Trigger Warning for Graphic SA/Non-Con/Violence* Okay, so this chapter gets very dark. Explicit male/angel on male sexual assault and torture against Sam happens. It is graphic, and very much not smut, or a romanticized relationship. It is not a Samifer or Sam/Michael pairing (no hate to shippers of either, but this is not that). It is an attack on Sam, it is brutal, and it is meant to explore the horrors that Sam endured in the cage. Contains both anal and oral assault. Please be careful if either of these situations may be triggering. The assault happens near the end of the chapter for anyone who may want to skim the chapter, and as always a short synopsis will be posted next chapter to cover the major plot points if this chapter is too heavy/dark.
Trigger Warning for Mental Health* Very similar to above, this chapter dives into Sam's memories of the cage. Explicit acts of evil are present. Please mind your mental health and personal limits. Elements of psychological conditioning, mental breakdown, and PTSD are all written into the chapter.
Language Advisory* This is really a standard advisory at this point. Winchesters swear. Angry, scared, lonely Winchesters swear more often. There may also be triggering language or wording regarding events taking place in the chapter. Know your limits and enjoy accordingly!
Chapter Text
Did we learn our lesson Samuel? Did we learn our lesson Samuel? Did we learn our lesson Samuel? Naomi's words play on repeat through Sam's head, no matter how hard he tries to shut it out. He can't shake the feeling that the words are horribly familiar, he just can't seem to remember why. And that in and of itself is enough to let Sam know why. Something about that phrase is connected to Lucifer. Maybe even Michael. But knowing that, while still being unable to remember it, is only intensifying the unending headache Sam has had since his first abduction. How long ago was that? How long has he been here? He knows he only spent a night, and a few hours with Cas, but trapped in this windowless room, he has no idea how long has passed since Raphael took him. He has tried counting, to calm himself down, to get his body to relax after… after what Naomi did, but he never got very far. His hurting head, his shuddering body, the constant threat of the two angels standing guard by the door, even after Naomi has left, which was about an hour, or maybe two ago, all keep him from being able to focus enough to keep the timing right, so he kept having to start over. Thankfully, Naomi didn't pull any more memories from behind his wall, so his sympathetic nervous system did slowly enter the parasympathetic system. His heart rate slowed, his breathing eased up, and he stopped sweating quite so much, although the shudders and the migraine stayed consistent. Part of Sam wonders if he is having seizures after all, just smaller ones than the one he had after the Arachne case he worked with Dean. Maybe the grace Naomi said she is using to stabilize his wall is keeping him from feeling the full effects. His muscles certainly seem to be spasming enough, he thinks. Or maybe it is his cuffs. Whenever Sam held an angel blade, he always felt a certain kind of… warmth in the blade. Something comforting that made him feel stronger, more confident. Not in the way drinking demon blood had done, this was much more subtle and natural, and Sam was pretty sure it had to do with being in contact with a blade forged from angelic grace. He could feel the Heavenly power in the weapon, and it made him feel like a better hunter, warrior. He wonders if the cuffs, also being forged from grace, had the same effect. But since they were made for holding angels, not fighting them, the feeling is different, less of a confidence builder, and more of a… metaphysical restraint, of sorts, to keep Sam's mind from shutting down, or shutting out Naomi. Sam will have to talk to Cas about it at some point, see if his theories had any sort of traction. Assuming of course Sam ever sees Cas again… Sam shakes his head, trying to banish that thought, even as images of the burning, exploding warehouse flash through his mind. He already knows Cas is still alive. He is fine, he has to be. Sam will see him again, he will. He just needs to find a way out of here, away from Raphael and then he and Dean and Bobby can help Cas find another way to defeat the archangel, while keeping the souls in Purgatory where they belong. Sam is pulled from his thoughts as three sets of wings flutter and he flinches, clenching his fists tightly and trying to move in order to see the new arrivals better, and maybe be in less vulnerable of a position, though he doesn't get very far. His eyes are drawn immediately to Raphael, their vessel, even as small and petite as the woman is, commanding attention from the room. Naomi is on their right hand side, and another, tall, thin, blonde angel, a male, stands on his left, holding a jar of what looks suspiciously like blood. Naomi and Blondie wear matching, nasty smirks, and while Raphael is more composed, their face calm and collected, they are radiating a Crowley-level of smugness that just makes all three look that much more punch-able. Sam swallows nervously, hating how open and vulnerable he is feeling and wishing at the very least he could stand. Weaponless or not, being mobile would make him feel a thousand times better.
