"Hellish"
"Hellish"
Supernatural | Samifer | NC-17 | Warning: Non-Con | Spoilers: 7x17, The Born-Again Identity
Summary: Sam is violated, used by the devil, crossed by his own mind as he lies alone in a bed that isn't his in the hospital's psychiatric ward.
Sam’s muscles are bungee cords, stretched too far and too steel in themselves-he wants to retreat, wants to sink and fold in on himself because maybe, just maybe, it’ll all stop hurting. But he wants to stretch, stretch as much, as far as he can, until his limbs are fluid and he is free.
His knees are bent and calves stretched, feet flat on the floor as he sits on the edge of the bed that isn’t his, hunched over, wringing his fingers until they are stretched and raw.
He takes in, in the like of a troubled child, the idea of building a wall around himself. Cozy, safe, alone and parted from the terrors of the world, from the pain, from his fears.
“Saaaaam.”
He cannot. Everything he fears is inside him, at the very center of everything he knows to be himself. Like hell flowers, blossoming in his head, vines thick rope and thorns knives, rose petals a fiery red as they grow in on themselves and outward, filling in and pushing against each dip and crevice in Sam’s scraped, raw mind.
A wall, he’d had, once. In his mind, built between the two sides of his soul: life, his life, his sanity and his brother-and the other, oceans and pits of fire, a cage, aloneness with the worst of all evils and this side thankfully he had not been able to remember. But broken, it is, now, torn down like the flimsy sheet it very well may have been, letting the two sides of Sam’s mind clash and mix and produce everything hellish and more for Sam’s plain sight.
The wall had kept him sane, normal, for the most part. The walls of is room in the psychiatric ward seem to close in on him and he is anything but.
“Sam, come on, you were doing so good! Paying attention, listening. What, you don’t like me anymore-?”
“Shut up.” Sam snarls, sucking harsh breaths into his tired lungs as he looks down at the floor, trying to shield himself, somehow, to look away so that maybe he will be left alone.
He won’t. He knows. He doesn’t look up.
“Come on Sammy, don’t be boring.”
A doctor could come in at any moment and see Sam, alone, jittery on his bed and trying not to look at the empty metal table pushed up against the wall. Sam looks around the room and sees the devil himself, perched on that metal table, feet slung across a makeshift footrest of a chair, hands folded as he looks at Sam, stares into Sam, with mock innocence.
“I’m not in the mood.”
“So you’re saying there are times when you’re in the mood for me? Aw, Sam, that’s lovely. Do tell next time.”
Sam groans, letting his overgrown hair fall into his eyes, stretching his legs and cracking his shoulders. He flinches, looking up through bangs and eyelids to see Lucifer hopping up from the table, walking toward him, sneakers smacking against the linoleum. “You know, bunk buddy,” he grins, placing his hands on Sam’s knees, leaning in and all too solid to be nothing more than a figment of Sam’s tortured mind. But he is-Sam mustn’t forget. “It’s been a while.” Sam moves his hands to the side of the mattress, squeezing to keep himself steady, to keep himself tethered to something solid, something material.
“Get off me,” he growls, jaw clenched and eyes burning with the fire that runs through his kerosene-bleached veins, steeling himself against the bed. He gulps, sending rocks bulging down his throat.
“Well that’s no fun,” Lucifer drawls with an exaggerated pout and a chuckle, before planting his hands on Sam’s shoulders-Sam is sent tumbling backward, hands scraping against the metal bed frame as he loses his grip, backside digging uncomfortably into the mattress as he crashes back onto it, flailing and kicking to no avail. He looks up, holding his breath like a bubble in his throat-Lucifer’s face hovers over his, wicked grin and eyes that reflect Sam’s own self right back at him, with Lucifer’s knees on other side of Sam’s hips and his hands on either side of Sam’s shoulders. “Why don’t you strip for me, Sammy.”
Sam chokes and grunts, “No,” trying to get up and not being let.
He’s not real, Sam wants to shout, to himself, until all the outside walls of his mind are shaking and tumbling down and nothing else is real at all.
It doesn’t seem to matter.
