A/N: WARNING: This fic contains graphic depictions of violence, and mentions of rape/non-con.
Prompts are as follows:
Shoving the whumpee against the wall with the whumpee's back to the wall, their arms pinned above their head by a single hand
Shoving the whumpee against the wall with the whumpee's face and chest against the wall, a hand painfully pulled behind their back (bonus if their nose starts bleeding because of the impact)
Gripping their chin and lifting it to make them look up at the whumper
Grabbing a handful of their hair and forcing their head up to make them look up at the whumper
Grabbing a handful of their hair to drag them somewhere (preferably to a torture room)
Forcing them to kneel by a kick to the knees and a well twisted arm behind their back, maybe even pushing their head down
Throwing them to the floor face up and holding their arms to the sides of their body. The whumper using the weight of their body to keep the whumpee's legs on the ground
Throwing them to the floor face down with the whumper's boot pressing on their back, forcing the air out of their lungs
Grabbing them and pulling them close to keep them from running away, putting a hand over their mouth so they can't scream for help
Making them face the whumper when they're close, having to breathe in their scent and see their smug victorious smile
Dragging them with hands under their arms, not letting them stand up long enough to kick themselves away
Dragging them by the legs, pulling harder when they grip furniture and door frames to keep themselves from being taken to inevitable doom
Or just picking them up and carrying them bridal style when they're too delirious/drugged up/weak to fight back
Sam roared in Lucifer's face as the Devil did the same, but his voice turned into a weak, strangled cry as he was shoved, hard. His back banged against the archaic stone of the Cage, knocking some of the air out of him, and he almost tumbled to the bottom.
Lightning flashed.
The only thing that kept him from falling was Lucifer charging at him. He found himself pressed up against the wall, breathing hard, Lucifer's eyes red as he growled in his face.
It took all of Sam's willpower to not whimper. But thank, whoever-the-hell-failed-at-running-the-universe, he didn't have normal bodily functions in the Cage. He didn't have to worry about the totally understandable yet awfully humiliating reaction of wetting himself. Still, his insides felt weak, his knees shook.
Sam tried to fight, but it was useless. He had the bigger body, but Lucifer was an archangel. Sam was nothing compared to that.
Nothing.
His hands ended up pinned above his head, wrists held together by one of Lucifer's hands. The other hand went to his throat, cradling it, caressing it, like it was the sweetest, purest thing in existence.
Sam took in a shaky breath.
Glowing red eyes drank their fill of him.
"Lucifer! Lucifer, no! Stop! We can work this out!" Dean cried into the chill air.
A malicious laugh met their ears, and Sam was grabbed from his place on the floor. He was bleeding, bruised, and he didn't even care if he would hurt more the next morning. He was hurting now. The pain now was all that mattered. Not any of the pain of the past, not the normal pains of every day life. Now.
Sam was dragged up to his feet, and he started struggling to his knees. He tried to grab Lucifer, to fight. But a hand expertly went around his throat, even clasping painfully at his jaw, thumb digging in.
A growl left Sam, but Lucifer just shoved his head forward till his neck twinged and he was met with a sharp pain that traveled up through the back of his head and down past his shoulder blades.
"I don't want a deal, Dean. Sammy here knows that."
Then he was pressed up against him, Sam breathing heavily, tears swimming in his vision.
"Don't you, Sammy?"
"Take me. Just leave Dean out of it," Sam gasped.
Lucifer scoffed. "Ew. Your hero complex is showing."
"Better than cowardice."
"Sam, don't provoke him."
Sam hardly needed Dean's warning, but he wasn't just going to take this. But then Dean was getting dragged forward as if by an invisible hand, feet dragging on the ground, limbs twitching as he struggled. Lucifer now held his hand out, palm glowing with deadly power. Sam screamed, trying to get him to let go of his neck, but he only succeeded in choking himself. Subsequently, his voice became gagged and strangled.
"Now, here's how this is going to work, Sammy. You cooperate, or big brother here takes a little trip to — oh, I was thinking… Hell. You wouldn't want that, would you? His death on your hands? His torture?"
Sam shook his head, tears falling now.
