Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I am the Shining One, the Morning Star, the One Who Brings Light,” Lucifer said, smiling at Sam, who gazed back in horror. “I am not named for the Biblical Lucifer; I am the Biblical Lucifer. And you, Sam, will be by my side as I destroy your world.”

 

Lucifer had left hours ago, and still Sam struggled to wrap his head around the events that had shaken everything he knew about the world. The Devil was real. The Devil was real, and he wanted him, Sam Winchester, to join forces and assist him in genocide. Just a few hours ago, Sam would have responded to this information with a pithy comment about being destined for hell from the start. It didn’t seem as funny, now.

 

Sam twisted his wrists, wincing as his skin chafed against metal cuffs held in place for too long. He grunted with the exertion, his dry throat cracking in protest. “Deprivation isn’t going to make me join you!” he shouted, voice hoarse and crackling. “Lucifer, you ass! At least let me out of these chains!” He groaned, slumping back against the unyielding cross. His shoulders whined, protesting the strain as they supported the whole of his weight, but his core burned from holding himself up. “Lucifer!”

 

There was no response. Sam groaned, allowing his head to droop onto his firm, bare chest. This was unfair in every sense of the word.

 

Only a week ago, he and Dean had been flying high, ready to take on the world. His body count had been a thing of beauty, surpassing every serial killer he had ever heard of. The public had feared them, as they should have, and the supremacist group that Lucifer headed had been a thing to treat with wary mockery. He had had access to every part of his brother, body, soul, and mind, and this connection had been a two way street; their slave, a former FBI agent named Castiel, had made the arduous practice of avoiding the police exponentially easier. Somehow, through some terrible twist of events, that had all come crashing down in just a few days, and now he hung limply in some sort of twisted torture dungeon, prisoner of the Devil himself.

 

It seemed like an age before the door creaked open, and Lucifer walked in, followed by a slim, attractive young man with dark blond hair and a face that reminded Sam painfully of Dean. “What do you think, brother?” Lucifer asked, gesturing at Sam with a graceful hand. “The prophet says this is the one. Did you hear any whispers in heaven before our father and brethren abandoned you here in this child?”

 

The slender man hummed, taking in Sam’s visage and body, strapped painfully to the cross. “Samuel Winchester,” he said finally, glancing at Lucifer. “Born May second, 1983. Son of John and Mary Winchester, brother to Dean, half-brother to the child who bound me inside of him. Twenty-three years old. Destined to be Lucifer’s ultimate vessel, the child of demon blood and blasphemy, with the power to save humankind or destroy it.” The man nodded as he stared at Sam with critical eyes. “This is the one, brother. The prophet did not lie to you.”

 

“Perfect,” Lucifer whispered, staring at Sam with a strange, unsettling spark in his eyes. “Then my efforts were not wasted. He’s been a real trouble to find, and even now he seems intent on resisting me.”

 

“I’m right here, you know,” Sam growled, voice cracking as his dry throat protested his words.

 

“Michael, get him some water,” Lucifer ordered, stepping close to Sam, reaching out to caress his chest. “Made for me from the beginning of time,” he whispered, closing his eyes reverently. Sam stared ahead, determined to not give the bastard any acknowledgement. He accepted the cup of lukewarm water from the other man, Michael, without protest, drinking as best he could at the awkward angle. Precious water dribbled down his chin, and he licked desperately at the droplets, the taste of salt and sweat heavy on his tongue. Michael shook his head, muttering something that sounded like ‘humans’ and took the cup, walking back towards the dingy wall sink.

 

“Now, Sam, I know you’ve only had a few hours, but I hope you have considered my offer?” Lucifer said silkily, reaching up with frigid fingers to cup Sam’s cheek. “All the power and perfection in the world. Your brother, safe and protected through the storm as the useless dregs of humanity are hunted down and eliminated. I can even bring back your parents, if you so desire, and place under protection anyone you feel an attachment to. Just name it Sam, and it will be yours.”

 

“I don’t want anything from you,” Sam growled, twisting away from his captor’s touch. “Nothing! I will never let you get to me—never! You may as well give up now!”

 

Lucifer smiled, and gestured at Michael. “You see him?” he asked softly, smiling up at Sam. “My brother, Michael. He’s spent the past thirteen, fourteen years trapped in the pitiful boy he’s wearing now. That little boy, Adam, did not even know that my brother was trapped in him, much less have any idea how to release him. I spent nearly a year breaking him down until he was so suggestible, I only had to reach in and order him to let go for him to consent to Michael’s domination.” Lucifer twirled his fingers gently through Sam’s hair. “I can put you through the same regimen as Adam. I can break you down, make you beg me to take you, to spread through your body and control you. I can make it your only salvation, your only dream of stopping the pain.”

 

Sam snorted, his heart pounding in his chest. “No, you can’t,” he spat, glaring at Lucifer. “You underestimate me, Satan. I’ve been in this game a while; I can hold my own against whatever you throw at me.”

 

Lucifer bared his teeth in a toothy grin. “You’ve got guts,” he murmured, trailing his fingers across Sam’s collarbone. “Going up against the Devil himself in a contest of endurance. Still, you’ve been in the game, as you call it, for a mere fraction of the eternity I have. I am not underestimating you; you are overestimating yourself.”

 

Enraged, Sam snarled. “You won’t get to me!” he cried balling his chained fists in rage.

 

“Not right away, no.” Lucifer pressed icy lips to Sam’s collarbone, sending a shiver through the man’s lanky, muscular frame. “But as the days pass in agony, you will start to wonder if resistance is worth it. You will give me pieces of yourself; acquiesce to small demands, work for me out in the greater world. Finally, you will realize that I only offer you everything you ever dreamed of, and you will submit to me wholly.” He pressed a finger gently to Sam’s lips as he opened his mouth to protest. “I tell you this freely, Sam, because it will happen whether you think it so or not. My father created his favorites to be weak in body, mind, and spirit, because he enjoys nurturing and exerting power. You were made to crumble and cower before all others, so that he could have the pleasure of being your only shining light. Strange, how easily that turns against you.”

 

“You don’t know humans very well,” Sam spat furiously.

 

“Don’t I?” Lucifer’s eyes glinted with cold amusement. “How many times have you mocked the pathetic weakness of your fellow man, Sam? You scorn humanity just as I do. It’s only your contrary nature that keeps you from admitting it now.” Tenderly, Lucifer scraped his nails across Sam’s jaw. “Keep that contrary nature, Sam. Just not around me, all right?”

 

Sam glowered at the man, who patted his cheek mockingly. “You have until I return to accept without consequences. After that—well, I am the Devil after all.” His angelic smile did not match his words—an innocent face to front dark intentions. “When I return, if you do not accept me of your own free will, I will be forced to resort to more drastic measures.”

 

“Go to hell,” Sam spat as the man turned away.

 

“In time, my Sam. In time.”

 

Sam hissed, squinting his eyes shut in rage. Michael approached him with another glass of water, which he drank reluctantly—accepting hospitality from his captors rankled. When Michael followed Lucifer out, allowing the thick steel door to close ominously, Sam sank back into his head, pondering his situation, struggling and squirming to find a way out.

 

0o0o0o0o0

 

Even bruised and bloody and hanging from chains, Castiel was a sight to behold, Dean mused, ignoring the guilt that twinged in his belly as he admired the man strung up before him. Castiel’s dark hair, disheveled and soaked in sweat, reflected the basement’s minimal light with an elegant sheen, contrasting beautifully with his sun-deprived skin and pain-filled ice blue eyes, blood-swollen lips chapped from the gag Dean had kept in place as he beat him. Angelic and beautiful in his agony, the sight was enough to make even the most hardened criminal feel for the man, and Dean was very much a hardened criminal. Still, the situation could not be helped. Retrieving Sam was of infinitely greater importance than ensuring Castiel’s wellbeing, and if Dean had learned anything from the time Sam had taken hostage a school, it was that the general population of citizens and police became malleable and open to negotiation when the life of an innocent was at stake.

 

Dean was under no illusions that this one video would force the state to release his brother. Sam Winchester was a wanted criminal, a killer who had earned a place on the FBI’s most wanted list. Still, this video would set the ball rolling, would plant the idea in the minds of the public that maybe, just maybe, it would be best to release Sam and spare the lives that Dean Winchester would readily ruin in his quest to retrieve his brother.

 

Castiel moaned, twitching feebly in his chains, sweat and drool dripping from his chin. It should have been repulsive, a vile reminder of pathetic human frailty. It was not right, that the noise coming from that sinfully delicious mouth should tighten Dean’s pants and send shivers of lust through his body. Dean brushed his hand across his crotch, and his cock twitched in approval as he stared at the desolate, broken man before him. Shaking himself—now was not the time for pleasure—Dean busied himself with setting up the camera and tripod, checking the angles and lighting to ensure that the video would have the maximum possible effect.

 

Satisfied, Dean pulled a coil of chain from one of the cabinets behind him and turned the camera on. He allowed the video to run for a few seconds, recording only Castiel, bruised and twitching, before he stepped in front of the camera, crouching so that he could put his face up close to the lens as he offered his best shit-eating grin. “Hi,” he said, smirking toothily at the camera. “Dean Winchester here. Oh, I guess you knew that—I’ve probably killed someone you know. If I haven’t, I’m going to, unless you half-brained idiots give me back my brother.” He dropped his smile and stepped back from the camera, remaining in view while giving a clear shot of Castiel.

 

“This is my little friend, Cas,” Dean said, flexing the coil of chain. “Smile for the camera, Cas,” he ordered, whipping him in the stomach with hard metal links. Castiel yelped, twisting away from the offending object. “He’s shy,” Dean snickered, flicking his eyes towards his beautiful, agonized prisoner. “Look at this man. Would you believe that before he became my little bitch-boy, he was FBI? I know, look at how quickly and easily I can take a federal agent and destroy him. Imagine what I could do to you, to your friends, to your family.” Dean bared his teeth in a menacing grin. “Oh, the things I could do to any one of you.

