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For Warnings and Summary, see Master Post
Part Five
His head slipped off his hand, and the abrupt jerk was the only thing that stopped him from nodding off sitting up in the cracked vinyl seats of the old diner. The last thing he remembered was the vague irritation of not being able to focus on the words on the damn laptop because his damned eyes were bugging out, but the waitress had been cleaning a nearby table, and she wasn’t even in the room anymore, so it had been a close call.
Red stole over his face as he imagined what might have happened if he got a dream visitation in a public space. He didn’t really know if he reacted while it was happening, but the blood would be enough cause for alarm in and of itself. The last thing he wanted was to wake up in a hospital with strangers asking him questions he had no intention of ever answering.
He stood up quickly, but had to grip the edge of the Formica as vertigo slammed into him. His body was going to force him to sleep eventually, but… not yet. Not yet. Rubbing his throbbing temples slowly, he made it a couple of steps away from the table before realizing the laptop was still sitting there.
Fuck.
He walked back to the booth and slammed the lid closed, picked it up and looked around for the missing case. The sudden, harsh shrill of the phone he’d left on the bench seat startled him so badly he almost dropped the damn computer. Somehow managing not to throw the laptop across the room, he dumped it back down and grabbed the phone, flipping it open and biting out a harsh, “What?” as he finally located the bag that it was shoved into in the far corner of the booth.
There was a pause before Dean cautiously responded, “Hi.”
Sam crammed the phone between his shoulder and ear and stiffly bent down, just managing to snag the strap and haul the bag up. He was securing the computer in the bag and was just about to leave when Dean’s voice startled him with a questioning, “Sam?” and, fuck, he needed some air. That would help more than the caffeine at this point; for a while now, all caffeine had been doing was making him jittery.
He was half-way to the door before it occured to him that Dean was still waiting for a response. “What do you want? Because if you’re just calling to tell me one more time what a fuck-up I am, I’m not interested,” he snapped.
There was a moment of silence and Sam made it outside, inhaling the cold air and gratefully letting it clear his head a bit.
“I…” Dean finally replied, “I don’t think we should have this talk on the phone, do you?”
“No. No, I don’t. Meet me in front of the wax museum. I’ll be there in thirty.” Sam flipped the phone closed and shoved it in his pocket. He didn’t seem to be able to make himself care one way or the other if Dean showed up – at least he probably wouldn’t fall asleep while he was walking.
~o0O0o~
He wasn’t prepared for the flood of conflicting emotions that hit him as soon as he rounded the corner and saw Dean leaning against the hood of the Impala. He was drinking what looked like a beer and looking up at the stars, even though the partial cloud cover made the view pretty unimpressive.
A part of him wanted to turn around and run away – the imagined intimacy he shared with his brother was making him flush with embarrassment, even though he could feel an answering pulse of heat in his groin, and… he couldn’t do this. He just couldn’t…
Except the other part of Sam wanted to curl into Dean's protective embrace, was desperate to be reassured that Dean had meant that long ago promise and would, if it was the last thing he did, save Sam.
Not that he and Dean had a habit of cuddling or anything. The flush in his face burned; he was probably glowing neon. He brought a shaking hand up to run tiredly over his eyes. He was just tired. That was all this was.
He moved forward, and Dean looked over, catching the movement unerringly. Dean didn’t brighten, or look happy to see Sam at all, which, Sam hadn’t expected that, not at all, but Dean looked so… inscrutable, Sam wasn’t sure what to do with it. His steps faltered, which caused him to feel more awkward, so he walked faster, was almost breathless when he got to the car, which, okay, that was just fatigue.
“Hey,” Dean said quietly. “You wanna sit?” He nodded at the hood.
Sam had a deer-in-the-headlights moment of panic, almost turned and walked away, except, he wasn’t a fucking coward, so he forced himself stay. He leaned against the fender. “So, what, you trust me now?” His casual tone wasn’t at all convincing, but it was the best he could do right then.
Dean actually snorted, and the dismissive sound hit Sam low in the gut. He shifted uncomfortably, at a loss for how to respond.
There was a long silence. Sam couldn’t seem to think of anything to say, didn’t know why Dean was here. The intermittent headache faded back in, and he raised a shaky hand to his head to rub uselessly at his forehead.
“I think you’re going to say yes.”
Sam spun around at the cold words, stared at Dean with a stunned look before looking around for evidence that he was somehow sleeping again. He couldn’t have heard right. That was… that was… He took a step back, a step away. His hands were shaking and he stuck them self-consciously into his pockets. “I…” his throat closed up on him, cutting off whatever poorly thought out words he might have come up with.
Dean kept talking, almost to himself, seemed to be looking through Sam instead of at him. “Every instinct I have is screaming at me that it’d be better if we split up.” Dean twitched his mouth and shook his head slightly. “But if I leave you, I know you’ll say yes. Lucifer wins. Zachariah showed me.”
“What? Whe…”
Dean cut him off harshly, “It doesn’t matter, Sam. I’m not gonna say yes, and I’m not going to let you say yes.” His brother let out a bitter laugh. “You know, when I called you before, when we met at the bridge, I actually thought maybe we could work it out, maybe go back to the way we were before, you know? But…” Dean’s words trailed off, and his face tightened into an angry mask.
Dean shook off the melancholy tone, defaulted back to his stern, I’m-in-charge, big-brother attitude, “So, anyway, I can’t just leave you, but you aren’t in any shape to be hunting anything. Shit, I could see your hands shaking when you walked up. We’re going back to Bobby’s. Gonna get you clean. Again. Then… I don’t know. Maybe you can stay with him, and I can get Cas to back me up while we search for a way to stop what you started.”
Sam’s thoughts were circling wildly. He stood there, eyes locked on his brother, unable to articulate any of the turbulence in his head. Dean got off the hood and got in the car. After a minute, he leaned out again and barked, “Sammy, get in the car.”
Sam jerked into motion at the tone, too many years ingrained to ignore it, and stumbled over to the passenger side. It took three tries to get his fucking hands to cooperate enough to get the door open. Lucky for him, Dean didn’t say a word, just started the car and drove.
~o0O0o~
A couple hours later it was taking everything he had not to close his eyes against the heavy burn. Sleep beckoned temptingly, promised sweet oblivion, but he knew it was a lie.
He was desperate to get out of the car and walk around for a bit. “Dean,” he blurted out, “You gotta… I gotta… Is, um… I have to pee. We need to stop.”
“Next town’s not for another 15 minutes.” Dean didn’t even slow.
Fifteen minutes was too long, though. He’d never make it. The panic was clouding his brain, making it hard to think, and he could hear Lucifer’s laughter echoing through his mind. “Stop the car!” he yelled.
Dean startled and the car swerved a little bit before he got it under control. He shot Sam a pissed off glare and hit the brakes. The car was barely stopped before Sam threw the door open and staggered out. He inhaled deeply, and the air was cold, bracing. It felt good, tasted clean. He pounded on his forehead with the heel of his palm a few times, trying vainly to knock the cob webs loose, but it didn’t help much, so he wandered in a circle trying to increase the blood flow.
This wasn’t… this wasn’t going to work. He could feel himself losing the battle, and the terror that was riding him pushed his steps a bit faster, as if he could out run it. Please, please, please, just a little bit longer. Just a little more time, and then he’d be able to deal. He would. Just not yet. Not yet…
A hand landed heavily on his shoulder and he whipped around, throwing a sloppy punch that cut through air and landed him ass-first on the ground, gravel grinding painfully into his hands, residual pain from his still healing injuries jackknifing through his body to steal his breath.
Dean looked at him like he’d gone mad, and, well, it was probably not a half bad theory all told. “Dude, what the fuck?”
“Sam?” Dean was crouching in front of him, hand on his face, and Sam wasn’t even sure when his brother had moved.
He blinked at Dean, suddenly conscious of how close their bodies were. “What…” he whispered.
Fortunately, Dean didn’t wait for him to complete his sentence. “When’s the last time you slept?”
The demand took Sam off guard, and he flinched back at the tone. He wasn’t actually sure how long it had been. “I don’t…” he cut himself off, couldn’t afford to give too much away. “It doesn’t matter. Get off of me.”
The concern Sam had failed to notice while it was there faded from Dean’s features when Sam edited himself. His brother rolled his eyes and stood up. “Let’s stop at the next motel we can find. I didn’t sleep last night either.”
“No!” Sam yelled much too sharply. “I don’t, sleep is…I can’t. I’m hungry. And we need to get to Bobby’s. Let’s just stop and get something to eat, okay? We’ll be fine if we eat.”
“You need to get some sleep.” Dean sounded a little mystified, and Sam knew he wasn’t making a whole lot of sense, but, there was nothing he could do about that.