"Hello again Sam." Raphael says pleasantly. Sam clenches his jaw, levelling as much of a glare as he can manage at the archangel, even as phantom pain rolls across his skin, the recent memories of his last interaction with them making his stomach twist and knot with anxiety. "Naomi told me you responded well to your… lesson." Did we learn our lesson, Samuel? "I suppose that means you are ready to apologize to me." Sam grits his teeth, flexing his fingers as an array of insults and curses flashes through his mind, begging to be spewed at the angel, but he presses his lips together tightly, refusing to let the words cross his tongue. He knows if he does, Naomi will make him see something else, and every instinct in his body, every cell he has, is screaming at him to avoid that at all costs. Nothing is worth remembering the Cage. Certainly not his pride. So, reluctantly forcing his body to relax from the tense, coiled form it has become, Sam lowers his eyes, hating himself a little bit, but not enough to not give Raphael what he wants, what will keep those horrifying images hidden safely behind Death's wall.
"I'm sorry." He spits out, eternally grateful that Dean isn't here to see this. Dean wouldn't apologize, he wouldn't roll over. He would say something snarky, insolent and possibly inappropriate with a smile on his face as he stared down his enemy, bold as brass and utterly fearless. But Sam has never been as strong or as brave as his big brother. And while Sam can take care of himself, and endure a lot of things, this… this isn't one of them. So, he needs to avoid it as much as he can, for as long as he can, otherwise, when Dean does find him, he doesn't know what kind of shape he will be in.
"For?" Raphael says, prodding him for more, and hatred, bright and hot, rushes through Sam. Once more clenching his fists tightly, Sam takes a deep, steadying breath, forcing his eyes to meet the asshat's.
"For being disrespectful." Sam says, in as calm and steady a voice as he can manage. "Good boy." Raphael says smugly. Sam shudders painfully at the mockery. Did we learn our lesson, Samuel? "All is forgiven. If you keep responding this positively, we should all be able to get through this with as little pain as possible." Sam shifts uncomfortably, his eyes flashing away from them once more, flickering between Naomi, who looks obnoxiously proud of herself, and the newcomer, with the jar of blood in his hands. Raphael follows his gaze and smiles, clasping their hands behind their back.
"Ah, yes. Now that the formalities are done, allow me to introduce one of my lieutenants. Sam, meet Barthalomew. Barthalomew, Sam Winchester. He led the assault on the rebel's base while I was retrieving you, and he picked up something very, very special from that filthy, vile demonic excuse of a king for me, though sadly the abomination managed to escape. Do you know what it is?" Sam looks more closely at the blood, his skin crawling as a dozen horrible possibilities cross his mind, one much worse than any other. He squirms in his binds again, trying to pull himself as far from the jar as they will allow him to move. Partly in hopeful denial, partly in all honesty, Sam shakes his head.
"No." He admits, trying with everything he has to keep any trace of fear out of the word, though his voice shakes anyways. Raphael grins at his obvious discomfort.
"Don't worry Sam, it isn't what you are thinking. There isn't a drop of demon blood in this room, except of course for what is tainting your blood." Raphael says cruelly, their eyes gleaming. Sam scowls, anger flashing across his expression. "No, this is a far more powerful concoction. See, you know my foolish little brother is going after the souls in Purgatory already, but from Naomi's reports you didn't know how he intended to do so, correct?" Sam nods slowly, warily. He isn't sure where Raphael is going with this. "Well, this very rare, very special blood is a mix of a human virgin, and a native from Purgatory. Not just any monster would do, you understand. It has to come from a monster born by Eve in Purgatory, who has crossed over directly. Not a human who has been changed on Earth. Not many monsters fit that bill, if any at this point. Mixed with an incantation, and performed during a Blood Moon, this little spell opens a door wide into Purgatory." Sam shifts uneasily, though he tries to look more confident than he feels.
"Cas will get it back." Sam says firmly. "You might have taken it, but he will get it back, and then he'll use it to blow you to Hell." He might not agree with that plan, but he is on Cas' side and the last thing he is going to do is show his doubts, or even a hint of disloyalty in front of this douchebag. Raphael's eyes shimmer with amusement as Sam's answer.