 

“I’m going to make this clear.” Dean fixed a hard gaze directly at the camera lens. “I want my brother back. I don’t get him back, poor little Cas here gets to take everything I decide to throw at him. I might even kill him; who knows? Holding back is ever so difficult with a person as delectable as Cas. But no worries; any one of you will suffice for his replacement if he dies. That’s what all of you are; you’re replaceable, weak little creatures, and I will rip my way through as many of you as it takes for me to get my brother back.” Dean spread his arms wide, shrugging his shoulders. “What can I say? Sammy’s irreplaceable. The rest of you are not.

 

“I want Samuel Winchester released from prison. I want him set free, with the promise that you will not pursue him. Only when he is released, has returned to me, and we have both confirmed that we aren’t being watched or followed, am I going to let pretty-boy here go. If he dies, I’ll get another one, and the cycle will continue. I know you’re big on bargaining, so you’ll have to take my word for it that when I get Sammy back, we’ll quit killing and leave the country.” That was a lie, but Dean could only hope that the authorities would at least ostensibly go for it. “So, what do you say, hm? Save a life and let Sam go, or leave little Cas here to a short life of misery before I get tired of him and pick one of you to replace him? I’ll be waiting for my brother.” Dean grinned again, and turned off the camera.

 

“You did good, Cas,” Dean murmured as soon as the camera was off, stalking forward to examine his prisoner. “Aw, don’t worry, I won’t really kill you! Just yank a few teeth, dig up a body, dismember and burn it and let them identify you from the dental records. I might kill the other people I take, but you,” he said, caressing Castiel’s bruised cheek, “are special.”

 

Cas shifted in his chains, squeezing his eyes shut. Dean laughed at the pained expression on the man’s face; he had to laugh, or else he might feel guilty, and that would never do. “Come here, you,” he crooned, pulling a key from his pocket and releasing the man from his shackles, catching him before he could hit the filthy ground. “Going to take you upstairs and take care of you,” he whispered, cradling his captive’s limp body tight to his chest. “Gonna make you feel so good, Cas. So good, you’ll think you’re dreaming. So good, you wouldn’t leave me even if I let you, that’s how nice I’m going to be to you.”

 

Castiel snorted, a noise of defiance that Dean decided he would let slide for the time being. “Easy now,” he murmured, carrying Castiel up to the second floor and dumping him unceremoniously in the guest shower. “C’mon Cas, let’s get you cleaned up.” He turned the water to lukewarm, and without waiting for it to come to full temperature, turned the spray on the other man, washing sweat and tears from his body.

 

Cas cried out weakly when Dean pressed a bar of soap against his battered skin, shaking his head and muttering in a strange, guttural language. “Shit, man, cuss me out in English if you have to do it at all,” Dean muttered, scrubbing the man efficiently and turning off the spray. He manhandled Castiel out of the shower and roughed him down with a ragged old towel, unceremoniously kept in a heap by the sink. He lifted Castiel in his arms, bridal style, and carried the man into the guest room, laying him down in a heap on the bed.

 

Castiel’s arm shot out and weakly latched onto his wrist as Dean began to remove his shirt. “Don’t,” the man whispered, breath coming in short, desperate pants. “I can’t take it, not now. Not after—” his arm fell limply to the bed as Dean pulled away and resumed stripping.

 

“I told you I’d make you feel good, Cas,” Dean breathed, his cock swelling at the sight of the disheveled, broken man before him. “Don’t make me a liar. You’re gonna love it, Cas,” he groaned, crawling onto the bed and positioning himself over the man. “Gonna make you forget I ever beat you,” he whispered, leaning down and peppering the man’s clean, soap-scented neck with feather light kisses.

 

Castiel moaned, a noise halfway between a cry of pleasure and a sob of pain. Dean nipped lightly at Castiel’s neck, gently avoiding the bruised patches of skin, creating new marks to swell and blemish the man’s pale, perfect flesh. He slowly descended down the man’s chest and stomach, sucking lightly at every clear patch he could find, grinning to himself as Castiel’s body reacted to the stimulus. Dean buried his nose in the patch of hair directly above Castiel’s half-hard penis, nuzzling the skin, before descending down and licking the man, teasing him until he responded, his cock swelling, fully erect beneath Dean’s tongue. Castiel wriggled, too weak to escape Dean’s ministrations—and by the end, Dean was determined, the man would not want to leave the bed.

 

Castiel gasped, crying out weakly, the delightfully sinful noise sending shivers down Dean’s spine, as he gently took the head of the man’s cock between his lips. Encouraged, Dean teased the man’s slit with his tongue, lapping up beads of precum and swirling them around the sides of Castiel’s shaft. He reached between his own legs with one hand, idly, stroking his erection, as Castiel’s hips bucked of their own accord, struggling and writhing beneath him. Dean shushed him, gently trailing his tongue away from Castiel’s cock, lipping and biting lightly at his hips. Castiel squirmed, and Dean raised a gentle hand, pressing down on the man’s stomach, holding him in place as he worshipped that smooth, sweet skin.

 

Dean sat back on his heels, taking a minute to drink in the sight before him. Cas lay sprawled on the bed, face flushed, eyes squeezed shut with pain, the perfect balance between debauched whore and tormented angel. Dean was sure that if he did not take the man, take him hard and fast and immediately, he was going to explode—but he was also determined to tear the man apart with pleasure, and after the beating he had given him, Dean doubted that Castiel could even remain conscious through a rough fucking.

 

His throbbing erection twitched, and Dean shuddered, scrabbling for the lube he kept in his bedside drawer. “C’mon, Cas,” he muttered, drenching his hand and sliding a finger into his prisoner. Castiel groaned, shifting uncomfortably, and Dean leaned forward to kiss the smaller man, swallowing his pained noises as he worked a second finger past the tight, slick ring of muscle. “So good for me, Cas,” he groaned, catching the man’s earlobe in his teeth as Castiel turned his head away. “So tight, so perfect. Gonna make you scream, Cas, scream and beg for me.”

 

Castiel’s only response came in the form of shallow, breathy pants, which Dean took as encouragement to work a third finger into the man. Castiel cried out weakly, trying to wiggle away, his head colliding with the headboard only an inch from his skull. Dean pressed upwards, sliding his fingers rhythmically in and out of the other man, twisting his hand slightly as he forced a fourth finger in. A tear slid down Castiel’s face, and Dean shushed him, murmuring soothingly as he leaned forward to place a kiss on those red, swollen lips. His cock ached with desire as Castiel arched under him, baring his vulnerable, elegant neck, offering up a smooth expanse of skin for Dean’s lips and teeth. “God, you’re beautiful,” Dean whispered, sliding his hand beneath Castiel’s hips and pulling his fingers away, propping the man’s legs up as he positioned himself, kneeling, at Castiel’s entrance. He tightened his grip and pulled the man forward as he pushed in, sliding into Castiel’s slick, warm body.

 

Castiel released an astoundingly ethereal cry, and Dean nearly lost it in that moment, his senses warped and consumed by Castiel’s voice, Castiel’s scent, Castiel’s beautiful, tortured body and tight, almost crushing heat. With a wanton moan, Dean pressed forward, angling for Castiel’s prostate, and the man’s pained scream was laced with pleasure as his softening cock hardened again, pressed flat against his stomach. Dean leaned forward to grind his belly against the man’s erection, forcing himself to rock gently in and out of Cas, hitting his prostate with every long, powerful stroke, eliciting moans and cries of arousal from the man beneath him.

 

Castiel’s hands, ordinarily either tied or fisted tightly in the sheets when Dean fucked him, rose hesitantly. He seized Dean’s shoulders with a desperate grip, with strength that Dean had thought he had wrung from his prisoner in the day’s beating. Dean steadily increased his pace, groaning in pleasure as Castiel’s hands clenched around his shoulders, the pain gradually leaving his voice, replaced with breathy moans and cries of ecstasy.

 

It was all too much. Dean came with a cry, shuddering as his orgasm pumped into the quaking man beneath him. He slumped, collapsing onto Castiel, who gasped, shuddering, his own unattended cock twitching desperately.

 

Dean was exhausted, but he had made a promise, and damned if he did not keep his promises, even to a prisoner. He groaned, pulling out of Cas, a stream of lube and semen leaking out in his wake, and positioned his head between the man’s thighs, lying flat on the bed as he licked and nibbled and sucked Castiel’s red, swollen erection, languidly drawing up a hand to cup the man’s balls. Castiel whined, and damn if that was not the most strangely erotic sound Dean had ever heard. He swirled his tongue around the swollen head of Castiel’s cock, pulling the man’s erection deep into his mouth. Castiel gasped, twitching; he came with a scream, filling Dean’s mouth with inhumanly sweet liquid, slumping back, exhausted, onto the bed.

 

His mouth still full of Castiel’s come, Dean crawled forward and kissed the man, gently dripping his own release into his open, gasping mouth. To Dean’s delighted surprise, Castiel swallowed it without question, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, glowing blue against his discolored flesh. With a sigh, Dean relaxed, holding the man in what he refused to admit could be construed as cuddling. Somewhere in his mind, the disturbing idea that he had not held anyone like this after sex since he and Sam were awkward teenagers niggled at his thoughts; he shoved the thought aside and buried his face in Castiel’s sweet-smelling, damp hair.

 

Dean lay there for a while, arms wrapped around a limp, boneless Castiel. Finally, when the feeling had returned to his legs, he rose, smoothing the hair out of Castiel’s face—not tenderly, he thought to himself, he simply wished to have his captive exposed before him—and made his way over to the small radio by the window, flicking the radio on, allowing Led Zepplin to permeate the room at a moderate volume. With a contented sigh, he made his way back to the bed, sitting beside Castiel, running possessive fingers through his half-asleep prisoner’s hair.

