Chapter Text
Sam is laying splayed out in Bobby’s bathtub like an organ trafficking victim. The pits of his t-shirt are soaked with sweat but he’s completely bare from the waist down.
Lucifer is pacing around the small, dingy room with a hunting knife in his hand.
“This is getting pathetic, Sammy.” Lucifer tuts. He doesn’t even look at Sam when he speaks to him. To Lucifer, Sam isn’t any more than some street mutt that doesn’t deserve the attention. He’s proved that a hundred times over.
‘Get out, I’m going to shower,’ Sam wants to say, but he’d have better luck talking to a brick wall.
Lucifer sure as hell hadn’t cared about what Sam wanted when he followed him into the bathroom, or when he wrestled him out of his pants and briefs before shoving him into the tub.
Sam takes a deep breath and clenches the side of the bathtub until his knuckles go white.
“You’re not real.” He says instead, because that’s a better defence than fighting Lucifer.
Lucifer scoffs and flips the knife in his hand. He uses the tip of the blade to pick at the dirt under his fingernails. Completely unperturbed, as always. Despite all the evidence to the fact, Sam hasn’t managed to fully convince himself that Lucifer’s bravado isn’t real. It fits him too well.
Even if it isn’t real, it's still working. Despite the fight he’s putting up, Sam is terrified shitless.
“We’re back to that, are we?” Lucifer mocks him like Sam is a child. Like he’s the unreasonable one.
Lucifer turns around to stare Sam down and Sam suddenly regrets wanting to face him head on. His hands itch to cover up his soft cock but he keeps them firmly planted on the sides of the tub.
If you give Lucifer an inch, he takes a mile. Showing weakness right now would be the same as throwing in the towel. Sam has known Lucifer for long enough to know that if he comes off as impatient, it’s only because he wants to. When he really wants to wait, he will. He played this game with Sam for centuries in the cage and Sam lost every time.
“I can assure you, I am very real.” Lucifer says, piercing eyes running up and down Sam’s body. His gaze is pinpricks of acid dripping onto Sam’s naked skin.
Lucifer stares at him for an uncomfortably long moment, then absentmindedly flips his knife again. He struts to the tub and kneels down next to it. His towering form casts a shadow down on Sam that makes him flinch.
“Why don’t I show you just how real I am, darling?”
Lucifer smiles, his leering canines a weapon. Sam can’t stop him when he reaches down and rucks up his shirt so that his penis is fully exposed.
This is just another one of Lucifer’s intimidation tactics. He’s touched and pinched and fucked Sam in every hole and position possible within the past few weeks, determined to break Sam in, but Sam refuses to give him the pleasure. He refuses to lose to his own mind any more than he already has.
It takes everything in Sam to stay silent and compliant. Lucifer flips the knife in his hand to get a better grip, before bringing the sharp edge of the blade down to rest on the base of Sam’spenis.
Sam jolts then, hard, and the knife edge is so sharp that the small jerk slices a thin red line into his cock. He clatters back against the bathtub. His entire body trembles, vision tunnelling in on the drops of blood welling up on the cut.
“Wait— stop. Stop!” Sam chokes out, and he immediately knows that he’s lost.
Lucifer’s answering smile is all teeth. His hands are scarily steady but his frenzied eyes and burgeoning erection give away his enjoyment.
“Why? I’m not real, remember?” He teases.
Sam grits his teeth. In that moment he makes an absolutely insane decision, a decision that he will regret for the rest of his life.
It seems incredibly simple in his delirious state. Lucifer is going to mutilate him whether he fights it or not. He can either thrash uselessly, or win back some of his advantage.
If Lucifer really is fake, then this whole thing is a hallucination– just like the chains and the restraints, just like stabbing Bobby. None of it is real. It can’t be real, because Sam can’t deal with being back in the cage. He just can’t.
It’s that fear-driven mentality that gives him the courage to go through with it. His vision tunnels in on the clean line of blood on his penis. In his mind, this is his last chance, and he sure as hell isn’t going to go down without a fight.
Sam raises his head and looks Lucifer right in the eyes. It burns, but he ignores the discomfort. Lucifer’s smile drops.
“Do it.” Sam spits out. He focuses on keeping the shake out of his words. It’s the same steady tone he uses on hunts, the same voice he used the first time he slept with Jess, scared and fumbling but trying his best to hide it. It’s also the way he’s learnt to talk to Lucifer.
Give him an inch and he takes a mile. Well, fuck that. Sam isn’t going to give him the satisfaction.
Lucifer raises his eyebrow. He presses his knife down on the bloody scratch on his cock, but Sam doesn’t break eye contact.
“Do it? Really?” Lucifer asks. He seems amused. Sam knows exactly what the sick bastard is thinking. Sam is like a brand new puppy to him, where even rebellion and misbehaviour are treated like cute, ineffective acting out. He doesn’t think Sam has it in him to actually change the situation.
