Fics like such sweet rot

The pencil skitters across the table, little more than an inch. (A phantom thrill races through Sam's blood.) “You did it!” Sam sends Jack a grin, slightly bewildered. Kid’s a fast learner. “Great job, Jack.” Contrary to the pride Sam expects to see on Jack’s face, there is instead confusion. “That… wasn’t me.” “What?” Sam’s gaze slides back to the pencil, the innocuous object, close enough to touch. His heart is beating in his ears, staggered, animalistic. “Then how…?” “You didn’t tell me you had powers too!” Jack says with an excited grin, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. The Nephilim’s childish expression is floating on the edges of Sam’s vision, distorted. Everything feels far away, unreal, dimmed by the echo of pure power running through his veins. “I don’t—shouldn’t,” he manages to stammer out. His blood is humming just like it used to, alight with the power, and Sam thinks he might throw up. “Not anymore." Sam’s powers resurface when he tries to train Jack, and he is forced to confront a decade of shame and self-hatred. If Jack, the son of Lucifer, is good, then maybe Lucifer’s demon blood-infested vessel can be too.

Fics like such sweet rot

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