Dean started to say something, but he was thrown to the ground. Then Lucifer pushed Sam, rammed into him, until his face and chest were banging and scraping against rough stone. A cry left Sam. His hands were forced behind his back, shoulders pulling in the wrong ways until one of them popped out of place. He was writhing against the stone, widening bleeding scrapes.
It hurt!
Head pushed forward, face making fresh contact with the stone, Sam's nose began to bleed, that part of his face now throbbing, and numb.
Lucifer pressed against him hard, and he breathed hungrily into Sam's ear, "Let's do this, Sammy."
Attempting to back away as Satan approached did nothing. Sam found himself nearly against the wall, knees weak, the joints faulty with fear threatening to spill him onto the floor. He reached behind him for something, anything, to sturdy himself.
Lucifer kept walking forward.
Sam's hands grasped at nothing.
There was a bump as he met the wall of his motel room.
So this was it. This was him. The Devil. The Dark Prince. The archangel Sam was meant for.
"You're not getting me," Sam told him, not sure if he even believed it. But that bit of defiance made him feel good, let him know that he still owned himself for the moment, that he was alive, in his body.
And he was the only one in his body.
"Don't be so sure."
Sam wanted to spit at him, but his stomach turned with such turbulent force that he feared opening his mouth would have him throw up.
Was he breathing? He couldn't be sure. His heart was still beating, beating like it was trying to get out a lifetime of beats in a matter of minutes. The organ giving him life wanted to escape from under his ribs, free itself, find safety away from the greatest evil in creation.
It stayed in his chest.
Sam stayed rooted to the floor.
Lucifer was before him now, barely inches away.
This was real.
Sam snarled, mouth slightly open now, as the Devil grabbed his chin in his hand, and he lifted it up, observing him. Sam tried pulling away, but the hand just went with him, and forced him back into place. Their eyes met, and the vessel's blue that he looked into was the only bit of humanity that he saw. Mired within the blue, buried underneath, was sin, darkness. And it knew his mind.
Lucifer smirked. "You'll say yes. But not yet."
The grip on his chin tightened ever so slightly, and malice shot from the Devil's eyes into Sam's, straight through to his brain as ice cold jolts of wild, animal, electric fear.
He wouldn't say yes.
The Devil's eyes, and the grip on his chin told him he would.
Sam's knees had been kicked from behind by the monster that had been prowling around him, and he fell to the floor of the abandoned farmhouse they were in. Fire blazed around him. It was fueled with holy oil. Only the flames trapped him, not some deeper magic. Yet it was a different story for the being in the circle with him. Sam had wanted to work as bait, and now he sorely regretted that as Lucifer looked down at him. He wasn't grinning, wasn't triumphant. He was just thinking.
"You know, Sam, this playing hard to get is a little tiring, don't you think?"
Sam started to struggle to his feet. Lucifer thrust out a hand, and Sam found himself pushed back onto his knees. He grunted, and tried to fight. Not even his arms were free from Lucifer's hold. And since the power was staying inside the circle, there were no limitations.
"If you think I'm saying yes right now then God abandoned you as the crazy one for a reason."
Lucifer held out a hand, almost like he was going to point at him sternly, but then he clenched his hand into a fist, and brought it to his side.
A laugh that didn't speak of joy, but rather frustration, left Lucifer. He smiled, eyes glittering like dark chips of ice. "Sometimes you're just asking for it," he informed him.
Sam experienced a full body shudder, but it turned into tension that coiled around his muscles, as he was hardly able to move thanks to Lucifer's power.
"Yeah, says every rapist ever."
"You think you're so clever."
"Well, almost got a law degree," Sam snarked, "so maybe just a little."
Then Lucifer was before him, grabbing Sam's hair, and yanking back hard. Sam cried out and choked at the sudden way his airways were forced back. His eyes met the Devil's.
"You're mine," he snarled. "You know that. Deep down, you feel it. You want me, you need me. God made you for me. Your body, your mind — everything. I know you feel it too. It's how it's supposed to be: The two of us. So play your games, but I'm going to come out on top. I'm. Going. To get. Inside. You. And then I'm not going to leave. It's what has to be. You, me, the end of the world." A cold smile was directed his way that had fear wash over him in freezing, shuddering tingles. Sam's bowels felt watery. "I like the sass. So keep it up. But that just means, somewhere down the line, you're going to pay. And I'm a rough person, Sammy. You won't like me when I'm rough."