 

Dean was nearly asleep when the music cut off, an announcer’s voice crackling through the air. “We interrupt this broadcast to inform listeners of a nationwide manhunt. Samuel Winchester, aged 23, has escaped from a high security prison located near Marion, Illinois. Listeners are to be advised to be on the lookout for a white male in his early twenties, standing approximately six feet four inches…”

 

Dean sat up abruptly, his whole body tingling in delight. “He’s out!” Dean shouted with a whoop, leaping out of bed, practically spinning in happiness. “Hah! Just when those bastards thought they had him, he’s fucking out!” He pumped a fist in the air in happiness and grabbed his cell phone, scanning for missed calls or texts. There was nothing, but Dean was not surprised; Sam would have to get somewhere safe and inconspicuous before he could call Dean for help. “Might not have to send that video in after all,” he crowed, struggling his way into a pair of pants so that he could run downstairs and tell Rufus the good news.

 

“Dean.” Castiel had struggled into a halfway sitting position, his face pale and gaunt, all traces of exhaustion or pleasure wiped from his expression. “This might not be a reason to celebrate.”

 

“Aw, don’t worry, I won’t let Sam work you over too badly when we get him,” Dean replied, patting his prisoner mockingly on the head.

 

“That’s not what I mean,” Castiel replied, looking down at his hands. “Marion is one of the most secure prisons in the United States—it's guarded essentially to perfection. Sam would have needed a lot of help to escape, and even then the chances would be slim. There’s the possibility that he did not escape at all.”

 

“What, is the public manhunt supposed to be some sort of trap to lure me out?” Dean snorted, rolling his eyes. “In case you hadn’t realized this, Cas, the feds have paid a lot more attention to Sam than to me in this whole screwy mess. Now that they’ve got Sam, I doubt they’re even thinking to look for me.”

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Castiel said quietly, his eyes fixed on the soiled, dark blue sheets. “I do not believe Sam could have broken out of that prison.” He looked up at Dean, his ice blue eyes dull and resigned. “I believe that if Sam is missing from prison, it is because Lucifer found a way to take him.”

 

Dean shook his head, tossing Cas a warning look. “Not possible for some two-bit little wannabe terrorist to get into a max security prison, much less get out with one of the FBI’s most wanted,” he scoffed, shaking his head. “Sam’s smart and capable. He got out on his own. You’ll see. We’ll hear from him within a few days.”

 

“I hope so,” said Cas, and Dean was surprised to realize that he thought the man meant it. “Still, it is better to be prepared for the worst. What will you do if Lucifer does have him?”

 

The grin faded from Dean’s face as he pondered the meaning of Castiel’s words. “Whatever it takes to get him back,” he answered finally, turning on his heel and walking out of the room, allowing the door to slam shut behind him, locking away Castiel and his uncomfortably realistic logic.

 

Chapter Text

“I’m disappointed in you, Sam,” Lucifer said menacingly, prowling in small, tight circles around the Saint Andrew’s cross. “Far from surprised, but still, disappointed. I had hoped you would be smart enough to accept me. The idea of causing you pain brings me no joy, you know.”

 

“Fuck you,” Sam spat, glaring at his captor from behind his long, greasy brown hair. He jerked his raw, chained wrists, the futile effort sending pain racing down his limbs.

 

“That’s no way to talk to your leader,” Lucifer responded, slapping Sam hard on the thigh. Sam hardly flinched; he could endure twenty times that pain without a problem. “Still, I guess there’s nothing for it. If you won’t accept me on your own, I will have to break you down and try again later.” The man sighed, shaking his head. “It’s a pity, but you’re just too stubborn, aren’t you?”

 

Sam growled, but Lucifer was already moving away, pulling open cabinets and examining their contents. He pulled out a small, collapsible metal table, setting the pitted and worn surface up next to Sam, and, humming to himself, began pulling out an array of materials. Sam swallowed hard as the table filled up with tongs and knives, needles and jars of mysterious liquids, vials of powder and an array of clamps and scissors. “The safe word is ‘yes,’” Lucifer said mockingly, glancing up at Sam with the barest ghost of a smile. “Yes, Lucifer, I accept my role and will submit to you in any way you need. Think you can remember that?”

 

Sam snarled, jerking his body the scant half-inch that the restraints allowed. Lucifer shook his head, and strapped Sam’s skull to the cross, forcing him to face forward, entirely immobilized. Lucifer turned to the table, clicking his tongue as he examined the contents, thoroughly inspecting each implement. A cold sweat broke out, unbidden, on Sam’s forehead; the pain he could handle, but the suspense was nearly unbearable.

 

Lucifer selected a pair of tongs and a small, sharp paring knife, turning to face Sam, an appropriately demonic gleam lighting his eyes. Wordlessly, he dug his fingers into Sam’s jaw, forcing his mouth open, and clamped down on his tongue with the tongs. Sam jerked his tongue as sharp iron bit into his flesh, Lucifer holding the slippery muscle steady as he ran the blade lightly over Sam’s tongue. “Now, this is a prime piece of flesh,” he murmured, gently dragging the blade so that it cut just a little bit, blood swelling to the surface in its wake, strong and coppery to the taste. “I do hope I don’t ruin it. Not that I can’t heal it up, but there is a certain artistry in causing pain without permanent damage, isn’t there, Sam?”

 

Sam struggled to hold back a whimper of pain as Lucifer’s hand clenched unforgivingly around the tongs. Lucifer took his time, peppering Sam’s tongue with miniscule cuts, each nick of the knife drawing blood, which dripped down Sam’s chin in warm, wet rivulets. More pressing than the wounds themselves was the ache in Sam’s jaw—despite the steady tongs, his tongue jerked too much for him to safely close his mouth, forcing him to hold it slightly open. He attempted to rest, closing his mouth slightly, only to bite down hard on his tongue as Lucifer delivered a particularly punishing cut. Sam inhaled sharply, reminding himself to breathe as strain and tension slowly, surely, pushed him towards the edge. Any second now, he was going to lose control of his mouth and bite down hard on his tongue, most likely injuring it further. It was unlikely that he would bite it off, he knew, but the idea was still terrifyingly present, and images of his tongue flopping on the floor—he knew from experience what that looked like, and it was revolting—swirled through his mind,

 

He was in agony by the time Lucifer released the tongs. Sam practically inhaled his bloody, shredded tongue back into his mouth, blood trickling down the back of his dry throat. He glared, unable to speak, but Lucifer paid him no heed, filling a needle with some strange, foreign liquid and squirting out the air, tapping the glass to ensure that no stray bubbles remained. “I have to hand it to you, Sammy,” he said, turning back to the bound man, “you suffer in silence quite well. I’m not the type to take pleasure in screams, not really. They’re quite distracting.” The needle slid easily under Sam’s skin, his veins helplessly exposed in his vulnerable position. Whatever Lucifer had injected him with took effect nearly instantly. Sam felt a peculiar sensation flooding through his body; his limbs, already held fast, stilled, heavy and immobilized. The barest touch of Lucifer’s fingertips across his arm raised goose-bumps across his tanned, smooth skin, and he struggled to jerk away. Whatever his tormentor had injected him with worked, he’d give him that.

 

Humming to himself, Lucifer replaced the syringe and selected a long, sharp stiletto knife. He knelt and unfastened one of Sam’s feet, bracing it on his lap, running a sharp nail across Sam’s heel. Sam tried to jerk away from the hair raising sensation, but his limbs refused to respond. Helplessly, Sam watched as Lucifer gently pressed the knife to the bottom of his foot. “This stops when you say yes to me,” the man said, slicing across Sam’s sole. Sam groaned, unable to control his lungs as he exhaled into the pain. Lucifer’s mouth twitched in a smile, and he dragged the knife up, slicing through the arch and the ball of Sam’s foot, blood trickling down into his lap. With clinical precision, Lucifer cut each of Sam’s toes down to the bone, digging each nail out at the root with the pointed knife. Sam could not stop the guttural cries that tore from his throat, struggling to kick, to pull away, even to twitch, to no avail. With a quirk of his mouth, Lucifer dragged the knife across to Sam’s ankle and sliced vertically through his Achilles’ tendon, and drew the knife back to stab it fully through.

 

“Ngah,” Sam gasped, struggling to control his throat, his lips, to beg the man to stop. No, no, what good am I to you ruined? he wanted to scream, terrified that he would never walk again. Lucifer ignored him, strapping his foot back against the cross, shuffling over to Sam’s other side. Agony crashed over Sam as Lucifer unstrapped his foot and carved identical wounds into Sam’s other foot, blood cascading over flesh and clothing, falling to the floor in a sick drip.

 

Sam was dimly aware that tears of frustration and rage were streaming down his face as Lucifer stood, wiping his bloody hands across Sam’s chest. “You know, between you and me, this is not how I hoped our first encounter would go,” Lucifer said conversationally. “I was thinking more candles and roses and us sharing the same body, but this isn’t all bad.” He replaced the knife with a scalpel and seized Sam’s jar in an iron grip. “You don’t get faces that are both strong and beautiful very often,” Lucifer said conversationally, and the compliment felt more like a mockery. “Since you’re so determined to be pitiful and weak like ordinary humanity, you can’t stand out.” Methodically, Lucifer placed the scalpel beneath Sam’s lip and dragged. Sam whined, held fast in Lucifer’s grip as the man carefully peeled, stripping the uppermost layers of skin from Sam’s lower lip. Warm blood flowed down Sam’s chin, coating Lucifer’s hand and sticking to his chest as the man drew away. “My battered boy,” Lucifer crooned, swiping a finger over the space where Sam’s lip had been. Sam’s skin burned and twinged, and the bleeding stopped; experimentally, he ran his tongue over the wound, only to discover that the skin had grown back, soft and healthy as though the injury had never been there.

 

“Do you see now, Sam?” Lucifer asked, his touch deceptively gentle as he brushed Sam’s hair back with a soft, careful hand. “You’re fighting an angel—you, a simple human, think you have the brass to stand up against a force of heaven and win. But I can break you to pieces, destroy you completely, bring you to the edge of death, and then make you whole so I can do it again. Why not just spare yourself the pain and say yes to my offer?”

 

Sam spat defiantly, even as his limbs trembled with exhausted strain. “If you’re so powerful, why are you even bothering to ask my permission?” he growled, twisting weakly in his bonds. His tongue protested as the hair-thin cuts pulled with the motions.

