Six

The consequences of demon blood and denial.

Heavily inspired by this ask! Warnings/tags: 5x14, effects of famine, addiction/withdrawal issues, Sam's got hella insecurities, he's also a munch (canon), cumming untouched & in pants, oral sex (f receiving), body worship, kinda subby Sammy cuz he's basically in heat, a bit sappy.

Sam's cuffed himself to the sink for your safety just as much as for his own.

He's pulled the bathroom door to. Not locked, because he couldn't stomach that. The only thing worse than having you see him in such a pitiful state is not seeing you at all. A year and a half in the cage was enough separation from you to last him a lifetime.

Just as friends, though. Only friends. Sam only wants to burrow between your thighs, risk suffocation, as friends only. It's for the best, really. Sam's carcinogenic; anything he touches atrophies, withers, wilts. He can't do that to you. You deserve much more out of life than fusty motel rooms and mattresses that feel like cinderblock.

He's already put you through enough. Dean stays because he's his brother, Castiel stays because it's his duty - but you stay because you want to. That's the difference; that's special. Sam's not going to fuck that up because his heart does that stupid little sputter around you.

And he's content with being your friend, honestly and truly. Sam has self-control. He's not Dean, who pops a boner if the wind blows in the wrong direction. Sam's schooled himself: he keeps the giddiness to a minimum when you lean in closer to squint at the computer, tamps down his envy after a man at the bar pays for your drink, and politely diverts his eye if he walks in on you changing, even though he really, really doesn't want to.

In normal circumstances, he'd be fine. But famine's not normal. Nothing about his life is normal. That'd be too easy, too predictable. Sam wants you. It's not the usual pang of desire he'll get every so often when you do something particularly endearing, it's a debilitating hunger. A gaping void of emptiness rending him in two, clawing its way up his ribcage until it leaves his mouth in anguished and miserable groans.

The demon blood withdrawal has taken a backseat. It's definitely not helping Sam's situation, but it's a pain he's used to. It's the devil he knows. This omnivorous, unfettered lust for you is vibrating at a frequency he didn't know he possessed.

"Sam?" You call, concerned, from behind the drawn door, "You've been quiet in there for a while. Are you okay?"

Sam's drooped against the wall, legs kicking out unproductively every so often to physically vent the appetite he can't sate. His hairs clinging to his forehead, slicked with sweat, and sticking up at odd angles from how many times he's restlessly ran his fingers through it.

Maybe worst of all is the way his dick is practically bursting through his jeans. It's been like that since you helped fasten him to the pipes and wiped at his forehead with a devastating look of reassurance. That little gesture you'd probably already forgotten you'd done has seared itself into the forefront of Sam's mind.

His head sags, eyes squeezing shut as a nasty twinge of arousal knots his stomach, "M'fine. Just...just don't come in."

You don't answer immediately. It wears at his already wafer-thin resolve. Sam wants you to come in, he wants you to come in and dab at his forehead again, or smooth down the mess of his hair, or let him rabidly hump your leg. Either, or.

"Are you sure?" You say quietly, ruefully.

"Please..." He manages through gritted teeth. Sam doesn't think you heard him at first, thinks the chip in his armour of self-denial will go unnoticed, but he hears you move closer to the door.

"Please what?" You press. You're worried. You only use that low, steady tone when something's gone drastically awry, "Please leave, or please come in?"

His arm flexes against the cuff, the rattling of metal against metal deafening amidst the tense silence. Sam stifles a whine unbefitting for a man who's done a stint in Hell.

"I don't know."

He sounds pathetic, all croaky and hoarse. He looks even worse. You open the door slowly, like one would to the enclosure of a feral animal, and lower yourself to his side. Sam opens his eyes to somnolent slits to greet you.

"Oh, Sam," You whisper, hand raising to smooth the strands of hair out of his scrunched up face. He keens into your touch, no matter how fleeting it is, and nuzzles at your palm, "Let me help."

You guide him to rest against you; Sam goes willingly. His arms clamber to wrap around you with the dedication of a boa constrictor, hands balling into fists around the fabric of your shirt. He crumples, face-first to your chest, sprawling the rest of himself out in an ungainly manner.

Sam shivers and shakes in your arms. Mindlessly, his fingernails will bite in tighter as he rides out a wave of withdrawal, but ease off when you murmur sweet nothings of consolation in his ear. You tell him things he doesn't deserve to hear, like how strong he's being, how brave he is, how proud of him you are.

Your proximity fixes some of his problems by creating new ones. Now that you're in arm's reach, Sam's getting his hopes up along with his cock. He noses at the column of your throat, shamelessly inhaling the warmth sitting where your clavicles meet. It's where the scent of your perfume and musk have coalesced into one bouquet that's making all of his muscles strain.

He's gone. Surrendered. Mouthing at your throat at an asinine pace, hands scrabbling for any inch of skin it can get, body thrumming with unspent energy. You exclaim something, notably not of rejection, but the actual syllables are lost in translation. Sam's whimpering, snivelling, against the reddened patches of skin his lips are leaving behind.

