Devour

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/23314348.

Rating: Explicit
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: Multi
Fandom: Supernatural
Relationship: Jack Kline/Kevin Tran/Sam Winchester
Characters: Sam Winchester, Kevin Tran, Jack Kline
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - College/University, Soulless Sam Winchester, Top
Sam Winchester, Bottom Kevin Tran, Bottom Jack Kline, Threesome -
M/M/M, Drunk Sex, Drugged Sex, Filming sex, Barebacking, Rough
Sex, Anal Fisting, Bondage, Duct Tape, Recreational Drug Use,
Underage Drinking, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Series: Part 8 of spn kink bingo 2020
Collections: SPN Kink Bingo 2020
Stats: Published: 2020-03-25 Words: 4,108 Chapters: 1/1
 Devour
by hellhoundsprey

Summary

It’s never his fault.

2020 kink bingo square 18: filming sex

Notes

Everyone is of age and consenting. Still tagged ‘mildly dubious consent’ due to the load of
drugs being involved and Sam being a complete bastard.
“Wait—are you filming this?”

Sam feels his lip lifting with how adorable Kev looks with his eyes bulging huge in terror
like that. “Yeah, so?”

“Uh, don’t?”

Kev glares at him now, eyes pointed somewhere above his phone cam, so, probably at Sam’s
face.

Jack dislodges Sam’s cock from the depths of his freshman-throat just to blink all cute and
confused and watery-eyed. “What, uhm…?”

“It’s fine, keep going.”

Sam takes his eyes off his phone just to shower Kevin with the attention, the calmness in his
expression.

He’s got this. “I got this. Relax.”

“I, I don’t wanna end up on some—seedy, weird—”

“You won’t. It’s for me,” Sam hums, cups that cheek and can’t help but rub his thumb into
the corner of that pouty mouth. “You think I’d share you guys? No freaking way.”

Kevin lets himself get kissed. Highschool-proper at first, before Sam has eased him enough
to slip his tongue back in there.

He slurps extra noisy for the camera.

“Hey.”

His not-camera hand into Jack’s hair. Doesn’t take much force to guide him; it’s a mere
nudge. Jack’s jaw drops easily and Sam rubs his glans across that too-thick tongue.

Sam praises, “There you go,” and Jack swallows him back down with the most darling
gurgle.

Sam is drifting, buzzing. The exactly right mix of booze and blow roams through his veins
and his skin crawls, and his nails itch, and it’s only nine PM.

Pledge week is fucking insane.

“You can trust me,” he half-slurs, still in-around that mouth, before he pushes that one down
as well. Kevin settles with just the right amount of hesitation, with Sam’s hand carding
through his hair because he’s clearly the most uptight one in this room. Should have coaxed
him into sharing the joint with Jack. The two of them shot-gunning? Shit, he would have
loved to see that.
Maybe later.

Jack’s all cock-drunk getting pulled off Sam’s dick, leaves it dripping with frothed spit;
pulsing.

“Kiss it.”

Kev doesn’t even look up at him again for confirmation. Hasn’t looked at anything since he
went eye-level with Sam’s crotch, because Sam is fucking excellent at sniffing out the perfect
ones.

Puckered lips on the tip. Sam’s camera arm twitches.

“Lick it, Kev.”

Jack and him watch Kevin work himself up to it. How he slithers his too-short tongue along
the endless, veined line of what he’ll know by heart by the end of tonight. Sam wonders if he
knows. If any of them know.

Sam doesn’t mind if ‘yes’ or ‘no’. It’s gonna be spectacular either way.

A smile creeps over Jack’s slack face when Sam grabs himself by the base, directs the heft of
his cock to push against Kevin’s lips and teeth. Sam almost has to tell him, but that tight little
mouth drops open all by itself eventually.

Jack’s hand finds Kevin’s shoulder and rubs, all encouraging.

God, he’s gonna be the best fucking kind of sore tomorrow.

“Relax,” instructs Sam, pushing forward, “breathe through your nose. There you go.”