 

“You see, Sam, that’s the difference between my kind and yours,” Lucifer replied, dragging the scalpel across Sam’s freshly healed lip. “We have certain rules and restrictions that prevent us from just taking what we want without permission. You humans can just bend others to your will and take without permission. If we want to actually have you fully, you need to submit.”

 

Sam shuddered as his skin split, sharp metal cool and searing against his flesh. “So taking what you want’s out of the question, but torture’s not?” he demanded, blood coating his tongue as he tried to lick his wound clean.

 

“Surely my favorite pre-law student is familiar with the idea of a technicality,” Lucifer replied cheerfully, carefully working the scalpel through Sam’s flesh. Sam groaned, struggling and failing to hold back a scream as Lucifer dug his lip out, leaving his teeth bloody and exposed to the air. His flesh burned as Lucifer blew across it, his icy breath dancing over Sam’s skin, tormenting nerves that were never meant to be exposed to outside elements.

 

Speaking would hurt too much. Sam allowed his body to slacken as he moaned his agony, abused body screaming for relief that he knew was not coming—not really. Even as Lucifer healed him, as skin grew back and sealed over the wound without so much as a hint of scar tissue, Sam’s mind danced with terrifying images of torture and mutilation repeated on end until he finally cracked.

 

He would have to escape before that happened. Damnit, he was a Winchester—he tortured and mutilated and broke people, not the other way around! Hardening his resolve, Sam glared up at Lucifer with icy, determined eyes. “Bring it on, Satan,” he snarled, swallowing back blood. “No matter what you do, you’ll never get to me.”

 

“Oh, Sammy,” Lucifer said, shaking his head, wry grin plastered across his face. “How I look forward to proving you wrong.”

 

0o0o0o0o0

 

Three days since Sam’s escape from prison had been announced, and Dean had not heard a peep from his brother. The uncomfortable feeling that just maybe Castiel had been right about Sam’s fate gnawed at him with every hour that his brother did not call. “Damnit, Sam,” Dean whispered, glaring into his beer, “if you let that psychopath take you, I swear I’ll kick your ass.” There was no force behind his words—not really. At this point, Dean wanted nothing more than to bundle his brother up in his arms and hold him like a child, soothing him and caring for him as he had not done since Sam was ten years old. Sam’s arrest was the product of carelessness on both of their parts; in prison and vulnerable, it was all too easy to imagine some psychopathic terrorist swooping in and dragging his weakened, weaponless brother away.

 

Images of Sam, starved and beaten and chained up like a dog flittered through Dean’s head, and no amount of alcohol could shut them out. Dean glared hard at his phone, willing it to ring, for Sam’s laughing, triumphant voice to blast through the speaker, crowing in exultation at his escape. The silence was louder than his brother had ever been, pounding in Dean’s ears, images of a tormented, captive brother crowding his mind in a disgusting parade.

 

Furiously, Dean leapt to his feet, stomping upstairs to his room and nearly wrenching the door off its hinges. “Get up,” he ordered Castiel, crouched naked in the far corner, the ring on his back glistening with blood from Dean’s last rage. “We’re going out. You’re taking Sam’s place in this one.”

 

Defiantly, Castiel shook his head, lips pressed together in clear disapproval. “Have you forgotten that I own you?” Dean raged, stomping across the room and seizing his captive’s throat in an iron grip, wrenching the man to his feet. “I say we’re going out, you put some fucking clothes on to go out! I say you kill, you ask me which weapon! Don’t make me make you rip their throats out with your teeth!”

 

Castiel stared up at him, expressionless. Dean slammed the man’s head back into the wall, sick satisfaction twisting through his gut as Castiel’s eyes watered upon impact, though still his prisoner did not make a sound. Once, Dean had fretted over Castiel’s similarity to Sam—a younger brother was a younger brother. Now, though, Sam was gone and Castiel was not, and Dean had no way of knowing if his brother was alive, while Castiel was real and bleeding and breathing in his grip.

 

Disgusted, Dean dragged Castiel to the bed, forcing him to bend over long enough for Dean to wrestle him into a pair of jeans. He manhandled the prisoner around, forcing him into a low-backed tank top and winding a thick leather belt through the cold copper ring pulling at the man’s flesh. Wordlessly, Dean jerked the belt, forcing Castiel to stumble along after him, growling with savage satisfaction as his prisoner tripped over his own feet to keep up.

 

Restaurant, diner, gas station, or grocery store—they were all the same, as far as Dean was concerned. Anywhere where there were guaranteed victims would satisfy Dean right now. He knew there was a Biggerson’s only a few miles from Rufus’s safe house, and he drove maniacally, blowing through stop lights and nearly mowing down a mother and her infant at a crosswalk. Who failed Sam? You failed Sam! Who failed Sam? You failed Sam! Who failed Sam? Dean snarled, skidding into the parking lot and dragging Cas out of the car over the seats. He jammed a knife into the man’s limp grip and seized a couple of semi-automatics and an automatic from the back of the Impala, slamming the trunk shut with more vigor than was strictly necessary. He jerked the belt, pulling his reluctant captive into the restaurant after him.

 

No mercy—that was Dean’s mantra for the day. No sever, no patron, not even a child would leave the building alive. He opened fire without preamble as soon as he opened the door, shouting his satisfaction as customers and wait staff dropped, victim to his beloved automatic. Behind him, Castiel cringed and covered his ears, but Castiel’s discomfort be damned, this was not about coddling his slave. Grinning from ear to ear, Dean moved methodically through the restaurant, gleefully mowing down panicked bodies as they fled, making for the emergency fire exit. Blood pooled about Dean’s boots as he held the trigger, round after round flying, riddling holes in walls and tables and people. Only when the last victim had fallen did Dean lower his gun, smiling in satisfaction at the carnage. “Cas, go check for survivors. Kill anyone who’s alive,” he ordered, turning to grin at his frozen captive. His eyes hardened as Castiel made no attempt to move. “What do I have to do to get you to obey me?” he hissed, stalking forward and seizing the man by the collar.

 

“A lot more than that, I’m afraid.”

 

Dean jumped, startled, at the distinctly female voice behind him. He turned, coming face to face with a pretty, petite brunette, seemingly unperturbed by the three bullet holes in her stomach, blood soaking through her bright white tank top. “Lady, you should have stayed down,” he growled, palming one of his semi-automatics. “Could have been your lucky day.” The woman made no move to defend herself as Dean pressed the gun to her forehead, shooting her point blank.

 

“Is this the part where I fall to the ground and pretend to be dead?” the woman asked, amused. Dean gaped at the impossibly alive figure, flesh beginning to come together over the hole in her head. “Let me guess. Dean Winchester, off on a murder spree to distract him from Sam’s absence?”

 

Dean snarled, stepping forward aggressively. The woman snorted, unimpressed, and snagged a French fry from the table next to her, reaching over the corpse of a large, dark haired man to dip it in ketchup. “What makes you think Sam’s missing?” Dean asked, voice low and dangerous, as the woman popped the fry into her soft, tantalizing mouth.

 

The woman rolled her eyes, not intimidated, and took another fry before looking back over at Dean. “You’re much slower than your brother, and he’s not the brightest tool in the shed either,” she said dismissively. “I know who has him. Gonna bite?”

 

Dean seized a slim, smooth shoulder, digging his nails into her creamy flesh. “You have ten seconds to start talking,” he hissed, glowering down at the tiny figure.

 

“His name is Lucifer,” she said coolly, arching an eyebrow up at Dean. “He’s my father—well, in a sense he’s my father. He created my kind.”

 

“What the hell sort of crazy juice have you been drinking?” Dean snarled, tightening his grip. Most people would have been on the ground from pain and pressure before now, but then again, this woman had just taken four bullets and was standing around eating French fries. Something was seriously wrong, and Dean swallowed hard—had they underestimated this Lucifer and his posse of psychos?

 

“No crazy juice, just things you humans have decided to ignore and cast away,” the woman replied, shrugging. Dean stared in shock as her shoulders moved easily, despite his crushing grip. The woman sighed, exasperated, and her eyes darkened impossibly, shiny black coating her irises and the whites of her eyes. “The name’s Ruby,” she said coldly, “and I’m a demon. Now do you want help or not?”

 

Dean blinked, staring at the impossible woman with her impossible eyes. “Hate to break it to you sister, but whatever creepy plastic surgery you’ve had, doesn’t make you a demon. Demons aren’t real.” He wished he could believe his words, but as his struggle to come up with a reasonable explanation for the woman fell flat, he was growing more and more inclined to take her seriously.

 

“Skepticism. You’re really endearing yourself to me, Dean,” Ruby said, pulling out of Dean’s grip and turning to leave.

 

“Wait!” Dean burst out, unwilling to let his first lead on Sam go. “Sorry. A demon, huh? That’s pretty hot,” he babbled, following closely behind her. Dimly, he was aware that Castiel had frozen, rigid behind him, but if following the demon meant finding Sam, he would gladly leave Castiel alone and covered in blood for the cops to pick up.

 

“That would be a lot more flattering coming from someone useful—say, your brother,” Ruby replied drily, but she turned back to face Dean again regardless. “Why don’t you and pretty boy give me a ride out somewhere safe, and I’ll tell you what I know?”

 

Dean nodded eagerly—too eagerly, had to remember to make this seem casual in case she tried to get something out of him in return for the information—no, she already knew he was desperate, he had no cards to play there. He only hoped that whatever she wanted from him was something he could feasibly give. He led her out to the car, grabbing the stunned and bloody Castiel by the shirt, and stuffed Cas in the back so that his source could ride shotgun.

 

Dean parked a ways behind Rufus’s house, taking care to conceal his car from the view of the street, and brought Ruby inside, up to his room. He took a moment to chain the hoop in Castiel’s back to the bedframe so that he could safely ignore him, and turned his attention fully back to Ruby. “Tell me where my brother is,” he demanded.

 

Ruby snorted. “I know the who, not the where,” she replied, disdainful eyes sweeping over Dean, clearly finding him wanting. “Trust me, the information I’m about to give you is a lot more useful than his location,” she added as Dean opened his mouth in outrage. “Now are you going to keep your mouth shut and listen, or am I wasting my time?

