Work Text:
“Use my soul. That way maybe you’ll have enough power to wield the spell.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“It’s worth the risk. Cas, Dean needs our help.” Sam firms. Steadies himself. “I trust you.”
Cas considers for a moment—before he starts to laugh.
Cracking up. Shaking his head.
Sam stares. “…What?”
“Oh, it’s just—I don’t need you anymore. I mean, Dean’s the one with the link to Amara, why have I been trying to spare you? I mean—”
Reality catches up with Sam. He can’t move. Can’t run.
Lucifer squints at him through Cas’ eyes.
“Maybe it’s because you’re like the girl who kept turning me down at the prom.”
Lucifer grabs him and slams him against a nearby column.
The shock keeps Sam rigid, makes his head bounce back against the concrete. Lucifer pins him with his grip on his shirt but Sam’s body forces backwards itself, his hands flat against the pillar, pressing.
“…Lucifer.”
“In the flesh.”
Lucifer shoves forward—Cas’ knuckles against Sam’s breastbone, Cas’ knee between Sam’s legs. Lucifer peers up at Sam and Cas’ mouth curls into that horribly familiar smile, and the skin around Cas’ eyes wrinkles like it never does.
“Someone else’s, of course, but let’s not get lost in the semantics.” Cas’ fingers dance up Sam’s chest. Into the neckline of his shirt. “So you trust him? Cute. Questionable taste, but cute. Is it the puppy eyes? Are they doing it for you, Sammy?”
“Get out. Let him go.”
Lucifer chirps, “Aw, but he said ‘yes’, you know,” and Sam’s thoughts stumble, his guts draw up further. (Why would…? When? How?) “Just like you did, once. Wanted a piece of all this. And I don’t blame him—I mean, you would know best just how tasty I am.”
“Get out of him.”
“Are you jealous of him? Or maybe…of me?”
Lucifer is close enough that Sam’s breath bounces back at him from Cas’ face. The absence of warmth, of smell. Just the cold seeping out of Lucifer and into Cas’ hands, Cas’ skin—where he touches Sam, whole palm, pressed firm. Lucifer studies Sam’s expression. His eyes drop to Sam’s mouth.
Sam manages a faint, “No,” but Lucifer presses Cas’ mouth on Sam’s regardless. Yanks him in, both hands in his shirt now. The seams are under audible tension. Sam tries to turn his head. Lucifer won’t let him.
“Oh, don’t play coy. He already knows you’re a slut. Everyone does.”
Sam’s face scrunches up as his eyes squeeze shut—Cas’ stubble against his own, the cold wet of his hair smearing along Sam’s cheek as Lucifer nuzzles, kisses down Sam’s neck. Cas. Cas, looking on, inside, he must be, he must…!
Lucifer praises, “There you go,” when Sam forces himself to exhale, tight and unwanted but his heart hammers painfully and he has to breathe. Cotton ears. Eyes closed. Lucifer, kissing him with Cas’ mouth; neck. Clavicle. “He trusts you too, you know. Maybe not as ‘intimately’ as you do, though. Oh, don’t give me that look—what, was that supposed to be a secret? The way you look at him? Really?”
Again, Sam mumbles, “No,” but Lucifer clicks his tongue and proceeds to unbutton Sam’s shirt after yanking his tee out of his jeans.
“He’s been inside your noggin before. He’s seen all the pretty things. Everyone knows, Sammy.” That sing-song. Stairway to Heaven. Cold sweat. Freezer burn. “That you and I, we’re special. I feel like Johnny McGee returning from war, frolicking back home to my faithful little wife after years and years—just to find her gawking at the ugly neighbor kid? Come on, you’re better than that.”
Sam thinks he declines again. Feels his hair swishing against his jaw so maybe he’s shaking his head no, hands still against that pillar but they shove at Cas’ wrist—Cas—when Lucifer grabs between Sam’s legs and squeezes, unperturbed, and it hurts. Looking down, all Sam sees is Cas’ hand, Cas’ arm, Cas’ suit—Cas’ face, and it tuts like Lucifer likes to do it, but then it smoothes, and then it—God, just like he’d look. Confused. Soft.
“‘Sam’,” Lucifer sighs in Cas’ usual, gravelly voice. “‘Is that a banana in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?’”