With a snap of Lucifer’s fingers, the bed goes up in flames, charring the white sheets, making them curl in on themselves. Bathed in and licked at by fire from every side, Sam slings his arms over his face in an attempt to shield himself from the hot, horrid glow. “I think that you forget,” Lucifer chuckles, “that I can make anything happen to you if you don’t to what I say.” Another snap, a soft click like that of a light switch being flipped, and the flame snuff out like a light bulb. From the blazing flames now miraculously gone comes a thick quiet, a stillness that hangs in the air like a dense fog, clear but all too much so.
Slowly, with his breath heavy in his throat, Sam pulls up the hem of his shirt, hesitating at first but finally biting the bullet as he heaves it off, cringing at every new bit of skin exposed. He tosses it to the floor with a grimace, before falling back onto the pillow, hands again at his sides.
“Ooh, Sam,” Lucifer breaths, another chuckle as he runs a finger down Sam’s chest, outlining the bulges of Sam’s twitchy pectoral muscles with a fingertip. “I like it.” Sam’s nipples harden in the cold air, despite himself-its uncomfortable, indecent, and naturally Lucifer watches with amusement.
Sam’s eyes are fixed on nothing, on the air in front of him at which he stares with his eyes wide and mouth twitching, body stark against the bed but shoulders and head raised, chest shifting as he tries to find comfort and breath shallow as it pulls in on his lungs.
“Now, Sam.” Lucifer drags a finger down, to trace the hem of Sam’s pants. Sam’s pelvic muscles shift under his skin, trying to get back, away. “Come on Sammy, we don’t have all day. Well, we do. I of course could make this take all day, if that’s what you want.” Sam tenses, silent, unmoving. “What, no?” Still, he is, a statue. Ignore him, Sam. He’s not real. You don’t have to listen.
Lucifer plants a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder, flesh searing flesh, and as Sam’s nerves spark and sizzle, flames blaze around him, blowing Lucifer’s short hair back and glowing bright red in his clear blue eyes and grotesque Cheshire cat grin. For the instant, a statue’s stone turns to jelly, Sam to a flailing, terrified mess, before the flames go out as quickly as they came and again there is a stillness, thick silence.
Sam flinches at nothing, clenches his jaw and snaps his teeth shut at nothing, as if there is something inside him bulging out from his heart and seizing each of his limbs from his deepest core. His next breath, next breathless gasp, is laden with wheezing exhaustion as he struggles to find composition again.
The stillness hangs like stagnant water, thick at the top of a forgotten pond, where under the surface there is clear, light water in which Sam’s arms move far too fluidly as he sinks his head back into the pillow, resignation flowing through his tired blood, and moves his hands to the waistband of his pants.
The waistband drags against Sam’s thighs, rustling against his skin-two waistbands, that of his pants and that of his underwear which he pulls down and off at the same time. The air hits his dick and he takes in a ragged breath but doesn’t stop-rhythmically, mechanically, he pulls his clothes down his legs and off, to the floor.
He lies alone on the bed, naked, jittery, staring up at the ceiling.
“Now Sam, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Lucifer smirks at the word ‘hard’, flicking a fingernail against Sam’s limp dick. Sam flinches.
With a satisfied grin settled across thin lips-a grin that has grown to unsettle Sam more than does just about anything else-Lucifer knocks Sam’s knees apart with one of his own, climbing between Sam’s legs and kneeling there. Sam gulps and lies back, sick of resisting, sick of trying, of just about everything. It isn’t real, anyway, it doesn’t matter, he tells himself. It isn’t real, not when Lucifer splays his fingers across the soft flesh of Sam’s inner thighs, not when Lucifer shuffles backward and pushes Sam’s thighs apart just a bit further, not when he starts to hunch over and bend his head downward.
Sam’s breath comes out as a mutter, each muscle clenching, tensing in shock though he isn’t at all surprised, when Lucifer licks him between his legs, forked tongue all too wet as the split sides dance along the edges of his hole. He shifts against the prodding, pressing tongue, sucking in a breath that makes his heart shake in his ribcage and his lungs condense. He fists his fingers in the sheets, trying to find oxygen, to remain calm, eyes stuck on Lucifer and mouth forever in a terrified grimace.
Sam’s arms shake at his sides like bare muscles threatening to snap the bones to which they are tethered, as do his legs as he stares down between them, quivering, at the empty sheet, a white pool of fabric that shifts with him.
