AN: A little Sam-centric ficlet of mine. Contains (unrequited, maybe?) Wincest, but deals mostly with the "corruption" Sam thinks he carries inside himself since he was six months old. Not happy, so beware.
Warnings for a bit of dirty talk.
Sometimes, Sam thinks he can feel it.
It's the blood, Azazel's, coursing through his veins. Three small drops, but enough to taint him, spread through his body, from his mouth to his toes to his fingertips, running circles through his system, his heart pumping sulfuric corruption through him without pause. Black like hot tar, burning like the fires of Hell themselves.
Sometimes, he thinks he can taste it, thick on his tongue, nauseating like rotten milk, sometimes sickly sweet like the smell of decay.
He pictures it. A film of red so dark it's almost black, spread over his tongue, and every bite of food he takes turns vile, fresh leaves of salad wilting in his mouth.
Sometimes, he stands in front of the mirror and closes his eyes for a moment, heart thundering in his chest, and when he opens them again he expects them to be black. Two abysses in place of his eyeballs, hungry and gaping, pupils bleeding blackness over his irises into the whites of his eyes, swallowing color, everything.
Sometimes, he thinks he can smell it. He'll take off his shirt in the bathroom after a hunt and hold it to his face, inhale deeply, and there will be a trace of rotten eggs mixed with the salty stale sting of his sweat.
Sometimes he thinks he can hear it. The darkness in his words, a roughness to his voice, otherworldly, things spoken in anger, used as weapons, cutting deep.
It's everywhere, this taint, filling his senses. Three drops of blood that were supposed to make him Azazel's boyking, a child corrupted, to become something more—something less—than human.
Sometimes, he thinks that's the reason why. Why he loves his brother more than he should. Why he dreams of big, strong hands, calloused, scarred, holding him down as he's taken roughly, while the voice in his ears, whispering filthy promises and praise—so good, Sammy, knew you could take it, knew you'd like it, knew you'd beg for it, my cock inside you, gonna make you feel so good, Sammy—is deep and whiskey-rough and too familiar, the same voice that told him about mom and soothed him when he was scared of the monster under his bed.
Sam and Dean, they aren't normal in any sense of the word. But Sam is even more (even less), because there's this darktainteddirty blood in his veins, and maybe, maybe without it, he wouldn't feel that way, wouldn't want what he can never have, wouldn't dream of Deandeandean, his lips, his touch, his smell, the way he tastes—
Sometimes, he can almost fool himself into believing it.