"Will he?" They ask haughtily, before he takes the jaw and extends his hand, letting it drop. The jar shatters into a thousand pieces the second it hits the ground, the blood splattering across the floor, staining the white in a vivid, violent splash. Sam stares, wide eyed, at the mess, shocked. He hadn't expected that. If anything, he had expected Raphael to use the blood himself, to take in all those souls and use Cas' plan against him. Or, at the very least, keep the blood as a potential weapon in his arsenal. Sam, of anyone, knows the power of blood, and how rarity can increase potency, and to see the blood of a creature as rare as the one Raphael is describing just thrown away so casually leaves him speechless. "Castiel may have a little trouble retrieving it now." Sam forces his eyes back to Raphael, who laughs at the stunned look in his expression. "You thought I was going to steal Castiel's plan? Please. I have no interest in the beasts of Purgatory, and I certainly do not need the power of their souls to accomplish my goals. Everything I need is right here."
"What do you mean?" Sam asks warily, watching Raphael move closer and desperately wishing for a blade, or a gun, or something to protect himself.
"Purgatory isn't the only place a door can be opened to during the eclipse." Raphael explains calmly. "But until now, where I need access to, opening a door like this has been impossible. At least, not without breaking a few seals. Or collecting some fancy rings." Dread and terror floods through Sam, panic making Sam start to pull insistently at his restraints. No. No, no, absolutely not. "Now, the Seals of the Apocalypse only work once. And I know for a fact that three of the Horsemen's rings have been melted down and cleansed of their power by heavy purification rituals, curtesy of Robert Singer, the fourth residing with Death himself." Sam shakes his head viciously, not wanting to listen anymore. He doesn't want to hear this, he doesn't want the wild, terrifying thoughts and theories racing through his mind at lightning speed to be confirmed. Oblivious to Sam's distress or desires, or perhaps just uncaring, Raphael starts walking around the chair Sam is strapped to. "In order to get the Apocalypse back on track, I need to release Michael and Lucifer from the Cage. I have been searching all year for a way to do so, while Castiel has been trying fruitlessly to stop me. I admit, he had me distracted for a good while. He is clever, and a powerful leader, and I underestimated his devotion to his cause. To you Winchesters. You see, he discovered a way to open the Cage, back when he was looking for ways to free you from it. At the time, this particular way was impossible, so he dismissed it, but he kept the information to himself. Well, himself and a few supposedly trustworthy allies. Unfortunately for him, one of those allies wasn't as trustworthy as he thought, and about a week ago he brought the information to me. You see Sam, much like Purgatory can be opened with the blood of a creature who has been there, so can the Cage. You are the only one, in all of Heaven and Hell and Earth, who can open the cage now."
"No." Sam shakes his head forcefully. "No. I won't do it. I won't let you." Raphael tsks.
"You will." Raphael promises. Sam meets his gaze, unable to hide the stricken, horrified look any more, not now that he knows Raphael's plan. "You will help me, Sam, because in order for Michael and Lucifer to fulfill their destinies, you need to fulfill yours once again. Lucifer needs his vessel. And while Dean will need to submit to Michael, for the time being Adam Milligan will suffice for Michael to use on Earth. Lucifer, on the other hand, needs your consent, which you will give."
"No." Sam denies weakly. "Never again."
