The World Devours Me - Part Seven

[varkelton]

For Warnings and Summary, see Master Post


Part Seven

They had been in the car for several hours by the time they stopped for breakfast, and Sam had only barely been able to stop himself from begging Dean for a break. Only the fear of Dean’s questions kept his mouth shut.

The thought of sitting in a hard plastic booth was enough to make him whimper though. “Go get yourself a real breakfast, but just grab a muffin or something for me, okay? I’m still not sure I can keep anything down, and I’m still tired – gonna crash out in the back seat while you do that.”

Dean gave him a long look, and then finally replied, “I think we should call Cas now instead of later.”

“No!” The word came out more like a yelp and Sam flushed when Dean gave him another look. “I mean… I…”

Dean’s eyes filled with compassion and he put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Sam, what…”

“Just go, Dean. Bring me back something. I just want to lay down for a bit. I won’t fall asleep – I promise.” The thought of Cas knowing… just, no. The very idea made him feel like throwing up. He wasn’t going to be able to talk Dean out of calling the angel, he knew this, but he was not ready to face him. Not yet.

Dean shook his head, but grudgingly gave in. “We’ll be at Bobby’s in a few more hours. After that, we’re calling Cas.”

Sam opened the door and climbed out on unsteady legs. He leaned against the Impala, letting the sun-warmed metal support his aching body. He wouldn’t be able to stay standing for long, but while he could manage it, it was almost heaven. “Fine,” he mumbled.

Dean looked at him for several more minutes, awkwardness and uncertainty warring for dominance across his features. It was clear he wanted to say something, but neither one of them knew what. Finally, with a sharp shake of his head, he turned and went into the restaurant.

~o0O0o~

He shifts against the soft sheets, relishing in the silky coolness against his skin.

“It’s about time.”

Lucifer’s smooth, predatory drawl sends Sam scrambling backwards across the bed. He doesn’t remember deciding to fall asleep, doesn’t even remember lying down. “What…”

“Come here, Samuel,” Lucifer orders angrily. It’s the first time the angel seemed anything other than in control. Dread pools in Sam’s stomach, an uncomfortable roiling weight.

Lucifer’s eyes narrow dangerously, and Sam reluctantly moves closer. He’s not sure he can do this anymore, but he doesn’t know how to stop it. As soon as Sam’s close enough, Lucifer’s hand closes around his chin, the grip hard enough to bruise. Cruel lips descend down towards his, and something in Sam snaps. He pulls his fist back and throws a hard punch that lands perfectly against Lucifer’s left cheek and eye.

The punch snaps Lucifer’s face to the side and tears a gash into his peeling skin. Sam readies himself to land a second, but Lucifer calmly reaches out and grabs Sam’s fist. It’s like Sam’s hand has been encased in cement, he can’t move in Lucifer’s grasp, and Lucifer looks barely phased by Sam’s struggles.

Lucifer leans forward while Sam claws futilely at his trapped hand, gets close enough that Sam can feel hot breath against his neck. “Stop.” The word is forceful and deadly calm, but still Sam can’t force himself to obey. He abandons his attempts to free himself and reaches out to claw at Lucifer’s face, searching out the more vulnerable places, hoping to hurt, unable to think beyond the need to fight back for once.

Lucifer mutters something in Enochian, and suddenly Sam’s pinned to the bed, rough ropes, tight enough to cut into his skin, holding him spread eagle and vulnerable once more. There’s absolutely no give, his legs and arms are stretched tight to the four corners of the bed, so tight that his hip and shoulder joints are already aching, already stretching to the point of pain, so tight that too much movement on the soft bed could easily pull his joints right out of their sockets. “Let me go you fucking pervert,” he yells, spittle flying from his mouth with his anger. “You can’t keep me here forever. You don’t control me when I’m awake. I’m going to find a way to send you straight back to hell!”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Lucifer slides a hand obscenely over Sam’s mouth and holds it closed. Sam continues to scream his rage through closed lips, but it isn’t near as satisfying. Lucifer simply sits, waiting calmly, and eventually, Sam screams himself hoarse, and is forced to stop. Lucifer slowly takes his hand away and stares at Sam, his face expressionless.

The silence stretches on uncomfortably, and Sam focuses on getting his breathing under control again instead. He feels like an idiot for losing control like that, but he thinks his inability to do anything about his current predicament may be slowly driving him insane. The thought is more comforting than it should be; it feels like giving up, but if he’s lost in his own mind, he won’t be able to give consent either.

“Are you done?” Lucifer finally asks mildly.

“Fuck you,” Sam rasps back. Their eyes lock, and Sam tries to hold eye contact, but Lucifer is still as a stone, his gaze inscrutable, and Sam finally looks away. Somehow, his dreams have become Lucifer’s playground; he has no power here and he knows it.

“You wake up when I let you. If I wanted to, I could keep you here forever.”

Sam doesn’t react. He’s done fighting, for now, but he’ll be damned if he gives the fucker the pleasure of a reaction.

“It would probably be easier on you if I did,” Lucifer continues conversationally. “At least then you wouldn’t have to keep waking up and facing the consequences of what happens here. Much harder to pretend this isn’t real, much harder to simply lose yourself in the pain. Do you want me to keep you here?”

Sam seals his lips together, refusing to answer. Refusing to rise to the bait. At least as long as Lucifer’s in a talking mood, he isn’t making Sam’s life a living hell.

Lucfier’s hand caresses down his chest, pauses to play with the hair that leads to Sam’s groin. Sam can’t help the small sound of protest that escapes, though it leaves him feeling weak. “You’re mine, Sam. Say yes, and this will all be over.”

Sam swallows his fear down. If Dean could hold out for thirty years, Sam can hold out longer. “Never.”

“You know, your brother isn’t going to want to be near you when he finds out what you’ve been dreaming about doing with him. I did you a kindness preventing you from talking about it. Ditch him, Sam. Ditch him before he has the chance to do it to you first.”

