Chapter Text
Time warps in his room as sleep evades nights, and Sam’s skull blows around like a half-full dustpan. So he survived. Left so dry and empty. Isn’t it fucked up that there’s a catalyst to the colour that he’s made for, yet letting it bring him to life, just for a second, is one of the most fucking evil things he can do that’s once damned the world? Like it’s concentrated for him. Concentrated who he is. Pollute him, poison him, he doesn’t care.
No, it’s not that deep, is it? He’s just an addict. The intensity of this, even the jaded romanticisation. Just more of the same addict bullshit. But why can’t it at least leave him better off? The desolate agitation, the way his brain has just been whited out, the enduring hallucination of black sludge running through his veins. It’s tiring.
The self-harm and sexual masochism Lucifer forces Sam into in the following days of his withdrawal are pretty lacklustre. Sam doesn’t always remember all the significant moments of the Cage -- it’s too long, too terrifying -- but he does remember how excited Lucifer was when he got Sam to consent to him. The memory causes a wave of dizziness that Sam cannot fathom. It’s funny, with all the things Hell has ever wanted from him, how his own complicity is the thing that always ruined him the most.
But Lucifer isn’t excited now. He seems sad, forlorn. It scares Sam even more.
But he’s glad because Castiel is at the bunker, now. And he’s watching Sam all the time. Which means Dean is too, probably on junkie duty, watching for the second Sam slips up.
But he’s fine, yes siree. Isn’t dreaming at all about the high and how fucking clean it felt compared to everything he did with demons. Somehow, that makes it so much worse. His skin touching Lucifer’s, rubbing up against him -- the most horrifying, disgusting part of existence, twisted in nebulous light. He can’t imagine Lucifer’s body again -- no matter who it is. Any body is a body that could be his, and isn’t that terrifying? Isn’t that so disgusting, even with Sam with Piper in the backseat, swallowing down the nausea but lighter for a moment because he’s able to do this even though it’s not Amelia? The idea of Eileen, how she wanted to be friends, even after how he turned her down?
Does Lucifer know Cas knows? Sam can’t bear the shame. Can Cas see inside him? All the rot, the things Lucifer has Sam do just so Sam has to feel like Lucifer has his mark on his body, his earthly connection, this chunk of meat Lucifer wants to call his home, but instead Sam pilots like a kid trying to drive stick off a cliff?
Cas doesn’t force him to talk about it, which Sam will be forever grateful for. But he has decided that he wants to spend a significant amount of time in Sam’s room again. Which isn’t abnormal -- Sam’s room has always been somewhat of an intermediary home to Cas, and after what happened when he was human, Sam never wants to kick him out of it -- but it makes it harder for Sam to find privacy to do all the shit Lucifer keeps him doing on a daily basis to stake his claim.
Had Cas seen it all along? One evening, Sam returns to his room, and the box in his dresser, which contains some of the implements Lucifer forced Sam to keep nearby, is left open, the drawer ajar. Did Sam seriously forget it like that? Was Cas snooping? God forbid -- Dean? If it was Sam, did Cas see it anyway? It makes him feel sick and dizzy, more real somehow. It’s so stupid, but he wants to somehow, like, defend himself. Like fine, he wouldn’t actually judge someone who likes to get off any which way, and Dean probably already thinks Sam’s somewhat gay. But he was forced to buy a buttplug with a red rose tip. There’s no way either of them saw that right? Sam can’t stop obsessing. Lucifer made him a bitch. It feels like, caught naked, hand in the cookie jar. Except the very idea that he’d want it -- he’s dizzy.
So many negotiations they made back then, though. Sam has to feel it in his body. He wouldn’t, if Lucifer weren’t inventive, just by having Sam in their hyperrealistic dreams. He’s been avoiding all the things Lucifer makes him do, every day, the-- [it turns into a blank space in his head]. So much worse than a single [why did it have to be a rose?]. So many [it’s just rote motion, sticky, proof of--]. Every detail is reductive. [hard to stay infinite like fractions -- numbers dividing one]. Gives it shape, gives it shame, gives it something human and real beyond the buzzing static of beyond-anything-horror it gets sucked up in. Sex and gimmicks. Torture in a wacky pun.
Would Lucifer be like this, if it weren’t for Sam? If Sam were someone else, trapped in the Cage with him, would the shame of the degradation be different? What does all of this say about Sam? Lucifer, his comprehension is beyond any human alive. Yet he emasculates Sam in modern American rhetoric and makes sex jokes on the fly.
One night, Lucifer just sings at him, while making Sam make cuts up his leg. Mostly it’s Ladyheart lyrics, but he starts singing the Cake song “Satan is My Motor” that Sam listened to a few times in college. He always did like being funny, but he seems half disinterested. Sam’s in a haze, slicing like it’s meditative. He snarks something about a captive audience at Lucifer, waiting for the dime to drop. The terror of anticipation -- make you frozen, make you too daring, too chatty. Too much time, not enough cognition. No alleviation. Lucifer just smirks, that’s right, turns off the screen. He doesn’t give Sam any further instructions. Doesn’t come into Sam’s mind when he’s asleep. So Sam records a video of himself, shakily singing through slicing into his flesh several times deeper than what Lucifer had made him do, until he almost passes out in a pool of his own blood.
