Author's Note: Written for blindfold_spn kink meme. Warning for rape. And horror and shit. I'm not...no, who am I kidding, I'm totally ashamed.

Sam's eyes fluttered open, and, like every time, he was sorry for it. "Nngh," he said, and coughed once, twice, choking up a dark red clot of blood from a recently cut throat. He closed his eyes and tried to relax. It didn't help, but it gave him something to think about other than pain and, despite all his best intentions, Dean.

And he didn't want to think about Dean. Not when it just came back around to pain anyway.

A hand settled in the center of his back and moved up to rub a thumb against the nape of his neck. Sam twitched in nervous anticipation. "Hey, Sammy," said a familiar voice, a too familiar voice. For one breath, he believed. Just one breath.

Then he moaned weakly, and couldn't quite manage to hate himself for it. A little more every day… "No," he said. "No. You don't need to-"

"Not happy to see me, Sammy?" Dean's familiar hands, the callouses perfect, the weight just the same, gripped his arms and rolled Sam to his back even as he closed his eyes in utterly futile defiance. His body felt limp, too heavy, and useless. "That's okay. I'm not really happy to see you either…it just sucks. After all this time I still end up playing babysitter to you?" He felt the shadow of –not- Dean he had to remember that - leaning over him pass over his face. Michael, Sam thought dazedly. He knew them both, by now. Maybe even better than his brother. This was Michael all over.

"Look at me," said Dean's voice. "I want to see your eyes. Look at me."

"It's not going to work," Sam said. Beyond shame and humiliation and despair. Sure, he'd get there eventually.

Right.

Sam opened his eyes and it was Dean's smile that grinned at him, pleased when Sam had finally done something right. "He's not here," Sam said, ground out over his abused vocal cords and constricting throat. The fingers that felt like Dean's compressed into his arms until he could feel himself bruise. Insignificant, but it was more proof that it was Michael, borrowing, desecrating his brother's face.

"Dragged back down here all over again," Dean's voice said, out of Dean's mouth as Dean's hands released him and pulled away, and pain or no pain Sam missed the touch that was still grounding. "Because of you. I figured, though, if I had the chance…"

Ah, Sam thought, and in a way, relaxed. There. No more anticipation. Once it started, he could just scream as much as he needed to until his lungs gave out and there wouldn't be any more waiting. That was the worst part. Sort of. The waiting.

He looked up at Michael (wearing Dean's face, even smiling, and no matter how false it was Sam drank it in like the sun he'd never see again) and managed his own tiny smile. "All right," he said, "Come on. Do your worst. Make me suffer. You're still not Dean."

Dean's laugh rolled out, the one Sam hadn't heard since before Hell, full and rich and real, and Dean's – no, Michael's, he couldn't mistake the two, couldn't – hand rested on his forehead in something like benediction, pushed his hair back. "Sam, Sammy," he said, and his voice was affectionate. Sam shuddered, not because it sounded wrong, but because it sounded too right. "You don't know what I can do. You don't know the half of it."

Sam held his breath, waiting for the knife when Dean – Michael stepped back. Or maybe just for the rolling up of sleeves before he would dig in with fingernails and hands and pull him into quivering pieces. Nothing happened, except that Dean stripped off his shirt.

He looked, Sam thought broadly, with the blurry feeling somewhere between drunk and possibly insane, like a well oiled Grecian athlete gleaming in this red light. The thought made him snort and Michael's Dean eyes flicked to him. He didn't look amused. His eyes were hard, brittle green and there was a vicious light in the back of them. "Something funny, Sammy?" Purred Dean's voice, low with the familiar edge on it so perfectly imitated.

Sam didn't want to think about when Michael got to know his brother so well.

One of Dean's- Michael's hands ran through his hair as he stepped back to Sam's side, and Sam closed his eyes. He'd taken the little bits of comfort handed out when he was given them without a fight, no matter how much worse it was after. "Plenty," he said, "Plenty's funny."

Sam could almost hear Michael's frown, and did hear him sigh. "Still just the same. Arrogant, selfish…" Old insults. They didn't hurt anymore. "You made me this, Sammy. This is what you made me."

He heard the sound of a button being undone with one hand, then a zipper. With the hand still running slowly, soothingly through his hair, it took his exhausted, mangled brain a moment too long to understand and a moan escaped the back of his throat. Sam was suddenly aware of his nakedness, clothes long gone, cut away, burned up. "No," he said, and his body remembered how to fight. "No-"

As if that would do any good. Dean's hand fisted in his hair and Dean's smirk leered down at him and Dean's voice said, "Bite me, Sam. You're at my mercy now."

And it was Michael, it was Michael, but it was Dean too and finally he had back the ability to struggle. Sam tried to drag his head away from Michael's grasp that was also Dean's, yelled like it would help him to fight harder as the angel and his brother dragged him off the rack to the ground and pressed him to his stomach, a knee in the small of his back. He bucked his whole body and thrashed with his legs, managed to flip over and drive one knee into Dean's chest, but the angel in him or the angel that was him and Sam wasn't certain he could keep the two straight any longer just grunted and casually grabbed and snapped his ankle.

It was reflex to go rigid and scream, no matter how briefly, and Dean had him back on his stomach and pinned to the floor, scrabbling against it and trying to heave the weight off his back. It's just like sparring, he thought desperately. Just like hundreds of times before, except for the dread in the pit of his stomach, and the other part of him wondered what was so much worse about this.

Sam could hear Dean laughing and there's a touch of Michael in it but all too much Dean. "Don't fight me," said Dean's voice, the one he always used amused and trying not to be, and god it sent shivers down Sam's spine. "You deserve this. Isn't that what you tell yourself every hour of every year of every decade? Just keep telling yourself that."

