The All Hope Bar (dark!fic, Sam/Lucifer)
Title: The All Hope Bar
Author: brosedshield
Disclaimer: I don’t own Sam or Dean or anything of Supernatural. Probably a good thing, if this fic is anything to judge by.
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Lucifer, everyone (some who should be in Hell, some who shouldn’t)
Warnings: non-con, dub-con, torture (physical and psychological), crack, incoherency, demon!Dean, pimp!Castiel, and a three-man band
Rating: NC-17
Word count: c.1200
Spoilers: Takes place in the Cage. Or at some disturbing future time. Mild references to the end of S6. No specific spoilers beyond those facts.
Summary: From time to time, you can find most of the world at the All Hope Bar. Sam drinks alone and Lucy plays the violin.
Beta Credit: Ain’t nobody seen this one but me.
Author notes: I don’t even know what this is, other than dark!fic and crack. Not sure I want to think about it too hard…Sorry for the fast and messy posting, I kind of just want this one out of my head, you know?
The sign over the door flashes “All Hope” in irregular bursts of neon color. The “Abandon” is set above in a pattern of charred and bloody bones.
This is the soft-core-porn side of Hell. A slightly dimmed reality reeking of charred pork, drug-induced mediocre sex and moonshine like gasoline filtered from the sea.
Sam drinks alone, which is the kind of sensation he tries not to think about too much. Liking this will just make the Cage worse when he and Lucy go home tonight, the Devil pawing him like he’s a cheap date high on a roofie-though no sweet oblivion for the Devil’s favorite toy-and biting at his neck with elongating teeth that scrape along the ivory of his spine.
Of course, the alternative-admitting he needs Lucifer now to move and feel, the way he needs his spinal cord-is an engraved invitation to madness. And it’s not like Crazytown is really that far away.
All of Team Free Will is in the All Hope Bar. Then again, you can find most of the world here from time to time. Heaven is an autocratic illusion and Hell is a fiery free-for-all run on a dieter’s buffet, and sometimes all anyone wants is a hard drink and a stiff to fuck.
The Archies are playing tonight. Sam wonders what the angels drink to loosen them enough to play nice together. Gabriel’s wailing on his horn like it’s the end of the world-fuck, maybe it’s come round again, for all Sam knows-and Lucy grinds sounds out of his violin that he usually only wrings out of Sam, and Michael keeps the beat. The eldest archangel isn’t brilliant on the drums, but at least his inflexible focus is finally useful.
“That Lucy’s quite a fiddler,” says the green-eyed-black-eyed-stranger next to Sam. “Plays on the radio right after the news.” The stranger drinks something that smells like fermented formaldehyde, garnished with two eyeballs and a pickled mushroom. He grins and his teeth are just a bit too long. His eyes are very black-very green-in his handsome, angled face. “Yeah, he’s quite a morning star.”
Dean-fuck, Dean, Sam remembers-waits for Sam to laugh at the joke and Sam does even though it feels like his heart is being dragged out through his diaphragm. Exactly like that.
Dean keeps grinning, gratified, and takes another shot.
Dean doesn’t know Sam here, ever, and never remembers speaking with him, but Sam thinks that some level he knows. The second he looks away from Sam his eyes go black and he’s nothing more than another mid-level demon with blood a solid stain from fingernails to elbows and splattered everywhere above, below, between.
Sam wonders if it hurts Dean as much to forget as it hurts Sam to remember.
Sam used to think he was the straight and sober one in a family of drunks and monomaniacs. Look at him now, sipping his demon-blood cocktail-in the bartender’s words Extra virgin, wink wink nudge nudge-while the donor writhes above the bar, probably bleeding out for the thousandth time.
They’re all drunks and traitors craving their drug of choice in the All Hope Bar.
Castiel-soul-glutton in a purple pimp suit and two well-paid demon whores sliding their fingers into his mouth-takes up most of a corner booth and against the bar Pamela tries to suck out Zachariah’s tongue. Ellen dances like if she shuts her eyes hard enough she’ll stop seeing Jo behind the bar, and John drinks whiskey-real whiskey, or as real as it gets in Hell-alone at a tiny table barely big enough for himself and his rage. Sam wonders if his father sees anything of the All Hope through the haze of obsession and rage that followed him to Hell. Or Heaven. Sam’s not sure which one John’s in, in his own mind.
Dean lights a cigarette with one of the same cheap lighters he always carried when alive, knocks back the rest of his drink and bares his demon smile.
“Nice time talking to you, buddy,” he says. “Gotta go. The old bone saw’s getting cold.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” After a couple centuries of being Lucifer’s bitch and headwhore, a response is automatic.
Dean hesitates-eyes black, eyes green-and Sam thinks for a second he remembers.