Lucifer’s probably right about that one, and the words feel like a punch in his gut, the pain of it almost enough for him to miss when Lucifer continues his exploration of Sam’s body, tracing down to Sam’s balls and taking hold of them to gently massage them. It sends a shiver of pleasure through Sam’s body, and he pulls against the ropes holding him, hoping to find a weak point in the bindings, but there’s nothing. He can’t pull away, and Lucifer leans forward and mouths his sack, sucking on his balls sensuously, first one and then the other.

It feels good, and Sam bucks against him, trying to push him away, but Lucifer only pushes his hips down against the mattress, his hands an immovable force. Sam can feel his dick straining upwards as the assault continues, Lucifer’s wet hot mouth sending sparks of pleasure rippling through him. He cries out, willing his reaction away, but it does nothing to stop the pleasure cresting, and then spilling over as he pulses come across his stomach.

“Stop, please. Just leave me alone,” he whispers. Shameful tears creep down the sides of his face, but the ropes keep him exposed, unable to hide them or wipe them away.

Lucifer sits up and looks at him coldly. “Are you going to walk away from your brother like I told you to?”

Sam looks at Lucifer, confused, but when Lucifer doesn’t elaborate, Sam shakes his head once in denial.

“Then this only gets worse for you. I have infinite patience, Samuel, but I bore easily, and I tire of this wait. Start doing what I tell you to do, or I will make sure that you regret it.”

“Why the sudden concern over my brother?”

“I thought I’d give you something a little easier to say yes to. This one’s almost a kindness.”

“I’m not saying yes to you. Not about anything,” Sam replies firmly.

“You will change your mind eventually. Of that I have no doubt.” Almost faster than Sam can process, Lucifer shifts position and yanks Sam’s torso further down the bed. Both shoulders pop simultaneously, and Sam’s too busy frantically trying to breathe through the blinding pain to notice Lucifer pulling Sam’s knees up as far as the ropes allow. He can feel the harsh hemp cutting into his ankles, but he doesn’t have time to really process that before Lucifer is forcing his dick into Sam’s body in one long, steady push. The agony of unprepared penetration tips Sam over the edge, causes Sam to scream out despite the rawness in his throat, despite his vows to hold them in.

He struggles to catch his breath between his cries so he can breathe through the pain, but the terrible ache is building faster than Sam can get ahead of. Lucifer bottoms out quickly, and he lowers his head down next to Sam’s, sucks Sam’s ear lobe into his mouth and bites down hard. It’s impossible that such a small hurt could even register compared to the fire in his shoulders, compared to what the angel’s doing to his ass, but somehow, it heightens everything.

“Please, stop,” he begs.

Lucifer settles into place inside Sam’s ass and covers Sam’s mouth with his own. Lucifer’s dick is an unyielding presence inside of him, sharp and stabbing even without any movement as he explores Sam slowly with his tongue, like he has all the time in the world. The kiss is slow and intimate, almost loving in sharp contrast with everything else, and all Sam can do is lay there passively and pray that Lucifer finishes with this torment soon.

The kiss goes on and on. Sam has no control, no choices here, and he tries to zone out under the lazy attentions, tries to lose himself in his thoughts and pretend he isn’t where his, an unwilling pawn in an Angel’s game of chess. Every time he gets close, though, Lucifer pulls out and then rams back inside, reminding Sam of where he is, making Sam’s ass clench and burn around the hot poker buried inside of him, dragging him back inside his head with the fresh agony that he can’t anticipate.

Still the onslaught continues, until Sam can’t hold in his tears any longer and they slide down the sides of his face like liquid ice that burns as it falls. Lucifer doesn’t seem to care, doesn’t stop until everything is becoming surreal around him, and he’s no longer sure where he is, or how long he’s been there.

Lucifer’s cruel laughter pulls him back to himself, and he whimpers when the devil pulses out and back in, starting up a rhythm of pain that fills Sam with hope that this might possibly end, at some point.

Lucifer pulls out and then pushes back in with a groan of pleasure. “You’re so tight, need to loosen you up.” Sam isn’t sure what Lucifer even means by that, but he can’t ask, can only sob in response when a finger slides in alongside Lucifer’s dick. He’d thought the pain couldn’t get any worse, but he was wrong. It feels like Lucifer is trying to split him in two, and, given the tearing Sam can feel, he might well succeed. Somehow, a second finger gets added in, then a third, a fourth, and Sam’s never felt so full. His body is cramping around the intrusion, trying to expel the foreign, unwanted flesh filling him. There’s nothing he can do as he feels blood pooling under him in a warm sticky mess.

Lucifer rams home and stills, his face only centimeters from Sam’s as he pants heavily.

“Please,” Sam rasps out, pleading for his sanity, for an end.

“Leave your brother.”

“No.”

“Then you won’t be looking on his face any time soon.”

“What…” Sam gasps out, but he doesn’t have time to finish the question before Lucifer rips his fingers free of Sam’s ass, forcing an agonized scream from Sam’s throat. A moment later Lucifer wraps his hands around Sam’s face like a vice, his thumbs pressing hard against Sam’s eyes.

“No! Please!” Sam screams, bucking wildly under Lucifer’s body, trying fruitlessly to push him off.

Sam didn’t think anything could be worse than the pain of his rape mere moments before. He was wrong. Lucifer’s dick, still buried to the hilt in his ass, is forgotten as thumbs continue to dig into Sam’s eyes, working themselves under Sam’s lids. The burn of contact is intense, but the pressure on his eyes is worse. Time seems to stand still for a moment, the pressure increasing as Sam holds his breath, praying for Lucifer to stop. No! He’ll be worthless to Dean without his sight. Losing anything else would allow him to at least research, but blindness? He can feel the hard edge of nails cutting into his sockets, has time to plead silently one last time for God to intervene, and then there’s a quiet, sickening popping noise, and liquid gore spills over his face. Pain like he’s never known explodes through his head, chasing him into blessed oblivion.