“I can’t. I can’t, okay? I just… we can go to a motel. Alright, fine. You can sleep and I’ll look for a case for you. It’s fine. It’s okay. I’ll… I’ll be fine.”
Dean just looked at him suspiciously for a few moments; he was clearly trying to figure Sam out, but Sam was pretty sure Dean hadn’t gotten anywhere with that when he sighed and replied, “Fine, diner it is. As long as I’m okay to drive after that, we can push through to Bobby’s.”
~o0O0o~
Dean looked at Sam sideways as he pulled into the truck stop parking lot. Sam was fidgeting in the seat, completely unable to sit still, and Dean was starting to think a quick, unexpected punch to knock him out might make the rest of the drive a hell of a lot more bearable.
He still hadn’t heard from Bobby, but he was pretty sure the withdrawal was worse now than it had been at the beginning of the hunt. It seemed pretty likely that Sam had gotten his hands on more blood while they’d been dealing with the fucking Leshii. He should never have let Sam go off to research on his own. It was the only time Dean could fathom Sam would’ve had time to do it.
Dean hadn’t even turned the engine off yet when Sam was climbing out of the car. “Bathroom,” he mumbled.
Dean watched him go. Sam was moving funny, which was odd – aside from the bite Sam had gotten, he hadn’t really been that banged up after the hunt.
Dean had to wonder if Sam was hallucinating again. He sighed heavily. One thing at a time. The withdrawal wasn’t letting his brother sleep, and Sam needed rest before it got really bad or he’d be in even more danger. Dean wished he knew how dangerous the detox really was, but there was no way to measure something that nobody else in the world had gone through.
He got out of the car and grabbed the med kit from the trunk, grabbing a few of the heavy hitter pain killers. If they didn’t knock Sam out, nothing would, and they’d have the added benefit of possibly easing some of Sam’s pain, real or imagined, on top of it.
Sam had forgotten the laptop, so Dean grabbed that too, as well as some of the papers he’d picked up before they’d left town. Might as well kill some time – wasn’t like they didn’t have the end of the world hanging over their heads.
Walking into the truck stop, he found Sam standing next to an empty booth, looking at it in consternation.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as soon as he was close enough.
Sam seemed to shake himself, and looked at Dean slowly. “Nothing,” he mumbled and then reluctantly sat down.
“I don’t think the table’s going to attack you,” Dean teased.
“You never know…”
Sam seemed distracted, and the reply was… odd. Anger spiked. Damn it, why had Sam done this to himself again?
An awkward silence descended between them, and Dean was grateful when the waitress stopped and asked for their order. Sam didn’t even look at the menu, just muttered, “I’ll have that too,” without taking his eyes off the window. And since when had Sam wanted to eat what Dean did? “And coffee,” he said a little too loudly as the waitress started to turn away.
The girl smiled a little thinly, nodded, and muttered, “I heard you the first time,” under her breath as she turned away, but the coffee was on the table a moment later. She’d barely finished pouring when Sam was dumping his sugar and cream in carelessly before bringing the cup to his mouth and guzzling it, grimacing over the heat but not slowing down.
Sam really didn’t need coffee to add to his obvious jitters, but it served Dean’s purposes at this point, so he let it go. “Hey,” he said instead. Sam startled and his coffee splashed onto the table as he snapped his eyes to Dean’s. “Make yourself useful, why don’t you. There’s still an apocalypse to stop, no matter what else is going on.”
Sam looked wounded, which only made Dean irritated, and he opened the paper at the top of the stack without any kind of goal other than not looking at his brother.
The waitress was getting their food ready to bring over. “Hey, I need to look something up in Dad’s journal, and I managed to forget it…”
“Okay,” Sam replied instantly, cutting Dean off and sliding himself stiffly out of the booth. He passed the waitress on the way out. As soon as she’d dropped off the plates and refilled the coffee, Dean pulled the pills out of his pocket, grabbed his pocket knife and smashed them up before dumping them into Sam’s cup, along with cream and sugar.
Dean’s instincts had been right. Sam didn’t touch his food after he got back, but he downed the coffee before she had time to top him off and was asking for more within ten minutes of sitting down.
Ten minutes after that and Sam was practically falling face first into his food. He looked so innocent, calm and sleepy, and Dean couldn’t help running a hand lightly, soothingly, over the back of his brother’s neck. He wanted his brother back by his side so bad the hurt twisted through his chest, and he had to swallow painfully around the lump that was forming in his throat. If Dean had anything else to try to fix their broken relationship he’d do it, but there was nothing. Not while Sam refused to prioritize Dean over his addiction.
He stuffed his rising anger down. It wouldn’t accomplish anything while Sam was this out of it anyway. He could pretend, for a while, at least. “Come on, sleepy head,” he murmured fondly, pulling Sam’s unresisting body out of the booth.
Sam looked at him woozily, muttered, “Not five,” in response, but he cooperated with Dean’s prodding and it didn’t take them long to make it back out to the car.
~o0O0o~
Dean guides Sam onto a bed, and… that’s not right. Panic stabs at Sam, not enough to bring him fully awake or pull him from Dean’s grasp, but enough to clear his head just a little. “Dean?” His words are slow, his movements clumsy, and he knows this feeling, damn it. “You drug me?” The feeling of betrayal throbs behind his eyes, burning and shameful, but he can’t do this, and he clutches at Dean’s arms. “I toll you, I can’t…”
“Go to sleep, Sam. We’re gonna get you clean, but if you’re already exhausted going into it, you’ll never make it past the withdrawal.”
“What? No… please, Dean…” Everything is shutting down and he isn’t going to be able to fight it, can’t even kick Dean’s hands away when his brother lifts his feet up onto the bed and pulls off his shoes.
“Can’t…” he mumbles one more time, his eyes falling shut. He shudders when Dean’s hands move over the fly of his jeans, popping the buttons before peeling them down and off. His shirt is next, although Sam is so out of it that he can’t even help, and Dean has to fight to work it off. “Please…” Sam whispers. “Don’t let him…”
“Shhh… relax, Sam.” The bed shakes, losing the one sided sag as Dean gets up and crosses the room to do something. Sam’s too boneless to move, laying there and breathing deeply, the drugs keeping his anxiety blissfully low. He feels like he’s spiraling slowly on one of those old, metal playground spinners, like Dean gave it a big push, and then wandered off. It’s an innocent memory in stark contrast to where Dean’s hands were roaming just minutes ago. He should get up, he knows this abstractly, but can’t make himself care enough to move.
Despite his almost Zen state, Sam starts just a little when Dean sits back down on the edge of the bed.
“Shhh…” Dean whispers again. His hand skims across Sam’s shoulder, comforting and solid, keeps going until it reaches Sam’s lips and brushes over them. “It’s gonna be okay.” Dean lies down next to Sam on the bed, his hand skimming down Sam’s chin to come to rest over his heart. “I’ll keep you safe. I believe in you, Sammy.”
Sam’s been longing to hear those words for over a year now, and they feel so good that he can’t help a quiet, wounded sob inside. He relaxes completely under the gentle touch of Dean’s hand as it skims over his chest, stopping to quickly tease over a nipple before moving on to touch and play, a dip of skin here, a bone-lined ridge there.
He can’t fight it this time, and he arches into the contact, encouraging more. Unable to form the words, he lets his body tell Dean that the touch is okay, even welcomed. Still, Dean’s tongue skimming over his stomach to slip into his belly button is startling, and he gasps in a breath, can’t help the jerk of his stomach muscles away from Dean’s touch.
Anxiety is climbing now, tight panic that’s pressurizing his head, making it throb. He wants to speak, wants to tell Dean to stop, but his thoughts are confused, incomplete, the desire for comfort is leaving him befuddled and unsure.
“It’s okay, this is the way it should be.” Dean’s words burrow under his skin, leave him pliant and desperate. He gives in to Dean’s touch, unable to articulate why Dean should stop, even to himself.
“Please, Dean,” he moans, “please, need you. Need more.”
Dean doesn’t pull away his tongue, continues to lick and nip over Sam’s stomach while he reaches up and latches his fingers in the elastic of Sam’s boxers, slipping them down low, lower, off completely, and Sam can feel the cool slide of pre-come dripping onto his skin, his freed dick hard and aching.
Dean inches down, pulling his mouth away to rest his head lightly on Sam’s stomach, his lips just at the edge of his dampened skin. The soft skim of Dean’s finger through the wet drives a shiver through Sam’s lower abdomen, and Sam can feel Dean’s breaths, just out of reach of Sam’s tip. It’s warm, humid everywhere except where it cools over the wetness beading out of his slit. Sam knows what Dean’s planning, expects the sweet slide of Dean’s mouth over his flesh at any moment, but it doesn’t come, and he can’t help but whimper his protest.
“Tell me, Sammy, what do you want?” Dean’s voice is nine shades of sin.