"I don't like you now," Sam forced out.
Lucifer's grip on his hair tightened. Sam tried to fight the pull on him, but his neck was drawn taut, twinging, aching.
"Shame," Lucifer told him. "Because I like you."
Sam wanted to say no kidding, but he really wasn't in a position to talk.
"Sam Winchester, you're perfect."
And still that cold, strong hand was in his hair.
Sam Winchester fought. It was no use. He was beaten senseless, body throbbing all over, bleeding in places. Every breath hurt, his ribs surely cracked. Sam couldn't get enough air in, and with the way his head pounded like someone was continuously whacking a hammer against his skull, he could barely see, let alone function. There was nothing he could do as Lucifer grabbed his hair and dragged him through his blood on the floor. Dragged him away…
After Sam killed the demons Lucifer got behind him. He kicked him behind his knees, pulling an arm back behind him to make him unstable. Sam fell to the hard, splintered wood of the abandoned complex in Detroit. Dead bodies lay around them.
Demon blood ran through Sam's veins.
It traveled through his carotid arteries, and his vertebral arteries to his brain, filling it with power, with the evil of it. It pumped through him, mixing with his organ systems, the once so human mechanisms of his body. It changed him, made him hot, angry, vision pounding, and red.
Chest bursting with want, with need, he reached out with his power, but Lucifer's lashed up against his own, and he couldn't get up.
Even now, he was weak.
The blood hadn't made him stronger.
As Lucifer stood over Sam Winchester, he knew one thing: It had only made his body perfect for the Devil.
Air was forced out of Sam in a coughing grunt as he landed hard on the bottom of the Cage on his back. His body throbbed and twinged with bruises that would soon come, and his lungs had yet to recover, gasping wildly, but air not getting in. Before he could take in a full breath, Lucifer was on him.
Sam screamed with what little air he had, and then choked and gagged.
Air. Oxygen. His lungs needed it. Even down here. Even dead. Even as his.
But there was no recovering.
The Devil pinned his arms down, and then he had a knee to his chest, keeping him down.
God, he looked human. Too human. Sam knew the body against his. Knew the face, the voice, the smell. Even through his shirt and Lucifer's jeans the touch was familiar. The shape of that leg was something he could never unknow.
"We're not done yet, roomie."
Arms pinned down, knee pressed too hard against his sternum, Sam got out, "Good, I thought you were getting sleepy."
This wasn't the first time that Sam was smacked into the floor, and it surely wouldn't be the last. That's just how his life went. As a hunter, as a Winchester, as Sam Winchester, he was in near-constant danger. Finding himself pressed to the floor by an unknown adversary in the dark of his motel room he shared with Dean was unwelcome, but not a surprise. Dean was groaning and crying out from across the room, already subdued somehow.
A boot pressed against Sam's back, the air leaving his lungs in a wheeze. He gasped, but there wasn't enough room for his lungs to expand to get all the necessary oxygen in. The muscles at the back of his ribcage were just too forced down to work. Oxygen wasn't getting in as much as it needed, and carbon dioxide and other waste gases stayed in, only trickling out in panicked exhales, and what little gasps he could get. It wasn't long before Sam felt light-headed.
The boot eased up, and Sam was able to demand, "What do you want?"
The boot stomped back down on him, making the air leave him in a low grunt, and he was left wincing on the floor.
The Devil said, "I thought that would be obvious."
Sam was running by an intersection in the hallway when it happened. He'd been trying to outrun a demon, keeping his eyes peeled for Lucifer, who had taken off minutes before. Dean had thought maybe Satan was fleeing, but Sam knew him better than that. He was watching, and he was waiting.
The waiting had seemed to pull off as Sam was dragged backwards, arms tight around him, the Devil's body up against his. Before he could scream, a familiar, strong hand covered his mouth, leaving his voice muffled. Too quiet to alert Dean for help.
Hips pressed against him, the hand drew tight over his lips and jaw.
"Surprise."