He’s hard. He swears inwardly, gasping and choking on air. No-not now, he thinks, it’s not fair. No. He hates it, hates Lucifer, hates himself-it feels good and he hates that, feels good but he isn’t supposed to enjoy it. His cock is swelling against his thigh, rubbing against Lucifer’s face, against prickly stubble, against skin that Sam knows isn’t there, he knows, so why does it feel so disgusting? Lucifer continues in licking Sam open, and Sam can feel Lucifer smirking against him, he can feel Lucifer’s breath against his balls-he can feel it, burning, sending pain surging through his hips, when Lucifer slips a thick finger inside. Sam tries to will his panic down, to will himself down; the stretch helps. It helps his erection calm, as his ass throbs with a dull pain.
That is, until Lucifer tilts his finger up just a bit and just a bit deeper, still licking around Sam's rim, pressing into Sam's prostate promptly in the way that only someone with every bit of knowledge of every bit of Sam could. Sam's breath hitches in his throat as blood flares through his body and comes to life in his dick, and he's hard again, achingly so. It brings a gasp to his lips, a shudder to his stomach. His stomach-like a drum-stretched over hipbones, firm and tanned, trembling softly as he's touched, as he's messed with, as the sounds of that drum beat and rush through his ears and it's overwhelming, it's all too much.
He lies, petrified, sweat peaking on his hipbones and between his legs, on the otherwise empty bed with its plain white sheets that ripple under him as he stretches and shudders.
Lucifer chuckles, biting the soft inside of Sam's thigh, thrusting into him with one hand and with the other, running a thumb across Sam's balls. "What's the matter, Sammy? It's not like we haven't done this before. Just like in the cage, huh Sam? Aw, I'm getting nostalgic."
Sam shuts his eyes, slips them closed because maybe as his lids fall over his viridian irises, his entire self will fall back, fall somewhere else, into something else. Fall back into the bed, fall back somehow with Dean and away from everything hellish and hell-made. His breathing is shallow and loud and all he hears as he takes solace in the darkness in his head.
Lucifer snaps and Sam's eyes are forced open, forced down, staring at Lucifer now ravishing him, slipping his tongue inside, flicking its sides against his walls. Sam squirms, gasping, scratching at the sheets as his throat constructs and he can only wheeze.
“Now Sam," Lucifer chides, tongue back outside of Sam for which Sam is infinitely grateful yet in no way relieved. "It's no fun if you don't /watch./" He climbs up, taking his time, onto Sam whose chest huffs shakily under the shirt of his greedy violator, his avaricious hallucination. The fabric scratches against the tips of Sam’s nipples, hard and aching, and he can’t believe he longs for the touch, can’t believe he’s actually begun to imagine Lucifer playing, toying with his nipples. “No fun.” And he’s reaching a hand down, unzipping his jeans, pulling his cock out and Sam cannot breathe.
"Yeah, Sammy, just like that," Lucifer breathes through clenched teeth and a chuckling grin, with a firm hold of Sam's hips as he guides himself inside, splitting Sam open, stretching him wide, a slow burn spreading throughout his midsection as Lucifer takes him, merciless. "Mm, Sammy," he says again, a little testing rock of his hips, and red-hot ripples of pain course through Sam's body with every movement, each of the thrusts that plug him and scrape him, each inch sliding into him like notches on a scale, like the turn of a dial with wonderment of How much can we break Sam today? How broken can Sam be, filled with an indescribable heat and hardness that he imagines can split him through, right in two, the death of him which finds comfort in his thighs and finds pleasure in his hole, poking him, slamming into him, tearing him apart? His legs tremble and his erection bobs against his stomach with each of Lucifer's thrusts--it hasn't gone, it's prominent, straining, red as would be the fire he can almost feel tickling from under his skin. He resents it as much as he does hell, as he does himself for letting this monster into his mind, as he does the whole damn almost-apocalypse and the whole damn world. He sucks in a breath that wavers with each thrust and shake as Lucifer pounds into him recklessly.
The bed is not shaking, it is Sam that is quivering and panting, alone on the rickety bed, losing oxygen with every shallow breath that he tries to suck into his lungs but doesn't quite make it. Sweat glistens across his tanned skin, pooling around his hipbones as his spread legs tremble along with his spread arms. His mouth is in an 'o' that would be silent apart from ragged breaths and choking gasps as he stretches out on the mattress and pleasure and pain tingle throughout his body, coming undone at the hand of no one but himself.
