Nicholas: Me again. Been a while, hasn't it? Well...here's a story for my lovely Becki: And EXTREMELY belated birthday gift (one of many that should follow)

Disclaimer: Didn't happen...being that it's based on events that didn't and COULDN'T have happened, I don't think this did. And I make no claim to the character of Alec or those of Sam and Dean. John, though...he's mine!

Rating: M...sex...angst.

It was raining. Yeah, I know: "raining in Seattle? Now way!" But that didn't mean that I had to like it. Anyway, I was wandering my way home through Sector Nine…in the rain…in the middle of the night. Whose fault is that? Logan's, of course; it was that damned crusade he was on. I had spent all night sloshing through miles of mud and waste and I got absolutely nothing out of it. Gene Michaels was going to live another day rewriting the books and selling skid to the children of rich, pompous bastards. I could cry, you know if I wasn't already wet and cold and smelly.

Stepping out onto the street, I tried my best to pull coat tighter around me. It didn't help at all, obviously. I pulled my phone out and hit the speed dial.

"…Hey, yeah Logan, it's me."

"Alec? What have you got for me?"

Should I yell at him? I'm not sure if I should have been annoyed that the great, good guy, Eyes Only, was using transgenics like myself to do his dirty work.

"What have I got?" I snapped, "a big, steaming heap of nothing. The tip was a bust, the Mac wasn't there and I'm going home."

There was silence on the other line for a moment. "You sure—"

"Yes! Yes, I am more that sure. I'm tired, wet and in case you didn't notice from your penthouse windows, but it's raining. And I am hanging up now."

"Wait, okay but thank—"

I snapped my cell phone shut and dropped it back into my pocket. My eyes scanned the area without seeing it, too much on my mind to register much past my need to get home. God, Logan was such a piece of work sometimes that I just couldn't believe that someone like Max would go for a guy like that. Stuffing, arrogant dick with a lot of time and enough money to do something with it, he was such an overrated type of Robin Hood. It was nauseating. "Fuck you," I muttered to the frigid, night air.

My muscles were all cramped and tight from crouching in the mud and being folded up underneath the flat bed of an old pick up waiting for an endless three hours of my life that I will never get back for a no-show mark. I thought Max left Manticore to get away from doing this kind of thing. Of course, I'll never understand women or their motives—and Max took the biggest slice of the bipolar cake..like when she takes off all of the sudden with no explanation leaving the Good Samaritan Alec to pick up after her.

"Cryptic bitch," I muttered.

On second thought, maybe home wasn't the way to go. What I needed was some alcoholic beverage—a lot of that—and some drunken sex. Well, not drunken on my part, it would take half the liquor in Seattle to get me tipsy, but if I had a drunk girl to sink into, I'd still respect her in the morning. Or even him—I was even down with some drunk guy so long as it got me laid. Was Crash even open at one in the morning? Probably.

First things first, get home and get changed. Can't get a hook-up smelling like a toilet.

Yeah, it was open. I was only on my third scotch when he approached me, but he was a little worse for wear. At this time of night—or rather morning—Crash was less of a party scene. The few remaining patrons retreated to a specific part of the bar with whoever they came with, or who they were going home with. I sat at the bar, which was unoccupied until six feet and four inches of a drunk Sam Winchester practically fell on top of me.

"Sam," the barkeep said with irritation, "Come on, kid, that's enough."

"Don't call me a kid," the man snapped, "just one more."

John took the empty glass from Sam's hand and put it in the dish box. "No, I mean it now. Get on home while you can still walk a straight line. I'm not going to say it again."

With a messy sigh, Sam fell gracelessly onto a barstool—specifically the one next to me. He wasn't quite to the point of bending over drunk and the guy was scary tall, but I figured I could take him in fight. At one point, this man looked like he could have been perfectly toned, nicely muscular, but a keen eye like mine could see that he was out of shape. Like he just stopped taking care of himself. That added to how hard he was hitting the whiskey, it kind of peeked my interest.

I didn't get a word out in greeting before he turned and looked at me though. "Are you real?" he asked.

Okay…maybe he was at the bending over point and just had excellent posture. "Last time I checked, yeah I'm pretty real."

"Pretty…" he trailed off with a distant, little half-smile on his face.

