A/N This occurs shortly after Season 5x14 My Bloody Valentine. A short ficlet into the repercussions of Sam's addiction.
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"You can't tell Dean." He doesn't even know why he says it, it's just out as those blue eyes stare at him in a sea of calmness he wishes he had felt just once in his life. This is a truth already known and he shifts on his feet.
"You should sit." It's not a request and Sam sits, the plastic mold of the chair antagonizing the deep ache of muscles tired and twitching. Everything is too small: the chair, his skin, his lungs not getting in enough air as he's made dizzy with need.
They shouldn't be doing this. There isn't enough to spare. There isn't even enough to function with as he watches that blade make a small cut where the skin is the thinnest, yielding and ready.
Somewhere he swallowed a black hole that is devouring what he has left of himself and he knows Lucifer is laughing. Even losing a horseman the Devil still won and his stomach curls leaving a taste of bile in his mouth.
The smell is sweet. It would taste the same coating his throat, digging into his veins.
Something in him that is still human and shamed whispers that he shouldn't feel lust for what is currently dripping in slow lazy strands off that arm. That he shouldn't be straining in his jeans and he knows he'll be in the shower before Dean walks in, knows he'll be trying to wash off the guilt that clings over everything like a fine veil and failing.
For now he licks his lips, hands cemented to his knees to keep from touching.
"You can't tell," he says again weakly, desperate. A small tilt of the head, a nod that is in the span of a microsecond to placate him then that wrist is pressed to his mouth.
It doesn't matter anymore if he hates this. It doesn't matter that Cas isn't doing this for him. This is what he is now and it's so bright in him as it burns everything else to brittle ruins.
Sometimes he wishes Castiel would just sink that blade through his heart so he can stop breaking theirs.
"You would be easily found if you died. They could make you compliant then." Castiel's voice is still soldier stiff and authoritative even falling, the ground coming ever closer.
He has to hold on a little while longer for Dean. He would endure anything to never betray his brother again, do anything to make sure it isn't a possibility still on the table.
It wouldn't be much this time. This is impromptu, a fast session while his brother got food and fell into a bottle a little more because he has been shaking and hearing it whisper in him. He had wandered off the day before in a haze. So thirsty, his tongue cleaved to the roof of his dried out mouth as he blindly sought before Dean came and dragged him back.
So Castiel says a little each day now, to chase it down to a controllable sting under his skin.
He drinks from that offered arm, trying to taste salvation in the damnation before Dean comes back and everything starts again.