Feeling jags inside of him, ripping him apart and sealing him together, shooting through his veins as he convulses and, with a soft groan, arches his hips and spurts onto his stomach, cum mixing with sweat, pooling in his bellybutton, painting his curved hipbones with carnality, with pure, wet shame.
“You like it, huh, Sammy?” Lucifer murmurs, breath warm against Sam’s neck where his lips graze and tickle the sensitive skin, and then against Sam’s earlobe where he nicks playfully just to watch Sam squirm. “Did you miss me fucking you? ‘Cause I sure did.”
“Shut up,” Sam spits, words harsh, choked but strong as he fires them out with all the rage and heat that’s built up and flourished inside of him-he barely has time to take a breath before his jaw is caught in a grip of steel, Lucifer’s hand flying fast to his chin like a shot arrow as Lucifer grabs him and glares, glares with all the power of hell inside himself. Sam’s bones have never felt so brittle, and he’s never been so terrified of his jaw being snapped right in half.
As quick as he grabs Sam’s face, Lucifer stabs his hips upward harshly, violently, and Sam barely has time to regret saying a thing before he’s crying out in pain as Lucifer’s cock is driven into him, as far as it can go, impaling him, breaking him.
Sam’s sure something’s been torn-a groan catches and rings in his throat, reverberating through his head and his chest as he tries to hold his entire body intact, keep whatever’s been cut from somehow splitting open the rest of him any more than he’s already been. All he can think is that it hurts like hell-how fitting, perfect and horrible because everything hurts like hell, just like hell.
Sam’s face is snapped forward and he’s pulled into a kiss-a rough, biting kiss that he takes no part in reciprocating, only does what he can: he lies there, silent and as still as he can be as Lucifer ravishes his mouth, turns his lips swollen and raw, digging fingernails into Sam’s cheeks and shaking Sam with thrusts rougher, more powerful.
The pain of Lucifer’s teeth smacking and scraping against his own rings throughout Sam’s head like a struck chime, and by the time Lucifer pulls away and lets Sam’s face be, Sam’s lips are wet and swollen, aching and dark.
The hand on Sam’s jaw is pulled away to find a place on Sam’s hip where it squeezes just as hard, pressing Sam’s skin into the bone underneath where he’s sure it will bruise. Another hand, on Sam’s other hip, thumb digging into his hipbone-Lucifer is holding him in place, thrusting mindlessly with a small grin on his lips, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he snaps them open and pulls himself out swiftly with a mutter of, “See, Sammy? Fun, isn’t it.”
He takes himself in hand and strokes, slowly at first, like he’s showing off his cock, like he wants Sam to watch. And Sam has to, he can’t close his eyes or look away, he has to watch as Lucifer’s hand speeds up, watch as the head of Lucifer’s cock pushes out of the ring of his slippery fingers on every stroke, watch as Lucifer grunts and comes on him, ropes of white splattering between his legs, onto his stomach, warm and sticky as Lucifer’s cum mixes with his own.
And just like that, Lucifer is gone, and so is any evidence of him ever being there, and Sam looks and finally he sees nothing in the bed with him, that he is alone and free and he can move, if he wants, he can breathe, if he wants. The only cum on his stomach is his own, and he picks up his shirt from the floor to clean it. He realizes as he sits up that his ass is dry, intact, and he mutters a sigh of relief before pulling his pants back on.
Lucifer comes into being once more, back on the metal table, feet perched on the table that faces it and as relaxed as he’s ever looked, grinning like a madman at Sam who almost laughs when he scoffs, almost amused because it’s so absurd, “That didn’t happen. It wasn’t real.” He’s talking just as much to himself as he is to Lucifer; he’s talking to himself almost entirely.
“Oh Sam, Sam, Sam,” Lucifer sighs, stepping once again to Sam’s side. Sam’s breathing is even now, calm as it can be lately, stuttered then and startled by a sudden loud smack to his hip, which sends pain flaring through his veins like a spark across a rope that it leads its to dynamite, where’s he’s still sore, still burning. “Just because it’s in your head, doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”
Supernatural | Samifer | NC-17 | Warning: Non-Con | Spoilers: 7x17, The Born-Again Identity
Summary: Sam is violated, used by the devil, crossed by his own mind as he lies alone in a bed that isn't his in the hospital's psychiatric ward.
