Sam felt so stupid for not having created the angel banishing sigil sooner. That's what he'd originally intended to do with his knife, before Lucifer could… before he…
And he'd been too late.
But he just hadn't been able to think properly. Not with his head spinning, his heart hammering in his chest, his back burning, his very insides throbbing like he was still being taken, his exhausted body still yearning for pleasure. Surely no one would be expected to have the brain capacity to strategize and plan while in such a state. But he felt so very stupid and useless. He'd lain there on the floor, unable to help his brother as he was violated by the Devil. It hadn't been just the pain. It'd been the aching, searing desire that Lucifer had left him with. It'd taken hold of him so deeply that he'd had to do something about it. There'd been no way around it, and it turned his stomach.
After his climax his head had cleared, at least enough to use his blood to paint the sigil. But Satan had already finished with his brother by then, had already ruined him.
Despite his fears about his own safety, his sole focus was now on Dean. To his knowledge, this was the first time anyone had done something like this to him. Sure, Meg had kissed him once or twice without his permission, and he clearly hadn't liked it, and he'd gotten some unwanted attention from the occasional demon, but he'd never been raped. Not like Sam had.
His brother had gotten his discarded shirt wrapped around his middle finger, the light blue fabric beginning to turn red with his blood. Maybe Dean had only found the strength to try and staunch the blood flow because now he lay there, his eyes focusing on nothing. An occasional shudder passed through his body.
"Dean?" Sam called out to him, his voice hoarse. Soreness had taken root in his jaw as he'd spoken, and there was a bitter taste on his tongue as he remembered why his jaw was injured.
There was no answer from his brother.
Sam continued speaking as he dragged himself across the floor, trying to get to his jeans so he could grab his phone, maybe call someone for help, "Dean, I know… I know you hurt. Believe me, I know, but we gotta… gotta look out for each other. Come on, we are not dying like this."
Earlier he'd wanted to die, but now… now he didn't know. Perhaps death would be better. It'd be more peaceful, for one, but he didn't want to go like this. This was too inhumane, too pitiful. It wouldn't be the heroic death he'd always dreamed of, the one that would feel right to him. Dying on the floor of his own home because the Devil had raped him again? No. It wasn't going to happen.
A grunt left him as he searched through his pockets, the motion hurting his back and his hands. He found his phone, and a dizzying wave of exhaustion crashed over him, causing him to drop it. He groaned in frustration.
"Sam?" Dean asked, his voice quiet, distant.
"I'm here, Dean," he responded. "I'm here."
Sam got ahold of his phone once more and began dragging himself over to his brother, hating how difficult it was. His muscles trembled and his breath came in gasps. He got over to him, and lay down beside him, their shoulders touching.
Dean looked towards him, his bloodshot, teary eyes searching his face.
"Are we gonna die?"
"No," Sam assured. "No, we're not gonna die."
Dean nodded and closed his eyes.
It tore at Sam's already broken heart seeing his brother like this. Usually Dean did his best to be strong for him, even when he didn't need to. It was what Sam was used to. And now Sam - though he was injured more severely, he was sure - would have to take care of him. It seemed like this had all been too much for his older brother's mind. He was broken.
Sam turned his phone on, and started searching through his contacts. His vision blurred for a second, and his eyelids began to close. It'd be easy. It'd just be so easy to give in to the exhaustion he was feeling, to sink away into darkness. Why shouldn't he? Surely he deserved to rest. Maybe, maybe he could call someone to help them after he woke up.
Just as Sam started giving in to it, a jolt of panic shot through him. There would be no waking up from this if he fell asleep. Not this time.
He focused and started looking at the names as he swiped his thumb over the screen. His throat tightened when he saw Castiel, and Lucifer using his friend's voice to scream his pleasure stabbed through his mind. Sam's body throbbed incessantly.
With shaking fingers, he scrolled past it. Oh god, who could he even call? He didn't want anyone to see him like this.
The thought of letting himself die crawled its way into his mind again, whispering to him seductively.
But if I die, Dean dies.
Sam couldn't have that.
But who to call?!
Not Crowley. No certainly not him. His brother might prefer that, but in the past Crowley had given him some unwanted attention. He didn't trust the King of Hell to not hurt him while he was vulnerable like this. A shiver ran through him and he winced. Now that he thought of it, Sam never wanted another man to look at him again. Dean of course was an exception. Dean understood. Oh god, he hated how he now understood.
He couldn't call Rowena. There was no trusting her with something like this. Besides, the thought of her seeing him while he so weak was mortifying.
He nearly jumped when he felt his brother's fingers gripping at his bicep, curling around him desperately as if he needed to anchor himself.
"Why?" he asked, voice cracking on the word. "Why would he…? Why would anyone…?"
Sam tilted his head to him, and he had to close his eyes for a second as his brother's face swam in his vision. When he opened his eyes again most of his dizziness had left.
"It's what he does," Sam explained, his tone flat and harsh. That was the truth of it, and he didn't know what else to say. There was just nothing to do to comfort his brother. He knew all too well that healing from something such as this was near impossible.
And then the reality of it came crashing down around him. A sob escaped him.
Again. It'd happened again. And this time there was no "dying" and coming back the next day. This wasn't Hell. This was Earth, where there'd be people who would ask questions, people who would try to tend to him. His stomach clenched with dread. The thought of being poked and prodded by doctors and nurses while in such a vulnerable state sent a fresh wave of terror through him. And he'd be separated from Dean.
He swallowed roughly, and he tried to work up the courage to make the call that he needed to.
Sam knew who would help them. It was someone who wouldn't judge, someone who wouldn't panic in a crisis, someone who would remain by their sides. Someone who loved them.
Jody.
He had to call Jody.