Kevin gags, and Sam’s already in love. Films Jack giggling, cruelly rubbing Kev’s still-
clothed back, nudging his forehead against Kev’s temple while Kev struggles with his body’s
natural reflexes.

It’s not meant to be easy. Sam’s proportional and a douchebag about it.

“Yeah. Let me in there.”

Throat-fuck noises; the soft strands of Kevin’s hair in his fist. The pearl of a first tear down
that spotty cheek, and Sam’s balls tingle that much more with it.

Jack’s eyes find Sam’s. One paw to Sam’s hip (kid urgently needs any stability he can get)
and Jack leans in to tongue around the ungiving base of him. Suck-kisses into pubes, noses
down to get at his balls.

Sam’s all true with his breathless, “Shit,” licks his paper-mouth and holds still for the oral
endearments. Moves Kev by his hair.
Jack makes the dread of having to give Kev a breather that much better. Gives Sam all the
time to push his restless fingers into that messy mouth while his cock is warm and wet in that
other frat kid.

Sam’s hips pump lazy, anticipating. “Why don’t you boys take off your pants, hm?”

They do. Not a lick of insecurity, all eagerness.

Sam takes the opportunity to pull his tank top over his head, grabs at Jack’s arm as he
attempts to do the same.

“No, bud, shirts stay on. For now.”

A lie. But maybe not.

They’re just so cute this way.

“Mh, let me see.”

On-screen, Sam’s overgrown hand pushes at Kevin’s chest, prompts him to lie back on Sam’s
bed. Jack follows, of course. With a huff and stoner eyes, one thumb almost-tucked between
his fat-sucked lips. They nestle in comfortably atop of Sam’s unwashed sheets, against the
graffitied, poster-plastered drywall. The entire house booms with the music from downstairs.
Someone is audibly getting fucked in the bathroom next-door.

Sam’s voice urges, “Let me,” and even Kev’s shy legs fall open and he’s peering at the
camera, or Sam right behind it—doesn’t matter. Lets Sam fold his hand around his perfectly
hard dick and jerk it once, twice, before Sam leaves him wet and dreamy-eyed to cup his
balls instead, rub down his taint, between his ass cheeks.

Kevin tenses remarkably. Humiliated? Scandalized?

Kev’s the kind of guy too busy sweating blood and tears over their GPA to pay much
attention to his body and what said body needs.

Sam can help with that.

Pressure-rubs ring and middle over that tight clutch and sweet-talks, “What, you never
touched yourself here?” even though he knows the answer. Can feel it. God.

And Kevin says his part, croaks, “Uh, no,” and Sam lets go of him for exactly as long as he
needs to grab the tripod from the nearby shelf, mount his phone on it and dive between those
legs mouth-first.

Kevin splutters, shoves at Sam’s head, but Sam’s got those tiny hips firm in his hand and he’s
not letting up.

Kev tastes sheltered, frustrated. Sam’s favorite type of virgin.

Hears him babbling, “Fuck, oh—oh my god,” and strains his tongue hard enough to breach
him, invade him.

The lesser-animal part of his mind exclaims worries. That maybe this is a bad idea, he’s real
tiny and all that.

Sam’s urges insist otherwise.

It’s hard enough to stay civilized during the day.

Sam knees up closer to the bed, folds and holds the kid like he needs to get access, go easy on
his own neck. His face is numb and warm. He fucking lives for the scrape of his stubble on
that taint, all that tender skin.

Decency is a rogue concept to Sam. Something others may have and/or need. People like
Kevin, who are too soft and vulnerable in a world full of people like Sam.

He makes a point of eating him out messily, loudly. Swears he feels those thighs rippling with
goosebumps, those hands still in his hair tugging instead of pushing now, urging him on.
They usually come around.

Kev’s mainly breathy. Not much to moan about (yet). Should have fucking made them share
the pot, fuck.

