Chapter Text
Sam hated the way he noticed immediately as the tall, black-suited man passed by, that damned sulphurous metallic smell assaulting his so newly recovered senses. It was unmistakeable, and the instant he recognised it, the familiar urge lurched inside him, a caged beast reaching through the bars of its confinement. He couldn’t stop himself from turning around as the man – the demon – disappeared down the corridor.
Their presence here was one thing. But the intensity with which lust now pulsed under his skin was a whole different reason to feel afraid.
***
The headache had been forming all day, a steadily growing pain sharp as needles. Sam knew why it had manifested, and his own rising self-loathing didn’t help the situation. He was a spring coiled too tight, so when he saw the demon again, he didn’t think twice before following it.
He cornered it in an alleyway, forcing it against a wall and holding the knife to its neck. “I know what you are, damn it,” he said through gritted teeth as he sliced its cheek. The orange flicker and the way it screamed only confirmed what he already knew. “I could smell you.”
God, he wanted it. Freshly drawn blood speckled the knife blade, and the smell was ten times stronger than it had been in the hospital. It would be so easy, just to plunge the knife a little deeper, to cut open a vein, or better, an artery…
What the Hell are you doing? You promised! You can’t give into it. Unless you want to become a monster.
Before he could stop it, the demon took advantage of Sam’s hesitation, shoving him backwards and running away, though not before Sam wounded it again.
Breathing heavily, his heart pounding in his chest and blood rushing in his ears, Sam looked down at the knife. For a moment, he wondered what the harm could be. It was only a few drops, after all, but he knew all too well that even that amount would reignite his addiction. He could see his eyes reflected in the blade, and the thought of them turning black as they apparently had that time was enough for him to grab a rag from the dumpster and wipe it clean.
At least the distraction had not been entirely fruitless. The demon had left its briefcase behind.
***
Famine. It made sense, but God help him if it didn’t make Sam feel like an utter freak. Sex, food, love, these were all normal things to lust for. Human things. Demon blood was not a human thing to crave. Sure, that couple had literally eaten each other, but that was lust for their bodies, not their blood.
He stood in front of the mirror in the tiny motel bathroom, pressing a damp washcloth to his face in a futile attempt to lessen the burning of his skin. Each breath was laboured, like he couldn’t get enough oxygen into his lungs, every cell in his body screaming for more, but what they really wanted was not air. It was his very nature to be a monster, his entire existence had been moulded by the hands of angels and demons alike, shaping him into the perfect vessel for Lucifer.
Cupid had even been tasked with bringing together his parents, all so he could be born. All so he could end up like this. Fate was cruel, weaving her threads in this way, choosing just the right colours to create a glorious tapestry of a war between brothers. Dean and Michael. Righteous and good; they would be spun in brilliant blues and greens and golds, the colours of the sky and the Earth and glory and Heaven. Sam and Lucifer, however, were a tangle of black and red, an amalgamation of blood and fury and Hell, of demons and horsemen and the apocalypse. Lucifer had been the brightest of all the angels, and Sam believed his soul to be the darkest of any who walked the Earth, and in this way they were polar opposites, destined to come together.
Sam Winchester. The boy with the demon blood. Those had been the first words Castiel, a freaking angel of the Lord, had spoken to him. While they had formed more of a friendship now, he had no doubt the angel still saw him for what he was: an abomination. The blood was a part of him, it seemed it would never leave, for if was anything less than a temporary addiction then he would not be affected as he was now. No, he could not escape his own blood. Especially when that blood was not human.
He pressed the washcloth to his face once more, trying to listen to Dean and Cas’ conversation but ultimately catching every other word; the pieces he could hear muffled by the sounds of his own body waging a civil war against itself.
The worst part was, Sam knew which side would win. Every time. He was weak, but the evil in him was strong, fuelled by the ever-present rage he struggled to keep hidden under the surface.
There was no way he was going to be able to do this. Considering standing up at the moment was difficult, the world spinning just slightly off-kilter, there was no way he would be able to resist when face-to-face with several demons. Not when mere drops had almost been enough to send him over the edge.
He had no choice, as always. He would have to tell Dean the truth. Even if that meant facing the disappointment, the barely concealed disgust, that look in his eyes like he was debating whether he should have just let Sam die all those years ago in Cold Oak.
Better for his brother to know he was a monster than have to deal with it in the middle of a hunt. Perhaps it would be best for him to simply not exist anymore – “I’ll just bring you back,” the Devil whispered in his ear – but, for now, locking him up would have to do.