Sam’s muscles are bungee cords, stretched too far and too steel in themselves-he wants to retreat, wants to sink and fold in on himself because maybe, just maybe, it’ll all stop hurting. But he wants to stretch, stretch as much, as far as he can, until his limbs are fluid and he is free.
His knees are bent and calves stretched, feet flat on the floor as he sits on the edge of the bed that isn’t his, hunched over, wringing his fingers until they are stretched and raw.
He takes in, in the like of a troubled child, the idea of building a wall around himself. Cozy, safe, alone and parted from the terrors of the world, from the pain, from his fears.
“Saaaaam.”
He cannot. Everything he fears is inside him, at the very center of everything he knows to be himself. Like hell flowers, blossoming in his head, vines thick rope and thorns knives, rose petals a fiery red as they grow in on themselves and outward, filling in and pushing against each dip and crevice in Sam’s scraped, raw mind.
A wall, he’d had, once. In his mind, built between the two sides of his soul: life, his life, his sanity and his brother-and the other, oceans and pits of fire, a cage, aloneness with the worst of all evils and this side thankfully he had not been able to remember. But broken, it is, now, torn down like the flimsy sheet it very well may have been, letting the two sides of Sam’s mind clash and mix and produce everything hellish and more for Sam’s plain sight.
The wall had kept him sane, normal, for the most part. The walls of is room in the psychiatric ward seem to close in on him and he is anything but.
“Sam, come on, you were doing so good! Paying attention, listening. What, you don’t like me anymore-?”
“Shut up.” Sam snarls, sucking harsh breaths into his tired lungs as he looks down at the floor, trying to shield himself, somehow, to look away so that maybe he will be left alone.
He won’t. He knows. He doesn’t look up.
“Come on Sammy, don’t be boring.”
A doctor could come in at any moment and see Sam, alone, jittery on his bed and trying not to look at the empty metal table pushed up against the wall. Sam looks around the room and sees the devil himself, perched on that metal table, feet slung across a makeshift footrest of a chair, hands folded as he looks at Sam, stares into Sam, with mock innocence.
“I’m not in the mood.”
“So you’re saying there are times when you’re in the mood for me? Aw, Sam, that’s lovely. Do tell next time.”
Sam groans, letting his overgrown hair fall into his eyes, stretching his legs and cracking his shoulders. He flinches, looking up through bangs and eyelids to see Lucifer hopping up from the table, walking toward him, sneakers smacking against the linoleum. “You know, bunk buddy,” he grins, placing his hands on Sam’s knees, leaning in and all too solid to be nothing more than a figment of Sam’s tortured mind. But he is-Sam mustn’t forget. “It’s been a while.” Sam moves his hands to the side of the mattress, squeezing to keep himself steady, to keep himself tethered to something solid, something material.
“Get off me,” he growls, jaw clenched and eyes burning with the fire that runs through his kerosene-bleached veins, steeling himself against the bed. He gulps, sending rocks bulging down his throat.
“Well that’s no fun,” Lucifer drawls with an exaggerated pout and a chuckle, before planting his hands on Sam’s shoulders-Sam is sent tumbling backward, hands scraping against the metal bed frame as he loses his grip, backside digging uncomfortably into the mattress as he crashes back onto it, flailing and kicking to no avail. He looks up, holding his breath like a bubble in his throat-Lucifer’s face hovers over his, wicked grin and eyes that reflect Sam’s own self right back at him, with Lucifer’s knees on other side of Sam’s hips and his hands on either side of Sam’s shoulders. “Why don’t you strip for me, Sammy.”
Sam chokes and grunts, “No,” trying to get up and not being let.
He’s not real, Sam wants to shout, to himself, until all the outside walls of his mind are shaking and tumbling down and nothing else is real at all.
It doesn’t seem to matter.
