Tom wasn’t a slut.
He waited outside the back entrance to his dorm, arms crossed over his chest to shield himself from the late November chill. He hadn’t gone back home for Thanksgiving: no matter how much he missed the heat and the sun, that trade came with judgmental looks that weren’t followed up with questions, just assumptions that would ruminate under the surface until they couldn’t look at Tom the same way ever again. He didn’t even want to know how they’d look at him if they knew he was a fag.
Sometimes he and Regina sat out here and shared a cigarette, though neither of them really liked smoking. It just seemed like a way to spite their parents, the headmistress, the groundskeeper who’d scowl at them while he raked the leaves. But she was on track to graduate early, leave at the end of the semester so Tom had no one to latch onto when their old friends saw him on the quad. All he had anymore was track and Dean, and it wouldn’t be long until he graduated and Dean moved on to the next town.
He still wondered what he meant when he said he was hunting monsters—Tom thought he was just trying to be poetic.
That was what he’d done when he was made to write a short for his Creative Writing class. It kept him up all night, his new roommate he hadn’t bothered to learn the name of dozing away while Tom sat at his desk and wrote the first line over and over again: He spent most nights in a stranger’s motel room. He got a good grade for it when he finally finished it and turned it in, he only got a vaguely quizzical look as it was passed back to him the next week. Mrs. Burton wanted to ask him, but she refrained. She decided to keep his thinly-veiled secret between them, though he could see that knowing in her eyes whenever she looked at him. Maybe she didn’t know he was literally sneaking off campus to fuck a guy nearly a decade his senior, but she seemed to know that his story wasn’t impersonal.
After the Wolf incident, everyone on campus had been set on high alert for inappropriate relationships between students and faculty. Tom was lucky that his inappropriate relation only came onto campus to pick him up and take him to the bar or straight back to his motel room. The latter more than the former, these days. Still, standing outside this long just made it all the more likely that he’d be caught and taken to the headmistress—not as bad as if he’d been caught with Dean, though. Worst case scenario was that his dad would be pissed at him for a bit, but when wasn’t he pissed at Tom?
He shifted his weight onto his other foot and breathed out hard, a white cloud rising up from his mouth and hanging in the air for a second before it dispersed into nothing. The tip of his nose was red and he sniffled, tucking his chin into the collar of his coat and trying to hog any warmth that the cold night air was sapping from him. When he last checked his phone it read 9:37—Dean had to have been an hour late by now.
Tom sighed and let his shaggy hair fall over his face. He probably needed a haircut, but Dean liked it long and Tom liked when he grabbed it and tousled it. It almost made him feel like Dean was proud of him, and he liked the conflicting emotions that stirred inside him.
—
Dean had taken to calling Tom “Sam” when they fucked.
He was holding Tom’s chest with one hand, his other grabbing one of his thighs and pulling his legs apart as he fucked his ass. Tom was lying on his back on top of Dean and only in this position did he realize that most of his height was in his legs—at this angle, Tom could easily turn his head and watch Dean struggle to contain himself.
It was anyone’s guess why he called him Sam. Tom assumed that it was an old friend, maybe even an honest to God boyfriend, that he still hadn’t gotten over. Not like it really mattered to him—it kind of hurt that he wasn’t saying his name, but that was a faggy thing to get upset about anyways. What mattered most was that Dean was seeing him every night, fucking his brains out, and keeping him around afterwards. If Tom was a slut, Dean would’ve sent him away the second he was done with him. Tom wasn’t a slut so long as Dean kept him around afterwards; one less thing weighing on his mind when he already had to worry about being a full-blown fag.
Dean thrust into him hard, and even with a lot of gas station lube Tom was still crying out.
“Doesn’t hurt too much, does it?” He breathed roughly against Tom’s ear, and he threw his head back.
“Kinda hurts,” he choked back, but he was going to see it through to the end. Tom grabbed onto Dean’s hip and moved his hand in sync with his thrusting, his eyes rolling back into his head as he felt his balls start to tighten.
“It’s gonna be over soon, Sammy.”
The name rolled off his tongue easily, like it was the first word he ever learned to say. Some sissy part of Tom wished he said his name like that, but he was just lucky that someone like Dean was paying attention to him, at all. If he hadn’t gotten to talking to Dean that night, he’d still be catching up with his palm every night, he never would have learned about the joys of having a cock up his ass. He still beat off in the morning, though; something to keep him clear-headed until his next meet-up with Dean.
Tom moaned and repeated Dean’s name over and over, felt his own cock weep onto his stomach as his brain tried to turn Dean’s gruff repetitions into something that sounded a bit like his name. Maybe he could be Sam if they ran away together and got gay-married in Vermont. He laughed out loud at that idea, wondering if they asked for proof of butt sex before giving out marriage licenses. Tom would be more than happy to demonstrate, but he wasn’t a slut.
He arched his sweaty back as Dean groped his pec, pinching his nipple between his finger and thumb. Tom bit his lip to stifle another whine, one that sounded painfully girly even when it was muffled. The dam burst and he shot his load onto his stomach, feeling disgusting and totally uninhibited all at once.
The feeling only intensified when Dean reached down and swiped up a fingerful of it. Tom watched him drag it down his tongue before he moved in and kissed him, open-mouthed and with a serious lack of precision. He jerked backward with each desperate, rapid thrust but still managed to sink his tongue into Dean’s mouth, lapping up his own jizz like something he didn’t toss out with his paper scraps and miniature chip bags.
Dean did it again, scooping up more of his cooling come and putting it on his tongue, and Tom ignored how unpleasant the taste became the longer it lingered on his own. He loved kissing Dean, it actually felt personal and made him quite a bit more than happy.
“Come in me?” Tom asked as Dean started to thrust into him harder, grabbing him tighter than he had been. He liked the feeling of Dean filling him up, of his come dribbling down the insides of his thighs when he stood up and walked to the bathroom to clean himself up. Tom never felt more debauched than the first time he spread his cheeks over the toilet bowl and felt Dean’s come seep out of him.
“Yeah, Sammy” became “Yeah, Tom,” and he felt his softening cock twitch and start to stir to life again.
But Tom wasn’t a slut.