Sam took in a deep, shuddering breath, pressed on Jody Mills in his contacts list and put his phone to his ear, doing his best to ignore how much just holding it in place hurt.
"What're ya doin'?" Dean asked tiredly as the phone began to ring.
"Calling for help," Sam answered, his voice clipped.
Right now he was doing his best to detach himself from everything. If he fell prey to his emotions, fell prey to the agony raging throughout him, fell prey to how absolutely disgusting and tarnished he felt, they could both die.
"Who?"
"Jody."
His brother nodded and leaned his head towards him.
Jody answered and she sounded so cheerful Sam almost wanted to hang up. He didn't want her to hurt. Seeing them like this would do just that.
"Hey, Sam! How is everything? Funny, I was just thinking about calling you."
He didn't have the time or energy for pleasantries, and the phone was threatening to slip from his bloodied fingers, so Sam kept it simple, breathing two words out, "Jody… help."
The phone fell from his hands, and his body went limp.
"Sam!" he heard her yell, voice risen with panic. "Sam!"
And he couldn't answer. Darkness, comforting and welcoming, started to surround him. Sam sank into it, his eyes closing.
When there was no answer from the other line Jody's pulse quickened, and she had to force herself to breathe. Sam had sounded terrible, like something was deeply wrong. And she could feel it in her gut. Urgency pressed in on her, and she pushed aside the rapidly rising tide of emotions before they could drown her rational thoughts. It was something that she'd been trained to do. It was more difficult when a situation hit close to home, but she did it nonetheless, building her dam higher to keep anything from overflowing.
Luckily Jody was right outside the sheriff's station, having just been about to start her shift, and she rushed inside. She gave a brisk nod to the deputy at the front desk, and went through the glass partition that would lead to the offices. Her colleagues looked up from their desks as they took note of her purposeful stride, the tense set of her jaw.
"Sheriff Mills?" one of them asked. "What's wrong?" He was a newer deputy, fresh-faced and not yet exposed to the horrors out in the world. There was no mistaking the innocent curiosity that gleamed in his brown eyes.
"I might need to trace a call. Deputy Young," she began, tilting her head in the direction of a short woman with soft, pale features who had her brown hair tied back in a ponytail, "with me."
She nodded, and followed Jody into her office.
The door closed and Jody said into the phone," Sam, are you still with me?" There was no answer. A panicked male voice met her ears, and it spoke of pain. She heard him calling out for Sam.
"Dean?"
A sliver of fear ran through her chest when all she got in return was a frightened and saddened whimper.
She pointed to her computer, and Deputy Young understood, sitting herself down at her desk, hands hovering over the keyboard. Without taking the phone away from her ear just in case Sam or Dean managed to say something, Jody told her the phone number.
"Get me a location. Hurry," she urged.
Jody started counting the seconds as they passed, and with each one she willed for one of the Winchesters to talk to her, to tell her what was going on, but there was nothing.
"The phone call's from Lebanon, Kansas," the deputy informed her.
Shit. That was at least over three-hundred miles away. It'd take hours to get to them. Jody didn't know what was wrong, but something in her gut told her that her friends didn't have that much time.
"Address."
She read it off to her.
"Sam, I'm gonna get someone to you and Dean, alright? You're gonna be okay."
Still no answer.
"I'll be there as soon as I can."
Then, her pulse racing, she hung up, hating that she had to do so.
"Sheriff Mills," Deputy Young began tentatively, "why can't you just contact the force in Lebanon and let them deal with it? Surely you don't have to go down there."
"I do."
"Why?"
She opened her door and made to leave, but paused, turning back to her to answer, "They're my friends. Whatever they're going through, I'm not letting them go through it alone."
And then she left.
As she drove to her house, her foot resting more heavily on the gas pedal than was strictly legal, she called the sheriff station down in Lebanon and told them about the phone call, making sure to give them the address as well.
"Will they need an ambulance?" the deputy over the phone asked.
"I don't know," she answered, a quiver sneaking its way into her voice. She didn't know what was wrong. She didn't know what had happened to Sam and Dean, what help they would need, if anyone would even get to them in time. What if this was all for nothing? What if they were too late?
No, Jody. Can't think like that.
She took in a deep breath and then said, "Probably."
"Do you want a call when we find out more about what happened?"
"Please."
"Thank you, Sheriff. We'll be in touch."
The phone call ended and she heaved out a breath. She was glad more questions hadn't been asked, that the deputy hadn't felt the need to pry and find out why she was getting involved. He'd sounded professional, the type who only focused on what was necessary to get the job done.
It's okay, she told herself. Sam and Dean are gonna be in good hands.
Next she called Claire.
"Hey, Mom," the young woman answered when she picked up. "What are you doing calling me? Shouldn't you be working?"
"Claire, are you at home?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Pack me a bag. There's an emergency and I need to go to Lebanon for a bit."
"Lebanon… Isn't that… Isn't that where Sam and Dean live? Is everything okay?"
"I got a call from Sam," she explained. Her voice caught in her throat and she was unable to go on.
Her heart twinged. Oh god, what if she lost them? Jody wasn't ready to say goodbye. She'd already watched her family die once before. She wasn't ready for it to happen again.
"And?" Claire prompted.
"He… he couldn't say much, just that he needed help. He didn't sound so good."
"I'm coming with you," her daughter spoke, voice determined.
"No," she told her. "No, you and Alex have to stay behind and hold down the fort."
"But-"
"No buts," she snapped. Guilt from using such a harsh tone crept over her instantly, but she didn't have it in her to apologize. There were just too many worries racing through her mind. After a deep breath she went on in a gentler voice, "I have to go alone."
There was a pause as Claire thought the situation over. Then: "Okay. I'll have your bags ready for you when you get home."
"Thank you," she breathed. "I'll see you in a few minutes."