~o0O0o~

A throbbing pain in the front of his head filled his awareness first, demanding his attention. He groaned and turned his face only to feel the scrape of gravel against his sensitized skin. Jerking back from the unforgiving ground, he looked around, trying to figure out where he was. It was completely dark, no light, not even stars, which made little sense if he was outside. He dropped his head into his hands, thinking to put pressure on his aching head, but agony raced across the front of his face with the contact, and he snatched his hands back with a yelp.

He flailed a hand out, looking for some sort of clue for what was going on, and managed to slam it against the side of the Impala. The Impala... He was with Dean, waiting at the Impala when… No. No, no, no, no, no….

He scrambled upright, thrusting his hands out and around until he made contact with the cool metal of the Impala, painfully maneuvering himself until he was sitting on the ground with the car reassuringly at his back. Carefully, he reached up and gently ran his fingers against his face. Even the light contact sparked a fiery flare of pain, but he didn’t stop, far too frantic to know the full extent of the injuries. He could tell his face was swollen and raw, could tell his eyelids were so inflamed they could barely open, which, maybe that was why he couldn’t see anything. Everything would be all right once the swelling went down, right? This wasn’t permanent. It couldn’t be permanent…

“Sam?” Dean’s voice floated across the parking lot. He sounded confused and mildly annoyed. “Where the hell did you go?”

He was shaking violently, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to call out. Wrapping his arms around himself instead, he fought for a moment to open his eyes more than they were, but only succeeded in intensifying the pain.

Dean’s footsteps came to a halt on the other side of the car. “Sam?” he shouted again, more angrily than the last.

Sam still couldn’t make himself respond. He didn’t want Dean to see him like this; it might make his lack of sight real. There was nothing he could do to stop his brother from walking around the car though, and suddenly, Dean was a solid presence in front of him. “Fuck, Sam! What the hell happened to your face?”

Sam opened his mouth to tell Dean about the dream, to plead with him to find a way to fix it, but he didn’t recognize the words that come out instead. “I dunno, Dean. I was stretching my legs and something came at me from behind. I didn’t get a good look at it.”

“Jesus H. fucking Christ,” Dean muttered angrily. His brother’s hands were moving shakily over Sam’s skin and he stiffened, struggling not to pull away from the trail of hurt left in their wake. “This is… Shit, this is bad,” Dean said, the fear palpable in his tone. “We need to get you to a hospital.”

“No!” Sam shouted reflexively, causing Dean to pull back. Sam flailed out, managed to capture Dean’s hand to keep him from moving away. “No, please. No hospital. Just, get me to Bobby’s, okay?”

“But your eyes…”

“No! I don’t care. Please, just listen to me for once. I said no!” Sam yelled, unable to mask the pleading edge of his demand.

“I… yeah. Yeah, okay, Sammy, okay.” Dean’s arms curled around him, and the desire to collapse into them was strong, but Dean was pulling him up, and Sam didn’t have it in him to fight. “Lemme get you into the back seat, and then we’ll go, okay?”

The world felt like it was spinning around him as he moved vertically, and he clutched at Dean’s arm like a lifeline. A pounding, roaring noise built in his ears, effectively cutting him off from anything but touch, and he couldn’t help but feel grateful when unconsciousness claimed him once again.

~o0O0o~ 

Sam’s entire body was shaking as Dean manhandled him into the first motel room he’d been able to find. His brother was probably going into shock. The blood loss alone would probably be enough for that. No hospital… Fuck, how could he not take his brother to the hospital? Jesus.

His eyes strayed once more to the gory mess that was his brother’s face. A fucking field medic just wasn’t going to cut it this time.

Where the hell was Cas? He’d called the angel on the road and gave him their location, but Cas was taking his fucking sweet time getting here.

There was a large group of bikers staying in the motel Dean had found. As bad a shape as Sam was in, he really didn’t want to risk a fireman’s carry, but he had to get his brother inside before somebody saw Sam’s face and called the police. The guy that’d gone to fetch ice a few minutes ago walked back into view, eyeing the Impala appreciatively as he moved to the room next to Dean’s and went inside.

Fuck. He couldn’t wait for Cas anymore. He was going to have to risk it.

Sam barely reacted as Dean pulled him from the car, and he managed to get his brother into the room without incident. He’d actually succeeded in getting Sam onto the stripped down bed and had thrown a blanket over him when Cas’ voice startled him from behind. “Dean? What…”

“Please,” Dean husked out without taking his eyes off his brother. “Tell me it’s not as bad as it looks. Tell me there’s something… anything, you can do,”

Cas walked slowly forward and sat down on the bed next to Sam, opposite Dean. He reached out a hand and then stopped, casting an anxious look at Dean. “It is… highly unlikely that I will be able to fix him.”

“Damn it, Cas. Just try, okay?” Dean replied impatiently.

“Of course.” He turned his gaze back to Sam and rested his hand lightly against Sam’s forehead. After a moment, he moved down and gently peeled back one of Sam’s swollen eyelids as much as he could.

Dean couldn’t hold in his horrified moan. Sam’s eye was… he turned around, unable to watch anymore and leaned against the wooden dresser, gripping the edge hard enough to make it creak.   

Sam’s anguished voice echoed across the room. “Dean?”

Dean whirled around to find Cas already standing up, looking down at Sam who was clearly still asleep but starting to curl in on himself.

“I am sorry, Dean. There is little I can do.”

“No…”

“Even if I was still able to heal,” Castiel interupted sharply, “I would not be able to do much. His injuries are, in addition to mostly healed, also… protected from interference.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Dean growled.

“There is something… wrong… about him. He has been touched by something more powerful than myself. It is beyond my ability to affect that claim. Sam now harbors within him a great evil.”

“You mean he’s back on the demon blood? No. No, there’s something going on here besides his addiction,” Dean relied, shaking his head angrily. He took a step towards the angel, daring Cas to contradict him. “There’s more to this than that. I know there is.”