Sam comes up to order, “Let me,” and there’s a first shy whimper for Sam’s middle forcing
into where Kev’s now perfectly wet, a happy sigh for where his other hand goes to reward
Jack for his angelic patience.

Pets that one right on his asshole just because he can. Because Jack is fucking responsive,
had the nerve to fucking flirt with Sam even before Sam had chosen him. So nonchalant and
barely-closeted.

Boys like Jack need spit in their face and an arm up their ass.

Barely makes a face upon Sam trying it dry, simply gets a loose grip on Sam’s wrist and
tooth-smiles adorably for Sam’s spit hitting him where he needs it. Angles his leg out and
away and lets Sam shove his fingers up his ass like the best kind of boy.

Sam feels himself devil-grinning. “You love that.” Not a question.

Both hands fucking his boys, Sam crawls upon the mattress with them. Finds Jack’s mouth
with his own, licks Kevin’s taste into it and is welcomed, gets that neck craned, hears him
swallowing because Jack’s body can’t help but get wet wherever it possibly can.

“Keep it open,” he says before he lets a fat line of his spit drip into that quivery mouth. Feels
out of his mind with it, with Jack’s devotion to the filth that is Sam and Sam’s wants.

Jack swallows, smiles.

“Good fucking boy, Jack.”

Their little bodies struggle around the stretch of his fingers, the drag of them pulling them
nearly inside-out with his impatience. And yet: no complaints. Naturally.

He orders, “Grab that bottle. Yeah, that one. Squirt some right here—yeah, you feel that?”
Breathy shivers from two mouths. Kev’s eyes slip closed. Sam adds a third to Kev, a second
to Jack. “There you fucking go.”

They hump back on his knuckles soon enough. Jack gets a third and rakes through his own
hair, murmurs, “Fuck,” and Kev’s reduced to the drowsy heat Sam punches into him with
pointed focus on that painfully ignored prostate.

Sam inquires, “Kiss,” and hopes the cam will pick that one up.

A perfect sight—Kev craning his neck and Jack licking past his lips instantly, flushed with
pleasure down to the necklines of their shirts already. Disheveled mops of hair, blond versus
black.

The throb between Sam’s legs transforms into agony, into numbness. All spit has dried but
he’s soaking at the tip. It’s never his fault.

Sam buries his face in the tiny space between those throats. Bite-sucks into both of them,
takes turns and shivers along. Slurs, “Be right back,” and extracts himself from the bundle the
three of them have become, staggers to the shelf.

He turns on his stereo, navigates his Spotify to his favorite deathcore playlist and taps for
‘random’. Shoves his hand into the huge, innocent plastic bag hanging from the back of his
falling-apart office chair to retrieve that month-old bottle of Rush, uncaps it as he returns to
his prey, knees on the mattress.

He adjusts the camera with his right, holds the poppers into Kevin’s face with his left. “Take
a big whiff of that for me.”

“What is it?”

“It’ll make you feel amazing.” For once: not a lie. “I promise. Come on.”

Kev finally goes for it and Sam nudges that bottle up that nostril with how fucking ready he
is.

Sam’s cock twitches for that flutter of lashes, the roll of those eyes.

Hears, passingly, “Fuck,” but the music hammers away at all sound and Sam already directed
his attention and the drugs towards Jack, smiles and coaxes, “You, too,” and Jack doesn’t
hesitate. Jesus.

How come it’s always the Good Christian Boy kinda looking ones?

“Didn’t lie, did I,” and that’s mainly for himself. Tosses the bottle into the shelf before he
crawls over a tender-looking Kevin. He smears his cock with a dollop of lube, not too much,
not too little, and Kev gasps on the sudden pressure, the sheer weight of Sam’s cock forcing
him open and his limbs flail, weakly.

Sam bottoms out with his face tucked into the sheets, bowing over the tiny body that lets him
grind his balls up against that tailbone. That flexes and fights him, uselessly. Those spindly
arms winding around him, slipping on the sweat covering his skin.

Sam growls, finally at ease. At home.

