Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sam doesn’t like to remember the first time he voluntarily drank blood. It certainly wasn’t the first time he had a taste, split lip looking up at someone he cherishes in the face of their violence wondering why, does he deserve this?

No, but his own blood, it didn’t taste like hers. He knows now, he knows why it was different. He isn’t like anyone else. He’s poison to his core, because isn’t this the seat of identity? Can’t a single drop of blood intrinsically alter you?

He knows now, that if he wasn’t tainted, if he never savoured ruby collections of cells on his lips like he savoured the sunlight on her face, she’d still be alive.

He really doesn’t like remembering it.

But it happened.

It wasn’t on purpose. Jess was like a firestorm. She was like crystallizing fractals and rays of light. She came on like a hurricane, undercut everything else. She saw him in ways no one else had, in some ways he doesn’t know if he can ever replicate the depth of their intimacy, doesn’t know if it could ever be ethical, with who he is. She smiled like sunlight while laughing at intellectual puns or while her fingers were inside him. It almost didn’t matter that she didn’t know his past. Because she knew his life, now. She knew where all the echoes of it lie. And wasn’t that enough? Couldn’t that be enough?

He didn’t realise, fully, where the shame came from. They’d never hunted a vampire. Most creatures prefer human flesh over their blood. Yes, there’d been exceptions. But he’d spent a lot of time researching it in humans too. It wasn’t some horribly bizarre thing to have a blood kink. At least, that’s how he rationalised it to himself. After all, it wasn’t so different than how he felt when she fucked him, too. Shame, tantalising, linked into pleasure. Back then, it turned him on more.

He didn’t just randomly come up with the idea. He had always been fascinated, conceptually, with blood, but more in terms of viruses. He couldn’t wrap his mind around the way so many different monsters were turned. How were they? How could they fix the afflicted instead of shooting them? Surely there was another option?

He used to be obsessed with salt too, conceptually, the idea of purification. Salt and vinegar chips sting the mouth, and is that closer to salvation? How long could he live off consuming a rock? If something is meant to purify, then why, instead, does it just burn the impure? Is there no way to actually save those who aren’t innocent? Who gives them the right to shoot the bullets?

But that was conceptual. Seeing blood was the norm. Feeling it flow out of another injury: norm. Seeing it on his brother’s fists, face, arms: norm. But he’d never actually tasted someone else’s blood.

Jess is intense. She’s intense when she’s manic, in quantity. Her ideas match the ceiling, counter the stars. Sometimes she gets confusing, and it’s a lot to take in, but Sam does, like he’s trying to saturate himself with every bit of her.

She’s intense with her studies, with her art. She gets almost perfect grades and makes artwork Sam could stare at for days on end, lost in every detail. And she’s intense when they’re intimate, like she wants to consume him, and Sam loves it. Begs her for the way the sparks of pain flavour passion. He loves matching her, chaotic and untethered, or letting her do anything she wants, because he trusts her, god he trusts her. He feels safer with her than anyone. She would only ever hurt him because she knows he wants it. Because he’s told her he does.

In fact, she even asked her the first time she kissed him, anxious and shy. He was thrown off guard. He’d considered himself so lucky to be her friend, because her mind was sharp, and she was funny, and her smile, her smile was sunlight.

They’d argue intellectually for hours, and she never wanted to fight him in it, and he saw new perspectives he’d never seen before through it. She was so thoughtful. She sensed things that ate him alive, that made him feel like she was going to burn on the ceiling just like his mom if he didn’t do, and accepted, helped him with it. Her first gift to him was a salt lamp. He felt so much safer knowing he could throw it at an intruder, that he had a first line of defense.

He couldn’t believe she would want to be his friend, that she would care about him, and he was shocked when she wanted to kiss him. He was beyond flustered, that first time, at her, “It’s okay if you don’t want to! I just really like you!” and the way he couldn’t even say yes then, and she’d accepted it, accepted him when he said, “ Hey, ask me what you did yesterday again, ” and then kissed her to see her face light up like July.

They were so careful with each other at first.

He never wanted to hurt her, and she never wanted to hurt him. He felt pliant from her fingers, shaped by her, cosmically trying to convey he loved her, god, he loved her like nothing else he’d ever known.

But it was all wrapped up in the desire to give each other pleasure, to trust one another with the intimacy, and he did, he trusted her, and she started noticing how much Sam enjoyed it when she told him what to do, how obedient he was. How much he liked being desperate when she’d deny him over and over again. And they started getting rougher, asking “Hey, is this okay, ” over and over again. He liked kissing aggressively, biting at her lips, and she’d scratch sharp pinpricks down his back. They’d dazzle like stars of endorphins.