Cas looked from him to Sam, his worry clear. “At this point, I can’t tell you more. I… I will do everything I can to find out though. Meanwhile,” he returned his gaze to Dean, looking far more serious, “I am sorry, Dean, but you must watch him.”

Dean looked at Sam, and in that moment, Cas was gone. He was drawn to the bed, unable to stay away any longer. Sam’s restless dreams had quieted, and in sleep he looked like he always did, vulnerable and young. Dean swallowed his hurt and anger down, let himself look at his brother with an eye to something beyond simple withdrawal for the first time in weeks.

Sam had lost weight, his clothes were hanging on him, and that was hardly surprising – Dean couldn’t actually remember the last time Sam had consumed anything besides coffee heavily doused with cream and sugar. Sam’s lips and skin were dry and peeling slightly. Dean pushed a finger into Sam’s mouth and confirmed that his brother was probably dehydrated. He knew Sam hadn’t been sleeping, and had been nauseous more than once… but all of that could be explained by Sam being back on the demon blood and just not getting enough to keep his body stable. 

His eyes though. That made no sense, the fact that they were already mostly healed made even less... and Sam had been moving like he was in pain since they’d reunited at the bridge. More pain than was really reasonable to ascribe to muscle aches from withdrawal, if Dean were honest. He hadn’t wanted it to be anything else though, hadn’t wanted to look for any other explanation – as much as it killed a part of him, the addiction was still something Dean could do something about. If it had been more… fuck, if it had been more and Dean hadn’t even noticed… 

Guilt stabbed through his head, the angry pulse of a burgeoning headache. “I’m sorry, Sammy,” he whispered, moving a strand of hair from Sam’s overheated forehead. He steeled himself, then pulled Sam up to sitting so he could peel off the hoodie his brother was wearing, as well as the shirt underneath. He lowered Sam back down and his brother didn’t even stir.

Dean closed his eyes with a startled whimper and it took him a moment before he could force himself to open them again and look at the ugly burn that marred Sam’s upper left chest. The tattoo was completely obscured, no trace of the black ink remained under the twisted, gnarled skin. Dean reached out and ran a finger just along the edge.

It was the shape of a hand.

His eyes were burning but he couldn’t stop, couldn’t go back to pretending that this was nothing Sam hadn’t brought on himself. A long, straight scar ran across Sam’s chest, and Dean leaned closer, looking carefully. There was more than one, most of the scars faint but reasonably clear to a trained eye. They looked like they’d been placed by a whip. A fucking whip.

Dean was nauseous, but he knew he needed to keep it together, so he pushed the cold terror in his stomach away. He’d already seen the bruises that decorated Sam’s neck, but they stood out starkly now against his brother’s pale skin. He picked up Sam’s hand again, prepared to try to figure out what had caused the swelling, and swore out loud. Sam’s wrist, both his wrists, Dean quickly confirmed, were circled with half healed scraps and burns. Rope burns. Dean would stake his forty years in hell on it.

All of Sam’s joints, starting at his wrists and all the way up to his shoulders, showed evidence of hyper extension, and now that he was looking for it, he could tell that both of Sam’s shoulders had been dislocated at some point and were still healing. Quickly, efficiently, Dean stripped off the rest of brother’s clothes, easily revealing the matching marks on Sam’s ankles. Dean shook with the effort to keep going, to keep his reaction bottled up inside. He needed to stay clinical. This was just another case. Just another case...

Sam’s legs were covered with bruises, some old, some new, impossible to say if there had been more that were simply already healed. More evidence of severe joint strain. More faint, very faint, whip marks that started just above Sam’s knees and worked their way up to Sam’s hips.

Dean’s emotions slipped out, a choked back gasp of despair that echoed through the room as he looked at Sam’s groin, almost black in places from the deep bruising that covered the area. “No…” he moaned, watching almost in slow motion as he griped Sam’s hip and rolled him onto his side. Sam’s backside was a bloody mess. Multiple assaults, and probably things bigger than a cock, would have been needed to cause that much damage.

Dean lurched up and grabbed a blanket off the other bed, and he managed to get it over his brother before sinking down to the floor, shaking so badly it was getting hard to breathe.

Memories of hell crashed over him in waves. The whip Alastair had loved to use in the beginning, back before he’d had to get creative in order to get a response out of Dean, licked its way across his skin. It left fire behind each time it struck, snaking over his back again and again, until Dean was screaming helplessly for his brother. Wretched tears slipped down his face as he begged shamelessly for Sam, even though he hoped to hell his brother had no way of hearing him, prayed that Sam had found a way to live a good life like he’d always wanted.

Alastair’s hands smoothed tenderly over his skin as he fought against his restraints, unable to stop the unwanted touch. Dean, give yourself to me and this will all be over… The words were relentless, but Dean had said no. He’d said no over and over again, and Alastair had just laughed at him and said that Dean would say yes, eventually.

The woman tied up next to him had been young, pretty, and her tear-filled eyes and fearful whimpers were etched eternally into his soul. Alastair had given him a choice, asked him if he’d submit to his own rape, or if he’d prefer instead for Alastair take the girl.

Alastair’s dick had torn into his ass like acid. Dean had offered himself up, ass in the air, a willing participant, all for the sake of that brown-eyed girl. When Alastair had finished using Dean like a two-bit whore, the demon had asked the woman if she wanted to help, and she’d climbed off the rack without even thinking about it, joining in with gleeful abandon.

…and the whole time that had been happening, Dean had clung to the fact that he knew, he knew, that Sam was doing what he’d asked, that Sam had stayed away from Ruby, from what she’d offered, and was making Dean proud with the life he was leading.

Making Dean’s sacrifice worth it.

Dean had been willing to give, willing to do, anything for that.

“Dean?” Sam’s pained moan cut through the fog of his memories.

Alastair’s hands clutched at him, trying to pull him back.