For a moment, he just stared at me—an intent, penetrating gaze that made me more than a little uncomfortable. I felt a little like a circus freak, or maybe one of the anomalies from Manticore, the way this guy looked at me. And the worst thing of it was that he just kept looking, he didn't say anything or move or fucking blink. It was creepy and a little alarming, and a second passed where I felt like I was back in Psy-Opps, some bitch messing around with my thoughts.

A couple climbed the stairs to the exit behind me, he was the designated driver and she was shitfaced. The thought gave me a little comfort, as creepy and distracting as this man was, I was still aware of my surroundings.

"Listen," I said, tearing my gaze away from him and back to my drink, "the answer to life isn't etched into my forehead, pal."

Suddenly, his body heat was invading my space and his face was just millimeters away from my neck. Don't get me wrong, it was a warm relief to my cold, wet skin, I just wasn't used to ordinary people being so bold. I sat stock still as he took deep inhales as if…as if he was smelling me.

"You are pretty," he commented quietly.

I forced myself to relax just a little bit and smile sideways at him while he pulled back. "You usually this forward, or am I just special?"

"It depends on how much Jack I've had, but yeah, you're special."

"Good to know," I kept my eyes on him, "Why is that, do you think?"

Sam apparently had a habit of ignoring personal space boundaries and the like—though it could have been a drunken thing. He leaned forward again, nose almost touching mine. "You ever looked in a mirror?" With a too-happy laugh, he leaned on the bar looked at his hands—huge hands, I should point out.

"I do from time to time, yeah." I'd have to be thick-skulled no to get where he was going with this, but I wanted to hear him say it anyway. "Why?"

I watched him with not-well-hidden interest as he hesitantly reached out, testing the waters to be sure he was allowed to touch me. I appreciated the sentiment, so I let him run his fingers over my face.

"You're pretty here," he stated, matter-of-factly. Then, he moved his hand down my neck and over my collar bone. "But from here down, you're drop-dead sexy."

"That so?"

"Damn straight." He added as an afterthought, "or, you know, not so straight."

I looked at him, trying to figure out just where he came from, what his story was. He was smiling, but he was also drunk—very drunk to be honest. Either he was just a really upbeat guy with a party-hard attitude, or he was just a happy drunk. To be absolutely frank, he was a silly, stupid drunk, but I saw something else in his eyes when he looked at me. When he was staring at me like he wanted to know what I was made of, it was more than just curiosity there.

Despair. This guy had crazy-sad eyes and I'm not the type to over-analyze shit like this. I see a pretty face and a hot body, I fuck his/her brains out, no questions out. I don't think about this stuff. Something about this guy made me feel different. Just…those eyes had me deep in though. Sam laughed and he smiled, but it never reached his eyes.

I snapped out of my short reverie and remembered what I'd come here for. Copying his lack of respect for personal space boundaries, I just about pressed my lips against his neck before speaking. "You're not too hard to look at yourself either."

He smiled again, hi mockery of a smile. "No?"

"Nope." It wasn't a lie. Aside from the annoying sadness, he was pretty damn handsome—bordering on breath-taking. If he worked out a bit more, he might pass for a god…or maybe even and X5 like me. "So, my place isn't far from here."

With a raised eyebrow, he turned on the barstool to face me completely. "How far isn't far?"

"Does it really matter if I promise you that I'm a god in bed?"

I found that when I am convincing someone to have sex with me, there are vast differences between men and women in how to go about it. With women, if she had any respect for herself, there is usually a long dance of flirtation and courtship and once the deed is done: cuddling and the unspoken expectation that I will call the next day. Women are beautiful creatures, very in touch with their emotions, but sometimes, they are just too damn much trouble. Guys, on the other hand, are beautiful and simple. I can tell a man just wants sex because he's breathing and looking at me. There's no big stink about respect and romanticized views on "what this means to me" bull shit. All I have to do is put forth this interest, the intent and then all that's necessary is sex. No worries, no regrets.

We almost made it into my apartment before Sam lost his patience and pushed my back up against the door. He kissed me hard and devastatingly. With actually quite a bit of effort, I managed to divide my attention between that blistering kiss and digging my key out of my pocket. Getting the door unlocked and opened on the other hand, was another story entirely.

Sam's hands were everywhere in a frantic rush: over my chest, under my shirt and a contemplating grip on my ass. I didn't mind for now. For the time it took me to get the damn door, I had no other choice but to let him shove a hard thigh between my legs and lap my mouth open. He was surprisingly strong and demanding; I'll admit, I liked it.