Fuck, I’m sorry, Dean, I don’t want you here, I don’t want you to know, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t. This feeling is like being fucked sideways while Lucifer holds tight enough to break his ribs. Sam wants to scream and kill things and pull his brother close-maybe kiss him, maybe snap his neck-but the truth is that none of them are getting out of here and Dean won’t remember his brother tomorrow.
He doesn’t really remember now. Black eyes, white grin. “Maybe some other time, buddy. Seriously, gotta go.”
And Dean is gone again and Sam is left with cold blood and vodka and an ache in his gut a knife won’t cure.
On the way home, Sam practically crawls into Lucy’s lap, sucking the smoky breath from his lungs and making all the little noises he knows his angel loves, even though Lucifer hasn’t even gutted him yet.
Eventually Lucifer whips around and pins him to a wall to give himself room to smile-he breaks Sam’s wrist for fun-Sam can smell the sulfur and alcohol on his breath.
“Fuck, I love you when you’re like this,“ Lucy purrs, twisting Sam’s arm around until the shoulder pops. “My eager little whore.”
“Never. Hate you,” Sam pants while he spreads his legs and pushes his neck into Lucifer’s teeth.
Lucy digs his fingernails into Sam’s thighs, turns them around and they are in the Cage and Sam’s back is pressing into the Iron Maiden and the Devil is sliding his thighs apart until cartilage cracks. “Perfect, perfect, my little bitch. I think we’ll go for a drink again tomorrow, Sammy-boy, what do you say to that?” Lucifer grins against his throat and his fingertips on Sam’s shaft and ass are gentle as butterfly wings.
Sam screams like a cat in heat, like the first moan of the dead when they see the bloodfields of Hell, a half-second before the Devil’s claws angle into flesh and their hips jerk together.
Nights never end here, unless the Devil wills it, and Lucy will break him down and strip Sam’s lies along with his skin and graft better ones in their place until up is down and red is white and on Lucy’s cock is where Sam wants to be.
And then they’ll get a quiet drink at the All Hope Bar, maybe pick up partners for a fast and messy ménage a trois (or quatre, cinq or huit) with Sam on his knees, and Sam will see Dean-who won’t remember-and the world will snap back into its shoulder bone until Sam can feel pain again, and would do anything-will ride Lucifer and like it-to forget.
He doesn’t even try and pretend that it’s the physical pain that makes him scream.
Author: brosedshield
Disclaimer: I don’t own Sam or Dean or anything of Supernatural. Probably a good thing, if this fic is anything to judge by.
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Lucifer, everyone (some who should be in Hell, some who shouldn’t)
Warnings: non-con, dub-con, torture (physical and psychological), crack, incoherency, demon!Dean, pimp!Castiel, and a three-man band
Rating: NC-17
Word count: c.1200
Spoilers: Takes place in the Cage. Or at some disturbing future time. Mild references to the end of S6. No specific spoilers beyond those facts.
Summary: From time to time, you can find most of the world at the All Hope Bar. Sam drinks alone and Lucy plays the violin.
Beta Credit: Ain’t nobody seen this one but me.
Author notes: I don’t even know what this is, other than dark!fic and crack. Not sure I want to think about it too hard…Sorry for the fast and messy posting, I kind of just want this one out of my head, you know?
The sign over the door flashes “All Hope” in irregular bursts of neon color. The “Abandon” is set above in a pattern of charred and bloody bones.
This is the soft-core-porn side of Hell. A slightly dimmed reality reeking of charred pork, drug-induced mediocre sex and moonshine like gasoline filtered from the sea.
Sam drinks alone, which is the kind of sensation he tries not to think about too much. Liking this will just make the Cage worse when he and Lucy go home tonight, the Devil pawing him like he’s a cheap date high on a roofie-though no sweet oblivion for the Devil’s favorite toy-and biting at his neck with elongating teeth that scrape along the ivory of his spine.
Of course, the alternative-admitting he needs Lucifer now to move and feel, the way he needs his spinal cord-is an engraved invitation to madness. And it’s not like Crazytown is really that far away.
All of Team Free Will is in the All Hope Bar. Then again, you can find most of the world here from time to time. Heaven is an autocratic illusion and Hell is a fiery free-for-all run on a dieter’s buffet, and sometimes all anyone wants is a hard drink and a stiff to fuck.
The Archies are playing tonight. Sam wonders what the angels drink to loosen them enough to play nice together. Gabriel’s wailing on his horn like it’s the end of the world-fuck, maybe it’s come round again, for all Sam knows-and Lucy grinds sounds out of his violin that he usually only wrings out of Sam, and Michael keeps the beat. The eldest archangel isn’t brilliant on the drums, but at least his inflexible focus is finally useful.