Stop it… stop it… Dean gripped his right shoulder tightly, his hand placed over Castiel’s brand. He let Castiel’s grace fill him, let Castiel’s grace push the memories back into hiding, where they wouldn’t do as much harm. Cas had saved him in more ways than one when he’d pulled Dean out of the pit. And then Dean had let Sam experience some of the same agonies Dean had gone through, but without any kind of safety net to keep him anchored, to keep him sane. Fuck.

Without even realizing it, he’d somehow managed to pull himself around so he was sitting on the floor with his back against the opposite bed. He could see that Sam wasn’t actually awake, just writhing in the grip of his nightmares. Sam needed him. It was time for the both of them to stop being a pawn for heaven and hell’s shell games. They were going to have to find a way to help each other or the weight of their combined sins was going to crush them both.

He heaved in a ragged breath and wiped fiercely at his wet face. He had work to do.

~o0O0o~

“Sammy…” Lucifer’s tone is mocking, and the name, his name, seems to echo around him.

His eyes are open but there is only blackness. He doesn’t know where he is. “Dean?” he shouts. Fear makes his voice tremble, makes him sound weak. He’s no longer sure he isn’t weak, isn’t a worthless failure. Come to think of it, he hasn’t been sure of that for a long time.

There’s no answer to his call, and he stands slowly, moving forward with outstretched hands, searching for something tangible to hold on to. There’s nothing. It’s neither cold nor hot here, but he wraps his hands around his naked torso anyway. It’s better than nothing.

He continues stumbling forward, faster now, madly trying to find some glimmer of hope in the empty abyss he’s found himself in. “Dean?” he calls out again, letting the panicked word echo out endlessly. There’s nothing here. He’s alone in a vast space he can’t even begin to fathom. “Dean!” He begins to run, uncaring of where he’s going as long as he’s moving away from…here.

The ground turns ragged and sharp, but he doesn’t slow, can’t slow, despite the wounds he’s tearing into his feet, his blood likely leaving a gory trail in his wake. He keeps running until his feet give out, and he’s falling. The ground is gone and he’s moving through the air so fast it’s hard to breathe, the air a constant roar in his ears. He wonders if this means he’s finally going to die. He’ll end up in hell, he knows, but the thought doesn’t add to his terror. He can get used to the pain; it’s living with the consequences of abuse that terrifies him.

He hits the ground unexpectedly, but it isn’t hard. It catches him and slows his fall, before finally bouncing him back, tossing him gently into the air, but only a foot or two. He lands a second time in a graceless heap on solid ground. There’s someone behind him, he knows it a mere moment before a warm hand is trailing down the skin of his back.

“Dean?” he gasps out hopefully. The cold chuckle feels like a vise closing on his heart. He scrambles to his feet, launching himself upwards painfully and staggering forward as fast as his damaged feet allow.

Lucifer doesn’t follow. “You can’t run from me, Samuel. Stop running and all of this will be over.”

Sam doesn’t slow despite the well of doom the words evoke. He needs his brother to keep him anchored, to keep him from floating away into nothing. “Dean!”

“What?”

At the sound of the annoyed response, Sam whirls around only to lose his balance and fall ass first onto the ground. “Dean?” he questions breathlessly, looking around despite the never-ending black.

“What the hell, Sam? I thought I told you to stay put.”

“I…” Sam stammers. He doesn’t remember Dean saying that, doesn’t remember talking to Dean at all.

“I gotta go back out on the hunt. I can’t do that while I’m constantly worrying about your ass.”

“Please don’t leave me alone,” Sam begs. The words are pounding, screaming in his head, but they come out petulant and rasping with unshed tears.

“Jesus, fuck, Sam! The apocalypse is coming. I don’t have time to babysit your ass. You brought this on yourself anyway.” Dean moves away, opens an unknown door and exits, slamming the door behind him.

“I thought he’d never leave,” Lucifer whispers, his lips warm against Sam’s. Lucifer straddles Sam, pulls their naked bodies together as one hand caresses down Sam’s spine and the other drops to Sam’s dick. “There’s nothing left for you in the world, Sam. Nothing but pain. Stop fighting me.” Lucifer strokes along Sam’s length teasingly, making Sam arch up against the touch, seeking more. Sam circles his arms around Lucifer, completing their embrace, desperate for the momentary oblivion of orgasm. For the first time, he’s not positive he won’t eventually say yes.

~o0O0o~

“Sam?” Dean’s anxious voice cut through the pounding in his head, pulling him towards consciousness. He fought against it for a few moments, desperate to escape the pain he knew was waiting for him, but an insistent shaking on his shoulder made him give up the fight with a small moan.

“Come on, Sam, wake up. Those are clearly some awesome dreams you’re having, but… let it go, man. They aren’t real. Wake up.”

Sam started to roll over, intent on burying his head in the pillow, but the increased pressure made the pain shoot sparks of agony through his head, and he gave it up with a barely held back whimper. “Dean?” he croaked out. It hurt to talk, his throat felt like the desert, and his hand moved on its own to wrap around it, as if that would make a difference. “Water?”

“Yeah. Right here. Lemme help you up.”

“Not an invalid,” he muttered back, but he was too weak to push Dean’s help away.

Dean only snorted in response. Once Sam was up and leaning against Dean, he felt the curved edge of a bottle against his lower lip, and swallowed down the water that followed gratefully.

Sam quickly drained the entire bottle of the water, but Dean didn’t move away. His brother was holding him like he hadn’t since Sam was a little kid. It felt good. He couldn’t bring himself to break the silence, wished idly that they could stay like this forever. His eyes were still closed. He was afraid to try to open them. It couldn’t be as bad as he’d thought before. Everything else had healed. Mostly. This was just one more injury that never happened.

“Where are we?” he rasped.

Dean took a deep breath. “Motel room. What…”

Suddenly Sam was talking, desperate for Dean not to ask about what had happened. “How bad is it?” He didn’t really want the answer, wanted to go back to the peaceful silence they’d been sharing only moments before, but the question was out now and he couldn’t take it back.