“Need to push myself into your mouth, Dean,” he responds immediately. Maybe he’s always needed this; maybe he just didn’t know it. “Please, need you to taste me.”
The brush of Dean’s full lips against his skin sends tingles of electricity through Sam’s body. He can feel the smile in his brother’s voice when Dean replies, “All you’ve ever had to do is ask.”
Something niggles at the back of Sam’s head. Something about all of this is wrong. Dean wouldn’t… the heat slides slowly down his shaft, too slowly, and Sam can’t help but push up into it. Dean takes him all the way down like a pro, and a savage wave of jealousy surges through Sam. He should’ve been Dean’s first, not some stranger in a back ally when Dean was still mostly a kid. Except… Sam’s not supposed to know about that. He pushes the thought down, buries it deep, back where it’s supposed to be.
Dean pulls up, letting his teeth scrape ever so lightly across oversensitive skin, and Sam groans, obscene and wanton.
Dean pulls all the way off, placing a sweet kiss on the top of Sam’s shaft and catching Sam’s gaze. “Not what I want, this time, Sammy,” Dean husks out.
He starts climbing back up the bed, hands wrapping around Sam’s feet and bringing them with so that by the time Dean’s face is hovering over Sam’s own, his legs are back and open, leaving Sam completely exposed. He places one of Sam’s feet flat on the bed before letting it go and ordering, “Keep it there.”
Panic dislodges from somewhere in his chest, and a tiny whimper works its way free. No! Please, he doesn’t want this. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong…
“Shhh…” Dean soothes. “Let it go, Sammy. I’m not going to hurt you. I’d never hurt you. Trust me.”
Sam’s fear can’t stand up to the sound of Dean’s comfort and love. He’s needed that since… well, he’s always needed it.
He shattered when Dean left him for hell. He’s been denying it for months, insisting everything is fine, but he still doesn’t think he’s found all the pieces. The pain of losing his brother, despite all his efforts to stop it, gouged out a piece of his soul, and he’s not sure he’ll ever get that back. He can’t… if Dean needs this…
Dean’s hand slides back over Sam’s chest, taking a moment to gently tweak his nipples before exploring downwards. When he reaches Sam’s dick, he takes Sam in hand, gives a couple forceful tugs, until Sam moans appreciatively. Letting Sam go he continues the journey down. “Gonna make you feel so good,” Dean whispers, just as his fingers slide over the rough skin of Sam’s hole.
“Don’t… don’t want this…” Sam whispers back, except, he can’t seem to bring up the matching emotions for the words, and relaxes against the touch instead – a part of himself feels closed off, numb.
“Yes you do, Sammy. Just relax for me. That’s it.”
Sam does what he’s ordered, sucking in a tight gasp of air when Dean’s finger breaches him for the first time. The nail scrapes against his skin and leaves behind a burn that burrows deep inside. It feels right, leaves Sam almost hyperventilating when he continues to push in, gently stretching him. Dean’s finger is slick inside him, and it moves quickly towards its intended goal. Sam arches up off the bed with a loud yell when Dean finds his prostrate, lust throbbing through his body hard enough to leave Sam dizzy, that part of himself not numb at all. “More,” he demands, “Need you in me, need you to tear me apart, Dean, please.”
“Okay, okay,” Dean speeds up, slipping in a second finger, and then almost immediately, a third. Between the scrape and stretch, Sam’s ass is on fire, but he doesn’t mind the burn as long as the aching emptiness that is his soul is filled.
He doesn’t have long to wait. Dean pulls out his fingers and lines himself up, letting his dick play over Sam’s slicked up hole. “Please, Dean,” he finally whimpers, and Dean plunges into Sam’s unresisting flesh. They pulse together, falling into an instinctive, mutually satisfying rhythm, and Sam thrusts harder, meeting Dean’s hips with his own.
“Fuck me, Dean, need you to fuck me. Need you to hurt me.” And God, he does. He needs pain, deserves pain. He’s dizzy with longing, desperate for the absolution Dean’s abuse will give him. His muddled, confused thoughts spill out in incoherent whimpers.
Dean’s lips press against Sam’s neck. A quiet, soothing, shushing noise washes against Sam’s skin and calms his unvoiced fears. Dean never falters his rhythm, and Sam can feel an overwhelming climax threatening to crest. He pushes back harder, reveling in the slip slide of Dean’s dick caressing his insides, exploring Sam more intimately than anyone ever has before. Except… something is wrong, still wrong. This… his breath hitches, “Dean, stop.”
“God, Sam,” Dean says, increasing his speed and pounding into Sam’s body. “Almost there. Don’t fight it. Let the drugs make this easy, Sammy. I did it for you. Just give yourself to me. I’ll take care of you. Love you.”
It’s the final two words that push him over, leave him pulsing helplessly into the hot press of their bodies. Wave after wave of ecstasy washes over him from head to foot, leaves him worn-out, buried under Dean’s heat and weight. Dean pulls out, leaving Sam empty. He clutches at his brother, pulling him back, not willing to lose the connection they’ve created.
The last thought twists in his stomach and he pushes Dean away, rolls over until he reaches the edge of the bed so he can gasp in sharp breaths over the side. Not… not… that wasn’t Dean… wasn’t Dean… and he’s never wanted that. He hasn’t. He closes his eyes, tenses his body until he’s shaking trying to keep all his emotions inside.
Pain cracks against his skull, sends him flying against the far wall, slamming him against it. He slides down to the floor and huddles in on himself, covering his head for protection, and he knows he’s being weak, knows he should be fighting back, but he’s naked and there’s come sliding down the back of his leg, and the feeling of being vulnerable, exposed, it’s too overwhelming to combat in this moment.
Nick grabs his shoulder and pulls him to his feet, and it’s finally clear enough to his muddled brain that hiding isn’t going to do him any good. Pulling his free hand back, he lets loose and swings, but Nick blocks the would-be punch easily, catching Sam’s fist in his own and not letting go. When Nick squeezes, Sam can feel his bones flexing; it’s the same hand that Nick broke before, the same one that was healed when Sam woke up… but clearly not completely, because the harsh grip is calling back the recent pain.
Sam wraps a leg around Nick’s and pulls, hoping to pull him off balance, hoping to land him on the floor in a pin. The move would have worked on a human, but Nick doesn’t even seem to notice Sam’s attempt. Nick’s face is almost blank as he clamps painfully down on Sam’s still trapped hand, forcing Sam to his knees. From there he’s pushed face first into the carpet, and Nick throws a leg over him, straddling him easily.
Nick is already hard. Fuck, no!
Sam bucks up, twists his hand in an attempt to free himself, to reverse the pin, but nothing works; Nick is an immovable weight on his back. Sam continues to struggle anyway, jerking against Nick’s solid grip on his arms, kicking back with his feet, with his elbows, with whatever he can move, but succeeding in doing little besides scraping his face raw against the course, dirty carpet. Desperation drives him on until he loses all sense of reason, until he’s reduced to nothing more than a trapped animal’s mentality. He doesn’t know how long he flails, but eventually every muscle in his body is shaking and weak. Left with nothing, he relaxes down, his strength defeated as he gasps breaths against the floor. The dusty fibers make him cough softly, but he doesn’t even have it in himself to lift his head anymore.
He’s gotten cocky in the last few years, allowed himself to get confident in the knowledge that he’s big and strong and capable, allowed himself to believe that he can’t get taken out, at least, not by just one guy who’s smaller than he is, anyway. Deep down, despite all evidence to the contrary, he can’t quite accept that Nick isn’t just a guy. Nick doesn’t look like a monster. Sam knows you can’t always tell, but that knowledge doesn’t stop the feelings of stupidity and incompetence that leave him crushed and vulnerable.
Suddenly he’s eleven years old again. Smallest of the family and Dad’s just easily overpowered him, pinning him harshly to prove that his over-confidence can get him hurt. That raw feeling of humiliation, when a frustrated tear had escaped down his face in front of Dean, in front of his world, is back with a vengeance, and he feels small and weak and pathetic.
“Just say the word, Sam. Just tell me where you are, say yes, and all your pain will be gone. You can’t even imagine the rewards I’ll give you.”
But not that weak, apparently.
He pulls a small bit of backbone from somewhere unknown. “No,” he grits out against the scratchy fibers that are still rubbing his face raw.
Nick’s hand clenches in his hair, sending fiery pain across his scalp. He shifts his hips up slightly and then pushes back down, and just like that, his dick is ripping into Sam’s ass. The pain that erupts through him is unexpected; he’d thought the sex he’d had with Dean, with Lucifer, would have eased the way, but it’s just like the first time, and he screams in agony.