 

Dean swallowed hard and nodded at her to continue. Ruby smirked, her full lips twitching in a way that would doubtless be beguiling in any other circumstance. “Good. Now, don’t interrupt me with stupid skeptic’s interjections.

 

“Your brother is being held captive by Lucifer. Lucifer is—he’s incredible,” she said, closing her eyes and sighing. “The fallen archangel, father of demons and the one destined to incite the apocalypse and destroy humanity. Your brother has certain abilities that Lucifer needs—”

 

“He needs a vessel,” Castiel interjected. The man looked stunned as Dean whipped his head around to stare at him. “I—how did I know that? But it’s the truth, I am—”

 

“Quick on the uptake, yes,” Ruby interrupted, glaring at Castiel. Her gaze flicked back to Dean, and she continued. “Yes, Lucifer needs his true vessel, and that so happens to be your brother. Right now, I’d imagine he’s got Sam locked away somewhere safe and is breaking into his head, trying to convince Sam to accept this role. In the meantime, Sam’s got other abilities that Lucifer’s organization will make use of.”

 

“How is this helpful?” Dean demanded, only to be silenced with a scowl from Ruby.

 

“Dim-witted and impatient. You’re a real piece of work,” Ruby commented, brushing a long lock of shiny brown hair from her face. “Now shut up. Basically, your brother is being held in a very secure location, guarded by demons and renegade angels and everyone else useful that Lucifer could dig up. Even if I knew where he was, charging in and getting him out would be a suicide mission. If you want in, you’re going to need help and connections. You can consider me your first connection,” she added, flashing Dean an unashamedly fake smile. “You’re going to want to get him out before he gives in to Lucifer, because once he does, there’s no getting him back.”

 

“How do I do that if I can’t find him?” Dean pressed, fidgeting impatiently. Angels, demons, and from the sounds of it the devil himself—Dean had always considered himself agnostic, perhaps an atheist, certainly not someone who was concerned with the petty morality of religion. This was far out of his comfort zone.

 

“What part of shut up is so hard to understand?” Ruby asked, annoyed. “I’m going to give you a number. Do not call it unless you’re serious about finding your brother.” She pulled a small notebook from her pocket and scribbled something down on the page. “Get in contact with this number. You’ll speak to a man named Alastair and discuss terms for working with him. Alastair’s a demon with a lot of pull in these parts—everywhere, actually. You get on his good side, he can make any demon squeal all their information on Sam and more. Get on his bad side, and you’ll be a carpet stain. Got it?”

 

“So this Alastair can help me find Sam?” Dean demanded.

 

“It might take him a while, but you two work out a deal, and you’ll get the information and connections you need.” Ruby stood, scribbling down something else on the sheet of paper. “I can’t help you with direct demonic connections, but I can swing the small stuff. Give me a call if you need something, and I’ll see what I can do.”

 

Dean nodded, accepting the notebook from her. “Why do you want to help Sam?” he asked before he could stop himself. “Demon going against the devil and stopping the apocalypse or whatever—that’s not really normal, is it?”

 

Ruby laughed coolly. “I have my reasons for this,” she replied mysteriously, shaking her head at Dean, “but I’ll never tell you. You don’t need to know—isn’t getting your brother back enough?”

 

Dean nodded, and Ruby rose to leave. “Wait. My brother—he’s safe, at least?” Safe was not a word that Dean had ever thought he would associate with the devil, but if this Lucifer needed Sam, then maybe his brother actually was all right, and Dean needed to know.

 

Ruby continued walking even as she answered. “If by safe you mean he’s not dead, yeah,” she replied, shutting the door behind her as she disappeared.

 

Dean sank to the ground, staring at the notebook in his hands. Alastair. It was a ridiculous name, almost as ridiculous as the idea that he had just made contact with a demon and Satan had his brother. Hands shaking, Dean pulled his phone from his pocket and entered the number.

 

“Dean, wait,” Cas breathed from his position by the bed. “Don’t do this—dealing with demons doesn’t end well.”

 

“And you know that how, amnesia boy?” Dean growled, scowling at his prisoner.

 

“I just do,” Castiel pleaded, pale eyes wide and wild as he stared at his captor. “It’s common sense even if I didn’t know. You’ll be lucky to walk out alive.”

 

“Thought you were worried about Sam being stuck with this Lucifer character, now you don’t want me to get him back?” Dean barked, glowering at the pale, desperate man. “You’re forgetting your place, Cas. Don’t fucking question me, or I’ll do to you what I did to your brother.”

 

“I—”

 

Dean reached out and cuffed Castiel in the jaw. “Shut the fuck up if you know what’s good for you,” he ordered, turning back to his phone. His heart hammered in his chest—but this was about Sam, and he would do anything for his baby brother. He gritted his teeth as he dialed the number and hit call, pressing the phone tightly to his ear.

 

 

Chapter Text

Alastair turned out to be an unimpressive looking man with a scraggly beard and a grating, nasal voice. “It’s nice to meet you, Dean Winchester,” he oozed, smiling cruelly as Dean exited the Impala, their conversation on the phone echoing in his ears.

 

“Who is this?” the nasal voice on the other end demanded, his tone as light and curious as it was irksome. Dean gripped the phone tightly, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

 

“My name is Dean Winchester,” he answered, still uncertain about his decision to give his real name. “I got this number from a friend of yours, Ruby. She said you could be of some help to me.”

           

“Ruby, hm?” the man whined, loud in Dean’s ear. “Very interesting. Ruby hasn’t sent me anyone in a while. What can I do for you, hm?”

 

“I need help finding my brother,” Dean replied, “Sam Winchester. He’s been kidnapped by a guy named Lucifer. Ruby said you could help me get to him.”

 

“Ruby wants to help you get someone back from Lucifer?” Alastair sounded amused. “Now that’s an interesting situation. Tell you what, Deano—meet me at the old Chrysler factory at the edge of town in Omaha, and we’ll talk business. You’re going to want to get yourself a room, hm, maybe something more private than a room, in the city. Give me a call when you get to Omaha and we’ll work out terms.”

 

“Got it,” Dean replied tersely, terminating the call.

 

This was a bad idea, and Dean knew it. He was glad that he had left Castiel, his feet fettered, in the house, locked away in the living room while the bodies of the owners rotted in their own blood in the kitchen. It was an isolated little farmhouse, and Dean highly doubted that any neighbors would come to call while he was out, but he had changed the locks just to be certain, and had run an electrical wire through the inside doorknob to keep Castiel from getting out unassisted. Content that he would be safe enough, he was prepared to take however long Alastair needed in negotiations.

 

“You’re Alastair?” Dean asked for confirmation, eyeing the man before him. “I don’t deal with lackeys. You’d better be the guy I’m looking for.”

 

“Here in the flesh,” Alastair confirmed, raising his eyebrows. “Hmmmm, now, you’re here to get little Sam Winchester back from Lucifer. That’s a pretty risky deal you’re asking me to enter, Deano.”

 

“How so?” Dean asked casually, hooking his thumbs through the belt loops of his jeans.

 

“Mm, technically, I work for Lucifer,” Alastair answered with a shrug of his thin shoulders. “Contract my services out to him—well, it’s not like I’ve got a choice.” Alastair smiled, eyes wandering across Dean’s body. “I’m afraid I can’t ever tell you for sure where Lucifer is; that would be a breach of my contract. However, I can, say, keep you pointed in the right direction.”

 

It was more than Dean had to go on at the moment. Dean nodded; he understood the dynamics of contract criminals, and knew that this was the best deal he could hope for. “I’ll accept that,” Dean replied, leaning his hip up against the sun-warmed side of the Impala. “What are you asking in return?”

 

Alastair bared his teeth at Dean. “I’ve got some certain things I like, Deano,” he replied with a chuckle. “Things I think you’d be pretty well suited for. So here are my terms.” He picked absently at a nail and stared, surprisingly forcefully, into Dean’s eyes.

 

“I’ll pass on tips to you in person. For every tip I give you, you spend a night with me. You give me complete access to your body, to do anything I please. No withdrawal of consent, no safe words, no pressing charges—not that someone like you could go to the cops, especially over someone like me.” Alastair’s eyes sparkled dangerously, and Dean swallowed hard. “Because I want to keep you around a while, I can assure you that I will neither kill you nor permanently damage you in my little games. Everything else is on the table. Of course, I get tonight up front.” Alastair’s eyes crinkled with delight at the uneasy look on Dean’s face; he took a step forward, and Dean wished he had not already pushed himself against the car. “Have we got a deal, Deano? Is getting your brother back worth the price of pain for my tips?”

 

“Yes.” There was no hesitation, no question about it—if this man could help him get Sam back, Dean could take everything the bastard threw at him. “You give me tips, I give you sex. I can do that.”

 

“Hmmm, not just sex, Dean,” Alastair replied, stalking forward with the stealthy grace of a predator. “Maybe not even sex at all, though that’s certainly an option. I’ll be treating you to the most intense pain you’ve ever felt. And trust me—I am very, very imaginative.” The man halted scant inches from Dean, and Dean was startled to realize that his heart was pounding, signaling discomfort and fear and the warning to get away, to fun far from this intimidating, sadistic man.

 

He couldn’t run, though. Sammy was counting on him. “I accept,” he breathed, heart pounding in his chest as he glared up at the man.

 

Alastair smiled darkly. “I was hoping you’d say that,” he whined, running a sharp nail across Dean’s cheek. “Oh, aren’t we going to have fun,” he crooned, and Dean felt his stomach sink. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe, miserably leaning into the pain.

 

0o0o0o0o0

 

“I’ve got him, sir.” The brunette demon smiled up at Lucifer, barely holding back her dark glee. “I’ve got Dean Winchester off chasing rumors and lies. He’s going to Alastair for all his information—he won’t be able to get close to Sam.”

 

“You have done well, Ruby,” Lucifer replied, gracing his pawn with a smile. She basked in his approval like the tool she was, never thinking that he might see her kind as expendable tools, the first to go once he had eradicated humanity. “Make sure Alastair keeps it believable. We don’t want this human getting the idea that we’re stalling him.”