“That Lucy’s quite a fiddler,” says the green-eyed-black-eyed-stranger next to Sam. “Plays on the radio right after the news.” The stranger drinks something that smells like fermented formaldehyde, garnished with two eyeballs and a pickled mushroom. He grins and his teeth are just a bit too long. His eyes are very black-very green-in his handsome, angled face. “Yeah, he’s quite a morning star.”
Dean-fuck, Dean, Sam remembers-waits for Sam to laugh at the joke and Sam does even though it feels like his heart is being dragged out through his diaphragm. Exactly like that.
Dean keeps grinning, gratified, and takes another shot.
Dean doesn’t know Sam here, ever, and never remembers speaking with him, but Sam thinks that some level he knows. The second he looks away from Sam his eyes go black and he’s nothing more than another mid-level demon with blood a solid stain from fingernails to elbows and splattered everywhere above, below, between.
Sam wonders if it hurts Dean as much to forget as it hurts Sam to remember.
Sam used to think he was the straight and sober one in a family of drunks and monomaniacs. Look at him now, sipping his demon-blood cocktail-in the bartender’s words Extra virgin, wink wink nudge nudge-while the donor writhes above the bar, probably bleeding out for the thousandth time.
They’re all drunks and traitors craving their drug of choice in the All Hope Bar.
Castiel-soul-glutton in a purple pimp suit and two well-paid demon whores sliding their fingers into his mouth-takes up most of a corner booth and against the bar Pamela tries to suck out Zachariah’s tongue. Ellen dances like if she shuts her eyes hard enough she’ll stop seeing Jo behind the bar, and John drinks whiskey-real whiskey, or as real as it gets in Hell-alone at a tiny table barely big enough for himself and his rage. Sam wonders if his father sees anything of the All Hope through the haze of obsession and rage that followed him to Hell. Or Heaven. Sam’s not sure which one John’s in, in his own mind.
Dean lights a cigarette with one of the same cheap lighters he always carried when alive, knocks back the rest of his drink and bares his demon smile.
“Nice time talking to you, buddy,” he says. “Gotta go. The old bone saw’s getting cold.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” After a couple centuries of being Lucifer’s bitch and headwhore, a response is automatic.
Dean hesitates-eyes black, eyes green-and Sam thinks for a second he remembers.
Fuck, I’m sorry, Dean, I don’t want you here, I don’t want you to know, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t. This feeling is like being fucked sideways while Lucifer holds tight enough to break his ribs. Sam wants to scream and kill things and pull his brother close-maybe kiss him, maybe snap his neck-but the truth is that none of them are getting out of here and Dean won’t remember his brother tomorrow.
He doesn’t really remember now. Black eyes, white grin. “Maybe some other time, buddy. Seriously, gotta go.”
And Dean is gone again and Sam is left with cold blood and vodka and an ache in his gut a knife won’t cure.
On the way home, Sam practically crawls into Lucy’s lap, sucking the smoky breath from his lungs and making all the little noises he knows his angel loves, even though Lucifer hasn’t even gutted him yet.
Eventually Lucifer whips around and pins him to a wall to give himself room to smile-he breaks Sam’s wrist for fun-Sam can smell the sulfur and alcohol on his breath.
“Fuck, I love you when you’re like this,“ Lucy purrs, twisting Sam’s arm around until the shoulder pops. “My eager little whore.”
“Never. Hate you,” Sam pants while he spreads his legs and pushes his neck into Lucifer’s teeth.
Lucy digs his fingernails into Sam’s thighs, turns them around and they are in the Cage and Sam’s back is pressing into the Iron Maiden and the Devil is sliding his thighs apart until cartilage cracks. “Perfect, perfect, my little bitch. I think we’ll go for a drink again tomorrow, Sammy-boy, what do you say to that?” Lucifer grins against his throat and his fingertips on Sam’s shaft and ass are gentle as butterfly wings.
Sam screams like a cat in heat, like the first moan of the dead when they see the bloodfields of Hell, a half-second before the Devil’s claws angle into flesh and their hips jerk together.
Nights never end here, unless the Devil wills it, and Lucy will break him down and strip Sam’s lies along with his skin and graft better ones in their place until up is down and red is white and on Lucy’s cock is where Sam wants to be.
And then they’ll get a quiet drink at the All Hope Bar, maybe pick up partners for a fast and messy ménage a trois (or quatre, cinq or huit) with Sam on his knees, and Sam will see Dean-who won’t remember-and the world will snap back into its shoulder bone until Sam can feel pain again, and would do anything-will ride Lucifer and like it-to forget.
He doesn’t even try and pretend that it’s the physical pain that makes him scream.