Rubbing Sam’s lower body raw against the floor, Nick pulls out and slams himself down again and again. This time, no way in hell is Sam getting hard. There’s no pleasure to be found in this coupling. The brutal pace Nick is setting is all about punishment and control, and it doesn’t last long. Nick pulls out at the last minute, pulsing his come across Sam’s back, moving up so that it lands in Sam’s hair and rolls down his cheek.
Nick still has Sam’s hands in a death grip, keeping Sam from being able to do anything about the slimy, musty liquid that’s crawling down his face like tears. Sam almost laughs out loud over his frustration at not being able to wipe it away. It’s such a little, stupid thing to be fixating on.
Letting Sam’s hands go, Nick abruptly stands up. Sam slowly lowers his arms to his sides, praying that it’s over now, that he can wake up.
“Get on the bed.”
Sam squints up, looking towards the cold, collected voice. Nick is standing at the window, the drapes parted just enough for Nick to look outside. It’s light outside, and that’s startling, disorienting and wrong. There should only be darkness in this place. The light makes everything too real.
Sam rolls to his side and starts to sit up, but the pain in his lower back and… the pain is too much, and he collapses back down with a wounded cry.
“I told you to get on the bed, Sammy.” The statement is no more threatening in tone than the last one, but the danger of refusal is palpable anyway.
Still… “Fuck you,” Sam spits out.
Something flips him onto his back, something he can’t see because Nick hasn’t moved from the window. Pain slams into the side of Sam’s face, snapping his head to the side and shattering a few of his teeth; he can taste the blood, feel the grit and the jagged edges. “Fuck,” Sam whimpers, spitting blood and white bone out into his hand.
“Let’s try that again,” Nick says calmly. “Get on the bed, Sammy.”
“Stop fucking calling me that,” Sam mutters quietly, but he’s fighting through the pain and pulling himself up on the bed as he does. It hurts too much to sit, so he lies down on his side. He’s too afraid to pull the covers over himself, so he pulls his knees up instead, affording himself a small enough amount of protection to hopefully not upset his captor.
Nick doesn’t turn or acknowledge what Sam’s done – just continues to stare silently out of the window. The angel’s staring at nothing, as far as Sam can tell. He doesn’t really care, though; the longer Nick stands at the window, the longer Sam can lick his wounds undisturbed.
Oblivion would be more than welcome at this point, but there’s no way Sam’s going to be able to sleep; his teeth cut deeply into the side of his cheek when Nick struck him, almost completely through his flesh, deep enough that if Sam wanted to, he could probably push his tongue through the skin and finish the job. The blood is a heavy flow, filling his mouth and making him swallow every minute or so, leaving him nauseous. He’s gonna need stitches inside of his mouth, which is going to make eating a fucking pain in the ass.
Speaking of, the pain in his lower back is starting to throb in time with the pain in his face, and it’s like the injuries are on a feedback loop or something, because they seem to be getting worse with every painful, synchronized thump. A gentle hand on his shoulder makes him jerk, but he instinctively keeps himself from flinching away.
“Lay on your back and stretch out...”
“Please,” Sam tries to interrupt, his voice weak and gravelly, but Lucifer just talks over him.
“…I want to examine what’s mine.”
The pain is so intense that it’s making it hard for Sam to think, and he knows that lying on his back will only make the agony worse, so even though he tries to comply with the demand out of a sense of self-preservation, his body refuses to obey his commands.
Several moments pass, and Nick loses patience. The hand resting on his skin turns harsh, slamming him onto his back and roughly shoving his legs flat and a little apart, his hands down to his sides. He screams in agony, unable to stop himself from fighting back, from trying to roll back over, but Nick just waits it out, holding him in place until Sam is too weak to move anymore. Nick slowly pulls back and stares critically down at Sam. He has to look away, too pathetic to even meet Nicks eyes.
“The burn healed nicely.” Nick sounds almost proud, and Sam turns his head back so he can strain to see his upper chest. He’d somehow forgotten about the burn over the last couple of days. Nick isn’t lying. The skin no longer looks broken, and it’s no longer weeping, but… the skin is a mottled twisted mess of black, red and purple, and Sam’s pretty sure it’s still in the shape of Nick’s hand. The mark he once hoped would keep him safe has been replaced with a mark of ownership that burns into his soul.
Nick chuckles cruelly over him. “Stay put, Sammy. There’s somebody here who wants to talk to you.”
“What?” Sam mumbles, looking around. Lucifer is gone.
Movement from over by the doorway pulls Sam’s attention and when he looks over, he sees his mother there, white, blood-stained nightgown covering her just like he’d seen during his hallucinations right before he’d betrayed Dean. “Mom?” he whispers fearfully. It’s Lucifer. Not her, not her, he whispers to himself fearfully.
She looks at him sadly and walks smoothly over to the bed, sitting next to him and pulling his head into her lap, cradling him close, leaning forward to kiss his brow.
“Leave me alone. You aren’t her,” he snaps, even as he drinks in her comfort like a man lost in the desert drinks water.
A gentle hand cards through his hair. “How do you know I’m not your mother, Sam?”
“Because you’ve fooled me before. You weren’t Jess, either.”
“My poor baby,” she breathes out, “Where do you think I’ve been all this time? Certainly not heaven?”
“No, stop it. I don’t want to hear it,” he whimpers back. Awareness of the pain is surging back, making it hard to think.
“Shhh…” she soothes. “Why are you still fighting him? He’s giving you an out, an eternity with your beloved brother. Just say yes, and all of your suffering will be over. It’s more than you deserve.”
The words stab through him like daggers, and he wants to deny them, but he doesn’t know how. “Why?”
“Sammy, what’s inside of you, it’s evil, and you know it. I’d so hoped you’d be able to overcome it, held out so much hope that you’d be able to turn our curse into a gift, but I was wrong.”
“No…”
“Surely you agree that you deserve this?”
Sam is desperate to deny it, but he can’t lie about what he did anymore. Everything that’s happened is on his shoulders. All the pain and suffering that will follow when Lucifer wins will be on him, will be on his fuck up. “Yes,” he says quietly, fireworks of pain flaring angrily in his face as his broken teeth rub against torn skin. Still it’s nothing compared to the pain in his lower body. “But I… I can’t compound my mistake by saying yes to you.”
“But, Sam,” his mother leans forward and brushes her soft lips over his own in a kiss that leaves Sam burning with self-disgust. “What if saying yes is the only way to win?”
“Wh… What?” he stammers out.
She rises, then lays her hand gently over the hand print on his chest. “This is what you were born for, Sammy. Please don’t make me watch you suffer anymore. Say yes.” Her fingers trace over the edges of the scar, then drift down lower to skim over his stomach.
He closes his eyes, unable to watch, his stomach muscles contracting to get away. “Stop,” begs, and the hand trails away. When he opens his eyes, she’s gone, and Nick is standing at the edge of the heavy curtains once more, pensively looking at the edge of light.
“Say yes, Sam,” Nick says forlornly. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore. You’re my family, and I’m everything you have left. We’re two halves made whole. Don’t you see that? You were born to be my vessel, it more than you deserve, don’t you agree?”
Sam picks a spot on the ceiling to stare at, willing himself not to give in to Lucifer’s taunting. Nick grabs Sam’s face, hard fingers punishing against his torn cheek, and Sam yells at the flare of pain that follows. “Answer me when I ask you a question, child,” Lucifer says maliciously.
The blood is flowing faster now, pooling in the back of Sam’s throat, making him cough and gag around it to get the words out. “I… I don’t know.”
Lucifer seems content with his response and lets him go. Sam’s far too miserable to take solace from that though.
Nick smiles and leans forward, pressing his lips to Sam’s forehead, so similar to the way his mother had just done it that Sam can’t help his shudder of disgust. “We’re done now, but I can’t send you away without a parting gift. Say, ‘Hi,’ to Dean for me, and while you’re at it, you better pray hard that you’ve kept me amused enough to stay out of his dreams.”
“Fuck you,” Sam mutters, pretending to ignore the tears the panic brings. Not Dean, not Dean…
Lucifer pulls back, but his hand stays, snaking over Sam’s mouth and nose and pressing down painfully hard. Sam can’t breathe around it, and his hands fly up to claw frantically at Nick’s hand. His chest constricts painfully as he strains against the hold, and the pain turns to agony as the seconds slip by with no relief.
All of a sudden, Lucifer lets go, and Sam heaves in a choking, gasping breath. It’s all he gets. Lucifer wraps both his hands around Sam’s neck and squeezes tightly. Sam fights with everything he’s got left, but it accomplishes nothing. He can feel his tongue swelling, distending out, his eyes bulging under the building pressure, tears of pain and panic that slide down the sides of his face as his body fights to stay alive. Slowly, his struggles cease as his body finally gives up the fight. He welcomes the darkness when it comes, gives in gratefully to the promised void.