With a snap of Lucifer’s fingers, the bed goes up in flames, charring the white sheets, making them curl in on themselves. Bathed in and licked at by fire from every side, Sam slings his arms over his face in an attempt to shield himself from the hot, horrid glow. “I think that you forget,” Lucifer chuckles, “that I can make anything happen to you if you don’t to what I say.” Another snap, a soft click like that of a light switch being flipped, and the flame snuff out like a light bulb. From the blazing flames now miraculously gone comes a thick quiet, a stillness that hangs in the air like a dense fog, clear but all too much so.
Slowly, with his breath heavy in his throat, Sam pulls up the hem of his shirt, hesitating at first but finally biting the bullet as he heaves it off, cringing at every new bit of skin exposed. He tosses it to the floor with a grimace, before falling back onto the pillow, hands again at his sides.
“Ooh, Sam,” Lucifer breaths, another chuckle as he runs a finger down Sam’s chest, outlining the bulges of Sam’s twitchy pectoral muscles with a fingertip. “I like it.” Sam’s nipples harden in the cold air, despite himself-its uncomfortable, indecent, and naturally Lucifer watches with amusement.
Sam’s eyes are fixed on nothing, on the air in front of him at which he stares with his eyes wide and mouth twitching, body stark against the bed but shoulders and head raised, chest shifting as he tries to find comfort and breath shallow as it pulls in on his lungs.
“Now, Sam.” Lucifer drags a finger down, to trace the hem of Sam’s pants. Sam’s pelvic muscles shift under his skin, trying to get back, away. “Come on Sammy, we don’t have all day. Well, we do. I of course could make this take all day, if that’s what you want.” Sam tenses, silent, unmoving. “What, no?” Still, he is, a statue. Ignore him, Sam. He’s not real. You don’t have to listen.
Lucifer plants a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder, flesh searing flesh, and as Sam’s nerves spark and sizzle, flames blaze around him, blowing Lucifer’s short hair back and glowing bright red in his clear blue eyes and grotesque Cheshire cat grin. For the instant, a statue’s stone turns to jelly, Sam to a flailing, terrified mess, before the flames go out as quickly as they came and again there is a stillness, thick silence.
Sam flinches at nothing, clenches his jaw and snaps his teeth shut at nothing, as if there is something inside him bulging out from his heart and seizing each of his limbs from his deepest core. His next breath, next breathless gasp, is laden with wheezing exhaustion as he struggles to find composition again.
The stillness hangs like stagnant water, thick at the top of a forgotten pond, where under the surface there is clear, light water in which Sam’s arms move far too fluidly as he sinks his head back into the pillow, resignation flowing through his tired blood, and moves his hands to the waistband of his pants.
The waistband drags against Sam’s thighs, rustling against his skin-two waistbands, that of his pants and that of his underwear which he pulls down and off at the same time. The air hits his dick and he takes in a ragged breath but doesn’t stop-rhythmically, mechanically, he pulls his clothes down his legs and off, to the floor.
He lies alone on the bed, naked, jittery, staring up at the ceiling.
“Now Sam, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Lucifer smirks at the word ‘hard’, flicking a fingernail against Sam’s limp dick. Sam flinches.
With a satisfied grin settled across thin lips-a grin that has grown to unsettle Sam more than does just about anything else-Lucifer knocks Sam’s knees apart with one of his own, climbing between Sam’s legs and kneeling there. Sam gulps and lies back, sick of resisting, sick of trying, of just about everything. It isn’t real, anyway, it doesn’t matter, he tells himself. It isn’t real, not when Lucifer splays his fingers across the soft flesh of Sam’s inner thighs, not when Lucifer shuffles backward and pushes Sam’s thighs apart just a bit further, not when he starts to hunch over and bend his head downward.
Sam’s breath comes out as a mutter, each muscle clenching, tensing in shock though he isn’t at all surprised, when Lucifer licks him between his legs, forked tongue all too wet as the split sides dance along the edges of his hole. He shifts against the prodding, pressing tongue, sucking in a breath that makes his heart shake in his ribcage and his lungs condense. He fists his fingers in the sheets, trying to find oxygen, to remain calm, eyes stuck on Lucifer and mouth forever in a terrified grimace.
Sam’s arms shake at his sides like bare muscles threatening to snap the bones to which they are tethered, as do his legs as he stares down between them, quivering, at the empty sheet, a white pool of fabric that shifts with him.