Sam tries, “Don’t,” but Lucifer giggles and kisses him on the mouth again. Kneads and tugs Sam’s junk through his jeans while he does, and Sam is cupping Cas’ elbow, somehow. Unable to let go. Not pulling him in, but not—he can’t push him away. No use. Grace. Lucifer.
“Hey, I’m not doing anything right now. That’s all you. See, I told you all the hard training would pay off…!” Another kiss, pecked. Sam’s stomach turns. Cas’ spit in his mouth. Cas’ face, tilted high. Lidded eyes. Sam closes his eyes again. “I’m doing you a favor, aren’t I? He doesn’t know how to push all those pretty buttons of yours. But I do.”
Sam swallows, shakes his head again. Bile. Lucifer, opening Sam’s belt, Sam’s jeans. Cas’ big hands, the scrape of his stubble, the plush of his mouth, dragging kisses down Sam’s sweaty neck…!
“And you’re easy, too. Wearing your little boyfriend is just the cherry on top, isn’t it?”
“Stop.”
“What? I’m not lying.” Soft, “I know you, Sam,” and it’s not Cas’ tone, even though it’s Cas’ voice. Years, centuries of that tone… Prodding, invading… “I know you like nobody else does. I own you. It’s okay. I can talk like him for you again, like a little roleplay? You always adored those.”
“No…!”
“’Your penis seems to be engorging. I assume my technique is satisfactory?’”
Sam gets a left hook in. The gratification is short with Lucifer hauling him on top of the nearby desk.
Ingredients splatter. Papers fly, crumple, tear. Sam grunts for the pain in his hand, the back of his head—Lucifer slams him down again.
Panting, gritted: “I will touch your soul. Just because you asked so nicely.”
Lucifer does.
Sam curls off the table.
His scream is sore in his throat, his chest, his entire body—Lucifer sinks Cas’ hand deeper and twists.
There is not a single muscle in Sam’s body not fighting the agony, not fighting to—keep him alive, sane, conscious. Sam can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but scream and shake with his body locked up.
Lucifer whistles a laugh after yanking his hand back out and the first glimpse Sam gets once his vision allows it is the fading red glow in Cas’ eyes, and he wishes he’d—that he’d not. That Lucifer would continue. Torture him. Make it stop.
Lucifer croons, “Never gets old,” and licks Cas’ fingers, one by one, panting; smiling. Cas’ face doesn’t bruise. His hair is slightly more askew than before the punch. “Was it good for you too, babe?”
Lucifer, yanking Sam’s jeans and underwear below his ass. Sam, shivering, exhausted and bathed in sweat, still struggling to catch his breath (any breath at all)—no effort for Lucifer, shoving Sam’s legs up high. Sam tries to catch that wrist again, at least, but he’s too weak.
“Cas…”
“He’s right here. Front row.”
“Cas, you… It’s, it’s okay… It’s okay…”
“Aww.” Lucifer unzips Cas’ pants. Skin on skin—Sam’s stomach clenches. He cringes. Knuckles against his bare ass. “It’s not like you’re his first. Well, first guy; okay. Oh, nice dick, bro. Not bad, not bad. Maybe I judged Sammy’s taste too harshly.”
Sam lets his head roll to the side. Coughs. The cuff of Cas’ shirt—pinched fingers, just-so. “I’m sorry, Cas… I’m so sorry…”
“You should be. But not to him. ‘Yes, you should show a little more appreciation, Sam. How else do you suggest you and I would have gotten around to engage in intercourse?’”
“Stop…”
“‘I feel stupid now. Seeing all of this. Seeing you.’”
Sam utters, “No.” Lucifer wraps Cas’ hand around Sam’s cock—chubbed thanks to the adrenaline. Sweat. “No, stop…!”
Lucifer continues, “‘I was so blind. I have been missing out, as you’d say’,” as he strokes Sam into further fullness. That practiced, tight pump, perfected over decades. Cas’ voice. Cas’ palm, the shift of his suit against Sam’s skin. “‘Look at you. Beautiful.’” A smear of a thumb across the head. Sam flinches. “‘So responsive.’”
The fog in Sam’s brain condenses. Begs him to let go, please just slip under, you’ve made your point… Pleasure, being touched, Cas, mumbling all that sweet nonsense—like you’d dream if you had nice dreams, if you’d let yourself imagine…
“‘I could have had you all this time. You would have let me. You have, haven’t you? Thought about me. About us.’”