Dean – Michael he has to remember – moved gracefully around in front of him while Sam was still trying to catch his breath, ankle throbbing just like he was still alive. Sam tried to skitter back but his brother the angel was too fast, had his hand in Sam's hair and dragged him back with a single brutal jerk, and he found himself face to face with his brother's cock rubbing against the corner of his mouth.

Sam couldn't bring himself to be ashamed of the noise he made trying to jerk away, turn his head, anything. It's not like he'd never seen Dean naked. But this was different, this was so completely different and-

Dean's hand worked up and down in one sharp movement, responding to Sam's attempt by jerking him closer so his nose was pressing into wiry pubic hair and he could feel Dean's hardening dick against his cheek as Dean pulled his hand away with a groan.

"Come on," Dean said, or Michael, or both, his voice rougher with lust. His other hand grabbed Sam's jaw and pressed at the hinge, forcing his mouth open. Dean's fingers were strong; they squeezed once. "Bite and you'll regret it," he said, and dragged Sam's head forward by the hair, pulling his mouth over Dean's dick before letting up the pressure on his jaw slowly. As Sam's mouth relaxed, the head of the cock in his mouth he wouldn't think of it as Dean's brushed against the back of his palate and he gagged, violently. His whole body spasmed reflexively, trying to force the intrusion out, but the hand in his hair wouldn't let him move, pulled him farther forward and god Dean wasn't that long, was he?

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered because the head felt like it was lodging in his throat and he couldn't breathe, Sam couldn't breathe trying to suck in air through his nostrils but he couldn't and fuck he was going to choke on dick and Dean would never – but Dean was the one doing this, and at the same time he wasn't, and there were stars swimming in front of his eyes-

The hand in his hair guided him back and Sam choked in air, his eyes watering. He could hear Michael-Dean moaning, didn't pay attention to the words as the hand in his hair moved again, forward and back and forward, pumping in and out of his mouth carelessly. His tongue moved frantically and he knew it was just making things worse, pushing Dean or whatever the fuck he was toward an orgasm he didn't want to think about – but maybe that was better, maybe the sooner it was over-

Abruptly, Dean's hands released his hair and shoved him back. Sam toppled onto his ass, off balance, panting and feeling sick and disgusting and soiled. Dean's cock was still red and hard, slicked with Sam's saliva, and Sam understood, sickly, that it wasn't over.

"Stop," he said, still tasting the salt of his goddamn brother's dick in his mouth, head spinning from when the thrust into the top of his throat stopped his breathing. "Just-"

"Sammy," said Dean's voice scoldingly. "What else can I do? What else are you good for?" He moved so goddamn fast. He grabbed Sam's hips and dragged them up, giving Sam a sharp punch in the side when he tried to jerk away. Ass stuck obscenely in the air and wheezing, Sam felt humiliated, beaten, sick.

And it was going to get worse, he knew it was going to get worse.

Dean's hand slid around the base of Sam's own cock, and Sam jerked with an incoherent, strangled noise, the jolt of pleasure dazing him for a moment. A welcome respite. "Relax," said Dean's voice, and Sam could feel the warmth radiating off of the body behind him, positioned behind his hips, and tried to pull away.

Futile, it was always futile, everything so fucking useless.

Another stroke of his brother's familiar hand and that was all, all the preparation Michael (or Dean?) gave him before he felt the press of hard warmth artificially slicked against his backside and his body seized up.

He didn't have time to recover or time to relax as instructed. One brutal, forceful shove and his body was splitting wide open, and sure, there had been creative pain before, plenty of it, but the sense of violation, of what felt like something huge shoved where it had no right to be – it was worse. And he knew tensing was making it worse, but couldn't help it, couldn't help the spasms of his internal muscles that drew a protracted groan from Dean (not Dean, god, no) or the way his shoulders seized up and his whole body arched in a way that only increased the friction.

Please god, he thought, let this be over fast.

It wasn't.

Whoever it was, and Sam couldn't begin to sort that out right now, couldn't do anything but try not to think and try to get through this, started moving, and that started the pain all over again, bursts of nerves like fire and he felt his body tear as Dean or Michael or someone pounded in and out and drove their hand up and down Sam's cock, keeping him just on edge and feeling soiled for the feeling of pleasure no matter how much he knew he couldn't help it. And it was his brother's voice – "This is what you made me. This is what you made of me," and Sam didn't know if it was Dean talking or Michael talking or both or neither, and it didn't matter because he gave up and screamed, hoping consciousness would leave and take all of this with it, that he could pass out and wake up and it would be over, and he was afraid that it wouldn't, that it would never be over.

Then with a grunt and a low, almost inaudible moan, he imagined he could feel heat fill his insides; did feel Dean stiffen and hiss a breath in. Sam went limp with a sob of relief, even if his own need was almost aching. He practically felt his body melt and didn't care, just wanted out, wanted to crawl into a corner and let the lurking demons tear his body to shreds, and maybe it would come back clean.

He heaved once and threw up thin bile and nothing else, retched for a minute longer. Dean or Michael or Dean-Michael waited until he was done to finish jerking him off, rough and fast, and then pulled out and stepped away.

Sam closed his eyes.

"I'm not sorry, Sam," Dean said, his voice flat in the way that meant he was really, truly angry. "You're a goddamned freak, and it's because of you I'm like this. Because of you."

Sam didn't argue. He didn't think he could have.

~.~

He opened his eyes to find Lucifer gazing at him, predatory and sympathetic at the same time, already wrist deep in Sam's chest, methodically cracking his ribs open.

It hurt.

Pain, he thought, and Dean.

"Thank god," he said, not caring about the irony of the phrase. "It's you," and Lucifer laughed, and laughed, and laughed.