And one time they must have been playing too rough cause blood was in his mouth, and it wasn’t his own, and it tasted so good, hitting him like an asteroid in the outer solar system meets the sun’s last lights. He moaned loudly, feeling more alive than he had in forever, and Jessica immediately pushed him back down, pinning him to the bed, something in her eyes, licking a tiny trace of blood off her lips while Sam stared up at her utterly entranced.

She had a wicked look in her eyes, smiling at him, and it sent more rushes of want through his body.

“You like blood, babe?” she said. Usually, when she said stuff like that, she could easily probe admittance out of Sam, but he somehow couldn’t say yes to that. It was immobilising. When he didn’t say something, she got off him, went to leave the room, and Sam was so dazed he could barely register what was happening, until she came back with a knife. 

“What... what are you doing,” Sam said, eyes wide, system still blurry from the way he gets when she’s on top of him. 

“I thought I could, I don’t know, just let a little blood trickle down,” Jess said, and disgust replaced want in his system. “C’mon Sam, you don’t moan that loudly for nothing.”

“Jess, I don’t, I’m not-” he doesn’t know how to respond, but the sickly sweet haze is just turning sick. “I don’t want to see you hurt, or injured, I’m not into that.”

“Okay,” she says. “But like, you know just as well as I do I know how to treat minor cuts. Like, I was the one who taught you Neosporin works much better than whiskey. Obviously, we can stop if you don’t want to, but I... thought we could give it a try.” Want grew again, as she licked her lip. Sam averted his gaze.

“I love you. I don’t want to hurt you,” he said. 

“Oh come off it. Your ass is covered in bruises as we speak. And I love you.” Sam’s face grew warm at that, and he felt the shame in his system turn him on even more. “I don’t like, have a blood kink. But it was really hot to see your reaction there. Want to try it?”

“I... uh...” Sam kept looking down, conflicting desires, wishing she’d push him, but she never would. It always made him love her all the more, but voicing yes voicing what he wanted, even if it made him feel so good when he tried, when the shame was pleasure and pleasure was shame, was difficult. But he had to say yes. He knew he could back out at any time, but he wouldn’t. Because he wanted to taste her blood again. He wanted her to be okay with the fact he wanted that. He wanted her to not think of him any differently, to find it as intoxicating as he did. “Yeah.”

Logically, he knew how ridiculous it would be to draw the line at masochism, to be against her having a small cut, even if there was something that did seem wrong and not in a good way about hearing her gasp in minor temporary discomfort, but it wasn’t that that made him realise he may as well go down this path. He trusted her, and she wanted it. And that made him want it even more. How can he say no when she smiles like that?

There was something to getting that little bit of blood (he never was okay with more than a tiny bit of blood from her skin; he wasn’t a sadist to the point it was off-putting) from her, the shame that twisted in his gut as the blood made him feel alive, closer to whatever she was than he ever could.

Like the intimacy of the act was so wrapped up in the trust and shame and respect and affection that nothing else could exist besides their love. It was like when he sucked her pink strapon before she fucked him with it, took him to pieces just for the fun of it, then curled up next to him telling him how deeply she cared about him while he was half asleep and feeling calm for about the first time in his life. He didn’t think much of how good sucking a few drops of blood off his girlfriend’s arm made him feel. Why would he? 

He still feels the shame follow him even more than everything else he would let her do to him, and he has no clue why it feels different. One time when they’re in bed and she’s reading a book about the psychology in existentialism, he brings it up like, “ Hey, you’re sure me being into your blood doesn’t freak you out like? I know that’s really fucked up of me. Don’t mean to be a freak. ”

She just squints at him, sets her book down, faces him, and gives her sunlit smile.

“Sam, I don’t mind you having a kink. And that’s like, by far one of the least concerning ones you could have.”

“Makes me feel like a vampire or something,” he admits, the words thick on his tongue. He wonders, irrationally, if they’ve never seen any vampires before because he is one, and this is why vampirism truly looks like. Running away from home to try to feel safe then drinking the blood of the person who trusts you the most.

“Hm, well I feel like I’m already the person who always brings my kinky shit to the table already,” she says, and it’s true. Sam is so into everything she does, but he could never actually say it outloud unless she makes him repeat it back to her. “But hey, there is something I think about a lot, but I was worried you might not be into it. But maybe if you hear it’ll make you feel better? I don’t know.”

“You know you can tell me anything,” he says. She frowns at that.

