Family Games
Title: Family Games
Author: vail_kagami
Characters: Sam, Michael, Lucifer
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1776
Warnings: Graphic torture, mutilation, rape
Summary: There are only so many ways for Micheal to entertain himself in the cage.
Note: Witten for the prompt "Michael rapes Sam in the Cage, preference for Michael appearing to Sam as Dean or John." at blindfold_spn.
Note 2: There a podfic for it, fantastically read by alice_alaizabel.
The white hot ground burns the skin off Sam’s arms and back as Michael drags him deeper into the cage, away from Lucifer. Michael has won this round, has gotten their toy for himself for some precious time. Neither of them likes to share.
It’s the biggest irony of all that inside the cage, free of their vessels, Michael and Lucifer can’t touch each other. There is no epic fight, no grand, annihilating battle. Every attack goes nowhere. The only thing they can both touch is Sam, and that is better, at least, than nothing.
It helps them deal with the frustration. It helps with the boredom.
For all their anger, they still love each other. They both hate Sam, so it’s best for everyone this way, really. Except, of course, for Sam, who feels the lost skin, the torn off digits grow back in a flash of white pain the moment Michael lifts him up by his wrists and pierces them on the rusty meat hooks hanging from the ceiling.
Sam doesn’t feel the blood running down his arms for the pain in wrists and feet. He’s hanging low enough for his bare feet to only just touch the ground, but the ground is scorching hot, burning him. Yet, taking the weight off his feet puts all his weight on his mutilated arms.
Sam knows this game well. There is no way to find relief in it. This is hell, after all.
He screams, because the pain leaves him no other choice. Michael watches him for a while, dissatisfied and full of anger needing an outlet. This won’t be enough. It never is enough, never can be, but he has forever to try.
When he leaves, Sam’s feet are charred black and splinters of bone are visible through the raw flesh of his wrists. Sam stops screaming when he runs out of air and strength and voice. He rides the waves of agony until there is a noise beside him and he opens his eyes to look into the face of his father.
-
From the very beginning, it has been hard to make Sam beg. Michael thinks he must have been resigned to his fate from the moment he threw himself (them) into the cage. Pathetic human though he is, he knows pleading will get him nowhere. It only causes Lucifer amusement, some grim satisfaction, and fuels the enthusiasm he puts into the torture, so usually, Sam doesn’t bother.
It shows a strength of will the angels don’t expect these weak creatures to have and sometimes Michael can’t help but he impressed, even though Sam’s behaviour only increases his own anger. Sam got them here. It is his fault that the strongest warrior of heaven is imprisoned forever in the deepest pit of hell. The least he could do was beg for forgiveness.
Right now, Sam looks at him through eyes filled with tears and pain and whispers, “No,” and “Please,” and Michael thinks about calling his little brother to let him see this. Lucifer wouldn’t like it. He’d try harder than ever to make Sam plead with him, because Lucifer is unable to resist a challenge.
Michael doesn’t call him. Instead, he runs his rough, calloused and unfamiliar hand down Sam’s cheek and wipes away his tears. “Yes,” he says, keeping his voice gentle. Like a father - a human father, so capable of love and cruelty. “Sammy,” he murmurs, using the pet name for the first time. “I’m so disappointed in you. You behaved badly, you need to learn your lesson. And who better to teach you than your own father?”
-
“You’re not my father,” Sam manages, the words like sandpaper in his throat. “You’re not. You’re not.” He takes a deep, shaky breath and says, “Bastard.”
Compared to the tortures he is used to, being slapped in nothing. Nothing. But the familiar palm connects with his cheek, wipes his head around, and he’s five again and his father caught him playing with his gun. He’s eleven and tried to run away from the first time. He’s eighteen and stuffing all his worldly possessions into a worn duffle bag.
“Don’t be a brat,” Michael says with exactly the right amount of impatience, and it sounds so much like his father he wants to cry and cover his ears, or alternatively lung forward and cling to the man because no matter what stood between them, the man was still his father and a treacherous, terribly vulnerable part of Sam associates his face, his voice with safety, even now. It’s the part that ignores the facts and thinks, instinctively, that dad is here and he will save him, and soon the pain will stop.
It’s the part that cries out in desperation when the man with his father’s face takes hold of his right arm and twists it until his elbow snaps.