Part Four | Part Six
Part Five
His head slipped off his hand, and the abrupt jerk was the only thing that stopped him from nodding off sitting up in the cracked vinyl seats of the old diner. The last thing he remembered was the vague irritation of not being able to focus on the words on the damn laptop because his damned eyes were bugging out, but the waitress had been cleaning a nearby table, and she wasn’t even in the room anymore, so it had been a close call.
Red stole over his face as he imagined what might have happened if he got a dream visitation in a public space. He didn’t really know if he reacted while it was happening, but the blood would be enough cause for alarm in and of itself. The last thing he wanted was to wake up in a hospital with strangers asking him questions he had no intention of ever answering.
He stood up quickly, but had to grip the edge of the Formica as vertigo slammed into him. His body was going to force him to sleep eventually, but… not yet. Not yet. Rubbing his throbbing temples slowly, he made it a couple of steps away from the table before realizing the laptop was still sitting there.
Fuck.
He walked back to the booth and slammed the lid closed, picked it up and looked around for the missing case. The sudden, harsh shrill of the phone he’d left on the bench seat startled him so badly he almost dropped the damn computer. Somehow managing not to throw the laptop across the room, he dumped it back down and grabbed the phone, flipping it open and biting out a harsh, “What?” as he finally located the bag that it was shoved into in the far corner of the booth.
There was a pause before Dean cautiously responded, “Hi.”
Sam crammed the phone between his shoulder and ear and stiffly bent down, just managing to snag the strap and haul the bag up. He was securing the computer in the bag and was just about to leave when Dean’s voice startled him with a questioning, “Sam?” and, fuck, he needed some air. That would help more than the caffeine at this point; for a while now, all caffeine had been doing was making him jittery.
He was half-way to the door before it occured to him that Dean was still waiting for a response. “What do you want? Because if you’re just calling to tell me one more time what a fuck-up I am, I’m not interested,” he snapped.
There was a moment of silence and Sam made it outside, inhaling the cold air and gratefully letting it clear his head a bit.
“I…” Dean finally replied, “I don’t think we should have this talk on the phone, do you?”
“No. No, I don’t. Meet me in front of the wax museum. I’ll be there in thirty.” Sam flipped the phone closed and shoved it in his pocket. He didn’t seem to be able to make himself care one way or the other if Dean showed up – at least he probably wouldn’t fall asleep while he was walking.
~o0O0o~
He wasn’t prepared for the flood of conflicting emotions that hit him as soon as he rounded the corner and saw Dean leaning against the hood of the Impala. He was drinking what looked like a beer and looking up at the stars, even though the partial cloud cover made the view pretty unimpressive.
A part of him wanted to turn around and run away – the imagined intimacy he shared with his brother was making him flush with embarrassment, even though he could feel an answering pulse of heat in his groin, and… he couldn’t do this. He just couldn’t…
Except the other part of Sam wanted to curl into Dean's protective embrace, was desperate to be reassured that Dean had meant that long ago promise and would, if it was the last thing he did, save Sam.
Not that he and Dean had a habit of cuddling or anything. The flush in his face burned; he was probably glowing neon. He brought a shaking hand up to run tiredly over his eyes. He was just tired. That was all this was.
He moved forward, and Dean looked over, catching the movement unerringly. Dean didn’t brighten, or look happy to see Sam at all, which, Sam hadn’t expected that, not at all, but Dean looked so… inscrutable, Sam wasn’t sure what to do with it. His steps faltered, which caused him to feel more awkward, so he walked faster, was almost breathless when he got to the car, which, okay, that was just fatigue.
“Hey,” Dean said quietly. “You wanna sit?” He nodded at the hood.
Sam had a deer-in-the-headlights moment of panic, almost turned and walked away, except, he wasn’t a fucking coward, so he forced himself stay. He leaned against the fender. “So, what, you trust me now?” His casual tone wasn’t at all convincing, but it was the best he could do right then.
Dean actually snorted, and the dismissive sound hit Sam low in the gut. He shifted uncomfortably, at a loss for how to respond.
There was a long silence. Sam couldn’t seem to think of anything to say, didn’t know why Dean was here. The intermittent headache faded back in, and he raised a shaky hand to his head to rub uselessly at his forehead.
“I think you’re going to say yes.”
Sam spun around at the cold words, stared at Dean with a stunned look before looking around for evidence that he was somehow sleeping again. He couldn’t have heard right. That was… that was… He took a step back, a step away. His hands were shaking and he stuck them self-consciously into his pockets. “I…” his throat closed up on him, cutting off whatever poorly thought out words he might have come up with.
Dean kept talking, almost to himself, seemed to be looking through Sam instead of at him. “Every instinct I have is screaming at me that it’d be better if we split up.” Dean twitched his mouth and shook his head slightly. “But if I leave you, I know you’ll say yes. Lucifer wins. Zachariah showed me.”
“What? Whe…”
Dean cut him off harshly, “It doesn’t matter, Sam. I’m not gonna say yes, and I’m not going to let you say yes.” His brother let out a bitter laugh. “You know, when I called you before, when we met at the bridge, I actually thought maybe we could work it out, maybe go back to the way we were before, you know? But…” Dean’s words trailed off, and his face tightened into an angry mask.
Dean shook off the melancholy tone, defaulted back to his stern, I’m-in-charge, big-brother attitude, “So, anyway, I can’t just leave you, but you aren’t in any shape to be hunting anything. Shit, I could see your hands shaking when you walked up. We’re going back to Bobby’s. Gonna get you clean. Again. Then… I don’t know. Maybe you can stay with him, and I can get Cas to back me up while we search for a way to stop what you started.”
Sam’s thoughts were circling wildly. He stood there, eyes locked on his brother, unable to articulate any of the turbulence in his head. Dean got off the hood and got in the car. After a minute, he leaned out again and barked, “Sammy, get in the car.”
Sam jerked into motion at the tone, too many years ingrained to ignore it, and stumbled over to the passenger side. It took three tries to get his fucking hands to cooperate enough to get the door open. Lucky for him, Dean didn’t say a word, just started the car and drove.
~o0O0o~
A couple hours later it was taking everything he had not to close his eyes against the heavy burn. Sleep beckoned temptingly, promised sweet oblivion, but he knew it was a lie.
He was desperate to get out of the car and walk around for a bit. “Dean,” he blurted out, “You gotta… I gotta… Is, um… I have to pee. We need to stop.”
“Next town’s not for another 15 minutes.” Dean didn’t even slow.
Fifteen minutes was too long, though. He’d never make it. The panic was clouding his brain, making it hard to think, and he could hear Lucifer’s laughter echoing through his mind. “Stop the car!” he yelled.
Dean startled and the car swerved a little bit before he got it under control. He shot Sam a pissed off glare and hit the brakes. The car was barely stopped before Sam threw the door open and staggered out. He inhaled deeply, and the air was cold, bracing. It felt good, tasted clean. He pounded on his forehead with the heel of his palm a few times, trying vainly to knock the cob webs loose, but it didn’t help much, so he wandered in a circle trying to increase the blood flow.
This wasn’t… this wasn’t going to work. He could feel himself losing the battle, and the terror that was riding him pushed his steps a bit faster, as if he could out run it. Please, please, please, just a little bit longer. Just a little more time, and then he’d be able to deal. He would. Just not yet. Not yet…
A hand landed heavily on his shoulder and he whipped around, throwing a sloppy punch that cut through air and landed him ass-first on the ground, gravel grinding painfully into his hands, residual pain from his still healing injuries jackknifing through his body to steal his breath.
Dean looked at him like he’d gone mad, and, well, it was probably not a half bad theory all told. “Dude, what the fuck?”
“Sam?” Dean was crouching in front of him, hand on his face, and Sam wasn’t even sure when his brother had moved.
He blinked at Dean, suddenly conscious of how close their bodies were. “What…” he whispered.
Fortunately, Dean didn’t wait for him to complete his sentence. “When’s the last time you slept?”
The demand took Sam off guard, and he flinched back at the tone. He wasn’t actually sure how long it had been. “I don’t…” he cut himself off, couldn’t afford to give too much away. “It doesn’t matter. Get off of me.”
The concern Sam had failed to notice while it was there faded from Dean’s features when Sam edited himself. His brother rolled his eyes and stood up. “Let’s stop at the next motel we can find. I didn’t sleep last night either.”
“No!” Sam yelled much too sharply. “I don’t, sleep is…I can’t. I’m hungry. And we need to get to Bobby’s. Let’s just stop and get something to eat, okay? We’ll be fine if we eat.”
“You need to get some sleep.” Dean sounded a little mystified, and Sam knew he wasn’t making a whole lot of sense, but, there was nothing he could do about that.
“I can’t. I can’t, okay? I just… we can go to a motel. Alright, fine. You can sleep and I’ll look for a case for you. It’s fine. It’s okay. I’ll… I’ll be fine.”