 

Ruby sputtered words of understanding, but Lucifer’s attention was already gone, drawn to the papers of notes his lieutenants had deposited on his desk. Sam Winchester, while an important part of his plans, was only a single facet in the gem of his operation. In only twenty minutes, Dick Roman would be coming to call, to meet with Lucifer’s best negotiator, Crowley; they needed Roman, and Lucifer had no intention of letting his smarmy businessman working in clauses that would not benefit the organization, as he had been known to do. Demons always needed a firm hand. Then there were negotiations to make with his fellow angels, calls and bribes to pass on to Washington—Lucifer looked forward to this time next year, when he could finally cement his plans and this headache would be behind him.

 

0o0o0o0o0

 

Dean forced himself to hang, naked and limp and pliable before Alastair, his hands bound behind his back and his feet cuffed together, toes barely grazing the ground. His neck strained, bound in a loose shock collar that dug into his jaw, suspended from a pair of hooks in the ceiling. He forced himself to breathe, no small task, considering that his entire body weight was supported by his chin and jaw. This was for Sam, he reminded himself. It was completely worth it if Alastair could pass on any information that might lead him to his brother.

 

“Hm, you’re well suited to this position,” Alastair determined, nasal voice irritating and whiney in Dean’s ears. “Open your mouth, Deano. Can you still talk?” he asked, clinically examining Dean’s torso.

 

The punishing shock collar dug into Dean’s jaw as he opened his mouth the few scant centimeters that he could. “Yeah,” he forced out, closing his mouth firmly to relieve some of the stress. Most sadists had the courtesy to hang you by your hands, he thought, annoyed. It seemed that Alastair was not the typical sadist; Dean knew that he was in for a long night.

 

“Well, as much as I do love hearing screams, this isn’t the most soundproof place,” the man mused, scratching a ragged thumb across chapped lips. “Open wide,” he ordered, digging through a small, stiff suitcase and pulling out a heavy looking metal contraption.

 

Dean complied, allowing Alastair to fit the scold’s bridle around his head, his tongue shrinking away instinctively from the spiked bit. Alastair tutted and pinched Dean’s tongue between his thumb and index finger, pulling it forward and settling the bit into place. He locked the contraption around Dean’s head and stood back to admire his handiwork. “It will do,” he determined, and he dropped to a crouch, freeing Dean’s ankles.

           

Dean’s newfound freedom of movement was hardly a relief. He focused on breathing hard through his nose, sweat trickling down the back of his neck as he waited, every sense on high alert, for Alastair to do something. The man smiled, singing a song Dean had never heard softly under his breath, as he pawed through the suitcase, selecting a sharp, slender knife. Dean eyed the implement warily, trying to gauge Alastair’s intentions.

 

Alastair crouched, settling himself in front of Dean, and it would be all too easy to kick him unconscious, but then Dean would be stuck hanging with no one to free him at the end of the night. Dean allowed the man to pry slack legs apart. “Now Dean, this might hurt,” the man chuckled nasally, running the blade lightly across Dean’s inner thigh.

 

The cut stung, but it was a sharp, bearable pain, no worse than a bad paper cut. Dean’s muscles trembled with the effort of keeping his thighs spread as Alastair carefully nicked the skin, drawing a pattern in thin, surface cuts. Dean could feel the blood seeping down his legs, his thighs slick with the red liquid, but he had undergone far worse in the past. Briefly, he wondered if the man was all talk, but he shoved that thought away—he was begging for irony to kick him in the teeth.

 

Dean jerked with surprise when Alastair gashed sharply, cutting deeply through one of the pre-existing scratches. His yell was strangled by the bridle about his head, and punishing spikes dug into his tongue. Dean inhaled, swallowing blood as his mangled tongue screamed in pain, more pressing than the wound in his leg. It was a small mercy, and one that did not last. Methodically, Alastair carved deeply over his pattern of small scratches, and as hard as Dean tried, he could not stop his legs from jerking, seeking relief from the torment. His torturer hummed in pleasure and seized the outer meat of his thigh in a bruising grasp, holding Dean’s leg steady as he finished his pattern, moving to the other leg only when Dean’s skin was scraped and raw, thighs trembling from the strain of holding their position.

 

Dean was lightheaded from pain and blood loss when Alastair finally stood, tossing the knife carelessly to the floor. Blood oozed from between his legs, catching and drying on the thick hairs of his calves, pulling at his skin. Movement was agony; Dean realized dully that he was spread out and kept for his tormentor, unable to bring himself to close his legs. Alastair chuckled and ran a finger across Dean’s throat, pausing only a moment before he activated the shock collar. Dean spasmed as electricity raced through his body, burning through his veins, igniting every nerve and muscle and fiber of his being. He screamed, his tongue pushing against the punishing spikes of the bridle, and blood rushed down his throat as his legs rubbed together, scraping wounds over wounds, blood matting against his thighs.

 

The electricity stopped and Dean slumped, sweat and tears mingling with blood on his face, his neck protesting its strained position as his jaw took the brunt of his weight. Glazed eyes landed on Alastair, whose detached, clinical expression was only slightly highlighted by twisted glee. “Very good, Dean,” the man said, nodding approvingly at Dean’s sagging body and twitching limbs. “You took that very well. I’ll admit, I’m impressed. But we’ve still got, oh, several hours left to play. Are you ready?”

 

No, Dean thought furiously, his head swimming, screaming at the thought of enduring any more tortures from this man. But this was for Sam; he needed to do this. Steeling his resolve, Dean forced himself to nod, slumping as he signed his body and well-being away to the sadist before him.

 

Alastair smiled thinly, bending down to pick up the knife. His shirt rode up slightly, treating Dean to a gross expanse of pale, sickly skin, the knots of his spine clearly visible beneath flesh mottled with blisters and scars. Did he enjoy taking pain as well as dishing it out? Dean supposed it did him little good to wonder, though it did give him the hope that perhaps someday Alastair would require Dean to take the role of the sadist, rather than taking tortures that he had never even imagined.

 

Alastair positioned himself behind Dean, and Dean had only the warning of a breath on his neck and a hand on the small of his back before Alastair thrust the knife up into Dean’s body. Dean screamed, his cry forcing its way past the bridle as his tongue split even further, the knife cutting into the flesh of his entrance. Dean was no stranger to penetration with a cock, or some other vaguely phallic object, but never, even in the worst of punishments, had Sam ever violated him with a knife. Tears streamed, unbidden, down his face as he screamed and struggled to gain any sort of leverage to get away from the sharp, invasive object. Behind him, Alastair hummed as he pulled the knife out and slid it back in, slicing another deep run into Dean’s bloody passage. Dean felt himself teetering on the brink of consciousness as the man fucked him with the knife, blood oozing out of his ass to mingle with the blood on his thighs. Senses hazy and overloaded with pain, he hardly noticed when Alastair pulled the knife out and tossed it to the ground, returning once again to the suitcase. Weakly, Dean shook his head, unsure even what he was protesting—there was no getting out of this, not tonight, but maybe if Alastair could understand that he simply could not take any more, there would be some sort of reprieve.

 

 Winchester luck had always been strange, and it seemed that what luck they had had run out. Alastair drew out a scrub brush and doused it with water from a clear, half-drunk bottle, walking menacingly around behind Dean. The knife may have lubed him up with his own blood, but he was far from stretched enough to take anything large without pain, and he shrieked as the stiff bristles of the brush scratched and bent and dug into his wounds. Alastair laughed as fucked him with the scrub brush, drawing even more blood from Dean's abused body. “Now Dean, that knife was on the floor,” Alastair scolded, his voice distant and muted, words barely comprehensible to Dean’s muddled mind. “Who knows what could be on it? I’d hate to have your pretty body get infected when I can’t see it. I’d just drive myself mad, thinking of you bleeding and dripping puss somewhere where, without being there witness your agony.”

 

Dean groaned weakly, the sound muted by the gag in his mouth. Alastair patted his quivering ass, and Dean could hardly feel the sensation, consumed by pain as he was. Darkness crept up at the edges of his vision as Alastair pulled the scrub brush free, allowing it to clatter to the ground with the knife. Dean tensed weakly as the man pulled a cloth bag from the suitcase, a large bottle of peroxide appearing from its depths in Alastair’s hands. “No, that would be such a pity,” the man mused, carelessly pouring the liquid over his hand and rubbing it between Dean’s thighs. The sensation burned, but Dean could hardly bring himself to care, twitching weakly away from Alastair’s ministrations. His tormenter smiled and pulled a small, rubber bag from within the cloth bag, emptying the rest of the bottle of peroxide into it.

 

Dean’s blood ran cold as Alastair secured a tube to the opening of the rubber bag and emptied the cloth sack of its final object—a large, heavy looking vinyl plug. Dean shook his head pitifully, his heart fluttering with dread as once again, the man took his place behind him. Dean’s muscles clenched automatically as Alastair inserted the nozzle of the douche into his abused entrance, pumping the liquid up into Dean. Dean forced back a scream—his tongue could not take any more damage, he dimly recognized—as the man emptied the douchebag into Dean’s anus, peroxide bubbling and burning as it passed over his many cuts. Efficiently, Alastair pulled the tube out of Dean’s body and shoved the plug into him before too much of the liquid could trickle out. Dean whined, the noise pitiful and humiliating, as the trapped liquid seethed and stung inside of him, cleansing his wounds in the most painful, degrading way Dean could have imagined.

 

Alastair stood back to admire his handiwork. Dean knew he must be a pitiful sight, blood running from his ass, legs, and mouth as he hung limply, his bound hands grazing the top of his ass, the muscles in his neck tense and obvious from the strain of hanging from a collar. “Very nice,” Alastair said approvingly, “but we need something up top, don’t we, Dean boy?”