He sends it to Lucifer, half-conscious half-nauseous when he comes to later, feeling like the sharp stinging anchor is in his chest instead, sick and stricken by blood loss vertigo, waiting for Lucifer’s response. He doesn’t want to fuck up. He can be so good.
Lucifer gives it a heart reaction and says nothing else. And Sam just starts laughing.
Is he free? What sort of trick is it?
Maybe Lucifer wouldn’t care then, if Sam just lost control and nicked a major artery. Got a little careless. He’s confused and faint and sick as it is. Maybe he could escape, and Lucifer could move his eyes to something else. Like pottery. Maybe Lucifer could... let him go.
But Dean wouldn’t.
Dean and Cas run a case together. Dean’s worried about Sam’s health and that there’s demons involved, but he’s also antsy leaving Sam at home alone, where Sam could go. Drain a demon somewhere. Sam’s relapse has clearly brought back tension for everyone. But Sam can’t ignore the obvious. The memory of Dean (not Dean) knowing -- the fact Cas does.
He’s suffocated on every end, and it’s a maze he cannot navigate. There are pieces of his brain that are popping open, overlapping, and he cannot keep ahold of them.
Lucifer makes him let him in. It’s been the first time in a while, that Lucifer was in the Bunker. He told Sam so taciturn. There’s something dangerous slipping away from them. So maybe it’s petulance, when Sam’s mind twists up, and goads him.
“I meant it,” Sam says, Lucifer is just sitting on Sam’s bed, Sam at the foot of it. They’re even both clothed. Sam’s not sure what he’s doing, why he’s poking the beast. He sometimes did this in the Cage, didn’t he? Not all fawn, not all freeze. Not when the time was right. What shade of Lucifer’s mood shades the way Sam speaks? There’s a whole array of what Sam is, ripe for the choosing. Lucifer just has to frown a certain way.
And Lucifer is looking at him now, mildly curious.
“You always mean it. You never mean it. You don’t have an honest bone in your body except when I wear it.” Lucifer rolls his eyes, and Sam feels petrified, regardless of his voice's recklessness. Feels disembodied. Falling into the strange intimacy between them on this bed. Sam's drowning in it. On edge, underwater. Cascading without his control.
“Let’s not start with you and honesty,” Sam prickles. The fear has his body rigid. One time, Lucifer took one of his eyes for that accusation. Maybe he did worse. The memories don’t always all come at once. Except when they do.
It takes Lucifer a moment to respond. Sam’s not sure if the pause is to fuck with his head, or because he genuinely is thinking about what to say.
“Do you want me to break the promises I’ve made to you? Awh honey, did I give it to you so good last time you want some more?”
The nausea returns full throttle, and Sam tries to stay upright, but ends up doubled over on the mattress, world spinning. He feels Lucifer’s hand on him, lower back underneath his shirt, and fuck, he basically asked for this, didn’t he? His vision is black.
It clears. Everything suddenly feels so much better, better than Sam’s been since he was high on Lucifer’s blood. But he knows he’s sober now. He sits up, looking at Lucifer confused.
“What are you going to require of me this evening?” he says evenly, and for a brief moment, head more clear, he feels betrayed by Cas. Would Cas know Lucifer would immediately come for Sam? Did he leave Sam alone regardless?
“You’ll be such a good little lapdog, won’t you. You never shut up.”
Sam doesn’t say anything to that. He’s nauseous again, but he knows he won’t pass out from it. The second drag on, they’re heavy, weighted, gravity piercing through space.
“Fiiiine. I’ll bite. What part did you mean?” Lucifer asks.
“All of it.”
Lucifer looks at him searchingly for a moment. Everything is so surreal. Sam isn’t himself anymore, not who he is when he’s in the Bunker, this cognitive dissonance. This is Sam in a vacuum, when Lucifer’s attention turns a certain grade of indigo.
Before Sam can process it, he’s been shoved several feet back, body colliding with the wall parallel to the bed, an iron grip around his neck, and Lucifer aggressively making out with him.
It's disgusting, wet, the way Lucifer has to force his tongue inside. The panic and constriction of oxygen nearly make the horror blurrier, but the hysteria edges forward unbiden. Can't he just be dead meat? Why does he have to have consciousness? This desperation, this forced sensation. The inability to stop someone from making him feel things. Painful or pleasurable. He stays still, but it's so hard not to start hyperventilating, pushing Lucifer away -- screaming.
Will Lucifer make him hard again, prove a point, control Sam's perception like an instrument? Will he not, a conquering, wrapped up with disgust that disintegrates every other paradigm that could exist? Of course, their negotiations meant nothing.
Hm, guess Lucifer is a liar then. And as unable to process that they are still on Earth as Sam is, he’s still aware that he needs to be unconscious, immediately.