“And you can tell me anything too, you know,” she says. And he knows why she says it like that, knows the weight of his unspoken childhood like a glaring blankness in the intimacy they share, and he trusts her now, feels safer now more than ever. So he can’t help but blurt out another confession, deep off his lips that he can’t even explain to her.

“I’m scared I’m a monster,” he says. She frowns at that. 

“Sam, you’re one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. I’ve never met anyone as good as you.” Sam’s defenses wilt.

“Maybe, I’m compensating.”

“Trust me, you don’t need to compensate.” Sam doesn’t know what to say to that. “What do you mean monster?” she asks, clearly trying to understand better. 

“I just, I’m pretty sure there is something wrong, something evil, in me. Like I am something evil. I think I’m going to end up hurting others, and I don’t know how to stop.”

“Have you tried talking to a therapist about it? I mean, I know so many of them suck, but I wouldn’t be taking all these classes if I thought they were completely worthless.”

“I don’t think it’s a psychological thing, I just think it’s... more to do with what I am. I can’t explain it. I feel like I’m missing some piece of a puzzle. And I’m scared you’re going to see it.” Like my dad did. Like Dean did when I left .

“I won’t,” she says. “Sam, I know you. I love you. I do think a professional could help, but you’re certainly not evil ‘cause of what you do consensually in bed.” Sam ponders that for a minute, feels stripped bare in a way he isn’t prepared to feel, the weight of deep terror rising across a seemingly flayed chest. But she’s still there, she smiles at him. It’s too much, but she’s not going anywhere. She still loves him.

“What were you going to say? Was there something you wanted to try?” he says, turning back to her, before his interruption. He’s not sure he can face thinking about what he’s admitted to her much more. He sees her look abashed at that.

“I just, it’s not important,” she says.

“Oh come on. If I’m not into it I’ll just tell you,” he says. “You won’t freak me out.”

“Well, I just. Hm.” she says. She bites her lip. “Sensory deprivation.”

“Sensory deprivation?”

“Like. Uh... I know we’ve done some bondage. But perhaps. More extreme degree.” she says. She does actually sound a bit nervous, which is weird because it doesn’t seem any more abnormal than anything else they’ve done. 

“That sounds like something we could try,” Sam says, trying to hide his eagerness even though perhaps it would be helpful for the situation.

“I want to gag you and blindfold you and tie you up so all you can think or feel is me. At my like. Mercy.” 

“A... way to put it,” Sam says. 

“And you thought blood kinks were bad.”

“No! Jess I’m.” Sam takes a deep breath. “I’m definitely into the idea. Just unsure why it seems so taboo for you.”

“I think maybe because I like getting confirmation from you all the time?” she says. “It’s different if you can tell me to stop with your voice so easily, and I can get. Positive feedback or whatever. And obviously, we could like, I don’t know, get something that you can press if you want me to stop at any time. But it still feels different. And we don’t have to I just--”

“Jess, I’m into it,” Sam says. “And yeah, don’t worry, I trust you’d make sure we can stop if it changes.” 

“Are you sure, because we never have to,” she reassures. Sam doesn’t know how to explain to her how he feels safer with her than he ever has in his life. That he trusts her with everything. That he knows. He wants her. He wants her so much. He’s not even sure how to convey the intensity of that.

“Jess, the mere thought of it is,” he meant to be blunt and reassuring, but it’s still hard to talk about sex at all without her goading. She has that glint in her eyes though. 

“What?” she asks. Sam doesn’t know how quite to respond to that so he kisses her. She moves her hand down, slowly, always giving him time to say he wasn’t in the mood right now because she’s thoughtful, considerate because they both always want the other to feel safe . Though, when she feels his crotch, sensation suddenly whiting out the rest of his thought, all he can conceptualise is her . “I see,” she says, pleased, kissing him more. 

“I uhm...” he starts, distracted, and he thinks she finds great pleasure in distracting him as such, having the power to make his brain processes just shut down. “I interrupted your reading.”

“That book isn’t assigned. I can read it tomorrow,” she says, before moving on top of him.

“Oh, Okay...” he mumbles, as she kisses his neck, grinds down on his crotch over his jeans. He always melts from her. Heaven is in her eyes. Maybe that is salvation in itself. They fall asleep beside each other after he insists on making her come again. All he wants for the rest of his life is to fall asleep beside her. All he wants is a future with her constantly, her bright eyes or dark bags under them, her artistic poetic thought and intellectual curiosity, her sunlight smile. Is that not salvation, if he’s the one who inspired it?