There was a long pause, and Sam suddenly wanted to be anywhere but where he was, except that he couldn’t seem to make himself move, couldn’t seem to make himself leave Dean’s comforting hold. “It’s… it’s pretty bad, Sammy. Can you… can you open your eyes?”

“I think so,” Sam responded. He had to struggle against himself for a moment before his eyes sluggishly opened. It hurt; his lids were still swollen and raw. The lack of light, however, didn’t change. “Are the lights out?” he whispered.

He could feel Dean’s hitched breath against his back. “It’s mid-afternoon. The sun’s shining right into the room. Your eyes… they look like they burst, and then… somehow partially healed during the time I was in the restaurant. What the hell happened?”

Sam was too busy processing what Dean had said about his sight to stop the inevitable question, and he wanted to scream in protest, but what came out was a calmly stated, “I already told you, something supernatural attacked me from behind. I didn’t see it.”

“Cut the crap, Sam!” Dean barked out angrily. “You’ve got injuries all over your body that aren’t consistent with what you just said. Who’s been hurting you?”

No. No, no, no. Please, god, he didn’t want Dean to know. Not that. Sam pulled away, needing freedom from Dean’s grasp now as much as he had wanted to be held earlier. He moved to the edge of the bed and put his feet on the ground, let his hands settle in his lap. “No one.”

“Bullshit! You’ve got… I know what I saw, Sam. I know what causes those kinds of injuries.”

“I asked for it, okay?” What?

“Excuse me?” Dean asked incredulously, echoing Sam’s sentiment. The bed shifted as Dean stood up.

Sam wished he could predict what was going to come out of his traitorous mouth before he actually said it. Maybe then he could do some damage control. “I’ve been sneaking out, meeting up with demons. They give me blood for… they just want stuff in return, okay?”

“You told me you weren’t on the blood anymore. I thought we were through with the lies?” Dean’s voice was flat, emotionless. Sam desperately wished he could see his brother’s face.

“It doesn’t fuel my powers anymore, but… I still need it. I just do. It’s not hurting anyone Dean! Why do you care? I figured if I didn’t admit it, you’d eventually shut the fuck up about it, but obviously, you can’t let anything go.” It felt like someone was drilling a corkscrew into Sam’s forehead, and he kind of wished that that really was what was happening. Dean had to be through with him now. Sam was on his own.

The silence stretched on so long, Sam was beginning to think Dean had left the room, had used Sam’s sightlessness to slip away so he didn’t have to deal with his crippled brother anymore.

Sam practically jumped out of his skin when Dean cleared his throat. “I, uh, called Castiel while we were waiting for you to come to. He said there wasn’t anything he could do for you. Seemed pretty mystified about that. He did try, though.”

Sam wasn’t sure if it was irony that his tear ducts still worked, or specific intent on Lucifer’s part, but the moisture suddenly tracking down his face was somehow unsurprising. The weight of Dean’s words was crushing him. He couldn’t stay in the fight if he couldn’t see. Lucifer was going to win. Sam couldn’t see any way past that anymore.

“You should lock me in the panic room before you leave,” Sam muttered, letting the tears he couldn’t see drop unheeded onto his hands.

“Oh, yeah? Where am I going?” Dean asked dryly.

Sam’s face twisted in confusion. “The apocalypse? You and Cas need to go stop it, now that I’m out of the fight.”

“You aren’t out of the fight yet. I haven’t given up on finding a way to fix this.” It occurred to Sam that Dean hadn’t sounded disgusted with him a heartbeat before Dean’s hand was resting solidly on his shoulder. “Not sure why you’re still lying to me, Sam, but…” Sam could feel Dean shift slightly closer to him, his tone determined, “I think I’m finally starting to figure out what might be truth and what’s just more lies. I have a feeling Lucifer’s more wrapped up in what’s been going on than you’ve been letting on. I am gonna figure this out, though. I… I’m not leaving this time. I’ve got your back, okay?”

Sam opened his mouth but couldn’t form any words, finally settled on just nodding his head.

Dean squeezed his shoulder once, reassuringly, before leaving the room.

~o0O0o~

The thump of his heart is loud enough to echo around the room, muffling the other sounds as it beats a persistent, frantic rhythm against his chest. A man is behind him, thrusting into his body in a beat out of time with his heart. It’s Tim. He’s not sure how he knows, but he’s sick with the knowledge. Tim shudders to a stop, pulses his orgasm into Sam with obscene grunts and groans. Sam’s ass is still clenching and fluttering around Tim’s dick, trying to push it out when the man pulls out of Sam roughly, laughing when Sam fails once again to hold in his gasp of pain.

The sound of Tim’s laughter grows, mocking and sadistic, growing until it echoes around the room, loud enough to drown out his heartbeat.

Sam’s cheek is still pressed against the wall he was just fucked against, and the abraded skin hurts, but he’s too paralyzed with fear to move. The countless line of men who stand behind him predatorily waiting their turn are just faceless shadows in the relentless dark, every bit as terrifying as the worst monster he’s ever fought. He desperately wants his sight back – he can’t fight without it.

A harsh grip on his shoulder pulls him away from the wall, and then he’s pushed hard enough to make him stumble into the middle of the room. He falls clumsily over what he thinks is a chair, his naked, abused body sprawling out in a painful display. Loud laughter erupts around him again, this time from all directions, forming an echoing cacophony in the large space. Despite the pain, he stiffly pulls himself into a crouch, kicking away the chair, trying to guard against his attackers even though he can’t see a damn thing.

He hears someone approaching from behind, and he lurches forward, only to fall over a foot that’s been extended in front of him. He lands gracelessly, the wind knocked out of him, taken out of the fight before it even had time to get started. Just fucking him isn’t enough – they get off on making him look like a fool as well.