Claire hung up without another word, and Jody focused her attention back on the road. She just had to get home, grab her things, and then she'd be off. And hopefully when she got to Lebanon her friends would still be alive.
Dean gently shook Sam, a strange sensation rising up in his chest when he didn't move.
"Sam?" he got out, voice barely above a whisper. "Sammy? Wake up," he pleaded. "Please… you gotta wake up." Nothing. "Wake up!" he wailed.
His brother still remained unconscious. Dean pressed his forehead against him, and his body heaved violently as it tried to sob, but he hardly had any tears left. He reached out with his good hand and held it under Sam's nose. Air tickled against his skin. Relief rushed through him.
A shiver ran through him as the feeling of Castiel's body pressed against his entered his mind, of Lucifer… of Lucifer using his angel to hurt him. He sniffled, and he lay there, unsure of what to do.
Surely Jody would take too long to get to them. It'd be too late. The blood that was still seeping from his finger told him that. A puddle of blood was now forming underneath his brother's still body, beginning to coat Dean's skin. Time was of the essence.
He heaved himself upwards, his arms trembling with the exertion, his right shoulder wanting to give out on him. His head began to pound. Dean groaned, but he pushed through the pain, and he did his best to roll Sam onto his back. His brother was dead weight.
Not caring how much this was going to hurt, he pressed his right hand over the knife wound on Sam's back. His finger seared and he cried out, but he didn't let go of his brother. Dean added his weight to the pressure he was putting on Sam's back. And there he stayed, his head bowed, pain and exhaustion clouding his mind, sadness and confusion stabbing into his very being.
He didn't necessarily think as the minutes passed. No, that wasn't what this was. Instead, those minutes were filled with suffering; suffering in which he relived what had started possibly hours ago. He relived his brother screaming, Lucifer thrusting into him viciously, uncaringly. He relived the knife being plunged into his finger, being forced onto his knees to pleasure the dark angel using his best friend's body. He relived Cas' tears falling onto his face as he gently moved in and out of him, relived the torment of his friend trying to fulfill the Devil's wishes, relived him biting into his shoulder as he came inside him. Dean's body throbbed and an undignified whimper escaped him. In that moment he was acutely aware of the cum trailing down between his thighs, and he had to swallow back bile and the extra saliva his body started making. He wasn't sure he even had the strength to puke.
Dean's soul seemed to be shrieking, and he didn't understand. He just didn't understand.
The burning memories dispersed when bangs sounded on the bunker door. Dean tiredly lifted his head up and tried focusing his blurry gaze. It did no use. There were just fuzzy blobs of color in his vision.
The bangs sounded again, like harsh drum beats. Someone was trying to get in.
Fear clenched a hand around his heart and yanked it upwards, into his throat. But then he realized that whoever was trying to get in had to be friendly. Surely if they were unfriendly they'd be powerful enough to break through the locks and the wardings. But what if… what if something bad was out there? What if something evil was wearing the face of a friend?
Jody. It's just Jody.
But wait. That didn't make sense. She was too far away to get there that fast. Maybe Sam would've been better off calling 911. But no, Dean didn't want that. He didn't want strangers seeing his home, having access to their safe haven. And what if one of them wasn't who they said they were? They could get their hands on so much knowledge. They could hurt them.
The banging sounded again.
Jody must've called the station in Lebanon. That was the only explanation.
His worn mind tried telling him that he was going to be attacked again, that there was no one friendly on the other side of that door, that they wouldn't be saved.
With great strain, he ignored it.
Unsure of what else to do, Dean clambered to his feet, wincing as pain lanced through him.
"Sammy," he urged. "Sammy, get up."
He reached down, his head spinning, and weakly tugged at his brother's arm.
"Sammy…"
A groan left his little brother.
"We gotta move," Dean said.
"N-no."
"Come on."
"Die."
That gave Dean pause. "What?"
"Lemme… lemme die."
Fear stabbed him and conviction flowed forth from the wound. "Not happening," he growled out.
Adrenaline sparked through his veins, granting him strength. It flooded through him, drowning out his pain, his worries. And somehow, somehow he picked up his brother, putting him over his shoulder. God, he was so heavy. His stomach churned at the wetness of his brother's blood, sweat, and cum touching his skin, but Dean pushed through it. He had to.
Without thinking he quoted, his own voice scraping against his throat, "I can't carry the ring, but I can carry you."
Samwise Gamgee. He was going to be just like Samwise Gamgee. Here they were at what seemed like the end of all things for them, just like Frodo and Sam; beaten and worn and broken. He took a step forward, his legs shaking. And another step. And then another.
Dean walked from the library to the war room, and he kept going, climbing up the stairs just like Sam had climbed up the rocky side of Mount Doom with Frodo tossed over his shoulder. And just like Frodo, Sam's breathing was harsh, whistling.
He made it to the door.
Dean placed his brother down as gently as he could, and Sam cried out. His hands were trembling fiercely and the blood that coated them made his grip slippery, but he got the door open. He collapsed to his knees as the blue and red of police lights flashed into his vision, causing his burning and itchy eyes to ache. Sirens wailed.
Help had come, and in that moment, Dean was too grateful to feel ashamed about the state he was in. He was going to be saved. His brother was going to be saved. Hands reached for him, and he lost consciousness.
Castiel was trapped.
After Lucifer had...
After…
Lucifer had locked him back in his head, cutting Castiel off from all of his senses. Now he appeared to be in the dungeon in the bunker. He'd already tried leaving, but it was useless. A cold laugh met his ears, and he shivered. It seemed to surround him, echoing off the walls.
His laugh was joined by Sam and Dean's screams, and Cas covered his ears, backing up till he was against the wall. The sounds of his friends' agony didn't stop, and he slid to the floor, a sob escaping him. Tears tracked their way down his cheeks.