-
There is no death in hell. Michael and Lucifer heal Sam’s body whenever they wish for a blank canvas to paint on, but even if they don’t, there is no point after which Sam’s body stops functioning, because there is no actual body, no laws of nature, and none of the relief death, even temporarily, would offer.
There is, however, the stage of dying, and they can keep Sam in it for however long they want.
Michael lifts Sam’s feet off the hot ground so he is hanging solely by his torn wrists for a moment - just as long as it takes the angel to drag a couple of spears under Sam’s back and let him fall on them, leaving him impaled about a meter above the ground, with three ragged blades sticking out of his stomach, covered in blood and shreds of intestines. Sam is beyond screaming as Michael fastens a collar around his neck and the leash to a hook above them before freeing his wrists. No longer held by the chains, Sam’s upper body falls down as far as the leash and the spears allow it. His hands end up hanging just above the floor, with Sam too weak to lift them and protect them from the heat.
Michael kneels beside him, unaffected by the burning ground. The leash is pulled tight, the collar already cutting off most of Sam’s air. Michael takes hold of the broken, bleeding arms and pulls him down that little bit further, until the collar is choking him completely and his hands are on the ground, getting charred the way his feet have been. The angel kneels on Sam’s fingers and watches the nameless agony on the human’s face with the knowledge that nothing he can do to this boy will ever be enough to satisfy his hatred. He will try, though. He has all of eternity to make Sam regret what he has done.
“You deserve this, boy,” he says. “I’ll give you a chance to think about your mistakes. It’s important that you understand.”
Sam, of course, doesn’t answer, but Michael knows he was heard. No matter how unbearable the agony, there is no unconsciousness in this place, and no way to get so lost in the pain that he would become unaware of anything else. Sam will be aware of everything that happens next. Otherwise, there would be no point in it.
This is about punishment, after all.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” Michael promises with John Winchester’s voice. “Just like I should have done so long ago. It’s all you’re good for, I’m afraid. There’s not much you can do wrong, getting fucked. Even you couldn’t mess that up. It’s a pity it took me so long to accept the reality of your failure. If only I had locked you up and only let you out to please me when you started to go wrong, everything would have turned out fine. Don’t you agree?”
Sam jerks, once, weakly, but the fact that he even made this effort shows how much the words get to him. It’s not the first time for Michael or Lucifer to take him, but it’s the first time in a shape like this.
The best part about it is that Michael knows Sam agrees with his words. He knows Sam is aware that things would have been much better for everyone he loved if he had been taken out of the picture early on. “If only I’d done that, Dean and I, we would have killed the demon at the first try. I’d never have gone to hell. Dean would never have been forced to sell his soul. The apocalypse would never have started and so, so many people wouldn’t have died.”
Lucifer is better at playing with Sam’s self-loathing, but Michael can try.
He presses a tender kiss to Sam’s forehead before getting to his feet. When he pulls the burned hands up, stretches of charred skin stick to the ground and are torn off Sam’s fingers. In some places, Michael sees bare bone. With a snort, he lets the hands fall down again.
Sam is choking to death, bleeding to death and suffering pain beyond what any human could bear with their sanity intact. His body convulses weakly in battle with a death that will never claim him and his mind remains intact because insanity is an escape he won’t be allowed here. Michael takes hold of his trembling legs and rams into him without warning or preparation, fucking Sam brutally, without mercy, while Sam dies and dies and dies.
He goes on for hours, finding some ridiculous physical pleasure in the depraved act, until he craves something this setup can’t give him. So he pulls out of Sam’s torn and bloody opening and removes the collar. Lets him breathe, and then he heals him. Not completely. Just enough so he can scream.
And beg.
Resuming his activity of fucking Sam in his father’s body, the archangel manages to makes him scream loud and long enough for Lucifer to finally find them. Michael has just come inside Sam’s used and tortured body for the thirteenth time when his little brother walks up to them.
Lucifer is wearing Dean Winchester’s face, and the broken wail that escapes Sam’s throat at the sight is worth having to share.
-
They keep their forms for a long time, passing the helpless human back and forth between them to use as they please. It takes years for Sam to stop pleading with Lucifer and Michael and start pleading with Dean, and Dad.
The day he does, Lucifer presses a kiss below each of his currently empty eye sockets and whispers, “That’s my boy.”
