Sam felt pressure building in his entire body as he stepped inside the club. Painfully red mood lighting, the pervasive smell of sweat and arousal, the cheesy music that he couldn’t see anyone getting in the mood with. And yet, the patrons of the club didn’t seem deterred in the slightest.
He held himself, tried to avoid eye contact as he passed through the swathes of people in various states of undress, all of whom he knew in some way or another.
“Hey, Keith!”
“Back so soon?”
“Boss isn’t riding your ass enough? Gotta get your fix here?”
He bowed his head and walked through the chattering, flirting crowd without so much as an acknowledgement of their comments. They wouldn’t take it personally, his silence. His fingers drummed against his folded arms and his heart matched the irregular beat he kept up.
The room he regularly used near the back of the club was mostly empty save for three people making out, which he gave space to as he undressed. He sprawled out on a barebones cot dressed with a plastic sheet, the only character coming from the barred head and footboards that weren’t of any use to him for what he was going to do. The trio glanced over at him on occasion, like they were questioning if they should invite him over or invite themselves over, but they mercifully left him to his own devices.
Sam arched and spread his legs wide, bracing against the footboard while the toes on his other foot dug into the thick plastic sheet.
It had started as an intrusive thought, one that told him to expose himself to as many people as he could, the attention-seeking slut he was. He rushed home after he’d lied in that same room, unmoving but letting anyone who was interested come and take in his body, and vomited from unresolved nerves alone. Two nights he waited before going back, this time getting into position and toying with the idea of touching himself. That’d been a month ago, and he’d progressed fully to masturbating while onlookers watched, encouraged him to do this or that, touched themselves in solidarity.
Sam brought anal beads with him, spent a while lubing them and deciding if he even wanted to use them at all or if he just wanted to use his own hand.
He faded into the headspace almost immediately, focusing less on his body and everyone who might come in to look at it and instead focusing on a piece of art hanging on the wall—a leanly muscular man groping himself and slyly biting his lip, the rest of his face a mystery. Sam was ashamed to admit that he only liked that picture so much because it wasn’t hard to distort his features until he looked like Dean. Part of him never wanted to see his brother again, part of him wanted nothing more than to go back to him, tell him just how deep his convoluted feelings went, but he didn’t. Instead he went to the club, jerked himself off, felt no sense of peace with dozens of pairs of eyes fixating solely on him.
Sam wrung his hand around his cock and stared hard at his plush, bitten bottom lip. Sammy , his gruff voice echoed in Sam’s head, distorted with his creeping self-loathing, I don’t know who you are anymore.
Come splattered onto the plastic sheet between his legs. He couldn’t tell if it was his or not, but it didn’t matter, really. Sam grabbed his clothes, disappeared into the nearest bathroom, and came out before his tears really started to blur his vision. He hid his face under the collar of his jacket and exited to the street, shame spiraling deep into him like an industrial drill.
I don’t know who you are anymore.
I don’t know who you are anymore.