The new round of derisive snickers doesn’t fade, growing louder, more mocking and vicious with every passing moment, until he’s forced to clasp his hands over his ears in a fruitless attempt to block out the noise. “Stop it!” he screams desperately into the dissonance.

A hand falls heavily, possessively, on his shoulder, and the laughter is simultaneously silenced. He jerks around, aiming a swing at what he hopes is the man’s face, but he misses completely, his fist easily blocked. A solid punch sends him sprawling back down to the ground. “Thought I taught you better than that, Son.”

“Dad?” Sam whispers incredulously. A crushing need to conceal his nudity drops him where he stands, and he immediately curls in on himself. With a hand entwining tightly into his hair, his dad pulls him up to sitting. Sam flails out, hoping to find his dad’s face so he can at least feel that he’s real. Somehow, his hands don’t connect with anything.

“You’re holding Dean back, Sam. You’re worthless to the hunt now. More burden than anything. You should run away, hide under a rock somewhere so you can’t be used to hurt him. Without your sight, you’re completely useless to the only hunter left in our family. Hell, all you’re really good for is being a fuck toy now. Come to think of it, I’m the only one who hasn’t gotten a piece!” His dad’s yelling by the end, spittle flying. Sam can feel the wet drops splattering on his face and chest.

Dad pushes him roughly to the ground, face forward, a large hand seeking out his ass, and he screams as he tries to scramble away, horror robbing him of coherent speech.

~o0O0o~

He jerked to sitting, gasping in frantic gulps of air, shaking violently. Just a dream, just another stupid, fucked-up nightmare that his brain seemed to supply every time he managed to drift off over the last several days.

His Dad being there, though, that was new.

The memory of his father’s hand on his ass forced out a sob, which turns into a fit of coughing that was aggravated by his dry throat. He reached out for the glass of water that he knew was left on the nightstand for him, barely managed to keep himself from yelling in frustration when he hit it wrong and it hurtled to the ground with a shattering crash.

Fuck. He froze on the bed for several minutes, waiting for Dean to bustle in to rescue his pathetic ass from his latest mistake. Nothing happened. He was pretty sure the door was shut. It stayed that way. Finally, he kicked the tangled covers off and cautiously scooted himself down to the end of the bed to climb off. Even if he could see where the glass was to sweep it up, the only broom he knew of was downstairs.

His throat was so dry, he wasn’t sure he could yell for help. He needed some fucking water before he did anything else. He took a couple steps to the left towards the door he knew was there, and registered the sting in his foot just a moment too late to prevent the broken glass from slicing in deeply. Too angry to let that stop him, he grabbed the door handle roughly, slamming it open and moving out into the hall.

~o0O0o~

“Dean,” Cas said, appearing directly behind Dean in a very deliberate attempt to startle him. Dean had come to the conclusion that the stoic angel secretly delighted in doing that. His lack of human understanding was a purposeful façade designed so he could get his jollies off fucking with them all. Cas was too ancient, too intelligent, for it to be otherwise.

Taking a minute to calm his nerves, he turned around slowly and drawled, “Cas.”

“I believe I have located the Colt. I will require your assistance to proceed, however.”

“What? Where is it?”

“There are whispers that a Demon named Crowley may have had dealings with Bella shortly before she disappeared. The demon is cunning though, I have been unable to get close enough to confirm anything. The places he treads seem to be warded against angels.”

“Well, that’s awesome, Cas, but you’re gonna need to find someone else to be your lackey this time. My dance card’s already a little full.”

Cas looked at him impatiently. “I understand you want to be here for your brother, Dean, but I don’t believe that that makes finding a way to stop Armageddon no longer important. Do you?”

Dean sighed angrily, “Important? Of course it is. But find another hunter for this one.”

“There isn’t anyone else, Dean,” Bobby interrupted. “If I could, I would, but it’s not like I could do it right now.”

Cas put a placating hand on Dean’s shoulder, “I understand your worry for your brother. I… am worried for him as well, but… you cannot afford to be selfish right…”

“Selfish!?” Dean had to be careful to keep himself from getting too loud; Sam had been sleeping when he’d come downstairs. Peaceful like he almost never was anymore. “Fuck you, Cas,” Dean growled lowly, pushing Cas’ hand away. “I told Sam I wasn’t leaving him, and I intend to keep that promise. How the hell is that selfish?”

Dean had only come down to grab them some food; he hadn’t intended to be gone for long, but then Bobby had started grilling him, and then Cas… Dean looked anxiously towards his brother’s room. He needed to get back upstairs.

“There is no time to be arguing about this. I believe I know where Crowley is currently, but it’s warded against me. If we lose this chance, I will have to start searching for him all over again.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Bobby cut him off. “Look, Sam and I are out of the fight. Sam’s in worse shape than I am. For whatever reason, he’s not talking about what happened to him, and that isn’t likely to change in the next few days…”

“No.”

“Dean…”

“No!” Dean gritted out furiously. “I’m not leaving him and that’s fucking final!”

“Damn it, Dean, I feel as bad for him as you do, but, by his own words, he brought this on himself…”

“He’s lying,” Dean snapped.

“Probably!” Bobby replied with slow sarcasm. “Still doesn’t change that fact that half of the players in this house are useless in this fight, and there’s precious little you can do to help him unless he decides to come clean!”

It was Dean’s fault Bobby was so mistrustful of Sam right now. He hadn’t realized what he’d been doing when he was fanning the flames of the countless rumors circulating about his brother and blood. They’d been wrong. He knew it with soul-deep certainty.

“I have not given up on finding answers for you, Dean,” Cas injected quietly into the silence. “I… have some ideas that require further investigation, but we need to locate Crowley…”

“Wait,” Dean interrupted, noises from upstairs suddenly filtering through his conscious enough to realize his brother was probably awake and moving around. “Shit, I’ll be back,” he muttered, turning to head up the stairs, then swore again as Sam dramatically made his entrance by falling the rest of the way down.