"You've been persuaded to say yes to him before, Sam." Raphael says softly, bending so their face is close to Sam's, the soft voice of the poor woman he stole whispering against Sam's ear. "And you will be again. This is happening, one way or another. Agree now and save yourself some pain. I promise, until such time as you are needed to open the Cage, you will be given every comfort. You will be treated as the prince you are, honored and respected as befits a vessel of an archangel. Women, alcohol, books, fresh clothes, a soft bed. Anything your heart desires will be provided for, within reason. Redeem yourself, Sam. With one little word, you can earn our forgiveness, Heaven's forgiveness. Fix the mess you have made of things. And if you are worried about Lucifer, and how he will treat you, you need not be. Free him, and he will forgive you. Allow him to be one with you again, and all your transgressions will be forgotten. You belong with him, Sam, and he with you. That is what my Father has decided." With every word Raphael says, Sam's heart beats faster and his breathing gets shallower. Tears form in Sam's eyes and he feels utterly hopeless. Helpless. Trapped in a situation getting worse and worse by the minute. He feels alone, and all he wants in the world is Dean. Dean would know what to do, what to say. He would be able to help. Dean would fix things, and laugh, and tease Sam about getting into trouble. He would tell Sam that everything was okay. That everything would be fine. That he had this, because Sam doesn't. Sam can't do this. Not again. Never, never again. He isn't strong enough. He can't unleash Lucifer again, he won't survive it if he does. And… once, years ago, he might have been tempted by the promise of Heaven's absolution. It would have been all he wanted. To be good, to be pure. He would have done just about anything for that. Now though, he has seen what Heaven is. What the angels are. And, as sweet as Raphael's words are, filled with promise for good things, for comfort and peace… he can hear the edge to them. The threat. The promise of retribution if he doesn't comply. He forces himself, shaking and gasping for air, to meet Raphael's determined, forceful gaze, and he knows what is going to happen if… when he says no. He knows what Naomi is going to do to him. And that is almost enough to make him say yes. If what he has remembered so far about his stay in Hell is a taste of what other memories are currently safely hidden away, Sam is petrified of what will be used against him next. Living through Hell once was enough for anyone. Dean had barely gotten through his own memories, and if Dean came that close to cracking, to breaking, what chance did Sam have? But… what choice does Sam have? Either he suffers, or Lucifer walks free, again? The tears he has been fighting escape down his cheeks. He has made that choice before, it isn't fair that he has to again. But, fair or not, Sam knows there is only one thing to do. Swallowing convulsively, thinking desperately of Dean, he takes every shred of courage he has to look Raphael dead in the eyes.
"Fuck you." Sam whispers, his voice trembling and the words cracking in his fear. He is breathless, terrified, and crying, frozen as he waits for his inevitable punishment, but he knows this is what Dean would do. What Bobby would do. What his father would do. He uses their faces to harden his resolve, as fury flashes through Raphael's expression and the archangel stands up.
"Fine." Raphael hisses. "Fine. Then let me explain this in ways even a Winchester can understand. The eclipse is in five days. Your blood will open a door to the Cage, and you will say yes to Lucifer when he walks free. If you don't want to say yes now, and be rewarded for your service, then we will just have to use our time together to convince you. Naomi, show Sam what my brothers did to him when he said no." Blood starts to drip down Sam's palms as his nails dig into his flesh, and Sam feels himself waver, but he doesn't slip. He doesn't look to Naomi, he doesn't move his gaze from the archangel. He did this once before, he can do it again. Did we learn our lesson, Samuel? Apparently not.
"Fuck you." Sam repeats, more forcefully this time, though it is the only thing he can say before Naomi's hand is back on his forehead. Searing pain scorches through every nerve in his head, before the white room disappears, and he is on the floor, on all fours, on a carpeted floor. Dark black walls surround him, with torches of blazing hellfire set sporadically around the room. Though a massive, iron-wrought bed sets against the wall, covered in thick furs and luxurious looking pillows, Sam is trapped in place. A heavy leather collar rests tightly around his neck, with thick metal chains attached at one end to the collar, and at the other to the floor. As always, he is completely naked, open and vulnerable to whatever his attackers desire to do to him.
"I asked you a question, Sammy." That awful voice calls out, and Lucifer steps into view. He is currently in the visage of Nick. He likes to use Nick for times like these in particular, though Sam isn't sure why. Lucifer has used others. His father, Bobby, Jess once or twice. Ruby a few times. He sometimes uses Sam's own image, but not nearly as often as Nick's. He never appears as Dean, though, not for this. That's Michael's pleasure. Sam flinches slightly, remembering their fight over that, a fight that Lucifer lost soundly and then turned and took his fury and frustration out on Sam by burning his eyes out of his head. He hadn't returned Sam's sight for weeks. "Do I have your permission?" Sam whimpers at the lust in the voice, at the delight and malicious glee. And Sam knows that he just has to say yes, and that this will be over with quickly. It isn't so bad when he says yes. It hurts, and its demeaning, but sometimes all Lucifer wants is his hand, or his mouth and he is learning how to do it better, so that Lucifer finishes faster. He only rarely uses Sam repeatedly in one setting. Sam thinks it is the lack of screaming, the lack of burning flesh or crunching bones that makes it unappealing to Lucifer enough to limit his time spent on it. Lucifer gets bored easily, and this particular torture is so different to everything else. More subtle, more insidious. Of course, Sam hates it the most, and it is the only one that gets him to cry and beg consistently, when he is able to speak, so he doubts Lucifer will ever do away with it completely, but since it lacks the flare of more spectacular tortures, like burning Sam alive, or stretching him on the rack until every joint in his body is dislocated, it doesn't happen very often. Every part of Sam whispers to him, telling him to say yes, consent to Lucifer, and get this over with. He will be able to use the bed if he says yes, so it will hurt slightly less. But when he looks up and sees Lucifer leaning on one of the iron posts of the bed, his body as naked as Sam's, long and lean and muscled, one hand lightly stroking himself into a full hard on, a bit of Sam's old anger ignites. He doesn't get angry very often anymore, but occasionally a small spark of him remembers that there was a time before the Cage. Remembers he was something, once, besides Lucifer's bitch. His plaything. He used to say no to Lucifer. And before he can think it through, before he can stop himself, he hears his voice spit out the wrong answer.