Sam huffs.
“‘How he turned into me, sometimes, in the cage? Made you say all those pretty things to me, plead with me? Maybe you pleasure yourself to the memories. He did make me play nice, after all. Sometimes.’”
His throat is tight but Sam swallows. Cas has got him fully hard in his hand, relentless, thorough—works him just under the crown. That firm thumb to his frenulum teases him wet. Sam groans, tosses his head, slow like molasses.
“‘That’s it’,” praises Cas. “‘I’d get you wet inside with my grace, take it slow. Make you climax first so you would be extra sensitive. Would whisper all those nice things—you remember them, don’t you? How I made you believe it was really me? That I had come to rescue you, just like I had done with Dean? In my arms, you trembled and cried like a child. You gave me everything. Nearly as much as you gave him when it was your mother. Or Dean. Or Jessica. Maybe you only like me now because of what he made me do to you?’” Sam shakes his head. Cas tuts, coos. “‘I wouldn’t blame you. He dicked you good with my body, didn’t he? I’m afraid I couldn’t even get it up for you without him. So, in all seriousness, you better be thankful.’”
An odd cold-warmth flushes through Sam’s lower body and he gasps, remembering, tensing. “No, don’t…! Lucifer…!”
“Good ol’ days.” Lucifer lines himself up and pushes. “Let’s see exactly how slutty you’ve been.”
The aftermath of what Lucifer did to his soul—helps. Makes it worse. Everything.
Sam trembles, he’s so exhausted—manipulated into physical pleasure and he’s too weak to groan like part of him wants to do it. His head tips back and Lucifer hums as he makes Cas bottom out, grinds him deep. One hand still on Sam’s cock, even if distracted. A slow stroke, once he’s acclimatized. He rolls Cas’ hips to work Sam open.
“Geez, look at you… Virgin Mary all over again. Hmm, he feels that, yeah… Oh, do that again…! Yeah, that whore was nothing compared to this, huh?”
Sam swallows, gulps. It hurts, but not… The grace helps. Slick. Cas keeps stroking him. The almost-circle of his fingers, the push of Sam’s cock sliding through it, over and over…!
“This is as real as it’s gonna get.” Sam whines. Lucifer firms Cas’ hand so a new gush of precome pearls from Sam’s slit. “Yeah, take a good look.”
To Sam’s horror, Lucifer doesn’t lose interest in jacking him off. Keeps Sam present and pent-up and it’s been so long, too, since Sam had the time to—anything, really; God. Cas, don’t look…
Lucifer snarls. His pace falters.
Sam stares at him.
“I got it.” Lucifer raises Cas’ hand into the air. “I got it.”
Sam hadn’t noticed he’d pushed himself onto his elbows until Lucifer grabs him by the hips to pull him in, uses it for leverage. Slaps into Sam’s ass hard and harder, and Sam feels himself slipping again—Cas’ hand, cupping his cheek, sliding down his neck, under his t-shirt. Squeezing and feeling, watching—Sam’s eyes flutter when he gets back to where he left off with Sam’s cock, rock-hard now. His balls draw up, and it’s—good. Strict and fast, like Cas would be, if he would…if they…
Snarled, “No, you sit your ass down,” and Sam gasps for the particularly mean shove of those hips, for the nick of a nail—and then those eyes flicker, red first, and then—then—
“Sam,” roars Cas, and Sam’s body can’t hold back what was already set in motion, and Sam clamps down with a pained gasp.
Cas is still in him so Sam feels himself rippling, inside, gripping at Cas and drawing him deeper, his cock throbbing in Cas’ grip with the thick spurts of his own come gushing over his stomach, his shirt, his tee, Cas’ fingers—
Cas stares.
Sam is gonna cry. “C-Cas—!”
“I am so sorry, Sam,” and then he convulses, head to toe, a heave to all of him—ending with a snarl, a roar; with Lucifer, slapping Cas’ available hand flat on the table next to Sam’s hip.
“Oh, you bastard—” clenched teeth, blood-red, upturned eyes “—I’ll make you regret the SHIT out of this.”
Sam swallows his yelp as Lucifer manhandles him around, flips him to lie on his stomach, hauls him back to meet his thrusts with both hands on Sam’s hips. Even with the table underneath him, Sam can barely stand. His legs are rendered useless. The lingering too-fast orgasm throbs through him, still, and he groans into the table, the back of his hand. He bites his wrist. Anything. Oh, God, it should hurt. It should be hurting.