Sam pushes himself up to sit taller, hands braced on the bathtub. The knife against his cock slices in slightly but he ignores it. He keeps his eyes locked to Lucifer’s.
“You’re not real. This isn’t any different from the cage.” Sam says, and for the first time, Lucifer looks surprised. “So yeah. Do it.”
Sam collapses back into the tub. He slouches down and spreads his legs so that Lucifer can get a proper angle.
‘Here goes nothing,’ he thinks, teeth clenched.
Lucifer recovers quickly from the shock. He laughs and shifts so that he can get a better look at Sam. He reaches down and yanks his soft penis so that it’s pulled taut. The blade pushes down slightly on Sam’s skin.
“Oh baby, you’re going to regret those words.” Lucifer whispers, then he starts cutting.
It’s agony. Pure, unfiltered agony. Pain is pain no matter how many times you feel it, and this pain never dulled in the cage. It’s no less agonizing here; the bone deep scream of having a knife tear into his flesh, the heightened sensitivity, the blood soaking into his skin and down his thighs.
Sam bites down his hand, and he screams. It’s not enough but it's what he has right now. He bites down harder and screams and screams.
He makes sure the noise is stifled even though it wouldn’t make much of a difference if he was loud. Honestly, he doesn’t even care if anyone walks in right now. It’s such a paltry, fleeting threat. There isn’t a damn thing on this Earth that could ever hurt him remotely as much as Lucifer hurt him in the Cage.
“Do you remember how much fun we used to have?” Lucifer says. He sounds so nonchalant, as if he’s a respectful boyfriend taking Sam out on a date. Like Sam is in on this. In a roundabout way, Sam supposes he is. He was the one who said yes– now, and every other time. Lucifer made sure of that.
“You used to moan for this.” Lucifer hisses. “You used to beg. Remember?”
Sam does. He’s tried to forget that part of the cage, because it’s the most punishing even now, the fact that Lucifer had somehow convinced Sam that he had actually wanted to be tortured.
It’s insane. It’s absolutely ridiculous and impossible. That’s what Sam tells himself, because at some point his brain started to melt so thoroughly that Lucifer’s words ended up molding it back into something unrecognizable. And if sometimes he wonders whether Lucifer was actually right— whether he had actually asked for it— then that’s a late night thought that stays in the dark.
Sam grits his teeth, scrunches up his face. The back of his shirt is soaked through with a dark oval of fear-sweat. The stench of it is pervasive in the small bathroom. Sam quickly forces his mind away from the dangerous spiral it was headed down. Any more lingering and he might start doubting himself.
‘Don’t yield to him,’ Sam desperately reminds himself. ‘Give him an inch, he takes a mile.’
There’s a sickening scratching noise as Sam drags his blunt nails across the ceramic tub. It’s loud over the barely-there scrape of the blade sawing into his cock. Thick blood spurts in bubbling rivers down his thighs and pools in a coagulated mess under his bare ass.
Sam doesn’t look down. He’s seen it enough times by now to know what it looks like, all the sinew and muscles in his cock raw against the cold air, the pinprick vessels underneath the skin dribbling a sheen of bright red over the flesh.
This is what Sam sees when he closes his eyes. It’s what he sees when Dean wraps his arms around him for a hug, when he sleeps, or when he’s alone for too long without a case to keep him busy. This hell-memory is more real to Sam than anything he can actually see. He doesn’t need the reminder.
Lucifer takes his sweet time. The stretchy tissue of Sam’s urethra grinds against the blade like a bow on violin strings and Lucifer doesn’t push any harder, doesn’t saw through. He keeps playing Sam like a toy— just because he can. Because Sam doesn’t have a damn say in the matter.
It’s a million times more dehumanizing than the pain. It’s one thing to be abused, and it’s another thing entirely for your tormentor to treat it like it’s something beautiful, something reciprocative.
A bubble of anxiety and acid moves up Sam’s stomach to his throat. The idea of being left like this, half-castrated like some freakshow animal— that’s worse than the alternative. He grabs Lucifer’s wrist with a shaking hand and tries to push the knife down.
“Go faster.” Sam gasps out, and it comes out raspier than he intended. He must be losing more blood than the thought.
Lucifer tuts and uses his free hand to grab Sam’s and yank him away. Sam’s wrist makes a wet crunch from Lucifer’s manhandling, and he tries his best not to react, but a shivering cry breaks out of him. Lucifer’s grip gets tighter.
“So impatient, hmm?” He throws Sam’s broken wrist to the side so he can run his palm over his sweaty chest. “Come on baby, let’s savour the moment.”