"Hm…you're just firm all over, aren't you?"

I groaned and ground up against his leg, nodding lewdly. My hand grasped blindly at the knob and then attempted to push the key into the lock. It didn't work out right.

"Uh…you wanna, ung, go inside, or just," I swallowed a groan when his sinful mouth latched onto my neck, "or just do this out here?"

Sam shoved up my shirt and dragged his fingers over my nipples. His tongue slicked a hot swipe up the tendon in my throat. I was hard in my jeans and I could feel the hot length of his dick pressed into my hip. Kind of embarrassing that my hands were shaking in anticipation with the knowledge of how greatly endowed Sam was. The man was hug and now I knew that he was proportional too. I was caught between being unable to believe that that would fit in me and having him fuck me right here and now.

Chuckling lowly, Sam said, "I'm all for an adventure."

The key clicked into the hole, but my wrist just wouldn't twist right to turn it. "But I have a really comfy bed."

My breath left me in a great whoosh when Sam slammed me harder against the wood with a playful growl. He undulated against me and kissed me again, swallowing the cry that I'm pretty sure I voice. I could feel his grin before his pushed his tongue into my mouth and fucked me like that. Right then, I was completely, one hundred percent, utterly sure that he was going to hold me down and fuck me, and more importantly, that I was going to let him. I'm not usually a bottom, but he was a worthy opponent, so to speak. There was the chance that even if I fought back, he'd still have his way with me; God help me, I liked it. This whole situation had me so turned on that I could have begged.

"Make that couch," I amended on a strained breath, "couch is closer."

Manticore didn't exactly condone "office romances." In fact, I once experimented with an X5-623 to figure out what the big deal with kissing was and that bitch Renfro had me put in a cell so small it was definitely not legal. She said that I was already an abomination and that I shouldn't put homosexuality on that list as well. So this was like a big fuck you to Manticore, letting their well-shaped, perfect soldier be put into this position: vulnerable, exploitable.

The door fell open behind me and we both stumbled in, clumsily trying not to fall to the floor. I'm not sure how, but I ended up directing us—as promised—to the couch. Quickly, I was on my back, wrists pinned on either side of my head, panting as if I was out of breath.

I think it was some impulse that a lifetime of military training had ingrained in me, but I moved without thought and slipped my hands free. Then, I somehow ended up on top of him.

Slightly dazed, he looked up at me. "Wow, you're stronger than you look, short-stuff," he commented.

"You have no idea." And apparently, neither did I.

One thing I'll say about Manticore is that, yeah, they made me awesomely strong. Holding down Sam's wrists was easy, and I enjoyed watching his muscles tense and stretch as he struggled weakly. He couldn't break free unless I let him go, but this wasn't how I wanted it to go. I leaned down and kissed him, greedily tasting his mouth and stroking down his arms and along his sides.

I pulled his shirts off over his head and undid hid fly. As I was busy nipping and licking my way over the expanse of tanned flesh on his chest, his fingers weaved into my damp hair. He moaned lazily, hand periodically stroking the back of my head and gripping tightly to the strands of my hair.

"For a second there," he breathed, "I thought you were going to back out."

I chuckled and set my teeth lightly into his nipple. The responding groan made my dick twitch. "Wouldn't dream of it."

I got a chance for one more drag of teeth over that tight bud of his left nipple before he yanked me up, mouth to mouth once more. It surprised me that he didn't curb his strength; usually, normal people were used to dealing with normal people to whom yanking hair like that would have hurt like hell. Honestly, it did hurt—Sam wasn't holding back—and I was fairly sure that I liked that. He might have just been drunk, but he didn't spare a thought to assume that I needed to be treated like a delicate prom date.

Kissing me—tonguing my mouth like he thought I tasted good—he dragged my body down until I was completely straddling him. I was practically sitting on the hard lump in his jeans, the size once again made me shiver.

"Make you nervous?" he asked cheekily.

"Fuck me."

His cat-set eyes narrowed playfully and on thin brow raised. "I take that as a no."

He pulled some move that resembled a sloppy version of Tae-Kwon-Do and maneuvered us around so that I was once more beneath him. Only this time, I was face down in the cushions, my jacket being yanked off and then my shirt. It took me by surprise but a pleasant surprise. He pressed all of his weight onto my back and zipped at the back of my neck. I felt a moan come up from my chest when h is tongue traced up and down the lines of my barcode.

