Samantha-dean, Starliteeyes17, wild wolf free17, ephiny63, Thank You all for the encouragement. And Thank You all who have read.

Betaed by the graceful wild wolf free17.
Updated to voice a special Thank You to Ash8 for leading me to the lovely Dairwendan over at LiveJournal, and her work on the Latin in the show.

I'm a bit iffy with the rating, but...it'll remain T unless someone sets me straight.
(Non-)Consensuality ahead.
Bare male skin ahead.
Hurt!Sam ahead.
Enjoy.

Vicissitudes:
Venial
by Sade Lyrate

Words stumbled out of him in time with his steps. He felt sick, tired, everything that had happened descending upon him, rushing out like water through a cracked dam, incoherent, swift, bearing destruction, gravid with havoc.

He remembered leaving (so many things), the closeness of someone...familiar?
Kind touch, holding him up, leading him...but not Dean.

The same he felt now, leaning with him against a wall, hot mouth on his conceding his confession, swallowing his sins, absolving all his aberrations.

Thoughts tried to catch up with the train, clamber onto the tracks anew as he felt hands on his skin, rough and fervent, tugging his shirt, tracing his ribs. Senses stirred even as he realized he was suckling on the other's tongue with equal eagerness, the heady scent of want pleading him into distraction and delight.

And, honestly...why not?

He relaxed into the hungry hands, the hard grain of tiles against his back, human warmth embracing him. His eyes fluttered shut, moist mouth mapping the tender area below his ear, jaw, the handgun (Beretta) cold and clumsy against the small of his back.

Memories seeped, notions bubbled beyond the blanket of sensations, coaxing him from cognizance, luring him to lust.
Desire danced over his nerves, whispered to him with the other's (Duane?) lips over his pulse, strong body against his own sort of weird, hot even through the clothing as an idea presented itself, his body obeying the whim, alcohol-addled or not.

He pulled the man's (...and isn't that just wrong?) head closer, slipped his other hand behind himself as he brought his lips near the ear.

"Christo," he breathed, fingers tensing around the grip of the gun. The muscles stilled against him for fraction of a heartbeat. He tried to whip out the Beretta, flee, but the beers he knew he really shouldn't have drunk made him too slow, too drowsy, too weak as the voice that had been nothing but smiles so far turned to sadism and his vision went too white, the blast of pain blacking out the world as his head connected with the all too solid tiles, purr poison in his ears.

"That's a real turn off, Sammy."

He wanted to curl up, be miserable and suffer the hangover in peace, hope like hell Dean wouldn't be inclined to check if his singing still sucked.

Except that he'd left Dean. With a bang.

And he couldn't curl up.
Cool air laid like a blanket over his chest, soft bedding under him, darkness greeted his sight.

No, not complete darkness.

He could see gentle halos of bright stars, flickering some feet from him.

Candles, his hammering head suggested, unease settling in, clearing slightly his bleary mind. Adrenaline dispelled more shadows as he tried to draw in his arms, rope biting down in retribution.

His head trying to kill him, his mouth tasting of things rather left unsaid, Sam bit his lip, tested his bonds as calmly as he could, assessing the situation. It was easier with his eyes closed, if only because he couldn't really remember the last time he'd felt as foul. What he did remember wasn't making him feel any better.

Stop.

Concentrate.

Take a deep breath. Don't be sick.

Getting out would be a feat. The knots were beyond his reach, the ropes refused to give in, he had no tools. He was okay, discounting the nausea and the headache, the dull terror of missing details concerning how he'd come to be in the dark, spread-eagled on the bed, stripped out of his shirts.

He opened his eyes, tried to find out where he was. Tried to focus on the lights, shifting and bright enough to irritate. Three tapers that failed to reach the ceiling or the walls, painted out the rough texture of the floor, refused to be reflected. Biting his lip again, he turned his head carefully, throbbing localizing ever so briefly to a flash point at the back of his head.

That triggered a torrent of recollections, garbled and twisted, ignored as his eyes alighted upon the person standing beyond the bed. Single flame spilled on skin, caught blonde hair, glanced off gingham, brushed over toned torso. Belied keen eyes that met his.

"What's going on?" Sam barked, bile rising with the words.

Smile spread on the familiar face, gaze darker than he remembered, the light gently laid on a bedpost as the man sat down on the bed.

"Can't you remember, Sam?" Voice soft, sharp as steel, pale eyes cold.

He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, tried to think through the throbbing every move seemed to tease. He remembered a bar, beer that had bred a whole battalion, according to his state. Someone he thought he knew...Duane? Duane Tanner? Clumsy, irrational make out...coal-black eyes, familiar cadence to the words he couldn't recall.

Warm hand landed on his leg, began to slowly caress upwards. He couldn't suppress the urge to flee, try and jerk away, his eyes snapping open. No time to waste on feeling sorry. He needed to get away, out of here as fast as possible. Figure it all out, deal with it all later.

"I thought it was rather fun..."

Again, something stirred in the way the words strayed, smiling, distracted, from the man's lips, deliberate fingers brushing up along the length of denim, Sam struggling to stay still. Nails bit into palms, teeth into lip as Duane's fingers slipped, spread wide over his stomach, hungry lips dove in to warm the side of his neck.

"Let me go, Duane." Even to his own ears, Sam's voice sounded strained.

"Come on, now...no need to be such a killjoy, Sammy." Hot whisper against his skin, his eyes shut, his toes curling, teasing fingers brushing over his nipple, breath caught as the lips claimed his, invading tongue tasting of beer and blood. He strove to relax, submit, the muscles in his arms cording, straining against the bonds, his throat rebelling against the violation.