Dean just looked at him suspiciously for a few moments; he was clearly trying to figure Sam out, but Sam was pretty sure Dean hadn’t gotten anywhere with that when he sighed and replied, “Fine, diner it is. As long as I’m okay to drive after that, we can push through to Bobby’s.”
~o0O0o~
Dean looked at Sam sideways as he pulled into the truck stop parking lot. Sam was fidgeting in the seat, completely unable to sit still, and Dean was starting to think a quick, unexpected punch to knock him out might make the rest of the drive a hell of a lot more bearable.
He still hadn’t heard from Bobby, but he was pretty sure the withdrawal was worse now than it had been at the beginning of the hunt. It seemed pretty likely that Sam had gotten his hands on more blood while they’d been dealing with the fucking Leshii. He should never have let Sam go off to research on his own. It was the only time Dean could fathom Sam would’ve had time to do it.
Dean hadn’t even turned the engine off yet when Sam was climbing out of the car. “Bathroom,” he mumbled.
Dean watched him go. Sam was moving funny, which was odd – aside from the bite Sam had gotten, he hadn’t really been that banged up after the hunt.
Dean had to wonder if Sam was hallucinating again. He sighed heavily. One thing at a time. The withdrawal wasn’t letting his brother sleep, and Sam needed rest before it got really bad or he’d be in even more danger. Dean wished he knew how dangerous the detox really was, but there was no way to measure something that nobody else in the world had gone through.
He got out of the car and grabbed the med kit from the trunk, grabbing a few of the heavy hitter pain killers. If they didn’t knock Sam out, nothing would, and they’d have the added benefit of possibly easing some of Sam’s pain, real or imagined, on top of it.
Sam had forgotten the laptop, so Dean grabbed that too, as well as some of the papers he’d picked up before they’d left town. Might as well kill some time – wasn’t like they didn’t have the end of the world hanging over their heads.
Walking into the truck stop, he found Sam standing next to an empty booth, looking at it in consternation.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as soon as he was close enough.
Sam seemed to shake himself, and looked at Dean slowly. “Nothing,” he mumbled and then reluctantly sat down.
“I don’t think the table’s going to attack you,” Dean teased.
“You never know…”
Sam seemed distracted, and the reply was… odd. Anger spiked. Damn it, why had Sam done this to himself again?
An awkward silence descended between them, and Dean was grateful when the waitress stopped and asked for their order. Sam didn’t even look at the menu, just muttered, “I’ll have that too,” without taking his eyes off the window. And since when had Sam wanted to eat what Dean did? “And coffee,” he said a little too loudly as the waitress started to turn away.
The girl smiled a little thinly, nodded, and muttered, “I heard you the first time,” under her breath as she turned away, but the coffee was on the table a moment later. She’d barely finished pouring when Sam was dumping his sugar and cream in carelessly before bringing the cup to his mouth and guzzling it, grimacing over the heat but not slowing down.
Sam really didn’t need coffee to add to his obvious jitters, but it served Dean’s purposes at this point, so he let it go. “Hey,” he said instead. Sam startled and his coffee splashed onto the table as he snapped his eyes to Dean’s. “Make yourself useful, why don’t you. There’s still an apocalypse to stop, no matter what else is going on.”
Sam looked wounded, which only made Dean irritated, and he opened the paper at the top of the stack without any kind of goal other than not looking at his brother.
The waitress was getting their food ready to bring over. “Hey, I need to look something up in Dad’s journal, and I managed to forget it…”
“Okay,” Sam replied instantly, cutting Dean off and sliding himself stiffly out of the booth. He passed the waitress on the way out. As soon as she’d dropped off the plates and refilled the coffee, Dean pulled the pills out of his pocket, grabbed his pocket knife and smashed them up before dumping them into Sam’s cup, along with cream and sugar.
Dean’s instincts had been right. Sam didn’t touch his food after he got back, but he downed the coffee before she had time to top him off and was asking for more within ten minutes of sitting down.
Ten minutes after that and Sam was practically falling face first into his food. He looked so innocent, calm and sleepy, and Dean couldn’t help running a hand lightly, soothingly, over the back of his brother’s neck. He wanted his brother back by his side so bad the hurt twisted through his chest, and he had to swallow painfully around the lump that was forming in his throat. If Dean had anything else to try to fix their broken relationship he’d do it, but there was nothing. Not while Sam refused to prioritize Dean over his addiction.
He stuffed his rising anger down. It wouldn’t accomplish anything while Sam was this out of it anyway. He could pretend, for a while, at least. “Come on, sleepy head,” he murmured fondly, pulling Sam’s unresisting body out of the booth.
Sam looked at him woozily, muttered, “Not five,” in response, but he cooperated with Dean’s prodding and it didn’t take them long to make it back out to the car.
~o0O0o~
Dean guides Sam onto a bed, and… that’s not right. Panic stabs at Sam, not enough to bring him fully awake or pull him from Dean’s grasp, but enough to clear his head just a little. “Dean?” His words are slow, his movements clumsy, and he knows this feeling, damn it. “You drug me?” The feeling of betrayal throbs behind his eyes, burning and shameful, but he can’t do this, and he clutches at Dean’s arms. “I toll you, I can’t…”
“Go to sleep, Sam. We’re gonna get you clean, but if you’re already exhausted going into it, you’ll never make it past the withdrawal.”
“What? No… please, Dean…” Everything is shutting down and he isn’t going to be able to fight it, can’t even kick Dean’s hands away when his brother lifts his feet up onto the bed and pulls off his shoes.
“Can’t…” he mumbles one more time, his eyes falling shut. He shudders when Dean’s hands move over the fly of his jeans, popping the buttons before peeling them down and off. His shirt is next, although Sam is so out of it that he can’t even help, and Dean has to fight to work it off. “Please…” Sam whispers. “Don’t let him…”
“Shhh… relax, Sam.” The bed shakes, losing the one sided sag as Dean gets up and crosses the room to do something. Sam’s too boneless to move, laying there and breathing deeply, the drugs keeping his anxiety blissfully low. He feels like he’s spiraling slowly on one of those old, metal playground spinners, like Dean gave it a big push, and then wandered off. It’s an innocent memory in stark contrast to where Dean’s hands were roaming just minutes ago. He should get up, he knows this abstractly, but can’t make himself care enough to move.
Despite his almost Zen state, Sam starts just a little when Dean sits back down on the edge of the bed.
“Shhh…” Dean whispers again. His hand skims across Sam’s shoulder, comforting and solid, keeps going until it reaches Sam’s lips and brushes over them. “It’s gonna be okay.” Dean lies down next to Sam on the bed, his hand skimming down Sam’s chin to come to rest over his heart. “I’ll keep you safe. I believe in you, Sammy.”
Sam’s been longing to hear those words for over a year now, and they feel so good that he can’t help a quiet, wounded sob inside. He relaxes completely under the gentle touch of Dean’s hand as it skims over his chest, stopping to quickly tease over a nipple before moving on to touch and play, a dip of skin here, a bone-lined ridge there.
He can’t fight it this time, and he arches into the contact, encouraging more. Unable to form the words, he lets his body tell Dean that the touch is okay, even welcomed. Still, Dean’s tongue skimming over his stomach to slip into his belly button is startling, and he gasps in a breath, can’t help the jerk of his stomach muscles away from Dean’s touch.
Anxiety is climbing now, tight panic that’s pressurizing his head, making it throb. He wants to speak, wants to tell Dean to stop, but his thoughts are confused, incomplete, the desire for comfort is leaving him befuddled and unsure.
“It’s okay, this is the way it should be.” Dean’s words burrow under his skin, leave him pliant and desperate. He gives in to Dean’s touch, unable to articulate why Dean should stop, even to himself.
“Please, Dean,” he moans, “please, need you. Need more.”
Dean doesn’t pull away his tongue, continues to lick and nip over Sam’s stomach while he reaches up and latches his fingers in the elastic of Sam’s boxers, slipping them down low, lower, off completely, and Sam can feel the cool slide of pre-come dripping onto his skin, his freed dick hard and aching.
Dean inches down, pulling his mouth away to rest his head lightly on Sam’s stomach, his lips just at the edge of his dampened skin. The soft skim of Dean’s finger through the wet drives a shiver through Sam’s lower abdomen, and Sam can feel Dean’s breaths, just out of reach of Sam’s tip. It’s warm, humid everywhere except where it cools over the wetness beading out of his slit. Sam knows what Dean’s planning, expects the sweet slide of Dean’s mouth over his flesh at any moment, but it doesn’t come, and he can’t help but whimper his protest.
“Tell me, Sammy, what do you want?” Dean’s voice is nine shades of sin.