He didn't question why his brother had hurt them, and he realized he should've expected it.
"What have I done?"
A voice sounded throughout the dungeon, and it dug into him, causing him to shiver, "You let me in."
"That was so we could stop Amara!" he shouted out.
He didn't know what to feel, what to think. He hated himself, he wanted to die, he wanted to go to his friends, he wanted to expel Lucifer, he wanted to know why. Why all this?
His brother appeared in front of him, looking like his vessel from the apocalypse, and his dull, blue eyes held pity and amusement.
"Oh, Castiel," he breathed, crouching down near him. "So naïve. Did you really think that I wasn't going to try and at least have a little fun with this? You gave me a free ticket. I'm out. Why would I restrain myself?"
"You don't have to be this," he explained in a gruff tone. "I know Dad casting you out hurt, I know the Mark changed you, but Lucifer, you don't have to be what everyone says you are."
He chuckled. "What? You mean the Devil?"
Cas nodded.
He flinched as he reached out and caressed his face. Castiel wanted to tell himself that Lucifer wouldn't hurt him the way he'd used his body to hurt Sam and Dean, but… he just couldn't be sure. He remembered when they'd first met, they way he'd looked at him. It wasn't any different from how he looked at anyone else really. He knew Lucifer just saw everyone as objects to play with, to use. Surely he wasn't any different.
Their eyes met and he swallowed roughly.
"I like being the Devil, Castiel," he intoned. "No responsibility, no right or wrong - and now, thanks to you, there's just freedom." He slid his hand from his face and stood, beginning to pace. "Of course, I do have to get rid of Auntie Amara, but after that…" he shrugged. "After that I can do whatever the hell I want." He snickered.
Cas said nothing, and his brother tilted his head at him.
"I'm guessing you're mad about earlier?"
Now it was Cas' turn to look at him as if he were stupid. Lucifer rolled his eyes.
"Come on, Castiel, don't be like that."
Anger flared in him and he surged towards Lucifer. But then he found he couldn't move. His brother looked smug.
"You didn't have to hurt them," he growled out.
He shrugged. "So? It was fun. And look what it's doing to you." Another laugh left him. "But I mean, you let all this happen. You said yes."
Cas opened his mouth to speak, to argue, but no words came out. They died on his tongue. His brother was right. This was all his fault.
But Castiel had to burrow through his guilt. He had to know what was happening, what Lucifer was doing to them. The last sensation he'd had was of Lucifer emptying inside of Dean. He squeezed his eyes shut, more tears falling.
Dean. Oh, Dean, I'm so sorry. He wished he could tell him that, tell him that he hadn't wanted this, that he hadn't wanted to hurt him, that he hadn't wanted to hurt Sam. Sam… He thought he now understood what humans meant when they spoke of heartbreak. His chest hurt, the pain seeming to actually be something physical, like someone had punched him. Like someone was still punching him. Sam shouldn't have had to be touched like that, not again. He'd never spoken of it before, but Castiel had been able to tell. There'd been something in his eyes, a pain of some sort, and it'd never left. And now Lucifer had violated him again. He'd violated Dean. And he'd used his body to do it… because he'd said yes.
Begging would be useless. He'd witnessed it firsthand, but he had to try.
"Please… Please don't hurt them again."
Lucifer sighed, now seeming weary. "Look, I'd love to, I really would, but Sam activated an angel banishing sigil."
Hope sparked amongst Castiel's guilt and dark, dreadful shame. "He did?"
"Yep. He's strong, that one. I'll give him that."
He breathed a sigh of relief, and sank down onto the floor again.
"Glad to see I got such a reaction out of you," he commented. "Maybe I should use your body to do that again, to someone else this time. What do you think?"
Castiel couldn't respond. He was too lost amongst the shadows of his own despair.
"Eh, I suppose it doesn't matter what you think. This body's mine now. Thanks for that. You have no idea how grateful I truly am. I'll see you later, Castiel. Or not."
And then Castiel was left all alone in the dungeon, still trapped within the confines of his mind.
The aching in his chest grew, pounding away with each beat of his heart, strengthening till it reached an insurmountable height. Darkness and guilt and pain pressed in around him, slicing and carving down to his Grace, into it.
Castiel started screaming, and he had a feeling that it would be a very long time before he stopped.
Sam woke up. And he hadn't wanted to. But he hadn't even been able to escape his pain in unconsciousness. Now it was more prominent. There was a wailing noise, and he blearily opened his eyes, trying to figure out where it was coming from.
He was in an ambulance, the space cramped with paramedics, and they were touching him, cleaning him off. His skin crawled, and a sound akin to a growl left him. Though his very soul ached, Sam found it in him to buck against the restraints holding him to the gurney.
There were more hands on him, holding him down, and he cried out. Men. They were all men.
"You're safe," one of the paramedics assured him. "You're gonna be okay. You're being taken to Smith County Memorial Hospital."
"Let go of me!" Sam cried.
His struggles renewed when they didn't listen. Oh god, he just wanted them to stop touching him. Why did people not listen when he told them not to touch him? A chill ran through him, and he was back in the bunker, Lucifer stroking his erect manhood, his grip too tight.
Sensation flared through him and the scene changed. He was on his stomach, the Devil pounding into him, tearing him apart.
No, no, no. It's over. It's over. I'm not there anymore. He's not here, he's not here, he's not here.
Sam took in shuddering breaths as reality slowly flooded back to him.
Ambulance. He was in an ambulance.
He was being touched.
But they were trying to help him.
His terrified mind didn't want to believe that, and he had to fight with himself to remain still. Maybe if he focused on something other than the hands on him.
Dean. Where was Dean?