Shit. I forgot that I hadn't had that laser-removal touch up in almost a month and there was pretty much a guarantee that my barcode was dark and noticeable. What were the chances that he didn't know what it meant? A light chill of fear coated my skin like sweat, and my body stiffened.

He knotted his fingers in my hair again and pulled my head back to lay kisses against the taut flesh of my neck. "Nice tat," he commented, "so, you're one of those mutant guys, huh?"

I wanted to maybe try for some excuse as to why I had the barcode stamped on the back of my neck. Most people thought that transgenics—the genetically empowered and over-all kick ass, if you will—were less than human creatures hardly worth the bullet used to kill them. I couldn't be certain that Sam wasn't one of these guys…but then again, between his hips rolling rhythmically against my ass and his teeth worrying bruises into my neck, I had a bit of trouble caring. His voice and movements didn't give any evidence that he was put-off: he was still hard and humping me. That was a good sign…a delicious sign. I kept as aware as possible that he knew what I was and that it automatically put me in danger. But honestly, as hard as I was: sex came first, then self-preservation.

"It's fine," he said, hot breath ghosting over my lower back. "I'm not a racist, and to be completely honest, I kind of figured when I saw you…plus, it just makes this really hot."

I felt him drag my jeans and boxers over my hips and down my thighs. "Oh yeah?" I asked.

He didn't answer me but ran his hands down my sides and over my flank. He had huge hands, fucking gigantic. I wanted to have them all over me, loved the heat from his fingers. And when he dug the tips into my hips to pull me up on my hands and knees, I felt my body quiver with anticipation. His hands, fucking large hands, caressed my ass and spread my cheeks. Then, I felt his tongue. A vicious quake forced its way through me, but his hands wouldn't let me jerk my hips while he licked me open.

I was beginning to think that he couldn't possibly have made this feel more awesome what with his licking and sucking even nipping at that sensitive skin. Then he had to go and wriggle his tongue inside of me. It felt so good, the forceful thrust of that thin muscle in and out of me, that I was quickly brought to the point of "oh god, sofuckinggood" relaxation. He worked my legs apart and I went with it easily, just so long as he didn't stop doing that with his mouth. Oh, and that finger that he just added, that was nice too.

Working me open like that lasted for…not long enough. That one finger turned to two and then a third followed that, but his tongue kept lapping at the rim of my hole. Man, it was as if he was under the impression that I was made of candy or some shit. Of course, he pulled away and ran his filthy tongue in full swipes up my spine, back to my barcode. With the lap of his cargo pants pressed right on my ass, I remembered that his hands were not the only part of him that was gigantic. I shivered and tried to reach back to grab him.

"Fuck me," I demanded again, trying not to sound frustrated. I got a handful of his pants and tugged.

"Condom?" Sam asked, shimmying his pants down.

Okay, now I was getting frustrated because he was fucking stalling. "Don't need one," I snapped, "Even if you ain't clean, I am the epitome of safe sex. Now fuck me."

I could feel his hesitation behind me and was about to fucking yell at him to get on with it, but then he locked his hand in my hair and pushed me face down into the one purple pillow in my apartment. Suddenly he was grinding against me, bare, huge cock sliding along my crack, hand fisted tightly in my hair. Rough, just the way I wanted it and my dick gave a delighted twitch between my legs. He moved slightly to press his head against my spit-slick hole. I wriggled awkwardly to turn my head so that I could at least breathe while he was pushing slowly but surely into my tight ass. I hadn't done this in a long time, so it hurt. However, he dragged me back onto him by my hair, pulling hard enough to make me impossibly hotter.

"Fuck me," I demanded, the pain of it straining my voice, but I couldn't let him stop. He rammed in harder, and I cried out without meaning to and pushed onto him. I didn't have to; he had a pretty good grip on my hair to bring me up to meet his thrust.

"God damn it." Sam was growling in my ear, fucking snarling. "You're so fucking tight, so tight!"

His arm hooked around my waist and he pulled my head straight back as he slammed into me again. With my throat so stretched, my voice box was too constricted to make more than hoarse, pitiful noises every time he pounded into, but it didn't matter. It stirred him on. Once he found my prostate, though, I wasn't far behind him. The pain flared out, edged with sharp knives of pleasure and slashed along my insides. Suddenly he was moving with reckless abandon and I could barely register the low, gravely words that he was hissing against my face.

