your neck and when he unbuttons your jeans, you can feel how cold he is, how icy his fingers are when they wrap around your cock.

His laugh is even colder and maybe you’re imagining it, but you could swear it makes you shiver.

Sam is never cold like this. Sam is warm and sweet and every time he comes to town, you can’t wait for him to come back again. But this thing isn’t Sam and it’s like going for a walk and finding a big black hole where your favourite lake used to be.

Grandma wouldn’t call this thing Sam, like you have been in your head. She always did call a spade a spade. She’d sure as all hell call a demon a demon.

It smiles at you and you want to tear its head off for smiling like that because that’s Sam’s smile with the smallest twist. Like if you didn’t know any better you’d probably think it was him, but Sam’s never cruel, never malicious and there’s cruelty dripping from that smile.

You hate yourself for the fact that you know this thing is only wearing Sam’s face and yet you haven’t pushed it away, hate that its cold fingers aren’t repulsing you, making your erection disappear. Instead you’re writhing against him/it/whatever and moaning like a little bitch as he kisses you, his tongue sucking on yours as he strokes you slow and perfect.

When you come, you feel ill, heart pounding in your chest. You feel like maybe you want to cry and you don’t want him to see just how fucked-up this is making you. More fucked-up than being the only fag on your football team, more fucked-up than loving Julie; sweet, perfect Julie who is good in ways that you never will be, all the while waiting for Sam to come back.

Yeah, even more fucked-up than that.

The worst thing about all of this is you know. You know that this is it, that Sam’s never coming back, that he’s stuck in there like some prisoner inside his own body with that monster that’s wearing his face.

You feel like maybe you should be worried that it’s going to kill you, rip you limb-from-limb like a character in one of those god-awful horror movies that Landry makes you watch with him because he’s too chicken to watch them on his own.

Truth is, though, if this thing… if Sam wanted you dead, you already would be.

Maybe what Grandma told you all these years was wrong. Maybe football isn’t God’s game, after all.
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