 

Dean whimpered, shaking despite himself, and Alastair grinned at the sight. “This is what happens when you’re mine, Deano,” he said conversationally, drawing a long, coiled whip from the suitcase. Dean shook as the man unwound it, caressing the braided leather with a loving hand. Without a word of warning, he cracked the whip across Dean’s chest, slicing a long gash through skin and muscle. Dean cried out, and another blow came down hard, crossing over his shoulders as the man whipped him with a trained, practiced hand, opening up lacerations down the front of Dean’s chest and across his back and shoulders until Dean’s field of vision had narrowed to a single set of specks, the black bliss of unconsciousness rushing to take him.

 

Alastair’s hard grip on Dean’s abused shoulder brought him back to the present, away from the glorious relief that passing out would bring. “Our time is so limited, Dean,” Alastair mused, staring up into Dean’s glassy, tear-reddened eyes. “Maybe if I had months and months to keep you, I could let you sleep. But I don’t, so I can’t let you pass out yet, okay?” There was no care in that voice, only sick, twisted satisfaction. Alastair smiled and reached for a water bottle, pouring a generous amount of liquid down his own throat. Dean had not realized just how thirsty he was, but now, seeing his tormentor drink, he became increasingly aware of the dryness in his throat and the cottony state of his mouth, which blood did little to soothe.

 

Alastair must have noticed the need in Dean’s eyes, because he took another long drink before setting the water bottle down, just close enough that it was still easily within Dean’s range of vision. Dean groaned weakly as his stomach rolled from stress and desire for relief, for even rancid, lukewarm water. He would drink straight from a creek if it meant sating his thirst, at this point; he needed water almost as badly as he needed his wounds to heal. Alastair ran his hands across Dean’s back and chest, smearing him with blood, and the salty sting of his bare hands only served to remind Dean exactly how thirty he was. Dean tried to focus on breathing, but the air that filled his lungs came in short, ragged gasps, the smell tinted with disinfectant and his own blood.

 

The sky had barely begun to lighten when Alastair at last removed the hated bridle from Dean’s head and released the cuffs from Dean’s hands. Dean collapsed to the ground, twitching weakly, as Alastair unfastened the shock collar, letting Dean fall to the floor. His entire spine protested the stress of the collar, but the pain hardly registered, preoccupied as Dean was with the gashes that covered his body and the liquid that still simmered inside him.

 

Alastair pulled the plug from Dean’s body, and Dean nearly sobbed in pain and relief as the peroxide leaked onto the floor. The liquid left its searing sensation in its wake, but now that it was gone, Dean could at least feel like there was a chance that he would heal. He watched dully as Alastair packed up his torture equipment, fitting it easily into the large leather suitcase. Dean curled in on himself, weakly allowing his body to default to the least stressful position he could think of.

 

Alastair picked up the suitcase and turned to leave, and for a moment Dean thought he would throw up from the implication. “Wait,” he called hoarsely, his shredded tongue protesting as he forced himself to speak. Thick rivulets of blood rolled down his chin as tentatively clotted wounds split open from the motion. “How am I supposed to get home?”

 

Alastair shrugged, tossing a nasty smile back at Dean. “That’s your issue, Deano,” he replied cheerfully, hitching the suitcase up in his grasp and walking away, the factory door closing with a resolute clang behind him.

 

Every nerve in Dean’s body screamed at him to stay down, to lie on the floor and let unconsciousness carry him away. Dean gritted his teeth, slowly forcing himself to stand, his muscles burning with the effort that it took to carry his raw, abused body out of the factory. His vision swam as he dragged himself towards the Impala, collapsing into the driver’s seat as soon as he had unlocked the door. He bit back a yell as his naked, abused backside protested his sitting position, but it was not far to the house he had commandeered—he could make it, or rather, he had to make it back. Out here, he was a sitting duck for law enforcement.

 

Dean hardly remembered the drive back to the house. He was dimly aware of parking the car and stumbling inside, collapsing on the floor next to a frightened, horrified Castiel. Through half working ears, the sound of the man’s shouts permeated his consciousness, but he could not bring himself to care. The touch of his slave’s hand on his shoulder barely registered, and when the man touched his forehead with two trembling fingers, he slipped into blissful unconsciousness.

 

0o0o0o0o0

 

He was warm, and—comfortable? Dean frowned, shifting slightly in soft, worn sheets, his stiff muscles aching as he stretched. He sat, marveling in his ease of motion—he had not expected to be able to sit for at least a week, likely more. Dean turned his head, meeting eyes with a surprisingly concerned looking Castiel. “How long was I out?” he demanded, drawing back the sheets to stare at his legs. A patchwork of thin, faded scars covered the insides of his thighs, and panic shot through Dean’s chest—no, he couldn’t have been out long enough to heal, not when Sam needed him awake and alert! “Castiel, how long was I unconscious?” he shouted, reaching for his captive’s shoulder, gripping him with a crushing hand.

 

“Twelve hours,” Castiel replied softly, refusing to meet Dean’s eyes.

           

“Twelve—” That made no sense. Dean stared at the man, uncomprehending. “You mean twelve days,” he said finally, trying to wrap his head around the number. Twelve days was a remarkably fast time to have healed from his injuries, but his shredded tongue no longer pumped blood down his throat with every word, and the gashes on his chest had healed to barely perceptible scars.

 

“Hours,” Castiel replied firmly, still gazing at the ground. “Check your phone. You got here at six in the morning, and it is six in the evening the same day you returned.”

 

Disbelieving, Dean seized his phone and stared at the date on the opening screen, clearly informing him that it was indeed the same day. “I don’t understand,” he said finally, looking over at Castiel. “I was completely shredded. How did—”

 

 “I don’t know,” his prisoner replied, and he seemed frightened, ducking his head even further. “Please, I don’t know—can you not just be glad that you healed as quickly as you did?”

 

“No,” Dean snapped, a lie that he would never admit to having told. “This don’t just happen. You don’t lie down after a torture session and wake up a few hours later looking like months have passed. It isn’t right!”

 

“I didn’t know what to do,” Castiel babbled, his words exploding from his mouth in a rush. “You were bleeding out on the floor and I thought you were going to die, and I touched you and you started to heal before my eyes. I know it doesn’t work that way—I’m not stupid—but just be glad that it did and stop thinking about it!”

 

Dean decided to ignore that his captive had had the audacity to give him an order. Hardly daring to believe that it was possible, he stood, his legs groaning as stiff muscles stretched, but his wounds gave him no pain, and no blood spattered the sheets beneath him.

 

 “Okay,” he said, looking down at his healed flesh. Alastair was a demon, he believed it now—maybe that implied some sort of healing mojo. It didn’t make sense, but it was the only explanation that Dean’s mind could offer. “Okay, so, I healed really quickly. Right.” He shook his head, determined to put it out of his mind. “I’m getting coffee,” he said aloud, unwilling to say aloud how freaked he was, and he strode towards the kitchen, waiting with bated breath for his wounds to split open, to find himself prone in a pool of leaking blood and bodily fluids on the floor.

 

The pain never came, and Dean found himself curled on the couch, a mug of hot, bitter coffee wrapped in his hands. He shivered, unnerved by the surreal situation, and reached for Sam’s computer, on the floor with the possessions he had brought in when he had taken the house. If he was healed, he had better things to do than worry about how it had happened—look for his brother, primarily. With a grim sigh, Dean set down the coffee mug and opened an internet browser, scouring the news for any signs of Sam, or of Lucifer’s organization. Two potential allies and a strangely mended body—he was on his way to getting his brother back, and nothing would stop him until he had found Sam.

Chapter Text

Sam jerked mindlessly, his own screams echoing distantly in his ears as acid flooded his veins. “No, no, no more, no more!” he wailed. Lucifer ignored his cries, methodically injecting a third vial of soda into Sam’s veins, to mingle with countless doses of vinegar and lemon juice and other substances Sam did not want to think about. He could feel every cell in his body struggling to shut down, every frantic heartbeat sending contaminated blood through his system. Only Lucifer’s near-constant touch to his forehead was keeping him alive, Sam was sure of it.

 

The foreign substances vanished when Lucifer pulled away, and Sam hung limply, sweat dripping from his face, blood seeping out of his mouth where he had torn the edges of his lips with his screams. Lucifer released his bonds, and he collapsed, his abused body crumpling to a heap on the floor. Listlessly, he allowed his torturer to manhandle his limbs, strapping him face first to the hated cross, shivering as the man ran an icy finger along his spine. “Remember, Sam, you have the power to stop this,” Lucifer said, his voice faint and muted in Sam’s buzzing ears. “Just say the word, and all this ends. Agree to be my vessel. It won’t change anything for you, not really. You’d still be going about, killing humans and living on the edge. The only difference is that you’d have me for a passenger.”

 

It sounded like a good deal. Why was he so against this again? Barely lucid enough to remember—this was his life, his body, his mind, and he would not stoop so low as to let someone else control it—Sam shook his head, trembling with exhaustion and pain. He wished that the man would leave him be, let him sleep, but he supposed that sleep deprivation was just another torture technique he would have to endure in this place.

 

“No?” Lucifer’s voice was dangerously silky, soft and menacing as his cold breath ghosted over Sam’s ear. “Do you still think that you can hold out against me?” He sighed when Sam made no move to answer him. “You’re a tenacious one, I’ll give you that,” he mused, caressing Sam’s aching shoulders with a single frigid hand. Sam groaned, reflexively leaning back into the massage, the rough pads of Lucifer’s fingers working at knotted muscle and skin rubbed raw from the cross. “You have to be strong to be my vessel. But you’re not as strong as you think you are.”

 

Sam had only the barest fraction of a second’s warning before Lucifer seized Sam’s buttocks and shoved into his body. Sam screamed as skin and muscle tore from the sudden intrusion, blood seeping from his lower body as Lucifer thrust forth, setting a punishing pace with no apparent regard for the dry tightness of Sam’s passage. Sam’s head dropped back, his hair brushing the tops of his shoulders, as the man forced his way through Sam’s body. Sam’s eyes flickered wildly, and he looked up at Lucifer’s cold, malicious gaze, filled with sadistic satisfaction. Sam squeezed his eyes shut, allowing his muscles to fall slack. How Lucifer had managed to fit inside him with no lube, no preparation, Sam had no idea; sheer, determined sadism combined with angelic powers, he assumed. The thought was jarred from his head as Lucifer shoved forward with a particularly punishing thrust; he let out an animalistic shriek as his flesh tore further, pushing and twitching instinctively, futilely, at the intrusion.