Sam tilted his head, searching for him. His brother was on his left, and there was a blanket covering his unconscious form. One of the paramedics was tending to his shoulder, and another was opening his eyelids, shining a light into his eyes.
Just then, it felt like someone had smashed a hammer against the little finger of his left hand. He screamed, squeezing his eyes shut.
Lucifer was gripping his finger, and he snapped it with ease. His cruel laugh took over his mind, and then he felt his lips against his. And they'd been Castiel's lips too. Disgust wrenched at Sam's already weak stomach.
Someone began harshly feeling over the knuckles of his right hand and he took in a shuddering breath.
"He's gonna need x-rays," the paramedic said, "but from what I can tell he's got three fractured metacarpal bones."
"Can you tell us what happened?" another voice asked.
Sam shook his head, and then instantly regretted it. A burst of pain shot through his skull and dizziness overcame him. He groaned.
"Okay, just try to lie still. We'll be at the hospital soon."
A paramedic with a notepad and a pen informed him, "Sir, we'll need to know your blood type."
"O negative," Sam responded. "Dean too."
The one who'd spoken to him reassuringly said, "Okay, you're gonna feel a slight pinch. The doctors will need to do a blood transfusion when you get to the hospital, so I'm just getting the IV ready."
There was a prick on his right arm, stinging, and then the sensation burrowed deeper. Mixed in with everything else, Sam just couldn't take it. A whimper left him and his cheeks heated with shame.
Lucifer's hands were on him again, but they were familiar, the hands of his friend. And they held him down as he ruined him.
Weariness overcame Sam again, and though his heart was beating fiercely from the hands still touching him, he sank into unconsciousness once more.
Lights. There were lights shining into his face, people looking down at him, all of them unfamiliar. All Sam wanted to do was hide. From what he could tell he was being rolled down a hallway.
"We need a transfusion of O negative blood," one voice said. A woman. That reassured Sam. "And he needs to be prepped for surgery."
That last statement sent cold panic through him. It was frightening not knowing what was going to be done to him, and he tried to tell himself that they were simply doing it to help him. But he just couldn't believe it. He was too tired to fight, so he lay there, his breath coming in harsh, wheezing gasps.
There was a pinching sensation at the inner part of his left arm, followed by a sting that turned into soreness. Doors opened and he was moved into a sterile, white room, cabinets with sharp, metallic objects lining the walls.
His horrified mind conjured up an image of the Cage, and he could've sworn he heard chains rattling.
The gurney he was on stopped moving, the straps holding him in place were unbuckled, and more hands were on him. Wires were hooked up to him, and he jerked as ones were placed just above his hips. That was just too close to his groin in his opinion. A pulse ox monitor was placed on his finger, and erratic beeping started up. Sam's injuries throbbed as he was lifted up and placed on his stomach on a table.
Surgeons moved around the room, grabbing the necessary instruments they'd need, and a nurse was eyeing him intently, probably trying to accurately guess his height and weight. Sam wanted to give them the information, but his mouth didn't want to move, his aching jaw protesting.
Numbers were spoken out, and others began talking. There were words he didn't understand, medical terms, and the heart monitor spoke of his racing pulse. What were they going to do to him? A mask was fitted over his face, and he was met by an awful, overpowering smell.
He was snatched from consciousness once more, falling into swirling blackness.
A needle and thread tugging at Dean's finger woke him. He tried to shift his hand away, but there was someone holding his wrist down.
"Lie still," a man told him. "I'm almost done stitching up you up."
The beeping of a heart monitor impinged itself on his senses, and the sounds of it only became more incessant as he came to. He opened his eyes… only to be met with colorful blurs.
Oh god.
"I-I can't see," Dean choked out. "I can't see!"
"You have damage to your corneas," the man stitching up his finger explained, his voice eerily calm. "It's too early to tell, but you may need to wear glasses."
A tortured moan left him and he closed his eyes again. A tear fell free, sliding down his cheek.
Luckily he didn't just feel the sensation of the sheet and heated blanket on him. They'd dressed him too, in some pants and a johnnie. It felt good to have clothes on again.
The stinging and tugging at his finger stopped, only for fingers to press at the wound on his shoulder. He winced, his body seizing up.
The doctor tending to him was now pressing tape against his skin, using it to close up the wound.
"This will most likely need stitches later," he explained, "but since it's a bite you do have the risk of getting an infection. You might need surgery."
Dean didn't respond. He was tired. He was just so tired. How was it possible to feel this terrible and still be alive, to hurt so much and still have his heart pumping blood through him? His throat ached, a sign that he was going to start crying. Dean clenched his jaw, trying to hold it back. A whine slipped out, and then he held his breath, not wanting any more sounds as embarrassing as that to leave him.
"Your name is Dean Winchester, correct?" the doctor asked him.
He nodded and exhaled, trying to keep his breath steady. He didn't even bother asking how the doctor knew his name. Jody must've told whoever she'd contacted.
"Dean, my name is Dr. Michael, and I'll be taking care of you. Now, do you think you could tell me what happened? I know it'll be painful to talk about, but it looks like you were raped. The police will want a statement. There's a deputy standing guard outside your door right now, just until we're sure you're not in any further danger."
His took in the rest of what the doctor had said, but his mind focused on the first sentence, and despite how god damn awful he felt, Dean started laughing. Of course he got a doctor with the last name Michael. Of course! The way his laughter caused his muscles to tense hurt his strained and battered body, but he just couldn't calm down.
His breaths quickened, his diaphragm working on overtime, and then he began to hyperventilate. Tears were streaming down his face, dripping off of his chin and jaw.
There was a voice trying to reach him, shouting. A pair of hands was on him, and he shivered, remembering the way Lucifer had held him to him, caressing his skin. And they'd felt like Cas' hands.