He is terrified he’s tricked her, constantly, his lies, his manipulation. She doesn’t get the depth of his evil, his wrongness. She doesn’t see it at all. Not even when she convinces him to draw and paint and all he can do is depict monsters, darkness, blood. 

They just burn the canvases and line the walls with art that inspires hope between them because what they have is hope, what they are is a future. It’s not his past Sam is terrified of, though it haunts him every night, waking up frantic and scared and being reassured in the semi-darkness of Jess in the other room, up late again, presumably painting or watching television and making detailed notes about the inaccuracies in psychological or mental health representations.

It’s himself. The fact he is evil, and will bring tragedy on her, somehow: cursed.

Does it count as art therapy if he mostly feels healed by the way she smiles when she sees what he’s created, but is okay with them burning it, covering it with salt as well for not logical reason in her mind, as well?

She drags him to the sex shop store with him this time, he thinks just to embarrass him because she loves flustering him, to buy the ball gag, headphones, and more lube since they were running low. They make do with a board game button that blares when you press it and some scarves, and the most frustrating part of the whole process is he can’t see her face when his vision is blank. But his desire for it denied turns him on even more. 

He doesn’t think he could ever trust anyone like that ever again.

The last time he tasted her blood was two weeks before she died. He refused to ever indulge his blood kink with her unless she had no signs from the last time they did (which she didn’t really mind, but it was the line he felt necessary to draw, even if he was fine with her covering him in more bruises and scrapes the next day).

He was so stressed about his LSAT score they had kept things simple. She was knitting when the results came in, kissed him like starlight and all he wanted was to stay in that moment forever. It was safety, freedom, hope. They could do good. He could go on his path, try to save kids from abusive households, try to change the foster care system, and even if his end goals spiralled and ended up naive and unnecessary, if he could help save even one life without having to shoot and kill, that was enough for him. Just like how Jess wanted to save too, with words, logical and learnt methodology, and the power of expression and creation.

When the nightmares started again, he was certain it was just because he was actually truly hopeful. He was in a better space than he had been in his entire life. Halloween and November 2nd always happened to trigger him, so it made sense they’d show back up, momentarily. Even if they were scarier than they’d ever been.

He was scared of what Jess would think of it, even if she would never jump to his conclusions this is supernatural, oh god, she’s going to burn above me, she’s going to die, she’s going to die. Everything will be obliterated. She might think he’s traumatised, or maybe developing some disorder. She’s had periods where she almost thought she was prophetic while manic. But he doesn’t think he’s developing bipolar too, even if he hasn’t been sleeping much since it started, and he’s also been full of so much joy and hope. It isn’t like that. But even then, he would much prefer it be that than his own fears. 

Jess’s necessity to make sure he feels safe goes beyond the rational. He’s always had weird little ticks, some that Dean would make fun of, some that he would get angry about (their dad’s response always was anger it seemed, even if it was also mocking.)

He’s overly attached to sixes, and when the nightmares start again he does so many things six times in a desperate attempt to make sure she doesn’t die. (light switch on off on off on off on off on off on; door open closed open closed open closed open closed open closed open; so forth, so on. It will save her. Somehow, she would die if he didn’t). She always cooks him six veggie burgers, six cookies for each other (she doesn’t add a baker’s dozen, ever), and even though technically it feels unconnected, it makes him feel safe because she accepts it, even if it makes him more of a freak.

And sometimes it gets more rational, his terror the first night they slept together and spent the night and putting salt on the window, hiding it behind the curtains. And when they’re together, she salts things now. He wants to let go of everything in the past at the risk of his own safety, but she accepts it, lets him feel calmer. She loves him in a way he doesn’t understand, can’t comprehend, and it’s matched back. She will always be the love of his life, always be everything. He loves her like sunlight. 

But she doesn’t actually believe that salt will save her. Doesn’t keep lines up and invites her friend in when Sam is gone. Baking cookies. (Still a dozen). 

Her blood hits Sam’s head. It is the most horrifying thing he’s ever experienced. She tries to say something; she’s engulfed in flames. Maybe they were for him. Maybe they were trying to purify him. They would have, too, if he hadn’t been forcibly dragged out. He had wanted to be burnt alive, if only to see her face that last time.

She burns, along with all the art in the house and any dreams they shared together, and the future she could have had. Her dad offers to give him a painting she’d been working on as a Christmas present to him, and it’s a picture of this beach they’d used to go to together, way off track through the tall trees and forest. He can’t even look at it, tells them to take it.

The last thing he ever felt from her was drops of blood from her fatal wound dripped onto his face.