Moves his hips for a first, deep time, and somewhere under the screech of music there’s a
voice; twisted and tight and pleading, and Sam tells it something, soothes and promises.
Unimportant.

Sam punches his cock through that sweet virgin tightness until it finally lets up, just a bit.
Poppers or not—the size difference between them does its part. God, Sam wants to keep this
one. Doesn’t take up much space. Could live in his closet, under his bed.

Pressure on Sam’s mouth until he realizes he’s kissing Kev, or gets kissed, or both. Grunts
against those teeth and readjusts his position so he has more force available, can work this
pussy like it needs it. Like it needs him.

Feels himself hissing, “Fucking slut,” and if he wasn’t in this urgent rut of his, he’d take the
sweet time to put his hands on that throat, make Kev feel it for real.

Kid’s face already is all scarlet and slobber without any of that, though.

“Jack.” Eyes locked with Kev’s, heaving himself up to his elbows. “Sit on his face.”

Kev whines. Mainly because Sam’s arranging him like he wants, keeps punching his raw
cock into his ass hard enough for that adorable pooch of his lower belly to bulge out with it.

Jack reels, almost-falls. Sam helps him; presses him down by his shoulders.

Muffled complaints from below. Sam thumbs into that droopy mouth, licks across it all fat
and wet.

Tells him, “This is mine,” thumb pressing down behind those teeth, into that lax tongue. “Say
it.”

Jack hums, “Yours,” and Sam slaps him so hard his cheek instantly flares up like a traffic
light.

Jack gasps, delayed, gets a backhand to the other side. Whimpers, adorably, and lets Sam pull
and twist his nipples through the thick cotton of his shirt.

Sam would say, “Take this off,” but the music’s so fucking loud, and Jack’s pretty much out
for the count anyway—floats so obviously, so beautifully. Sam’s absolutely gonna make him
take another hit from the Rush. Wants to see this one fucking losing it, melting with it.
Sam yanks that tee off that head. Is rewarded with the gleam of a delicate golden cross
dangling from that pretty-boy neck, feels himself grinning wide, wolf-ish.

Tugs at that nipple again, cruelly; tells him, “Good fucking boy.”

Jack sighs like he’s safe. Like he’s happy.

The music tunes out the muffled noise coming from Kev. Tunes out Sam’s thoughts, anything
past the urge to fuck, to feel and be felt; bury himself inside something, wring his hands
around something.

Kev’s ass feels like it’s making hollow-wet sounds at this point. Feels tender and soft and hot,
mouths at the base of Sam’s cock like it never wants it to leave him.

Sam pulls out slowly, distracted by Jack’s tongue in his mouth. Blinks his eye half-open
towards the camera, looks right into the lens. Imagines what he looks like—what they look
like.

Retrieves the poppers for Jack, makes him take it, throws the closed bottle across the room
then. Helps Jack climbing off that shaky face, orders the kids to make out, he’ll be back in a
second.

Plastic bag, smaller plastic bag, back of his hand. The music fades into a new rhythm and
Sam holds one nostril closed and inhales that line with the other. It hits immediately—rushes
to his head, down his spine. He groans, holds himself steady with both hands spread out on
the junk-crowded table. Rubs his nose with the back of his coke-hand before he stumbles
back into bed, atop the freshmen.

Sweat and lube and spit. Sam noses into hair, yanks at wrists, kicks legs apart.

Gets Jack face-down, fist in his hair; presses him between Kev’s forced-open legs as he hauls
his ass up with his other hand around his hip. Jack doesn’t need instructions to eat ass,
apparently.

Kevin whines. Jack grunts.

One of those hands reaches into Sam’s view. Tugs his ass apart for that push-in to become
even easier.

Sam’s cock slips right past that second sphincter and he has to hold on tight. Both hands on
that kid’s hips now and he makes himself at home here, grinds them together until Jack’s
hand slides off, away, disappears.

Kid’s easy to move, to pump on his cock like a fleshlight. Sam’s eyes are glued to that
stretched-out rim, the wet shine of lube perfect on that inside-pink.