He’s hard. He swears inwardly, gasping and choking on air. No-not now, he thinks, it’s not fair. No. He hates it, hates Lucifer, hates himself-it feels good and he hates that, feels good but he isn’t supposed to enjoy it. His cock is swelling against his thigh, rubbing against Lucifer’s face, against prickly stubble, against skin that Sam knows isn’t there, he knows, so why does it feel so disgusting? Lucifer continues in licking Sam open, and Sam can feel Lucifer smirking against him, he can feel Lucifer’s breath against his balls-he can feel it, burning, sending pain surging through his hips, when Lucifer slips a thick finger inside. Sam tries to will his panic down, to will himself down; the stretch helps. It helps his erection calm, as his ass throbs with a dull pain.
That is, until Lucifer tilts his finger up just a bit and just a bit deeper, still licking around Sam's rim, pressing into Sam's prostate promptly in the way that only someone with every bit of knowledge of every bit of Sam could. Sam's breath hitches in his throat as blood flares through his body and comes to life in his dick, and he's hard again, achingly so. It brings a gasp to his lips, a shudder to his stomach. His stomach-like a drum-stretched over hipbones, firm and tanned, trembling softly as he's touched, as he's messed with, as the sounds of that drum beat and rush through his ears and it's overwhelming, it's all too much.
He lies, petrified, sweat peaking on his hipbones and between his legs, on the otherwise empty bed with its plain white sheets that ripple under him as he stretches and shudders.
Lucifer chuckles, biting the soft inside of Sam's thigh, thrusting into him with one hand and with the other, running a thumb across Sam's balls. "What's the matter, Sammy? It's not like we haven't done this before. Just like in the cage, huh Sam? Aw, I'm getting nostalgic."
Sam shuts his eyes, slips them closed because maybe as his lids fall over his viridian irises, his entire self will fall back, fall somewhere else, into something else. Fall back into the bed, fall back somehow with Dean and away from everything hellish and hell-made. His breathing is shallow and loud and all he hears as he takes solace in the darkness in his head.
Lucifer snaps and Sam's eyes are forced open, forced down, staring at Lucifer now ravishing him, slipping his tongue inside, flicking its sides against his walls. Sam squirms, gasping, scratching at the sheets as his throat constructs and he can only wheeze.
“Now Sam," Lucifer chides, tongue back outside of Sam for which Sam is infinitely grateful yet in no way relieved. "It's no fun if you don't /watch./" He climbs up, taking his time, onto Sam whose chest huffs shakily under the shirt of his greedy violator, his avaricious hallucination. The fabric scratches against the tips of Sam’s nipples, hard and aching, and he can’t believe he longs for the touch, can’t believe he’s actually begun to imagine Lucifer playing, toying with his nipples. “No fun.” And he’s reaching a hand down, unzipping his jeans, pulling his cock out and Sam cannot breathe.
"Yeah, Sammy, just like that," Lucifer breathes through clenched teeth and a chuckling grin, with a firm hold of Sam's hips as he guides himself inside, splitting Sam open, stretching him wide, a slow burn spreading throughout his midsection as Lucifer takes him, merciless. "Mm, Sammy," he says again, a little testing rock of his hips, and red-hot ripples of pain course through Sam's body with every movement, each of the thrusts that plug him and scrape him, each inch sliding into him like notches on a scale, like the turn of a dial with wonderment of How much can we break Sam today? How broken can Sam be, filled with an indescribable heat and hardness that he imagines can split him through, right in two, the death of him which finds comfort in his thighs and finds pleasure in his hole, poking him, slamming into him, tearing him apart? His legs tremble and his erection bobs against his stomach with each of Lucifer's thrusts--it hasn't gone, it's prominent, straining, red as would be the fire he can almost feel tickling from under his skin. He resents it as much as he does hell, as he does himself for letting this monster into his mind, as he does the whole damn almost-apocalypse and the whole damn world. He sucks in a breath that wavers with each thrust and shake as Lucifer pounds into him recklessly.
The bed is not shaking, it is Sam that is quivering and panting, alone on the rickety bed, losing oxygen with every shallow breath that he tries to suck into his lungs but doesn't quite make it. Sweat glistens across his tanned skin, pooling around his hipbones as his spread legs tremble along with his spread arms. His mouth is in an 'o' that would be silent apart from ragged breaths and choking gasps as he stretches out on the mattress and pleasure and pain tingle throughout his body, coming undone at the hand of no one but himself.