“Need to push myself into your mouth, Dean,” he responds immediately. Maybe he’s always needed this; maybe he just didn’t know it. “Please, need you to taste me.”
The brush of Dean’s full lips against his skin sends tingles of electricity through Sam’s body. He can feel the smile in his brother’s voice when Dean replies, “All you’ve ever had to do is ask.”
Something niggles at the back of Sam’s head. Something about all of this is wrong. Dean wouldn’t… the heat slides slowly down his shaft, too slowly, and Sam can’t help but push up into it. Dean takes him all the way down like a pro, and a savage wave of jealousy surges through Sam. He should’ve been Dean’s first, not some stranger in a back ally when Dean was still mostly a kid. Except… Sam’s not supposed to know about that. He pushes the thought down, buries it deep, back where it’s supposed to be.
Dean pulls up, letting his teeth scrape ever so lightly across oversensitive skin, and Sam groans, obscene and wanton.
Dean pulls all the way off, placing a sweet kiss on the top of Sam’s shaft and catching Sam’s gaze. “Not what I want, this time, Sammy,” Dean husks out.
He starts climbing back up the bed, hands wrapping around Sam’s feet and bringing them with so that by the time Dean’s face is hovering over Sam’s own, his legs are back and open, leaving Sam completely exposed. He places one of Sam’s feet flat on the bed before letting it go and ordering, “Keep it there.”
Panic dislodges from somewhere in his chest, and a tiny whimper works its way free. No! Please, he doesn’t want this. Something’s wrong. Something’s wrong…
“Shhh…” Dean soothes. “Let it go, Sammy. I’m not going to hurt you. I’d never hurt you. Trust me.”
Sam’s fear can’t stand up to the sound of Dean’s comfort and love. He’s needed that since… well, he’s always needed it.
He shattered when Dean left him for hell. He’s been denying it for months, insisting everything is fine, but he still doesn’t think he’s found all the pieces. The pain of losing his brother, despite all his efforts to stop it, gouged out a piece of his soul, and he’s not sure he’ll ever get that back. He can’t… if Dean needs this…
Dean’s hand slides back over Sam’s chest, taking a moment to gently tweak his nipples before exploring downwards. When he reaches Sam’s dick, he takes Sam in hand, gives a couple forceful tugs, until Sam moans appreciatively. Letting Sam go he continues the journey down. “Gonna make you feel so good,” Dean whispers, just as his fingers slide over the rough skin of Sam’s hole.
“Don’t… don’t want this…” Sam whispers back, except, he can’t seem to bring up the matching emotions for the words, and relaxes against the touch instead – a part of himself feels closed off, numb.
“Yes you do, Sammy. Just relax for me. That’s it.”
Sam does what he’s ordered, sucking in a tight gasp of air when Dean’s finger breaches him for the first time. The nail scrapes against his skin and leaves behind a burn that burrows deep inside. It feels right, leaves Sam almost hyperventilating when he continues to push in, gently stretching him. Dean’s finger is slick inside him, and it moves quickly towards its intended goal. Sam arches up off the bed with a loud yell when Dean finds his prostrate, lust throbbing through his body hard enough to leave Sam dizzy, that part of himself not numb at all. “More,” he demands, “Need you in me, need you to tear me apart, Dean, please.”
“Okay, okay,” Dean speeds up, slipping in a second finger, and then almost immediately, a third. Between the scrape and stretch, Sam’s ass is on fire, but he doesn’t mind the burn as long as the aching emptiness that is his soul is filled.
He doesn’t have long to wait. Dean pulls out his fingers and lines himself up, letting his dick play over Sam’s slicked up hole. “Please, Dean,” he finally whimpers, and Dean plunges into Sam’s unresisting flesh. They pulse together, falling into an instinctive, mutually satisfying rhythm, and Sam thrusts harder, meeting Dean’s hips with his own.
“Fuck me, Dean, need you to fuck me. Need you to hurt me.” And God, he does. He needs pain, deserves pain. He’s dizzy with longing, desperate for the absolution Dean’s abuse will give him. His muddled, confused thoughts spill out in incoherent whimpers.
Dean’s lips press against Sam’s neck. A quiet, soothing, shushing noise washes against Sam’s skin and calms his unvoiced fears. Dean never falters his rhythm, and Sam can feel an overwhelming climax threatening to crest. He pushes back harder, reveling in the slip slide of Dean’s dick caressing his insides, exploring Sam more intimately than anyone ever has before. Except… something is wrong, still wrong. This… his breath hitches, “Dean, stop.”
“God, Sam,” Dean says, increasing his speed and pounding into Sam’s body. “Almost there. Don’t fight it. Let the drugs make this easy, Sammy. I did it for you. Just give yourself to me. I’ll take care of you. Love you.”
It’s the final two words that push him over, leave him pulsing helplessly into the hot press of their bodies. Wave after wave of ecstasy washes over him from head to foot, leaves him worn-out, buried under Dean’s heat and weight. Dean pulls out, leaving Sam empty. He clutches at his brother, pulling him back, not willing to lose the connection they’ve created.
The last thought twists in his stomach and he pushes Dean away, rolls over until he reaches the edge of the bed so he can gasp in sharp breaths over the side. Not… not… that wasn’t Dean… wasn’t Dean… and he’s never wanted that. He hasn’t. He closes his eyes, tenses his body until he’s shaking trying to keep all his emotions inside.
Pain cracks against his skull, sends him flying against the far wall, slamming him against it. He slides down to the floor and huddles in on himself, covering his head for protection, and he knows he’s being weak, knows he should be fighting back, but he’s naked and there’s come sliding down the back of his leg, and the feeling of being vulnerable, exposed, it’s too overwhelming to combat in this moment.
Nick grabs his shoulder and pulls him to his feet, and it’s finally clear enough to his muddled brain that hiding isn’t going to do him any good. Pulling his free hand back, he lets loose and swings, but Nick blocks the would-be punch easily, catching Sam’s fist in his own and not letting go. When Nick squeezes, Sam can feel his bones flexing; it’s the same hand that Nick broke before, the same one that was healed when Sam woke up… but clearly not completely, because the harsh grip is calling back the recent pain.
Sam wraps a leg around Nick’s and pulls, hoping to pull him off balance, hoping to land him on the floor in a pin. The move would have worked on a human, but Nick doesn’t even seem to notice Sam’s attempt. Nick’s face is almost blank as he clamps painfully down on Sam’s still trapped hand, forcing Sam to his knees. From there he’s pushed face first into the carpet, and Nick throws a leg over him, straddling him easily.
Nick is already hard. Fuck, no!
Sam bucks up, twists his hand in an attempt to free himself, to reverse the pin, but nothing works; Nick is an immovable weight on his back. Sam continues to struggle anyway, jerking against Nick’s solid grip on his arms, kicking back with his feet, with his elbows, with whatever he can move, but succeeding in doing little besides scraping his face raw against the course, dirty carpet. Desperation drives him on until he loses all sense of reason, until he’s reduced to nothing more than a trapped animal’s mentality. He doesn’t know how long he flails, but eventually every muscle in his body is shaking and weak. Left with nothing, he relaxes down, his strength defeated as he gasps breaths against the floor. The dusty fibers make him cough softly, but he doesn’t even have it in himself to lift his head anymore.
He’s gotten cocky in the last few years, allowed himself to get confident in the knowledge that he’s big and strong and capable, allowed himself to believe that he can’t get taken out, at least, not by just one guy who’s smaller than he is, anyway. Deep down, despite all evidence to the contrary, he can’t quite accept that Nick isn’t just a guy. Nick doesn’t look like a monster. Sam knows you can’t always tell, but that knowledge doesn’t stop the feelings of stupidity and incompetence that leave him crushed and vulnerable.
Suddenly he’s eleven years old again. Smallest of the family and Dad’s just easily overpowered him, pinning him harshly to prove that his over-confidence can get him hurt. That raw feeling of humiliation, when a frustrated tear had escaped down his face in front of Dean, in front of his world, is back with a vengeance, and he feels small and weak and pathetic.
“Just say the word, Sam. Just tell me where you are, say yes, and all your pain will be gone. You can’t even imagine the rewards I’ll give you.”
But not that weak, apparently.
He pulls a small bit of backbone from somewhere unknown. “No,” he grits out against the scratchy fibers that are still rubbing his face raw.
Nick’s hand clenches in his hair, sending fiery pain across his scalp. He shifts his hips up slightly and then pushes back down, and just like that, his dick is ripping into Sam’s ass. The pain that erupts through him is unexpected; he’d thought the sex he’d had with Dean, with Lucifer, would have eased the way, but it’s just like the first time, and he screams in agony.