Meets him on the downstroke and feels him grunting, shivering. Might be jerking off; Sam’s
not gonna stop him. Not now.
He bows down, fever-hot, helps Jack shoving two fingers up Kev’s blown-out ass and adds
two of his own. Murmurs into that ear, “See, just like that,” and together they have Kev
squirming, pulling at Jack’s hair and Sam growls at him to do it, Jack, suck that fucking cock,
and Jack does, dutifully.

Sam sits back once more. Rewards the efforts with a violent succession of thrusts that send
Jack over the edge for good—has him trembling and milking, shaking apart on the ungiving
pressure of his cock, and Sam praises him, stupidly. The music is too loud for them to hear
each other.

Sam yanks his cock out of the kid just to see him gaping. Puts both thumbs in and pulls,
hocks a mouthful of spit in there just because he can. Feeds his cock back in right after,
reaches between those legs to pull hard at those spent balls.

Gets another shiver, a weak jolt. Sees Jack bobbing his head relentlessly, the quiver of Kev’s
now-mostly-bared stomach. How that tiny hand kneads at his own nipple, and he has to get
his teeth on that, now.

Shouldn’t be so easy. Shouldn’t feel so good to be tossing them around, making them take it.

Shouldn’t be the best fucking thing to feel them squirm against his hold, his teeth, his cock.
Shouldn’t make his balls pull tight, his dick leak.

His hands manipulate Kev’s tee over his head, leave it pulled tight behind his neck, through
his pits. Kiss-bites at that mouth after he’s done torturing those tits into entirely new shades
of purple-pink-red, lathered them with spit. Turns him around and gets his cock back up that
ass, and he swears Kev’s crying for real now.

Jack fits himself underneath Kevin with barely any pushes from Sam, who peels back to lock
eyes with the kid. Loves how eagerly he’s craning his neck for sucking cock, how ruthlessly
he’s pushing Kev’s head down for him to do the same. Smiles down at him, fucking proud.

Kevin comes soon and messy. Bucks hard but Sam holds him down harder, plows him
through it all and then some. Rides out those violent, clenching waves until there’s nothing
left; no fight, no resistance, no nothing.

Sam needs a break anyway.

Another line, duct tape, rope.

Sam wipes Kev’s face dry with Jack’s shirt before he starts taping that mouth shut. No protest
until he tapes over the eyes as well. Gets those hands then, hums, “Shh-shh-shh,” and press-
licks kisses onto those reddened cheeks as he wraps those fingers into mittens.

Feels eyes on himself and not-blinks over at Jack, who is watching with his eyes nearly
blackened the fuck out.

And that tiny little smirk of his.

Sam grins at him. Lost control over his face (his body) a long time ago. Can’t remember.
Jack holds his arms out for Sam to wrap his hands as well, like this is a fun game and he
wants his turn, and Sam might be laughing. Slurs nonsense and kisses Jack’s dirty mouth.

“It’s okay,” he tells Kevin who is getting his arms tied behind his back, his calves strung tight
to his thighs. A neat little package. Looks even tinier now. “I’ve got you, bud.”

Sam’s teeth flirt with those already-inflamed tits while he gets comfortable between the two
of them, lubes up his hand to grind four fingers into Kev. He love-sighs for the ruined heat.
The proximity of that heartbeat, surrounding his hand. He angles his thumb in.

The pressure builds. Sam rocks his hand in place, flexes wide.

Kevin’s whimpers reach him in his nirvana.

“Baby, shh. Come on. I know, I know. You gotta let me, alright? Just a little more.”

It’s never just ‘a little’.

It’s never enough.

Heartbreak-sounds from Kev upon Sam’s hand slipping in, pushing right for that wrist and
Sam slurs, “Fuck,” and, “Shit,” and his hard-on smears slick into the sheets.

“There you fucking go.”