"No." He growls. Lucifer freezes, startled. The way he always is nowadays, when Sam gets a little bit resistive. The startled look is replaced with a deadly expression of half rage and half maniacal cheer. He lets out a loud, terrifying laugh and Sam cringes back, pulling the chain as far as it will let him go.
"Ooh. Sammy has come out to play again." Lucifer sneers. "Well, I am sorry to say Sammy, this is happening whether you agree or not… but since you seem to have enough energy to misbehave, it seems I will have to tire you out, get all that negative energy out of your system. And it has been so long for him, I think we should invite Michael to come play as well."
"No… no, no, no." Sam whimpers. Michael is worse. Michael wears Dean.
"Again with that word." Lucifer snarls, and he holds out his hand, a whip of fire appearing it and he flicks it sharply against Sam's bare back. Sam screams in pain, his flesh burning and melting and cauterizing in one long, unending lash, wrapping around his ribs and even burning a small part of his chest. "One more no out of you, and it will be this going in instead of me." Sam sobs weakly, tears pouring down his cheeks as the lash continues to burn and sear, even after the whip is gone. Satisfied as Sam stops his protests, Lucifer lets out a long, sharp whistle. And then Michael is stepping into the room, cold fury in every line of his face as he looks down at Sam, with just a hint of something darker, crueler in his eyes. In Dean's eyes. Green and bright and dangerous, in his brother's face, on his brother's body. Unlike with Lucifer, there is no tiny detail, no change to distinguish his Dean from Lucifer's deception. Every detail, every single part of him is pure Dean. Just the way it is when Lucifer presents himself as Sam. He supposes that it is a 'true vessel', thing, and he hates it. It is far too easy to pretend that Michael really is Dean, that this is Dean as he must have been during his stint in Hell. Cold, ruthless, dark, sadistic. And Sam isn't sure when he started applying the term sadistic to Michael. When his torture started to evolve from simple vengeance into something more, when he started enjoying it. All he knows is that it fits now. Michael likes hurting Sam. He smiles when Sam pleads, or cries, or screams. And he, more than Lucifer, enjoys this particular torture. He enjoys the quietness of it, the simpleness. Michael doesn't need the fire and the blades and the show. He just wants Sam to suffer. Sam is just thankful that he leaves Adam out of this part. Wherever Adam is, whatever he is doing, he doesn't need these memories. He doesn't deserve to know what his hands have done to Sam.
"Have I missed anything?" Michael drawls, his eyes raking over Sam's body, the lust and anticipation matching his brother's.
"Not yet. Sammy was just getting lippy." Lucifer explains, as Michael begins stripping himself of the same kind of clothes Dean likes to wear. Flannel shirt, t-shirt, jeans, boots. He likes to do that. While Lucifer alternates between clothed and not as he pleases, Michael prefers to use clothing to mock Sam. It is a luxury, a gift, the thin layer of protective cloth, and it is one that Sam is denied. Just another punishment. But Sam would take a clothed, spiteful Michael over the naked, longing one standing in front of him. "I considered gagging him with the leather strap we made out of his skin, or ripping out his tongue for his insolence, but then I thought about how long it has been for you. And I am feeling generous enough to share today."
"How thoughtful." Michael leers at Sam, already as hard as his brother, and Sam whimpers in fear, trembling on his hands and knees. "Do I get front or back?" Back, back, back, Sam thinks desperately. Though Michael is rougher than Lucifer, and harder on Sam, and he lasts longer, dragging it out to make Sam suffer as much as possible, at least when he is behind Sam he can pretend it isn't Dean's body, Dean's hands, holding him down and… hurting him. When he is in front of Sam, he demands eye contact and Sam doesn't want to see those green eyes, once warm and kind and loving, looking down at him with such evil, corrupted joy. Sam glances up, to see Lucifer has been watching his face closely and he sobs in frustration as a wicked smile lights up his face.