And then he couldn't breathe. His hands and feet began to tingle, along with the inside of his head. His chest ached.
There was a prick on his arm, a burning wave, and then nothing.
"Sam!" Dean called out. "Sam!"
His little brother didn't answer him. The sound of him sobbing pierced through him. At the moment he couldn't tell if his brother was actually near him and crying or if it was just a memory.
He was pressed against the pillar in the bunker again, his eyes burning, the slap of skin on skin meeting his ears.
"Sam!"
He opened his eyes, and they stung as he did so. A racing series of beeps sounded nearby as he frantically looked around. Though he couldn't quite make out exactly what he was looking at Dean knew Sam wasn't there. He felt his absence like a hole in his heart.
"Where's my brother?" he asked frantically, recognizing that he wasn't alone in the room.
"Sh… Dean, it's okay. Relax."
It wasn't till a hand was gently pressing against his left shoulder that he realized he had sat up. He lay back down against the mountain of cushiony pillows, trying to ease the tension in his muscles.
"Where is he?"
"He's in surgery."
And now he recognized the calm, reassuring voice. It was Dr. Michael. Dean nearly started laughing again. He blinked, and a growl left him when his vision remained imperfect.
"Is he… is he gonna be okay?"
"I don't know," Dr. Michael answered honestly. "I can check on him for you if you want."
"Please."
"Alright. I'll be right back. A nurse will be in very shortly to take your vitals again, just to make sure you're stable."
Dean nodded, and closed his eyes.
Now that he was all alone he was left with his thoughts.
How long had Sam been in surgery? Just how badly had he been injured? Would he ever be able to forgive him?
It didn't matter to Dean that he'd been incapable of moving, that Lucifer had restrained him with his powers. His little brother had been hurt under his watch. And he'd been helpless. Despair stabbed at his heart. Oh god, he'd been so helpless, so weak, so useless, so… so… worthless. He was worthless. What good was he if he couldn't even protect Sammy?
What if Sam was left with lasting physical damage? What if he didn't make it? He'd just lost so much blood. What if help hadn't gotten to them on time and he was now dying on the operating table? A shiver ran through him. He couldn't even comprehend what kind of surgery they were performing on him. He did know one thing though, it was most likely very invasive.
Dean's skin crawled. Both he and Sam had surely had enough of invasive lately. His cheeks heated as he remembered something Dr. Michael had said earlier. They knew he'd been…
He knew they were bound to find out. All the obvious signs were there, but it still struck a very uncomfortable nerve within Dean. He hadn't even wanted to be exposed in the first place earlier that day and now even more people had seen him naked.
But Castiel had been one of those people.
Dean didn't know how to feel about that. Sure, he'd wanted to eventually have sex with Cas. It'd been something he'd dreamed about, thought about. But he hadn't wanted what Lucifer had done to him. He had taken Cas' thoughts and warped them, had used him. Cas had been violated just as much as he had been, maybe even more so since his head was open to be scoured through by the Devil.
A cold stone plunged into his stomach, and it twisted in on it. Dean felt it as an actual physical sensation and he braced his left hand against his abdomen, a grunt leaving him.
The fact that he'd even seen Castiel naked hurt as well. He knew his friend didn't care so much about things like privacy and sex, didn't understand those concepts the way humans did, but he remembered wanting to take his clothes off. He'd started trying to even before Lucifer had ordered him to. There was something deeply wrong about that. Oh god… Had he… Had he violated his friend too?
A spark of desire, unwanted and uncalled for, flared to life in him as he remembered the way Castiel had moved inside of him, had kissed him gently, lovingly, even. That had been the only source of light amongst the evils he'd experienced. But then… but then he'd given in to Satan's wishes, taking him much too forcefully. And Dean hadn't wanted it.
The treacherous burst of desire transformed into anger, and he clenched his left hand into a fist. He just wanted to punch something. Finding Lucifer and slamming his fist into his face crossed his mind, but the thought also made it hard to breathe. Maybe if Cas ever came back to him he'd punch him in the face.
This was all because he'd allowed himself to be possessed by Lucifer. And he'd given in, hurting him. He just couldn't comprehend that, Castiel, his best friend, would do such a thing to him.
But he'd done an awful thing as well when he'd tried to undress him earlier.
Then what he was truly feeling hit Dean. Disgust. Profound and disturbing disgust had taken hold of him, had etched itself into his brain, like hammers and pickaxes chiseling away at stone. He was disgusting. He'd gotten aroused from watching and hearing his brother be assaulted. He'd tried to take Cas' clothes off. The Devil had come undone deep inside of him. He was dirtied, stained, ruined. Broken.
"Mr. Winchester?" a woman asked, careering his thoughts from their downward spiral. He looked to the doorway to the right of the room in pure instinct. He saw a skinny blur of black hair, dark skin, and blue. The blue must've been the scrubs she was wearing.
"I'm Nurse Shawna. I'm here to take your vitals."
Dean nodded his understanding, and breathed in deeply through his nose, trying to calm his turbulent thoughts. The last thing he wanted to do was start crying again.
He zoned out as the nurse took his temperature and his blood pressure. It was a struggle to do so because all his mind wanted to do was replay his torture. With his left hand he clutched desperately at the sheet and the other shook, wanting to do the same. Though nearly everything was blurry except for objects that were close to him, he opened his eyes. Maybe if he saw that he wasn't in the bunker he'd be okay.
But he wasn't okay. He wanted his home, he wanted his own bed. He didn't want strangers looking at him, touching him, asking questions. He just wanted to rest unhindered. And maybe never get up again. That seemed like a good option too.
"Your blood pressure's high," the nurse informed him, drawing him from his dark thoughts, "but you don't have a fever yet, so that's good."