January 12, 2011
Author: vail_kagami
Characters: Sam, Michael, Lucifer
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 1776
Warnings: Graphic torture, mutilation, rape
Summary: There are only so many ways for Micheal to entertain himself in the cage.
Note: Witten for the prompt "Michael rapes Sam in the Cage, preference for Michael appearing to Sam as Dean or John." at blindfold_spn.
Note 2: There a podfic for it, fantastically read by alice_alaizabel.
The white hot ground burns the skin off Sam’s arms and back as Michael drags him deeper into the cage, away from Lucifer. Michael has won this round, has gotten their toy for himself for some precious time. Neither of them likes to share.
It’s the biggest irony of all that inside the cage, free of their vessels, Michael and Lucifer can’t touch each other. There is no epic fight, no grand, annihilating battle. Every attack goes nowhere. The only thing they can both touch is Sam, and that is better, at least, than nothing.
It helps them deal with the frustration. It helps with the boredom.
For all their anger, they still love each other. They both hate Sam, so it’s best for everyone this way, really. Except, of course, for Sam, who feels the lost skin, the torn off digits grow back in a flash of white pain the moment Michael lifts him up by his wrists and pierces them on the rusty meat hooks hanging from the ceiling.
Sam doesn’t feel the blood running down his arms for the pain in wrists and feet. He’s hanging low enough for his bare feet to only just touch the ground, but the ground is scorching hot, burning him. Yet, taking the weight off his feet puts all his weight on his mutilated arms.
Sam knows this game well. There is no way to find relief in it. This is hell, after all.
He screams, because the pain leaves him no other choice. Michael watches him for a while, dissatisfied and full of anger needing an outlet. This won’t be enough. It never is enough, never can be, but he has forever to try.
When he leaves, Sam’s feet are charred black and splinters of bone are visible through the raw flesh of his wrists. Sam stops screaming when he runs out of air and strength and voice. He rides the waves of agony until there is a noise beside him and he opens his eyes to look into the face of his father.
-
From the very beginning, it has been hard to make Sam beg. Michael thinks he must have been resigned to his fate from the moment he threw himself (them) into the cage. Pathetic human though he is, he knows pleading will get him nowhere. It only causes Lucifer amusement, some grim satisfaction, and fuels the enthusiasm he puts into the torture, so usually, Sam doesn’t bother.
It shows a strength of will the angels don’t expect these weak creatures to have and sometimes Michael can’t help but he impressed, even though Sam’s behaviour only increases his own anger. Sam got them here. It is his fault that the strongest warrior of heaven is imprisoned forever in the deepest pit of hell. The least he could do was beg for forgiveness.
Right now, Sam looks at him through eyes filled with tears and pain and whispers, “No,” and “Please,” and Michael thinks about calling his little brother to let him see this. Lucifer wouldn’t like it. He’d try harder than ever to make Sam plead with him, because Lucifer is unable to resist a challenge.
Michael doesn’t call him. Instead, he runs his rough, calloused and unfamiliar hand down Sam’s cheek and wipes away his tears. “Yes,” he says, keeping his voice gentle. Like a father - a human father, so capable of love and cruelty. “Sammy,” he murmurs, using the pet name for the first time. “I’m so disappointed in you. You behaved badly, you need to learn your lesson. And who better to teach you than your own father?”
-
“You’re not my father,” Sam manages, the words like sandpaper in his throat. “You’re not. You’re not.” He takes a deep, shaky breath and says, “Bastard.”
Compared to the tortures he is used to, being slapped in nothing. Nothing. But the familiar palm connects with his cheek, wipes his head around, and he’s five again and his father caught him playing with his gun. He’s eleven and tried to run away from the first time. He’s eighteen and stuffing all his worldly possessions into a worn duffle bag.
“Don’t be a brat,” Michael says with exactly the right amount of impatience, and it sounds so much like his father he wants to cry and cover his ears, or alternatively lung forward and cling to the man because no matter what stood between them, the man was still his father and a treacherous, terribly vulnerable part of Sam associates his face, his voice with safety, even now. It’s the part that ignores the facts and thinks, instinctively, that dad is here and he will save him, and soon the pain will stop.
It’s the part that cries out in desperation when the man with his father’s face takes hold of his right arm and twists it until his elbow snaps.