"I need this. Need you. I-I can't..." He garbles, fingers finding anchorage in your hips and clasping them like a lifeline. His squirming has leveraged your outstretched leg to be positioned just strategically enough for him to nudge his conspicuous bulge against your knee, "M'sorry. You're just - shit - you're so perfect."

Tears, big, fat unmanly ones, well up at his waterline. Sam's so hard it's gone past the point of feeling good, it just hurts. The gentleness of your fingers combing through the length of his hair only encourages the inchoate stuttering of his hips. He can feel the dampness of his pre-cum smearing the front of his boxers. It only makes everything that bit more uncomfortable. Unbearable.

You shush him, "I told you I'd help. Just show me how."

Clarity fizzles in fleetingly. Sam cranes his neck back enough to meet your eyes, gauge your commitment to helping him whatever the cost. You seem pretty dedicated. It's as green of a light he's going to get.

Sam nearly connects with your chin with the velocity of which his head jerks up to devour your lips. The hungers not surfeited, but it does lessen the weight bearing down on his chest. Kissing you was long anticipated and it didn't disappoint. He can't get enough. Sam's nose knocks yours as he deepens the kiss, his tongue darting out to run over the pout of your mouth.

When your experimentally presses up against his crotch, he moans. Ragged and adenoidal. Sam's hand retaliates by gripping your inner thigh and tugging, opening you up to make room for him. This type of hunger can only be solved in one way.

He pulls away from your lips, diving back in only once more to make sure he's got his fill for the time being, and hunkers down between your parted thighs. Above, you're a bit dazed, breathless, but you cotton on quick when Sam twiddles with the button of your jeans. You raise your hips enough for him to get the pesky things down.

Sam doesn't bother prying your cute striped panties down too, just latches his mouth over where he knows your cunt lies concealed. Your legs clamp lightly against the sides of his head, startled.

"You surprised me." You exclaim, chest heaving, a wisp of a smile crinkling the inviting corners of your lips.

He drags the bridge of his nose up the length of you and prods more earnestly at the top, at your clit. Sam feels the muscles in your thighs tense against him in response. It's a proud moment. He winds an arm underneath the arc of your leg and braces a hand to your leg, holding you steady.

He laves his tongue over the gusset. After a few ardent licks, the slick of his spit has coaxed your wetness through the fabric. The taste is like a sacrosanct sip of water in the desert. Sam groans, nipping the material between his teeth and letting it snap back down with a squelch. You shudder.

He rubs his cheek to your thigh, glancing up with hazy eyes and shiny lips, "S'perfect. You're perfect. You're everything."

He says such nonsense with such veneration. To Sam, in this moment, it's the closest he can muster to a proclamation of love. You get the gist, and brush his overgrown fringe out of his eyes. Yours is a proclamation too.

Sam peels back the soddened gusset enough to let his tongue run over your entrance uninhibited. You're so warm, and damp, and soft. So heady as the taste glides over his palate. The tip of his cock is weeping in his underwear, tumescent and throbbing. He's confident you finishing in his mouth would have him shooting helplessly into nothing.

Testing his theory, Sam tugs your panties a little further, giving his lips more real estate. He suckles at your puffed up clit until your fingers fly to knot in the roots of his hair. The delectable scratch of your fingernails to his scalp coupled with the fortunate placing of the seam on his jeans is dizzying.

His attention to your clit melts into kisses down the stretch of your cunt, stopping at your entrance. Sam had rather hoped the first time he got to do something so special with you wasn't in a motel bathroom, but the location tends not to matter when you're with the right person - and Sam knew you were always the right person for him.

He dips inside. Shallow, at first, testing the waters. Your tremulous exhale is a good start. Sam gets braver, lapping at you with joyful abandon, his fingers biting crescent moons into your thighs. His tongue's a piston; programmed and honed to pleasure.

Your hand to the back of his head is guiding him nowhere. Sam was already flat against you anyways, nose jostling your clit with every nudge of his head. Underneath tear-matted lashes, he peers up, delighted at the sight of your eyes only not meeting his because they're forced shut in bliss.

When you cum, loud and glorious, it's his turn to shut his eyes. You quiver against Sam's mouth, walls pulsing at the lash of his tongue, an added trickle of arousal straight from the source overwhelming his tastebuds. He doesn't stop, he can't stop.

"Sam..." You paw at his shoulder, a weak plea for recovery. Your convulsing is kept to a minimum by the grip he has on your thighs as he perseveres in making out with your cunt.

It burns behind the back of his eyes when it hits. Sam feels it ripping its way up from his toes to his hairline, culminating in a guttural sob interrupting the smack of his lips. His hips twitch, abdomen tightens. He came in his fucking pants.

Your fingertips grazing his cheek wrench him from his post-nut reverie, "Sam." You repeat, still short-breathed, but much more lucid than before.

Timidly, he lugs himself upright, wincing as his sensitive cockhead catches. Your arms loop around his neck and breezily collide his lips with yours. The kiss lacks the swelter of the first, instead it's charged with something Sam might categorise as affection.

"I needed that as much as you did." You confess, head bowing to the side as you size him up. A unique glimmer of intimacy has glossed your eyes and pinned an infectious, beatific smile on your face.

Could you raise him to love me, maybe?