Lucifer’s nails are too sharp. They scratch lightly at Sam through his shirt, a warning, a promise. Sam’s vision starts going black around the edges. He hisses when Lucifer’s thumb finds his nipple and gently plays with the peaked nub. The scratch of wet fabric against the sensitive flesh makes him grit his teeth.
It doesn’t feel good, but it also doesn’t hurt. It’s just a pinprick of pressure overlaid on the screaming agony of the knife ripping through his cock. It’s violating in a different way— in a way that’s almost worse than torture. It makes the pain a hundred times more humiliating.
‘Don’t touch me there,’ Sam wants to say, but it comes out more like “Hnnnggg…”
A memory hits Sam then— a memory of Lucifer in his true form, towering over him and filling him up until he’s tearing apart from the inside. In this memory, Sam is desperately screaming for him to stop even though he’s incorrigibly hard. Not because he likes it, but because in the Cage, whatever Lucifer says goes.
Sam remembers begging him to cut his erection off. He remembers the pure relief when all the blood in his hard cock drained out through the wound and down to the tips of his toes. At least then, Lucifer couldn’t make him enjoy it. At least then he wouldn’t have to deal with that one last violation.
“Losing a lot of blood there, Sammy.” Lucifer says. It’s so hazy, faraway, like Sam is hearing him from the bottom of a pool. The loud whoosh of water overwhelms everything else. He drops his head down and watches through the hazy pinpoint of his darkening vision.
It’s a massacre. There’s blood, so much blood, flesh and piss and everything else that should stay inside of a human splattered on the outside. His soft penis is unrecognizable under all the coagulated blood. It’s barely hanging on by a stretchy bit of skin.
Lucifer teases the tip of his knife over Sam’s hole. He gouges in, and the gritty metal gets covered by another spurt of blood as a vessel bursts open. Lucifer laughs.
“Hey, Hell could use a new fountain installation. I think you’re just the man for the job.” He quips, and Sam just stares, half-lidded and bereft of thought. Lucifer huffs at his lackluster response. He rolls his eyes and digs his knife into the thin skin connecting Sam’s penis to his body.
“Alright then, jeez, tough crowd.” He mutters.
Sam watches in silence as Lucifer’s blood-sticky fingers grab the shaft of his penis to pull it taut for his last cut.
Lucifer slides his blade into the remaining bit of flesh. The metal easily saws through. The tension releases, and the stone of anxiety in Sam’s chest dissolves. He collapses against the tub in a clatter of shivering limbs.
It’s over. It’s finally over. Sam breathes deep, and that gulp of iron air is the most serene he’s felt in a long, long time. It’s better than the demon blood. Sam wouldn’t have believed it even if he heard it from himself, wouldn’t have believed it unless he had felt it himself.
“Open wide.” Lucifer says, so far away, and Sam obeys. He lets his jaw drop and doesn’t protest when his own cold, bloody flesh is shoved between his lips.
His head flops to the side onto his shoulder. The tip of his severed cock is surprisingly stiff on his tongue, chilly and metallic. There’s a sudden wash of spit in his mouth from the salinity. He sucks back the dribbles that threaten to spill out onto his chin.
“Sit tight. I’ll clean you up.” Lucifer says, then goes to the bathroom cupboard to take out the towels. Sam listens with his eyes closed to the soft shuffle of Lucifer moving around on the tile.
There’s the rustle of clothes closer as Lucifer crouches down next to the tub. He puts towels down on the bloody mess between Sam’s legs. When Sam opens his eyes, the Devil is leaning over him, looking surprisingly worried.
“Oh dear, you’re looking quite pale.” He whispers. Sam lets out a garbled whine around the flesh in his mouth, too tired and out of it to care how pathetic he looks.
Lucifer tuts and runs a careful thumb over Sam’s cheekbone. It feels eerily similar to the way that Mary had touched him when he was detoxing off demon blood. False comfort. Still, it’s close enough to the real thing that Sam leans into Lucifer’s hand.
“‘S not real…” He whispers. The words don’t come out properly when he moves his lips. Lucifer shushes him.
“Why don’t you take a nap? I’ll take care of the rest.” He whispers, strangely kind, and reaches down to shut Sam’s eyes the way they do with corpses in the morgue.
Sam drifts off like that, satiated and exhausted, head cradled in Lucifer’s arms. It’s the best sleep he’s gotten in years.
Sam wakes up the morning after covered in blood and piss, soaked to the bone in stale sweat with his cold, spit-blood-sticky severed cock on his chest.
He looks down, expecting a clean white bathtub, but instead—
His heart drops. Between his legs is flat, mutilated flesh, barely held together with shaky stitches.
‘It’s real,’ he thinks, only half-there.
‘It’s all real.’
For some insane reason, the thought makes him laugh so hard that he breaks the stitches back open.