Sam didn't want him near him. He didn't want Him anywhere near him. But he was right there. He was in front of him, mere feet away. Then mere inches. Sam held his breath, not wanting to be bombarded with the godawful familiar smell. The smell that took him back to the Cage. The smell that reminded him of blood, and pain, and flesh against flesh, and screaming.
He was held, brought close. An inch separated them now.
And Sam could smell him, the Devil. He smelled as he always did. Cold, sharp, like an unwelcome almost-minty scent that tingled in the nose. And there was the uncanny sweetness of his still-metallic blood thoroughly mixed with his natural scent. That natural scent enveloped Sam as he came closer. It was darkness, power, and Sam trembled, knowing deep in his bones, and in his soul, that he was the weaker of the two. The scent washing over him gave him that information.
Sam closed his eyes, not wanting to see him. But then his smell became overwhelming. And he was no longer in that motel room.
Lucifer held him close, and Sam was enclosed in a Cage of stone.
Somehow, he knew, that Satan was smiling victoriously.
He hadn't meant to scream, but Sam was screaming anyway. He'd been kicked, beaten. Now his naked body was purple and blue, and blood licked at hot flesh as it seeped from multiple open wounds.
Lucifer was behind him, grabbing Sam, who was desperately holding onto the Cage, hoping, praying, that this would end, that if he just held off a little longer, that if he held on tight enough, it would all be over. Hell would be done with him.
But it wasn't.
The Devil wasn't.
Arms went under his, ripping, tearing.
Nails tore free, a deep soreness that Sam hadn't expected. It left his eyes flooding with tears.
He was practically tackled, put into a ball like he was some pathetic baby who needed to learn what was what. And then he was getting hauled backwards, sensitive skin tearing against rough stone.
"Let me go!" Sam cried. "Let me go!"
Sam forced his legs under him, got up, but then he was dragged back down.
Pop!
Sphhlt!
Crack!
His right shoulder dislocated. Something in his left one burned; torn ligaments, surely.
Sam groaned, gritting his teeth from the new waves of pain attacking his body. And he was weak, the Devil's toy to be dragged off.
It was all over. The end was coming. And it wasn't coming in a bright burst of light, where the epitome of humanity, of creation, and life, and struggle was plastered around him in bright hues and beautiful and clanging sound. He wouldn't die amidst humanity. Sam Winchester was going to die in some random old lady's living room, in the middle of the day, the sun covered with thick, gray clouds.
And he was alone.
He was utterly alone.
Signs of life were not around him.
Only a blank loneliness.
The Devil pulled on Sam's legs, intent on getting him away before Dean could show up. Sam was refusing to cooperate.
He would never cooperate with Him. His scrabbling fingers found a table leg, and he held on tight, held on as if his life depended on it.
It did.
The grip on his legs tightened, one hand went lower, his ankle popped!, and Sam's voice was leaving him through gritted teeth.
No! NO! NO, NO, NO!
Small gouges were dug into the wood from his nails. And then some of them split, cracked.
Sam didn't let go.
A tug that made him so sure his right foot was going to be ripped right off his body, and then…
He couldn't hold on any longer.
The Devil dragged Sam Winchester away, not relinquishing his legs for one second. And Sam scrabbled, but with no one to help, there was nothing that could be done. He'd only be holding off the torment. But each second was worth it. And he'd surely bought himself at least ten.
Ten seconds of a stalemate.
Of Sam not giving in.
Of Sam fighting for the humanity that was not present around him, but within him.
The pain in his ankle, and his legs lessened, unimportant when compared to the real fight of soul and tainted Grace, as he was dragged from the house and down the porch steps.
Sam didn't like what was happening. Of course, he didn't know what was happening. The world was a blur of dull colors; and muffled, yet somehow still too-loud, sound. But someone — or something — was carrying him.
It was cold. It. The thing. The dark thing he wanted to run away from.
Sam knew It was bad. How could It not be?
The cold was unnatural, leeching all life from his weary body and addled brain.
Addled, addled…
Confused.
Drugged.
Had he been…?
No, he couldn't have—
Maybe…
Sam tried to move, but it was like he was buried in wet cement, even as he was carried in someone's arms. Carried out. Carried away. Away from Dean. Away from help.
The thing, the It, brought him away. Sam blinked up, saw a face through the haze of drugs.
Lucifer smiled down at him.
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