Sam makes out with those tits until his mouth gets bored with the texture; switches for that
taped face then and licks and nibbles on those scarce patches of bare skin. Has curled his
hand to a fist at this point and punches up into Kev’s guts like this is what they’re meant for.
Like his hand is his second cock and this is what everyone signed up for when they let him
smile at them, approach them, reel them into the den that is his room.

Jack pushes into Sam’s peripheral. Lets Sam twist his neck like crazy just to eat at that mouth
before Sam loses his patience and repositions them—keeps his arm tucked away safely in
that fever-clench and gets Jack underneath him, sucks at his tongue while he feeds his cock
back inside where it fucking belongs.

Humps at Jack’s prostate all calm, all indulging. Helps Jack open that mouth by hooking his
fingers behind those teeth and spits down that throat a good couple of times.

He’s got to put his hand down for more balance. The animal below his skin bucks and flails
and screams.

He’s dizzy. Closes his eyes for a second and just breathes, feels Jack panting and crossing his
baby-ankles behind Sam’s never-stilled lower back.

He groans, “Fuck,” and locks himself in. Puts all he has into the snap of his hips, the flex of
his arm. Comes, finally, with a bone-deep roar that surges through his entire body, head to
toe. Has him clenching and spasming and paralyzed, makes him grit his teeth while he
unloads what feels like a life’s worth.
It’s always too much. A chase he can’t win.

The blow in his system won’t let him deflate. Keeps him shaking and upright, sweating. His
hand feels fucking bloodless as he retracts it from the depths of Kevin’s guts, the no-longer-
tight snap of his hole. Murmurs, “Good boy,” and kisses that throat, turns to kiss Jack’s wet
little mouth, brushes the fingers of his clean(er) hand through that soft hair.

The last bit of energy is wasted on untying Kev’s arms because—despite common doubt—
Sam doesn’t necessarily have to constantly repeat all his mistakes. Gets Jack’s limbs wrapped
around him all weak from behind, tugs Kev’s limp arms around his neck as if he was holding
onto him as well.

Grunts, “Siri,” and, “stop.”

The music cuts off without preamble, and the absence of it would be painful if Sam wasn’t
immediately knocked the fuck out.

He’s the last to wake up.

Rubs at his face, turns to squint at the source of noise—shuffles, crinkle of tape.

There might be daylight peeking out behind the sheets hung into the windows of his room.

Sam coughs, clears his sinuses. Sits up and silently unwraps Kevin’s hands for him. Rips the
loosened tape from his mouth and Kev’s quick to croak, “N-not the eyes.” So Sam lets him
get to that himself, turns to unwrap Jack’s hands next. Jack’s made it into all his clothes
despite the obvious odds, but Sam is too fucking tired to care.

Sam’s got a head-splitting migraine worming its way into his consciousness. His forehead
creases, hard.

Hears, “You okay?” and grunts, “Sure,” digs the heel of his hand into his eye socket.

Re-opens his eyes to Kev’s thin, accusing mouth. To him pulling his tee over himself the
right way, the splatter of bite marks and bruises so sadly, prudently, covered up.

Jack looks less pissed. Like he’d love to crawl back into Sam’s bed if it wasn’t as soaked in
lube and come and sweat and/or doesn’t know if he’s allowed to.

Sam leaves the both of them standing to drop all six feet four of him back into the destroyed
sheets.

He thinks he manages to offer, “Hit me up whenever,” before he blacks out again.

Mostly-sober him is disappointed.

Should have hand-held the phone during the fucking, goddammit. But what can you do.

He downs his pre-workout, adds the greasy pan he used for his half a dozen egg-whites
omelet to the molding already-there towers of dishes. It’s two twenty. A normal Thursday
morning.

His phone buzzes as he ties his hair into a strict ponytail. The number isn’t saved in his
contacts.

Sam unlocks the screen, taps into the fresh convo.

He smiles.

Types out a quick reply before he stuffs his phone into the pocket of his basketball shorts,
shoulders his gym bag.

Karma clearly doesn’t exist.

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