-
There is no death in hell. Michael and Lucifer heal Sam’s body whenever they wish for a blank canvas to paint on, but even if they don’t, there is no point after which Sam’s body stops functioning, because there is no actual body, no laws of nature, and none of the relief death, even temporarily, would offer.
There is, however, the stage of dying, and they can keep Sam in it for however long they want.
Michael lifts Sam’s feet off the hot ground so he is hanging solely by his torn wrists for a moment - just as long as it takes the angel to drag a couple of spears under Sam’s back and let him fall on them, leaving him impaled about a meter above the ground, with three ragged blades sticking out of his stomach, covered in blood and shreds of intestines. Sam is beyond screaming as Michael fastens a collar around his neck and the leash to a hook above them before freeing his wrists. No longer held by the chains, Sam’s upper body falls down as far as the leash and the spears allow it. His hands end up hanging just above the floor, with Sam too weak to lift them and protect them from the heat.
Michael kneels beside him, unaffected by the burning ground. The leash is pulled tight, the collar already cutting off most of Sam’s air. Michael takes hold of the broken, bleeding arms and pulls him down that little bit further, until the collar is choking him completely and his hands are on the ground, getting charred the way his feet have been. The angel kneels on Sam’s fingers and watches the nameless agony on the human’s face with the knowledge that nothing he can do to this boy will ever be enough to satisfy his hatred. He will try, though. He has all of eternity to make Sam regret what he has done.
“You deserve this, boy,” he says. “I’ll give you a chance to think about your mistakes. It’s important that you understand.”
Sam, of course, doesn’t answer, but Michael knows he was heard. No matter how unbearable the agony, there is no unconsciousness in this place, and no way to get so lost in the pain that he would become unaware of anything else. Sam will be aware of everything that happens next. Otherwise, there would be no point in it.
This is about punishment, after all.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” Michael promises with John Winchester’s voice. “Just like I should have done so long ago. It’s all you’re good for, I’m afraid. There’s not much you can do wrong, getting fucked. Even you couldn’t mess that up. It’s a pity it took me so long to accept the reality of your failure. If only I had locked you up and only let you out to please me when you started to go wrong, everything would have turned out fine. Don’t you agree?”
Sam jerks, once, weakly, but the fact that he even made this effort shows how much the words get to him. It’s not the first time for Michael or Lucifer to take him, but it’s the first time in a shape like this.
The best part about it is that Michael knows Sam agrees with his words. He knows Sam is aware that things would have been much better for everyone he loved if he had been taken out of the picture early on. “If only I’d done that, Dean and I, we would have killed the demon at the first try. I’d never have gone to hell. Dean would never have been forced to sell his soul. The apocalypse would never have started and so, so many people wouldn’t have died.”
Lucifer is better at playing with Sam’s self-loathing, but Michael can try.
He presses a tender kiss to Sam’s forehead before getting to his feet. When he pulls the burned hands up, stretches of charred skin stick to the ground and are torn off Sam’s fingers. In some places, Michael sees bare bone. With a snort, he lets the hands fall down again.
Sam is choking to death, bleeding to death and suffering pain beyond what any human could bear with their sanity intact. His body convulses weakly in battle with a death that will never claim him and his mind remains intact because insanity is an escape he won’t be allowed here. Michael takes hold of his trembling legs and rams into him without warning or preparation, fucking Sam brutally, without mercy, while Sam dies and dies and dies.
He goes on for hours, finding some ridiculous physical pleasure in the depraved act, until he craves something this setup can’t give him. So he pulls out of Sam’s torn and bloody opening and removes the collar. Lets him breathe, and then he heals him. Not completely. Just enough so he can scream.
And beg.
Resuming his activity of fucking Sam in his father’s body, the archangel manages to makes him scream loud and long enough for Lucifer to finally find them. Michael has just come inside Sam’s used and tortured body for the thirteenth time when his little brother walks up to them.
Lucifer is wearing Dean Winchester’s face, and the broken wail that escapes Sam’s throat at the sight is worth having to share.
-
They keep their forms for a long time, passing the helpless human back and forth between them to use as they please. It takes years for Sam to stop pleading with Lucifer and Michael and start pleading with Dean, and Dad.
The day he does, Lucifer presses a kiss below each of his currently empty eye sockets and whispers, “That’s my boy.”
January 12, 2011