charge! sam winchester who is a total slut for the angel that's been tasked with watching over him ₊⊹
The motel room was dim, the only light coming from a flickering television that had long since been muted. The curtains were drawn, trapping the two of you in a cocoon of shadow and stillness. Sam Winchester was on his knees, his massive frame trembling as he pressed his face between your thighs, his broad shoulders hunched forward in supplication.
You watched him with that same detached curiosity Castiel might show a particularly interesting insect, but there was something warmer beneath it. Something almost like affection.
You sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide to accommodate him, one hand resting lazily on the back of his head. Your vessel was tall, taller than him, which had been a deliberate choice. It pleased you to look down at the boy who was meant to be your charge, to see the confusion and awe in his hazel eyes every time he had to tilt his head back to meet your gaze.
When you'd first appeared to Sam in this vessel, his jaw had dropped. He'd looked up at you—actually up, a sensation so foreign to him that it had rendered him speechless.
"Slower, Samuel." you instructed, your voice flat and emotionless, like the tolling of a distant bell. "You rush. You always rush. It is a flaw of yours, this desperate need to consume everything as quickly as possible. Perhaps that is why you were drawn to the demon blood."
Sam whimpered against you, the vibration sending a shiver through your vessel's form. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the flesh there as if you were the only solid thing in a world gone sideways. He had been at this for nearly an hour now, his jaw aching, his tongue exhausted, but he couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop. The taste of you was intoxicating in a way that made his head swim.
"This is what you need," you said, your fingers threading through his long brown hair, not gently. Your voice carried that strange, otherworldly resonance that made even mundane words sound like prophecy. "This is what's good for you. Not that poisonous filth. My grace. My attention. That is what will save you."
Sam's response was muffled, lost in the wet heat of his mouth against you.
"I know you didn't mean to." you answered, clearly understanding what his clumsy mouth had tried to convey, your tone unchanged—still that flat, inflected drone that somehow managed to sound both utterly dispassionate and deeply condescending. "You never mean to. That is the tragedy of your existence. You stumble blindly toward damnation with such earnestness that it would almost be endearing, if it were not so tedious."
He opened his mouth to respond, but you pushed his head back down, not roughly, but with the firm authority of someone who expected immediate obedience. Sam groaned, the sound muffled against your flesh, and you felt the desperate, frantic movements of his tongue resume.
You watched him with a sort of clinical fascination.
"You perform admirably." you continued, and even that praise came out flat, almost clinical. "Your dedication to your task is... commendable."
Your fingers carded through his sweat-dampened hair, and Sam leaned into the touch like a starving man. So desperate. So human.
"You are fortunate," you continued, your hand still stroking his hair with that same detached, almost patronizing gentleness. "I have always held a certain fondness for humans. You are so fragile. So brief. Like candles in a hurricane. Most of my brethren view you with contempt or indifference, but I find you... charming. In the way that puppies are charming. Or particularly clever insects."
Sam whined against your core, the sound desperate and needy. His hips bucked involuntarily, grinding against the carpet, and you felt his arousal pressing against your ankle.
"Look at you," you said, and there was almost—almost—a hint of warmth in your voice. "Castiel's charge is off fighting monsters, slaying demons, doing all the noble work of a Righteous Man. And here you are... begging me for the vulgarity of mortal pleasure. How lucky you are that I am so dedicated to my duty of taking care of you."
You shifted on the bed, and Sam made a sound of protest as you withdrew from his mouth, trying to chase you like a drunk chases a bottle. But you weren't done with him. Not by a long shot.
"On the bed." you commanded, and though your voice was flat, there was no room for argument. "Face down."
Sam scrambled to obey, his long limbs clumsy with arousal and exhaustion. He was so desperate to please you, so eager to do anything that might earn more of your attention. It was pathetic, really. Endearing, but pathetic.
You moved behind him, your vessel's body towering over his prone form. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his muscles coiled with anticipation. His jeans were still on, but they were obviously uncomfortable now, and he rutted against the cheap motel sheets without shame.
"Still." you said firmly, and he froze immediately.
You reached down, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his jeans and tugging them down just enough to expose him. His hips twitched, but he held himself still, breathing hard.
"You have been so good for me tonight," you hummed, and the words were praise, but delivered in that same dispassionate tone that made them sound almost like an accusation. "I suppose I should reward you."
Your hand moved between his legs, fingers finding his entrance, and Sam gasped at the contact. You coated one of your fingers with your own essence, still wet on your thighs from his earlier efforts, and pressed it inside him without ceremony.
Sam moaned, his hips pushing back against your hand, and you watched with detached interest as his body accepted you.
"Uhngh-" Sam's voice broke as you found that spot, the one that made his vision go white. "Uh, uh, uh—"
"Eloquent as always, Samuel," you observed, your finger still crooked inside him, pressing against that bundle of nerves. "You lose all capacity for language when I touch you. It is quite telling."
"Senseless." you hummed, watching him fall apart beneath you. "You are completely senseless, Samuel. Is this what the Boy with the Demon Blood has become? Reduced to sounds and need?" Another finger, and his whole body arched, his face pressing into the mattress as he cried out. "And yet... I find I do not mind. I find I quite enjoy this version of you."
Your other hand came down on the back of his neck, forcing his face into the pillow as you continued your assault on his senses. He was shaking now, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding himself together. The sounds he made were broken and desperate, half-sobs of pleasure that seemed to catch in his throat.
"P-please—" he managed, his voice wrecked.
"Please what, Samuel?" you asked, your tone betraying nothing. "Please continue? Please stop? You must use your words. You are a grown man, not a mewling infant."
But he was, wasn't he? In this moment, he was nothing but need and want and the desperate ache for something he couldn't name. The demon blood had made him strong, made him dangerous, but it had also made him hungry. And you'd found that hunger, cradled it, redirected it.
He couldn't form the thoughts, couldn't string together enough syllables to beg you the way he wanted to. All he could do was lie there, face down, ass up, completely undone by your touch.