"Front. I think Sammy misses his big brother." Lucifer decides. Michael chuckles and the angels start moving around Sam. He shakes, afraid, and panicked, sobbing again as he feels Lucifer kneeling behind him, his hands, always so cold, practically freezing, running over Sam's back, tracing his new lash mark and tripling the agony it is still radiating through him, as the icy touch only enflames the burn even more. Michael moves in front of Sam, reaching down and grabbing Sam's chin, lifting it up so that Sam's tear-filled, pleading eyes meet Dean's violent, lustful gaze.
"Remember, no biting, or I will rip out those pearly whites one at a time." Michael threatens. Sam fights back the desperate 'no' that tries to crawl out of his mouth, forcing his head to nod in compliance. He knows Michael will follow through on his threat, just as much as Lucifer will if he repeats the forbidden word one more time. Not that Michael needs to threaten Sam. Even though Sam knows it isn't really him, it is still Dean's body. And, fake or not, no matter what evil, horrible thing it may be doing to him, Sam can never bring himself to hurt Dean back. Not even a fake version of his big brother. Lucifer's cold hands suddenly tighten over Sam's hips and he feels a hard pressure behind him, even as Michael taps his cheek. "Open up. And keep those beautiful eyes of yours open." Sam complies, both angels sliding easily into him. Easily for them, anyways. Sam's flesh is too soft, to human to be able to resist them. At least with his mouth, Sam is able to stretch it mostly around Michael without too much trouble. And unlike Lucifer, who wants Sam to actively participate when he takes his mouth, and do the majority of the work, Michael doesn't want to give Sam an inch of control, instead sliding in as far and as deep as he can, gripping tightly onto Sam's hair to hold it still and pressed into his groin as he starts to thrust, choking Sam and cutting off his airway, but unfortunately for him, there is no blacking out from air depravation, not here. Just pain, and panic and desperation, for as long as Michael wants him to struggle. Sam's ass, on the other hand, doesn't take the archangels as well. Since he is fully healed after every round of torture, every time he is used back there, and he refuses to describe it any other way, refuses to even think the R word if he can help it, it is just like the first time. Sometimes if he says yes, Lucifer will use his grace to prepare him, to lubricate the path, even just slightly. But he said no today, so Lucifer just forces his way in, his skin and his ass parting around Lucifer's dick, but while Lucifer feels no resistance, Sam definitely feels everything. The pressure, the size, the force. He feels Lucifer pushing into him, harsh and fast and brutal, and he feels his skin tearing, stretching, rubbing drily against the intrusion. A rough, guttural sound tries to clear Sam's throat, around the obstruction there, but it is muffled and barely comes out as a grunt. Sam digs his hands into the carpet, his entire body tensing and coiling, his muscles tightening as his hair is gripped so hair he can feel some of it behind pulled out, while Lucifer's hand leave bruising marks on his waist, his back. He even bends over Sam, pressing his chest firmly against Sam's back, to run his hands along Sam's chest, never faltering in thrusting in and out of Sam. Trapped between the two angels, Sam tries to count. Nothing in particular, not the times he is thrusted into, or the marks he can feel Lucifer leaving with his punishing grips or his teeth, grazing over Sam's skin, biting and nipping at anywhere and everywhere, including his burns which caused half-formed cries of pain and protest to die in his throat. He doesn't even count Michael's dirty, angry slurs that he throws at Sam while looking down into Sam's eyes. He just counts. One, two, three, on and on and on. It doesn't take him out of the moment. It doesn't diminish his pain, or his anger, or his hate. It doesn't make it any easier. But it keeps him sane. Three hundred, three hundred and one, three hundred and two. Lucifer is getting rougher, angrier. He moves faster and pushes harder and deeper into Sam, and Sam tries to cry out, to verbalize his pain and discomfort as he feels blood drenching his legs, and the same hardness in him moving, rubbing, tearing inside of him, endlessly, repetitively. Michael is still steady. Slower in his thrusts, he pauses occasionally, resting in Sam's mouth, on his tongue, making sure Sam can do nothing but taste him, not even breath properly. Six hundred and sixty four. Six hundred and sixty five. Six hundred and sixty six. Lucifer cries out triumphantly, as he grows bigger, thrusting as deep and as far into Sam as he can before he cums. It freezes, as it always does, feeling like a stream of icy water flooding into Sam, before sliding back out and down his legs, adding to the sticky, slowly congealing blood already there. Dazedly, lost in his pain and discomfort and sickness, a slightly hysterical part of Sam wonders if Lucifer knew he was counting, and chose to finish at that exact moment for humor's sake. Maybe if this wasn't so terrifying, so agonizing, and it wasn't happening to him, he would find the thought amusing. It wasn't the first time Sam thought that Lucifer could read his mind, and he doubts it will be the last. Sam whimpers as he feels Lucifer pull out of him, chuckling as he rubs Sam's lower back in an almost comforting way.