“Is this what you want, huh? You want me to leave this kind of impression for you? You could’ve just asked, Cassie!”
That rumbling hiss of that voice, right up against Sam’s ear. Cas, blanketing him. No—Lucifer. Grunting, grabbing, clinging, not caring. The constant, brutal pounding to Sam’s insides, the sick squelch of the artificial slick, making it easy, making it start to sound hollow with how Lucifer carves him out. Sam swallows. Groans low in his throat.
“Favorite button right here, isn’t it, Sammy?” Sam groans again. “Yeah, that’s what you need. You think he could give it to you like this? That anyone could? Only me, baby. You know you missed me… It’s okay, I know you’re not big on words…”
Lucifer doesn’t wrap his hand back around Sam’s dick. He doesn’t need to.
He simply steadies his stance, corrects the angle just a tad. “Come on,” he growls, and he sounds almost like—Cas. Without meaning to. “Come the fuck on, bitch.”
Sam spasms; gulps. Attempts to eat his hand further but Lucifer yanks that away, makes him be loud—fucks him through it, just as unwavering as before. Buries Cas’ teeth in Sam’s shoulder and roars as he locks his hips—unloads, buried deep, and Sam cringes head to toe. Sobs.
“Hey, no, nuh-uh—” Lucifer snaps his finger next to Sam’s face and Sam startles despite himself, full-body “—no, honey, you’re not getting out of this. Feel him.”
Sam does. He does.
Those fingers feed themselves into his mouth. Stir behind his teeth, around his tongue. Sam splutters. Moans.
“Turning those tables now. You think of him when I fuck you? Fine—now you will always think of me when he fucks you. Or, me, fucking you. ‘It’s me, after all.’”
“No…”
“‘Yes.’”
“Fuck, you—I—!”
A choke, a feral—crack.
Black-red mist darts out of Cas and up into the air.
A surge like electricity, and then, it’s—quiet.
Sam pants around the fingers still in his mouth. Cas’ body—still on top of him. Motionless.
“C…Cas…?”
No reply.
A tug, though.
Cas’ fingers, first. Then his body. His dick.
Sam remains prone, frozen. Listening.
Eventually: “He is…gone, Sam.”
Sam dares to look over his shoulder. Cas. Cas’ devastated face—the sweat Lucifer had worked him up to, the excited flush already drained. Cas’ blue eyes. The helpless slouch of his shoulders.
“…Cas.”
“Yes.”
“I—”
“No,” says Cas, soft. “Don’t.”
So Sam doesn’t.
A sniffle, half a cough. Sam turns around to sit, to gather himself. Cas helps him sit on the floor, propped up against the table leg. Guts for that damned spell, on the floor. On the carpet. Oh, Dean will be livid.
If Cas’ grace allowed, he’d surely magic Sam’s outfit back into decency. As is, he can only hold him steady under his armpits. “Sam,” and Sam’s eyes focus (where was he even looking?), swim to Cas’. Cas steadies his left arm so he can donate his right hand to cup Sam’s cheek, slide it to the back of Sam’s neck. “You need not explain. Not a thing.”
There is wetness in his lashes when Sam blinks. He gives a curt nod. Cas reciprocates.
The kiss is a surprise.
Small, but—unmistakable. Right on the mouth.
Sam stares in disbelief as Cas sits back a second later with his hands in stiff fists on his thighs. He seems to have a hard time keeping eye contact. Sam imagines…is…is that a hint of a flush on that face?
“You are not to blame. If anything—”
“No,” says Sam, and Cas’ brows furrow. Like they do. Worried, sweet—everything. Sam adds, “We don’t have to talk,” and his voice shakes a little with it, and then Cas leans in to hug him, both arms. His ear is sandwiched against Sam’s cheek. Sam huffs. The position isn’t favorable, but he hugs the angel back.
Cas lets him turn his head, rest his cheek on his shoulder. Still damp from the ocean, that tang of kelp and salt, without the protective layer of his trench coat, it’s… Sam should have known. He should have noticed from the get-go.
After a while, Cas mumbles, “I think your hand might be broken, Sam,” and Sam hums with his eyes closed. He keeps holding Cas, and Cas doesn’t try to push them apart.