But Duane kept on it, sucking, biting, mapping every minute detail of Sam's mouth, swallowing his shock as the fingers found another target and squeezed, the body on the bed jolting at his touch, ragged breaths passing bruised lips, denial seeking to override desire for survival.

"Stop." Half-choked, still more a command than a plea, eyes ablaze. "Stop, Duane."

Chiaroscuro turned the delight in the expression into devil; the man locked his gaze with Sam's as he rubbed circles through the cloth.
Blood betrayed him, the beats of his heart hammering the pain at the back of his head deeper. Lids slid shut anew, searching a sanctuary from the sensations, seeking a scripture in his memory. He swallowed to calm his rebelling body, concentrated on breathing, on the proper form, the right phrases.

Licking his lips, he begun.

"Regna terrae/ Cantate Deo/ Psallite Domino." Quietly he stumbled through the incantation, trusting the gut-feeling of being correct, remembering right. He had read the ritual once successfully, skimmed over it in preparation a multitude more, followed the blocks of his father's handwriting untold times after the night in the hospital, standing beside Dean's bedside, during the week at Bobby's.

"Sam." The voice was cold, the teasing touch had left his skin. He ignored it all, the Latin flowing off his lips, felt the mattress dip and shift around him. "Ecce/ Edit vocem suam/ Agnoscite..."

One of Dean's bands, or a whole bandful of drummers, had made his head their home. The weight settling over his waist, the warmth of another body, the breaths against his skin clenched his fists, made him wet his throat as he felt his way through the exorcism, eyes vehemently closed to the reality.

"If I wanted to fuck a priest, I'd have found one," the voice again, callous, said just before hellfire swallowed his nipple, words strung out to a scream, his body trying to escape the burn as his eyes flew open, a scatter of scorching spots registering mere breath before a strong hand caught his jaw, hostile lips pressed against his mouth, teeth caught his tongue and bit hard. He tasted blood, wanted to gag, wanted to flee more than ever before as the new instances of pain joined the thrum of earlier hurts.

Duane let go of his head, let it fall onto the bed as he reached, lit the candle in his hand anew. Sam swallowed, tried to regain the control of his breaths, heart pumping the pain everywhere, mind clouded worse than after he'd woken up.

"No more crap, okay?" the man still on him said, tickling the chords of recollection anew. His tongue hurt, but he (she?) had given just a warning. He could still move it, use it, though his mouth just filled with blood, his mind with suffering.

Duane leaned over him, face hovering mere inches above Sam's turned cheek, breath brushing along his jaw. The flame dancing at the top of the candle drew his eyes. Anything to concentrate on besides his predicament.
Lips danced along his jugular, sent a tremble through his body. He could feel the smile against his skin.

He closed his eyes again, returned his mind to the task he'd started. The ritual...not really that long, but long enough. Maybe. And he was screwed anyway, alone. Not like anyone who might care knew where he was. So why not give up, give in, keep possibly some semblance of life even if everything else is lost?

"I expect to get an answer, Sam."

After all, isn't that what Dad did?
Fucked around with a demon?

Path blazed down his chest, rough cry the farthest he could bolt the pain, body pinned to the bed under Duane.

"What's the matter, Sam? Cat got your tongue?"

The breath he drew in trembled in tandem with his body.

"Go...to hell."

White teeth flashed in the flame's glow, smirk so unlike Dean's closer to insane in the candle-dusk.

"Baby, I'm already there."

He didn't care how, didn't really have the energy to think, so he just closed his eyes. The hands, the touches creeping down his sides, rolling over his ribs, those he could ignore. It's nothing, he whispered to himself, survival superseding sensations, sex in his books.

The words waited in his memory, promised pardon. But he'd screwed up, faltered and failed, just like back in River Grove. Passing away might, considering, be the best option. After all, there had to be worse ways to leave the world.

And getting slain by a demon? Par for the course.

Another breath, the mouth trailing down the sternum now, hands somewhere further south.

"Majestas ejus, et-"

Pain blossomed into a supernova, muscles tightening to curl up around it, his throat raw. Teeth bit into his flesh, turning the red thread of his thoughts too crimson, tasting too much of iron. For a moment, Sam didn't know why he tried to hold onto the gibberish he couldn't be certain was the right Latin, the right order, the right phrases anymore.

There was a voice, scolding, chiding, speaking in a language he couldn't be sure he had ever understood.

He swallowed, tongue too clumsy to reach the right intonation, words broken, flares blazing along his skin, catching his breath, tempting him to tumble down the rabbit's hole. There wasn't (couldn't be) a hand on his crotch, no wanton mouth or tongue trembling along his bones, no molten wax lazily drifting over nerves. His body couldn't be answering to such exercises, the unadulterated ardour in the lips lingering above his heart.

The sound escaping his body as his headache intensified with each beat of his excited heart might have easily been a sob, the ministrations slowly working their magic on his wits.

The sharp, harsh staccato of shots forced his eyes open, body twisting in its bonds.

Author's Note:
The title is supposed to 'Venial', not 'Venal'. Both would have, methinks, fit in, but irony tipped the scales in favour of 'Venial'. ;)
The exorcism was my blind shot in the dark. Now it's supposed to be right (shortest exorcism in the show so far, from 1x04), and I'm sworn to gratitude to Ash8 and Dairwendan over at LiveJournal.