Feeling jags inside of him, ripping him apart and sealing him together, shooting through his veins as he convulses and, with a soft groan, arches his hips and spurts onto his stomach, cum mixing with sweat, pooling in his bellybutton, painting his curved hipbones with carnality, with pure, wet shame.
“You like it, huh, Sammy?” Lucifer murmurs, breath warm against Sam’s neck where his lips graze and tickle the sensitive skin, and then against Sam’s earlobe where he nicks playfully just to watch Sam squirm. “Did you miss me fucking you? ‘Cause I sure did.”
“Shut up,” Sam spits, words harsh, choked but strong as he fires them out with all the rage and heat that’s built up and flourished inside of him-he barely has time to take a breath before his jaw is caught in a grip of steel, Lucifer’s hand flying fast to his chin like a shot arrow as Lucifer grabs him and glares, glares with all the power of hell inside himself. Sam’s bones have never felt so brittle, and he’s never been so terrified of his jaw being snapped right in half.
As quick as he grabs Sam’s face, Lucifer stabs his hips upward harshly, violently, and Sam barely has time to regret saying a thing before he’s crying out in pain as Lucifer’s cock is driven into him, as far as it can go, impaling him, breaking him.
Sam’s sure something’s been torn-a groan catches and rings in his throat, reverberating through his head and his chest as he tries to hold his entire body intact, keep whatever’s been cut from somehow splitting open the rest of him any more than he’s already been. All he can think is that it hurts like hell-how fitting, perfect and horrible because everything hurts like hell, just like hell.
Sam’s face is snapped forward and he’s pulled into a kiss-a rough, biting kiss that he takes no part in reciprocating, only does what he can: he lies there, silent and as still as he can be as Lucifer ravishes his mouth, turns his lips swollen and raw, digging fingernails into Sam’s cheeks and shaking Sam with thrusts rougher, more powerful.
The pain of Lucifer’s teeth smacking and scraping against his own rings throughout Sam’s head like a struck chime, and by the time Lucifer pulls away and lets Sam’s face be, Sam’s lips are wet and swollen, aching and dark.
The hand on Sam’s jaw is pulled away to find a place on Sam’s hip where it squeezes just as hard, pressing Sam’s skin into the bone underneath where he’s sure it will bruise. Another hand, on Sam’s other hip, thumb digging into his hipbone-Lucifer is holding him in place, thrusting mindlessly with a small grin on his lips, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he snaps them open and pulls himself out swiftly with a mutter of, “See, Sammy? Fun, isn’t it.”
He takes himself in hand and strokes, slowly at first, like he’s showing off his cock, like he wants Sam to watch. And Sam has to, he can’t close his eyes or look away, he has to watch as Lucifer’s hand speeds up, watch as the head of Lucifer’s cock pushes out of the ring of his slippery fingers on every stroke, watch as Lucifer grunts and comes on him, ropes of white splattering between his legs, onto his stomach, warm and sticky as Lucifer’s cum mixes with his own.
And just like that, Lucifer is gone, and so is any evidence of him ever being there, and Sam looks and finally he sees nothing in the bed with him, that he is alone and free and he can move, if he wants, he can breathe, if he wants. The only cum on his stomach is his own, and he picks up his shirt from the floor to clean it. He realizes as he sits up that his ass is dry, intact, and he mutters a sigh of relief before pulling his pants back on.
Lucifer comes into being once more, back on the metal table, feet perched on the table that faces it and as relaxed as he’s ever looked, grinning like a madman at Sam who almost laughs when he scoffs, almost amused because it’s so absurd, “That didn’t happen. It wasn’t real.” He’s talking just as much to himself as he is to Lucifer; he’s talking to himself almost entirely.
“Oh Sam, Sam, Sam,” Lucifer sighs, stepping once again to Sam’s side. Sam’s breathing is even now, calm as it can be lately, stuttered then and startled by a sudden loud smack to his hip, which sends pain flaring through his veins like a spark across a rope that it leads its to dynamite, where’s he’s still sore, still burning. “Just because it’s in your head, doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”