"Are you expecting me to get a fever?" he asked, his voice sounding distant even to himself.
"It's possible," she said. "In the next few days we'll have to make sure your shoulder doesn't get infected. I think Dr. Michael has already prescribed you a course of antibiotics just to try and fight it before it even starts."
There was a knock on the door, and then it opened. The blur he saw looked a little familiar, so he supposed it was the doctor. He sat up, asking, "Sam? Is he okay?"
"He'll live," he answered. "They got him stable about an hour and a half ago."
A sigh of relief left Dean, and he lowered himself back down into the pillows.
"Sam is still in surgery," he went on. "The doctor I spoke to said he could be in there for another one to two hours."
"What are they doing to him?" Dean questioned.
"I'm not at liberty to say."
Dean tilted his head away, his jaw clenching in frustration.
The nurse pulled Dr. Michael aside and they spoke quietly for a bit. Then, he came over to him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"He's gonna be okay, Dean."
He shook his head. "No. No, he's not."
Awareness reached Sam. Not much at first, all he knew was that he was awake. He was lying on his stomach, a warm blanket covering him. An annoying beeping met his ears, and he just wanted it to stop. He growled out in frustration, and opened his eyes, trying to lift up his head to see where the awful noise was coming from. He couldn't figure it out. The room was bright, the light hurting his eyes at first.
Proper thoughts couldn't form, but he knew one thing. He didn't want to be here.
His face felt wet, but he ignored it. At the most it was just a nuisance, nothing that could really harm him. Besides that he felt almost nothing. He was numb from the waist down, and it felt like his body had been stuffed with cotton.
Sam saw his left hand lying next to him, and his little finger was in a splint. He slowly turned his head, wanting to assess his other hand. His right one was wrapped in bandages, and despair swept in on him. He couldn't feel his legs, and he wouldn't be able to defend himself if need be since his hands were injured.
The beeping grew incisive, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He heard something, someone speaking to him, something was pressing against his lips.
Lucifer thrusted his bloodied cock into his mouth, one hand in his hair, the other wrapping around his throat.
A jolt of fear shot through him, and before he knew what he was doing, he was sitting up, his legs going over the side of the bed. There was a second of relief as he realized that he still had them, but then terror surged up from his stomach. Without thinking, he struck out with his left hand, his fingers balled into a fist. There was a cry of pain from his attacker, and he saw them stumbling away, a hand covering their face. Sam couldn't really take in their features, just saw a shock of brown hair.
It didn't matter, really. He had to get away. He had to.
Tubes tugged at his arms as he tried to rise, and he angrily ripped them out, causing something hot and sticky and red to splatter onto him. He felt the sensation of the needles sliding out of his skin, but no pain. He couldn't feel any pain, could barely feel anything.
He struggled to his feet, his muscles shaking, not wanting to cooperate with him. The wetness fell from his face onto his chest. Sam took a step forward, preparing to run, but instead, he crashed to the tiled floor. A scream left him and he tried to rise, but he just couldn't get back up. There was shouting, and strong hands were on him.
He thrashed weakly.
"No!" he bellowed. "No!" The next words were hard to form, his lips battling to remain still, but he forced them out, he needed them to be said: "Let go of me! Let me go! Please! Ple-ease!"
They didn't listen to him. He tried to get himself out of their grip, but there were arms wrapped around him. His head swam and nausea curled in his stomach from feeling a hard, muscular body against his own.
Sam pitched forward, his body heaved once, and then he puked on the floor. Blood was mixed in with it, his own blood that he'd had to willingly swallow. The taste was sour and metallic on his tongue, and he coughed.
A desperate cry left him as he was dragged back over to the bed, and forced down onto his stomach.
Lucifer's hands were on his waist, rolling him over so that he'd be exposed to him. The sound of a zipper being undone met his ears, and he felt his erection against him. He squeezed his eyes shut, a moan leaving him.
Leather straps were being wrapped around his wrists and ankles, and people held his arms down as needles were put back into him. Then, gentle, feminine hands were feeling over his back, lifting up the johnnie that'd been covering him.
There were men dressed in black standing around him, and his heart crawled its way up into his aching throat. But they didn't touch him, just the woman who was checking him over. Her touch didn't bother him so much, but her presence was still unwanted. Sam just wanted to be left alone, never to be seen or spoken to ever again. He didn't want to exist. Why did he have to exist?
Anger burned through him when it came to him why he existed. He existed for Lucifer to be inside of him. And his numb insides began to ache, phantom pains of the Devil stretching and filling him, tearing him apart.
A shudder ran through him. There were more voices, and the men left.
"Sam, do you think you can drink anything?" a sweet voice asked.
He swallowed roughly, remembering the last thing he'd had to drink: his own blood. He wanted to change that.
"Yeah," he answered quietly. "I-I think so."
He squeezed his eyes shut when he felt something pressing against his lips again, but he told himself it was only just a straw. And it was. The drink was bubbly and sweet; ginger ale, maybe.
At first his stomach wanted to protest against having anything in it, gurgling angrily, but then it calmed. The straw was pulled from his lips and he forced himself to take a deep breath. Things were starting to make more sense to him. He was waking up from surgery.
The woman spoke again, and Sam thought she was probably a nurse. "I have to look under your bandages to make sure you haven't pulled any stitches out."
"Sure," Sam muttered.
Now he was starting to hurt, just a little bit. Whatever they'd given him for the pain must still be in his system, but he'd probably injured himself further when he'd tried escaping. He still wanted to escape.
Cold air met his skin as his bandages were lifted up, and the nurse made a small, pitying sound. "You might feel a tugging sensation," she explained a second later. "But the morphine should keep you from feeling anything else."