"Good boy, Sammy. You did so well for me." Lucifer mocks. Michael pulls out, just enough for Sam's weak cry of anguish to be heard. Lucifer stands up, leaving Sam on his knees, still being held in Michael's grasp, taking a few steps away and Sam knows he is settling in to watch. Sam goes back to counting, keeping his eyes on Michael's even as he tries to see through him, straight to the ceiling. His entire body is aching, every muscle sore, burning below his waist and tight and tense from his waist up. Even his burn hasn't faded even slightly, the pain consistent and present and consuming, but he lets it wash over him, trying to get through this. By eight hundred and forty three, Michael is picking up speed, breathing heavily and his Enochian slurs have doubled. By one thousand and fifty two, he is tensing, and pulling Sam's face tight against his skin, shoving himself entirely down his throat. Sam groans, whimpering silently as he feels Michael grow in his throat, cutting off his airway entirely. By one thousand and sixty, he is making a wordless cry, gripping Sam's hair tightly with both hands as he cums as well. Unlike his brother, Michael is far from freezing. He is scorching, burning, like swallowing sunlight. Sam convulsively swallows, taking down everything the way Lucifer taught him, the way he has been trained to do. They get mad if he misses even a drop, and he feels like he has pushed his luck far enough today. Maybe, if he is lucky, they will both be satisfied with him, despite his resistance. Maybe they will let him rest. He is so tired, he just wants to sleep. His eyes flicker closed as Michael starts pulling free from his throat, and then finally he is empty. But Lucifer must be ready to move on to the next torture, because he feels the horrible aching pain start to retreat from his muscles. The taste of Michael disappears from his mouth, his legs are scrubbed of the hideous stickiness and, if Sam didn't know better, he would swear he even had clothes on, the shift of fabric across his chest, his legs so realistic. Almost too realistic. Sam frowns in confusion. What is this? Clothes aren't allowed, its another of Lucifer's rules. Lucifer owns all of him, it is bad to hide even a sliver of skin from his archangel. And… come to think of it, where is his collar? It was Lucifer's gift to him on his one hundredth birthday in the Cage. Lucifer will be furious if he has lost it. Sam feels a whimper come out of his throat as he tries to imagine how he will be punished this time. Crucifixion again? Lucifer likes the irony of that one. Or maybe acid. Lucifer likes the noises the acid makes when it touches Sam's skin. But at the noise Sam makes, he frowns, confused. He has had Michael and Lucifer both use his throat before, and they always leave the damage for a few days or so. They like how it makes him sound. So where is the damage? Why doesn't it hurt? Hesitantly, confused and scared and feeling oddly alone, which doesn't make sense because he is never alone, not in the Cage, Sam blinks, reluctantly opening his eyes. And his sense of confusion, of disorientation, grows, because for a moment he doesn't recognize his surroundings. The room is white. Lucifer hates white, none of his rooms are white. And Michael prefers gold. So where is he? He peers around, studying his surroundings, and finds he is restrained in a chair, a massive stain of blood the only real color in the room, outside of his clothes. Silver bands wrap around his wrists, his ankles, but they don't have spikes, and they aren't burned into his flesh. Sam shivers, a wave of terror washing over him as tears prick at his eyes. He is scared. He doesn't like this, and he wants to know what is happening. And then there is movement, and the door opens, and two angels walk in. Wait, angels? But they aren't Lucifer and Michael, so how… Sam blinks again, focusing hard on them and slowly their names come back to him. Ishmael. Malachai. They don't do anything, except take up posts by the door and watch him with cool, blank expressions, but with their arrival, everything slowly starts to trickle back to Sam. And, unable to stop himself, he bursts into tears once more, a desperate, hopeless sob coming from his chest.