~o0O0o~

It was muffled, but Sam could hear angry yelling coming from downstairs. Dean and Bobby were clearly making an effort to keep it quiet though; it wasn’t quite loud enough for him to make out the words.

He was less confident out in the hall. Dean had been hovering since Sam lost his eyesight, and he had really been far too sore to be capable of pushing Dean’s help away. This was the first time he’d actually attempted to move without his brother by his side, and it was more disorienting than he thought maybe it should be. It wasn’t like Dad hadn’t made them train with blindfolds. He wasn’t sure why this was worse, but it was. He moved forward anyway, one hand running along the wall, wet foot doubtless leaving a bloody trail behind him.

It took him longer to get to the staircase than he thought it should, but he couldn’t say he had ever timed how long it took to walk down the long hall, so maybe that was all in his head too.

So far, so good.

Someone was watching him – the eyes were boring into him from behind, and he started anxiously stumbling down the stairs. His foot caught on something, a book probably, that had been left there. His leg kicked out and he missed the next step, landing heavily on his ass before sliding the rest of the way down to the first floor. Pain ricocheted from his ass through his back and down again, making him twist in on himself protectively, drawing his hands over his head and jerking his knees up in a fetal position. As if that was going to save him from anything.

Strong hands on his skin sent him lashing out, swinging wildly in a pathetic attempt to push them away, to hurt or maim, to somehow give back a little of the pain for once, instead of always being the one to take it. He was vaguely aware that he was yelling, a loud, formless protest for everyone, everything, to just get the fuck away from him. No more… no more…

“Sam!”

The hands were on his shoulders, clutching at him, shaking him despite his frantic efforts to get away.

“Sammy!”

He got his hand and shoulder free enough to finally take a swing and connected with flesh, sending a thrill of victory through his tired brain. The hands disappeared. Thank god…

“Sam, fuck!”

His brother’s voice... Dean’s voice… sounding pained, sounding hurt.

The fight drained out of him instantly, leaving him in a wretched heap on the floor.

“Dean?” he breathed out unsteadily. His throat was even more thrashed that it was before, and his face was wet. He gasped out a harsh sob as Dean’s arms curled around him, pulling him in close, and he buried his face against the warm flannel. “Please, man, you gotta figure out a way to fix my eyes. I can’t… I can’t live like this… please…”

Dean didn’t reply, simply held him tightly and rocked slightly, soothingly, like Sam was a helpless child. It wasn’t that far from the truth anymore, really.

“Dean, we must leave now, or we will be too late.” Cas’ husky voice took Sam by surprise. He hadn’t known that the angel was here. Cas, seeing him like this, sullied and dirty, his soul so tarnished with filth Sam knew the angel was blinded by it, broke Sam just a little bit more. He jerked away from Dean’s hold, desperate to get away, to move back up the stairs; he couldn’t bear to be in the angel’s presence. Castiel had probably known last year what would happen to Sam, abomination, probably thought Sam deserved this fate and worse. Shame twisted in his stomach, threatened to claw its way out of his throat as he succeeded in pulling away from his brother, leaving himself exposed and vulnerable.

“Damnit, Cas, not now,” Dean muttered, catching Sam by the shoulders to halt his progress up the stairs. “Sam, stop. Just wait, please.”

Sam stopped struggling and gave a silent nod, compelled by Dean’s apparent need, and slowly, painfully, he flipped himself over to sit on the stairs. He could feel Castiel staring at him. He didn’t want Dean to leave. “How long are you going to be gone for?” he forced out, keeping his face pointedly towards where he thought Dean was.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean snapped at the same time as Castiel gravely said, “A few days.”

Dean swore under his breath. Pulling away from Sam to stand up angrily, he left Sam sitting on the ground, useless. “We’ve been over this. I’m not going,” Dean growled.

“Dean,” Bobby’s gruff voice cut in, and Sam hadn’t even realized he was there. “I can’t go. I’ll stay here to keep an eye on your brother. If you don’t stop the apocalypse, ain’t nobody gonna be around to take care of anyone.”

“Bobby,” Dean began angrily.

Dean didn’t want to leave him. Not now that Sam was crippled. Sam let out a quiet laugh. It was bitter comfort, but Sam would take what he could get. He needed Dean too much to let him go, except… he didn’t get to be selfish when everything was his fault. He forced himself to cut in, “You need to go, Dean. Don’t worry about me.”

“Sam, I’m…”

“No!” Sam interrupted loudly, pleadingly. “You can’t step out of the fight, Dean. I fucked everything up and now I’m not even gonna be able to fix it. I need you to fix this for me. Please.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence that left Sam feeling anxious and uncertain. He was used to being able to pick up a lot from body language. Yet another strength that was gone.

There was a thud against the wall, the unmistakable sound of fist against wood, that made Sam jump, and Bobby started to yell, “Dean –”

Shouting louder, Dean cut the old man off, growling, “Fine. Sooner we leave, the sooner I can be back. Let’s go.”

There was a brief rustling noise, and then silence.

Just like that, Dean was gone.

Hopeless dread crawled up Sam’s spine. Lucifer hadn’t returned since he lost his sight, but Lucifer had never come when Dean was close.

“Sam, you bleedin’?” Bobby asked uncertainly.

“I…” He’d forgotten about the glass, and Bobby couldn’t get up the stairs. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t getting out of bed again until Dean was back anyway. He could probably find a towel upstairs, put it over the glass until someone came back who could clean up the mess. “It’s nothing, Bobby. Can you get me a bottle of water? I think that’d be better than glass.”

Bobby grunted, but a few minutes later Sam felt a bottle nudging at his hand. He took it without comment, and turned around to head back upstairs.

“Sam… I… you let me know if you need anything, okay?”

He’d tried when they’d first gotten here, but Sam hadn’t been able to say anything but lies to Bobby either, so he just nodded wearily and crawled back upstairs to hide.




Part Six | Part Eight