Rubbing Sam’s lower body raw against the floor, Nick pulls out and slams himself down again and again. This time, no way in hell is Sam getting hard. There’s no pleasure to be found in this coupling. The brutal pace Nick is setting is all about punishment and control, and it doesn’t last long. Nick pulls out at the last minute, pulsing his come across Sam’s back, moving up so that it lands in Sam’s hair and rolls down his cheek.
Nick still has Sam’s hands in a death grip, keeping Sam from being able to do anything about the slimy, musty liquid that’s crawling down his face like tears. Sam almost laughs out loud over his frustration at not being able to wipe it away. It’s such a little, stupid thing to be fixating on.
Letting Sam’s hands go, Nick abruptly stands up. Sam slowly lowers his arms to his sides, praying that it’s over now, that he can wake up.
“Get on the bed.”
Sam squints up, looking towards the cold, collected voice. Nick is standing at the window, the drapes parted just enough for Nick to look outside. It’s light outside, and that’s startling, disorienting and wrong. There should only be darkness in this place. The light makes everything too real.
Sam rolls to his side and starts to sit up, but the pain in his lower back and… the pain is too much, and he collapses back down with a wounded cry.
“I told you to get on the bed, Sammy.” The statement is no more threatening in tone than the last one, but the danger of refusal is palpable anyway.
Still… “Fuck you,” Sam spits out.
Something flips him onto his back, something he can’t see because Nick hasn’t moved from the window. Pain slams into the side of Sam’s face, snapping his head to the side and shattering a few of his teeth; he can taste the blood, feel the grit and the jagged edges. “Fuck,” Sam whimpers, spitting blood and white bone out into his hand.
“Let’s try that again,” Nick says calmly. “Get on the bed, Sammy.”
“Stop fucking calling me that,” Sam mutters quietly, but he’s fighting through the pain and pulling himself up on the bed as he does. It hurts too much to sit, so he lies down on his side. He’s too afraid to pull the covers over himself, so he pulls his knees up instead, affording himself a small enough amount of protection to hopefully not upset his captor.
Nick doesn’t turn or acknowledge what Sam’s done – just continues to stare silently out of the window. The angel’s staring at nothing, as far as Sam can tell. He doesn’t really care, though; the longer Nick stands at the window, the longer Sam can lick his wounds undisturbed.
Oblivion would be more than welcome at this point, but there’s no way Sam’s going to be able to sleep; his teeth cut deeply into the side of his cheek when Nick struck him, almost completely through his flesh, deep enough that if Sam wanted to, he could probably push his tongue through the skin and finish the job. The blood is a heavy flow, filling his mouth and making him swallow every minute or so, leaving him nauseous. He’s gonna need stitches inside of his mouth, which is going to make eating a fucking pain in the ass.
Speaking of, the pain in his lower back is starting to throb in time with the pain in his face, and it’s like the injuries are on a feedback loop or something, because they seem to be getting worse with every painful, synchronized thump. A gentle hand on his shoulder makes him jerk, but he instinctively keeps himself from flinching away.
“Lay on your back and stretch out...”
“Please,” Sam tries to interrupt, his voice weak and gravelly, but Lucifer just talks over him.
“…I want to examine what’s mine.”
The pain is so intense that it’s making it hard for Sam to think, and he knows that lying on his back will only make the agony worse, so even though he tries to comply with the demand out of a sense of self-preservation, his body refuses to obey his commands.
Several moments pass, and Nick loses patience. The hand resting on his skin turns harsh, slamming him onto his back and roughly shoving his legs flat and a little apart, his hands down to his sides. He screams in agony, unable to stop himself from fighting back, from trying to roll back over, but Nick just waits it out, holding him in place until Sam is too weak to move anymore. Nick slowly pulls back and stares critically down at Sam. He has to look away, too pathetic to even meet Nicks eyes.
“The burn healed nicely.” Nick sounds almost proud, and Sam turns his head back so he can strain to see his upper chest. He’d somehow forgotten about the burn over the last couple of days. Nick isn’t lying. The skin no longer looks broken, and it’s no longer weeping, but… the skin is a mottled twisted mess of black, red and purple, and Sam’s pretty sure it’s still in the shape of Nick’s hand. The mark he once hoped would keep him safe has been replaced with a mark of ownership that burns into his soul.
Nick chuckles cruelly over him. “Stay put, Sammy. There’s somebody here who wants to talk to you.”
“What?” Sam mumbles, looking around. Lucifer is gone.
Movement from over by the doorway pulls Sam’s attention and when he looks over, he sees his mother there, white, blood-stained nightgown covering her just like he’d seen during his hallucinations right before he’d betrayed Dean. “Mom?” he whispers fearfully. It’s Lucifer. Not her, not her, he whispers to himself fearfully.
She looks at him sadly and walks smoothly over to the bed, sitting next to him and pulling his head into her lap, cradling him close, leaning forward to kiss his brow.
“Leave me alone. You aren’t her,” he snaps, even as he drinks in her comfort like a man lost in the desert drinks water.
A gentle hand cards through his hair. “How do you know I’m not your mother, Sam?”
“Because you’ve fooled me before. You weren’t Jess, either.”
“My poor baby,” she breathes out, “Where do you think I’ve been all this time? Certainly not heaven?”
“No, stop it. I don’t want to hear it,” he whimpers back. Awareness of the pain is surging back, making it hard to think.
“Shhh…” she soothes. “Why are you still fighting him? He’s giving you an out, an eternity with your beloved brother. Just say yes, and all of your suffering will be over. It’s more than you deserve.”
The words stab through him like daggers, and he wants to deny them, but he doesn’t know how. “Why?”
“Sammy, what’s inside of you, it’s evil, and you know it. I’d so hoped you’d be able to overcome it, held out so much hope that you’d be able to turn our curse into a gift, but I was wrong.”
“No…”
“Surely you agree that you deserve this?”
Sam is desperate to deny it, but he can’t lie about what he did anymore. Everything that’s happened is on his shoulders. All the pain and suffering that will follow when Lucifer wins will be on him, will be on his fuck up. “Yes,” he says quietly, fireworks of pain flaring angrily in his face as his broken teeth rub against torn skin. Still it’s nothing compared to the pain in his lower body. “But I… I can’t compound my mistake by saying yes to you.”
“But, Sam,” his mother leans forward and brushes her soft lips over his own in a kiss that leaves Sam burning with self-disgust. “What if saying yes is the only way to win?”
“Wh… What?” he stammers out.
She rises, then lays her hand gently over the hand print on his chest. “This is what you were born for, Sammy. Please don’t make me watch you suffer anymore. Say yes.” Her fingers trace over the edges of the scar, then drift down lower to skim over his stomach.
He closes his eyes, unable to watch, his stomach muscles contracting to get away. “Stop,” begs, and the hand trails away. When he opens his eyes, she’s gone, and Nick is standing at the edge of the heavy curtains once more, pensively looking at the edge of light.
“Say yes, Sam,” Nick says forlornly. “I don’t want to hurt you anymore. You’re my family, and I’m everything you have left. We’re two halves made whole. Don’t you see that? You were born to be my vessel, it more than you deserve, don’t you agree?”
Sam picks a spot on the ceiling to stare at, willing himself not to give in to Lucifer’s taunting. Nick grabs Sam’s face, hard fingers punishing against his torn cheek, and Sam yells at the flare of pain that follows. “Answer me when I ask you a question, child,” Lucifer says maliciously.
The blood is flowing faster now, pooling in the back of Sam’s throat, making him cough and gag around it to get the words out. “I… I don’t know.”
Lucifer seems content with his response and lets him go. Sam’s far too miserable to take solace from that though.
Nick smiles and leans forward, pressing his lips to Sam’s forehead, so similar to the way his mother had just done it that Sam can’t help his shudder of disgust. “We’re done now, but I can’t send you away without a parting gift. Say, ‘Hi,’ to Dean for me, and while you’re at it, you better pray hard that you’ve kept me amused enough to stay out of his dreams.”
“Fuck you,” Sam mutters, pretending to ignore the tears the panic brings. Not Dean, not Dean…
Lucifer pulls back, but his hand stays, snaking over Sam’s mouth and nose and pressing down painfully hard. Sam can’t breathe around it, and his hands fly up to claw frantically at Nick’s hand. His chest constricts painfully as he strains against the hold, and the pain turns to agony as the seconds slip by with no relief.
All of a sudden, Lucifer lets go, and Sam heaves in a choking, gasping breath. It’s all he gets. Lucifer wraps both his hands around Sam’s neck and squeezes tightly. Sam fights with everything he’s got left, but it accomplishes nothing. He can feel his tongue swelling, distending out, his eyes bulging under the building pressure, tears of pain and panic that slide down the sides of his face as his body fights to stay alive. Slowly, his struggles cease as his body finally gives up the fight. He welcomes the darkness when it comes, gives in gratefully to the promised void.
Part Four | Part Six
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