"Feels so good…so tight for me…practically virgin, your ass…oh fuck, yes!...Yes, Dean, yes!"

By the end of our second go, we ended up in my bed where he promptly passed out wrapped around me. I don't like cuddling; in fact I am really uncomfortable with cuddling, especially with one-night-stands. However, every time I attempted to wriggle free from his tight embrace, he grumbled and muttered something about "Dean, don't leave me" and held me even tighter. His voice was so desperate that I thought of his eyes back when we were still at the bar. Against my own preferences, I settled back into him and relaxed as much as I could.

I don't need much sleep, which means that even if I try, I don't get much. So I was lying awake for a few hours, watching the sunlight brighten through my drapes until I heard a high pitched screech from the living room. It was my cell phone, which meant that I had to get up…which means that Sam needed to let go.

"Dean," Sam moaned, but I ignored him and unwrapped his arms from around my chest and waist.

Honestly, the sound was pitiful enough that I actually reconsidered leaving him alone. Standing next to my bed, I looked down at him, long, shaggy brown hair spread out on the pillows, hands twitching, reaching for something he couldn't reach. I tried not to think about how I knew the feeling—hopelessness, desperation for the intangible, regret. I shouldn't have come home with this guy; I knew from his sad eyes that he had some real problems. With a deep sigh, I walked out of the room and snagged my jacket from the living room floor.

The view screen of my phone read "Cale," and I really didn't want to answer it. I would have lived my life in contentment if I never had to talk to him again, honestly. He didn't like me, I didn't like him, and to top it all off he was taking advantage of my services.

I flipped open my cell and pressed it to my ear. "I'm busy, call Max."

With that, I hung up—Logan's voice a flustered protest. Then, I heard a few noises from bedroom, like Sam forcing his way out of bed. I went to my kitchen and rummaged through the mostly, empty cupboards for a bottle of aspirin. Sure enough, the bedroom door opened and the man stumbled out with a pained groan and a hand planted on his forehead.

"Hey," I called, leaning against the wall and getting a good look at him again. He squinted up at me, but I was pretty fixated on his completely naked body.

"Um…hi."

Shy. It made some sense that now that he wasn't "under the influence" he had his sense about him. He might even have realized what a bad idea it was coming home with a strange, dead-sexy transgenic such as myself. Not that I didn't benefit earlier but the way he looked at me now was a bit unsettling. My God, he was a beast with the alcohol pumping through his system, but now his bangs were hanging over his eyes with a downcast shadow.

"These might help your head," I told him, offering up the bottle of pills in his direction.

Nodding, he took hesitant steps toward me and took it. I figured we both probably made a weird picture, two naked guys staring awkwardly at each other, trying not to think about how awesome the sex had been. I mean, we'd already fucked, what else was there to be squeamish about? Other than the fact that he was a completely ordinary human and I was a revved-up, kick ass killing machine. Honestly, we were fairly similar—acting okay when we're not, holding something we obviously regret. I turned to get him a glass of water.

"So, who's Dean?" I asked.

For a long time, he didn't answer. He deviated from finding his underwear to swallowing a handful of pills. Avoiding looking at me, he picked through the mess on the floor for his own clothes. "Someone I loved," he replied quietly, "that's dead now."

And it's my fault, was the unspoken conclusion of that sentence. I knew it well, that feeling. If I had just done one thing differently, but it's a moot argument. I didn't do that one thing differently and she's dead, no changing it. That is exactly what I'd been seeing in his eyes all night. I nodded because all we had was a mutual appreciation for absolute angst, vulnerability and hopelessness. I wondered if that would be me, if I had the ability to get shitfaced drunk at a bar. If my body didn't process alcohol so well, could I be the one trying to escape and forget with shots of whiskey?

I knew the answer was no. I was made to be the one exploited, the one used for covert operations or to be fucked straight through the couch. I liked it because my release wasn't in alcoholism, it was in sex; my hangover wasn't dehydration, it was that sore feeling in my ass. It was being used, even abused—by Manticore, Logan, Max and even the one-night-stands I try to find solace in. Sam and I were practically the same person with one drastic difference: I was made to be vulnerable and exploitable. And I was made to like it.