Her gloved hand was at his back again, and his mind flashed to Lucifer pressing down into the wound. His muscles tensed, and his breath wouldn't come to him.
"Am I hurting you?" she asked, taking her hand away.
"N-no…" he got out. "No. Not you, not you."
"Okay. Just let me know if you feel any pain."
Then what he'd done about a minute ago hit him. He'd hurt someone.
"Who did I… who did I… hurt?"
"One of the other nurses," she answered, as she moved about the room, collecting what she would need from cabinets and drawers.
"Are they okay?"
"Probably. He's got a bloody nose, though."
"Oh."
Sam didn't know what to feel about that. He hadn't meant to hurt an innocent person, but he'd been so sure that they were going to hurt him. He'd been positive that he was getting attacked again.
The nurse's hands were at his back again, and he began to feel slight tugs against his skin. He winced, and a memory of his knife slicing into him pounded itself into his mind. He groaned, and pulled at his restraints. He had to get away. He just had to.
"Sam, please, you have to lie still."
He didn't listen, continuing to tug at the leather straps around his ankles and wrists. Burning and stabbing sensation burst to life in his back, and a whimper left him. More of the wetness fell from his face, onto his pillow, and he realized what it was. Tears. He was crying.
Despite his struggles, the nurse continued her work, and she spoke soothing words to him the whole time. But he didn't take any of them in. The words were empty, meaningless.
The stabs of agony faded and he heaved in a breath, his muscles relaxing somewhat on the exhale. The nurse had finished with his stitches, pulling his bandages back over him. He wanted the sheet and blanket over him again as well, but she didn't do that. Instead he felt her reaching for the pants he'd been put in.
Sam renewed his struggles.
"No, no…"
"I'm not going to hurt you," she told him.
A harsh, cynical laugh bubbled up out of his chest.
"I just have to make sure you're not bleeding from any of the surgical sites," she explained.
That did make sense, but his emotions weren't running on logic. They were running on pure fear, and the fear was urging him to find a way to slip his restraints, to get up and leave the bed. A deeper part of him was even telling him to attack the nurse, to hurt her before she could hurt him.
His pants were pulled down, and a warning growl left him. He pulled and pulled at the straps on his wrists, but they held. There was pressure. He was being touched again. Because of the morphine being pumped through one of his IVs the sensations didn't reach him as intensely as he'd expected. But they were there alright. She was spreading apart the cheeks of his ass, one finger slipping lower. Heat flooded him, only for cold to rise up and combat it. His confused and weary body trembled. And then her hands were moving again, reaching under his hips, groping at his length.
The Devil was tugging his erection in a manner that could almost be described as aggressive, and his hips thrusted into him at a wild pace. Searing pleasure and agony clawed into him, leaving hooks beneath his skin.
Sam's body bucked into her touch, and he bit the pillow, ignoring the way doing so hurt his jaw. Tears fell from his closed eyes, and his cheeks reddened. A lance of shame stabbed through the very center of his chest, and it was pushed through him till it came out the other side. Disgust crawled its way inside of him, making a home within.
The nurse said something, but Sam didn't comprehend her words. He was too busy breathing out a sigh of relief because she was no longer touching him, and she'd pulled the blanket back over him. He tried to ignore the fact that his pants were still down. But then she left his side, and the door opened. Sam turned his head as he heard footsteps, and the bottom dropped out of his stomach when he saw two men entering the room.
He wanted to open his mouth and ask what was going on, but no words came to him.
The nurse was walking back over to him and she explained, "Sam, they're just here to make sure you don't hurt yourself again."
There was a silence at the end of her words, something unspoken. Sam knew what it was. They were there to make sure he didn't hurt anyone else.
She went over to the left side of the bed and he could no longer see her. Sam kept his eyes on the security guards, watching them as intently as they watched him.
"Sam, look at me," she intoned.
He clenched his sore jaw, but didn't do as she said. He wasn't going to turn his back on those men.
"Sam, please," she said. "If you turn this way they won't have to see."
That caught his attention.
"Huh?"
He turned his head to her, and then she started reaching for the leather strap around his left wrist. "I need to put you on your side, okay? You're bleeding, so I'm going to need to put some pressure on it."
He frowned as she went and undid the strap on his left ankle. "W-where am I… bleeding?"
The nurse looked up at the security guards, and then told him in a quiet voice, "Your penis. The surgeon had to perform a visceral angiogram to determine how much damage you have to your gastrointestinal tract."
Sam's cheeks colored at the first sentence, but then he was confused by what else she'd said. He didn't feel like asking for her to explain further. Perhaps it was better not knowing what had been done to him. It was over now. That's all that mattered.
She helped him roll onto his side, making sure the blanket stayed over him so that the security guards in the room couldn't see more of his skin. He was at least thankful for that. A grunt left him when the nurse pressed some gauze to his groin, and he closed his eyes.
Exhaustion pulled at him, his eyelids feeling heavy. Sam just wanted to go back to sleep, but he couldn't, not while he was being touched, not while there were others in the room.
His mind wandered, back to the bunker library, but now instead of reliving being violated, he was reliving watching his brother be violated. Oh god, he hadn't been able to do anything to save him. He hadn't even been able to get Lucifer to finish with him in time to save his eyesight. Now his brother was damaged.
"Where's… where's Dean?" he asked, having difficulty forming the words. "Where's my brother?"
"He'll be okay."
Sam wasn't sure he believed that. He wanted Dean with him. He wanted to see him, to know that he was safe. And he wanted his older brother because he was terrified without him. Sam didn't like how helpless he felt, didn't like that he couldn't control what was happening to him, what was being done to him, what had been done to him.
His tears fell anew, and his throat tightened. He just wanted to be held by his older brother, and in that moment, he was too hurt to care how very childlike that thought was. He just wanted Dean.