Almost as if reading Sam’s mind, or upset about the lack of reciprocation (in dreams, he does; sometimes -- he does whatever Lucifer wants, but there's someone in there), Lucifer stands back.
“Woe is me, I talk about how much I want to be the devil’s kept thing, but then I turn into a priss who blames everyone else the second I could actually have what I want,” Lucifer says acidically.
It’s going to kill him -- he knows. The very concept of wanting Lucifer. It nearly already has. But now it just roils in his throat like a foregone conclusion. He’s a vile bitch. He wanted it. He hurt so many people. He’s betraying everyone he loves. It’s soft and suffocating behind his eyes, shuffling down until he’s exposed. He’s somewhat frozen, still, looking at Lucifer hard.
“I meant more when I said I hate you and I’m a pisspoor substitute for whatever thing you’re incapable of to avoid loneliness.”
Lucifer’s face twists. Sam’s been such a sad, docile thing lately, hasn’t he? Maybe Lucifer’s blood did do something to his brain.
“You trapped me in isolation for more time than you’re even able to comprehend. Of course I’m lonely, Sam. You did that to me.”
“You control me. Hurt me. I mean, man. One time you literally through acid on my face. Can’t handle a no, can-can you, Lucifer? And now, now. are you sad? ‘Cause you realise that your dad’s really not coming back. Get this Lucifer: your puppet show is pathetic.”
“It’s interesting how stupid you are.” It is. A current has caught Sam, and he has nothing to hold onto as he's pushed over the edge.
“Are you going to threaten someone if I don’t behave? You can only get what you want when it’s not about you.”
Sam is incredibly stupid. He’s screaming at himself. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this.
“You’re a doll, Sammy. I push you around and watch what pops out.”
“It’s just threats, though, isn’t it? I am never going to want you. I am never going to love you. It’s a lovely play to put on, but in the end, you’re a pathetic, lonely kid who couldn’t handle the entire universe not revolving around him.”
A blast of sharp pain through the abdomen, so fast, Sam can barely register it. He’s choking, on something -- he’s not sure what. It’s not Lucifer’s dick, that’s the only thing he knows, stares out like a dead fish. It’s placid, disorienting viscera, painted all synchronic, then suddenly Sam is coughing on his bed again, pain gone, Lucifer staring at him from the head, his fist covered in blood.
Did Lucifer... did he kill Sam?
Lucifer, caught red-handed, vanishes any trace without a fuss. Like whatever did happen, there, too fast or too painful for Sam to comprehend, just didn't.
“You should kill me, Lucifer,” Sam says, and he wonders if that’s some puzzle piece to what this has all been about. He’s not sure. He’s reacting with his mind closed in terror.
Lucifer stares at him blankly. Will there be another split-second evisceration?
“But you’re not going to do that, are you? This whole ordeal requires so much effort.” And if Sam is faced with gravity, the meteor strike, the momentum that can’t be stopped? The self-destruction? “You need me.”
Lucifer knows every button of Sam’s to push. Sam knows quite a few of his.
Lucifer narrows his eyes, staring hard through the sharp air. It feels cold. A high-pitched note, staccato. That point on a nine. Lucifer tilts his head discerningly, like Cas does.
Sam wants everything to go dark now, more than he’s wanted anything in his entire life. He knows that won’t happen: he knows. That is a mercy he will never be given.
“No, I don’t,” Lucifer says, and it sounds more listless than petulant.
Whatever Lucifer does now, Sam knows it’ll still be categorised as lashing out. So the empty rebuttal terrifies him.
Sam doesn’t argue. And he focuses, instead, on how badly he wants to suck Lucifer’s blood. Maybe Lucifer can smell his desire. Maybe he's reading Sam's mind.
He indulges in the fantasy. A cut, flowing steadily -- Lucifer’s left upper collarbone. Sam’s lips pressed against it, sucking. The world, turning vibrant again. The desert, itch gone. High and powerful, more so, even, than terrified.
“You’re right,” Lucifer says. “Not about me needing you -- that’s narcissistic, baby. But the effort.”
Lucifer squints at Sam discerningly, probably listening to Sam’s heart race like a jackrabbit. Does Lucifer know that Sam knows that Lucifer’s still lashing out?
Sam says nothing. Waits.
“You’re not worth the trouble,” Lucifer continues. He shrugs. Then, dramatically, he sighs, swinging his legs around (not his, someone who could be-- the guilt, it’s--) and gets off the bed.
And leaves the room.
Sam follows him, through the hall, like a puppy dog. Giving some space, but terrified of this fallout. He's so anxious. Every step is just some misstep. Every mistake -- the cost is so high. But Lucifer just makes his way towards the exit, and leaves the bunker, not once even looking back.
Sam starts hyperventilating, about sixty seconds after the door closes, when his body can fully process he’s alone. He reins it in fast, eyes still blurry, staring at his phone. Waiting for whatever Lucifer is going to do now. Time stretches across three or four minutes, Sam’s skin, feeling like it’s preparing to be lit on fire again.
But Sam isn’t expecting what does happen.
Lucifer blocks him.