 

Sam hung, helpless in his bonds as Lucifer took him roughly, rutting against Sam with determined thrusts and possessive hands. The agonizing torture seemed to go on for an eternity before the man pulled out, swiping a clinical hand through the blood caked on Sam’s thighs. Distantly, Sam realized that Lucifer had not come; apparently, the rape had been solely about hurting Sam, not about chasing his own pleasure. Somehow, that made the situation worse. Sam was no stranger to being physically desired by women and men alike, but never had he encountered someone who had attempted to force him for the sheer torture of the act. Even with Dean, sex had always been about reward and punishment; Sam knew that power rapists existed, and hell, he had been tempted to fuck someone before killing them just to increase their terror before, but never had he imagined himself on the receiving end of the act.

 

“Now, then.” Lucifer unbound and flipped Sam again, securing him with his back to the cross. Sam allowed himself to be manipulated into position, exhausted, his body refusing to respond to any orders to fight back. The “yes” was on the tip of his tongue, but he could not say it, not now. Giving in would make the torture he had endured meaningless; it would kill his pride to consent to this man now.

 

Lucifer frowned as he examined the table of torture instruments. “Oh, this is disappointing,” he mused, chilling Sam to the core. Seemingly from nowhere, he drew out a needle, already strung with thick, black thread. The small, innocuous object in his hand, he turned back to Sam, running the tip of the needle across his cheek. “I’ll leave your mouth alone,” he promised, “so that you can say yes whenever you’re ready.”

 

Sam was screaming before the needle had even breached his skin. Lucifer pinched his eyelids together and sewed, stitching Sam’s left eye shut and moving carefully to do the same to his right. Tiny droplets of blood flowed down Sam’s face as he shook his head, the all-encompassing darkness pressing in on him with every motion. Coarse thread scratched at the sensitive inner skin of his lids and pressed against his eyeballs with every motion. Lucifer took hold of Sam’s ear, stitching his tragus flat over his ear canal, and Sam sobbed as his hearing vanished along with his vision. Tears seeped out from the scant space between the stitches, and he could tell that water was building up, trapped, in the space behind his lids.

 

Unable to see, Sam panicked when Lucifer’s hands trailed away from his face, leaving him cold and exposed, with no sense of where the man was, or what he could be doing. He strained, struggling to listen through muted, bleeding ears, but could only make out vague, senseless shuffling noises.

 

A searing pain jolted Sam’s attention away from his struggles to hear the world around him. His scream reverberated across the room, loud even to his wounded ears, as he thrashed against his bonds, unable to identify the object that was burning him. No sooner had it been drawn away than the object, or perhaps simply a similar one, smacked into his other leg, leaving three stripes of surely burned flesh behind. Sam was sure that he was still screaming, but he could hear nothing, and the pain in his raw throat was nothing compared to the agony his thighs had been put through.

 

The brand—the only thing Sam could think of, in his pain-muddled state, was a brand—pressed hard against Sam’s forehead. He shrieked, his teeth clenching together hard around his tongue as he threw his head back, struggling to escape the searing pain. The tug of flesh as Lucifer pulled the brand away was sickening; blood trickled over his stitched eyes and down his face, and Sam could only assume that his skin had burned onto the brand, peeling away from the rest of his body rather than releasing from the hot metal.

 

It was almost a relief when Lucifer dug a knife into Sam’s forehead, peeling out the burnt skin with meticulous care. Delirious, Sam was only half aware of the pain as Lucifer pulled off layer after layer of blistered skin, moving from his forehead to his thighs with slow, precise movements. His mind seemed to float outside his body; he was almost ashamed of his weakness, but he wanted nothing more than for Dean to rescue him, to wrap him up in his arms and soothe him the way he had when they were children. Dean, the only person worthy of life in this wretched, disgusting world, and the only person he had ever really loved.

 

Then Lucifer ripped the stitches from his eyes, and Sam’s mind gave way to merciful unconsciousness.

 

0o0o0o0o0

 

He was clean. Clean, pain free, and seated, and were it not for the thick leather straps around his wrists, torso, and ankles, Sam would have been able to write his imprisonment off as a nightmare. Sam blinked, whole, unblemished eyelids fluttering as he adjusted to the dim light of the dungeon.

 

The man who sat before him did not resemble Lucifer in the slightest. Slight and nondescript, the only thing about the man that stood out were his eyes—but bright yellow and nearly glowing in the darkness, those eyes were not something that Sam thought he would ever forget. “Who are you?” he asked cautiously, testing his bonds with a twitch of his wrists. They held fast, as he had anticipated that they would.

 

“Think of me as your maker,” the man answered, his light, openly friendly voice laced with an inherently menacing undertone. “You always were my favorite, Sam. I suspected you from the beginning, you know.”

 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Sam snapped, his newly healed body making him brave. Leaving him in broken agony would have been smarter on the part of his captors, he thought wryly.

 

“Of course, you wouldn’t remember,” the man said, a thin blade of a smile crossing his face. “You were much too young. Then, you were too caught up in your father’s petty mid-life crisis to stop and figure your abilities out. Such a pity—we have so much work to do,” the man mused, shaking his head.

 

“Are you going to be cryptic, or are you going to get to the point?” Sam snapped, irritated. He had no patience for idiots who spoke in riddles and puzzles all the time.

 

“Of course,” the man said, smiling at Sam. “But first, a little treat for my favorite son. Mother’s milk, you might think of it.” He produced a miniature razor from his coat pocket and opened a deep gash in his arm, rich, dark liquid spilling down over his arm. He leaned forward and pressed the wound to Sam’s mouth, the intoxicating sent of sulfur-tinged iron filling Sam’s lungs as he inhaled deeply.

 

Vague memories of Ruby flashed through Sam’s mind as he instinctively licked at the strong trickle of blood. The sweet, metallic taste flooded Sam’s mouth, and without thinking, he latched onto the yellow eyed man’s arm with his teeth, sucking, drawing that delicious, addictive fluid deep into his mouth. Powerful energy surged through his veins as he sucked, gulping down ribbons of the stuff, his chest heaving as he ignored his increasing need to breathe in favor of swallowing down more of the sweet blood.

 

The man pulled away, leaving Sam’s mouth empty, and Sam dissatisfied. With a groan, Sam leaned forward, unconsciously trying to seize the man’s arm, to bite through his skin and drain him of fluids. The man smirked, folding his arms over his chest, the steadily slowing trickle of his blood dotting his shirt with tantalizing red splatters.

 

“Now, then,” the man said, clearly pleased with himself. “I am your creator, Azazel. Do you know what I mean when I say that I am your creator?”

 

“You have a god complex?” Sam replied sarcastically, sneering at the man.

 

“I am so much more to you than God ever was,” Azazel replied, fixing Sam with a serious look. “You were just a wee little tyke that night when I came into your room and poured my blood into your mouth, Sam. You don’t know what that means, do you?”

 

“You have a vampire fetish?” Sam suggested, rolling his eyes. “Cut the Q and A, all right? If you’re going to sit here telling me stories, at least do me a favor and stow the bullshit for later, all right?”

 

Azazel laughed, shaking his head in amusement. “Yes, you really are Lucifer’s vessel,” he marveled, yellow eyes glinting with steely pleasure. “So much more than any of the others could have ever been. I definitely made the right choice in priming you for the taking.”

 

“I’m going to stop paying attention,” Sam threatened, though he knew that even if he feigned disinterest, there was nothing he could do to prevent himself from hearing the man’s story, peppered with inane detours and questions as it had been so far.

 

“To business, then,” Azazel said, wolfish grin widening. “I bled into your mouth, Sam, and you drank my blood in your infancy. I primed you, gave you powers and abilities beyond comprehension, set you up to be perfect and powerful for Lucifer’s taking. Of course, your nasty little mother just had to come around poking her nose into my business, so I sent her off where she could never interfere again.” Sam looked up sharply—Azazel was lying, and he knew it. John had killed his mother, he had always said so, especially when drunk, which was the only time Sam had ever been sure he was telling the truth.

 

As though reading Sam’s mind, Azazel continued, merciless words thudding in Sam’s ears. “Your mother tried to stop me from preparing you for your destiny. Tried to pull you away from me, out of your crib, screaming bloody murder the whole time. So I burned her. I pinned her to the ceiling and burned your entire house with it. Such a shame that your father got your brother out as well as you.” Azazel’s ruthless eyes bored into Sam’s as he stared, unrelenting, yellow eyes meeting hazel in a clash of emotion—Azazel’s unrelenting glee, Sam’s denial and horror. “Really, I was only supposed to infect you, but I figured I should have a little fun first. Do you know why your father always told you he killed your mother?”

 

“Shut up,” Sam hissed, heart pounding with dread. He did not want to hear this. He wanted to think of his mother as the lying, cheating skank he had always heard her to be, not as some person who might have cared for him, who burned to death for caring too much. Sam was not sure why it was important, but it was—maybe he could have loved his mother, if she had lived. Maybe she was not one of the worthless ones after all.

 

Azazel’s Cheshire cat grin only widened as he watched Sam’s face, distressed as the young man mulled over the implications of Azazel’s words. “See, your Daddy remembered hearing you cry that night. He remembered getting out of bed and tripping over his own feet in his haste to get to you. He remembers your mother, ignoring you, in a passionate kiss with another man just a few feet from your bed. And he remembers killing her in a rage, right as he lost hope for humanity. He remembers sending you out in your brother’s arms and snapping the neck of her lover, and then burning down the house to destroy all the evidence. It’s amazing, how one simple, false memory is all that it takes to drive a man mad.”

 

“So, basically, you’re the one who set Dad up for decades of murder sprees,” Sam said, shrugging. “What, do you want a medal?”

 

“A side-effect. That was just a bit of fun,” Azazel replied, amused. “It was never about your Dad, little Sammy. It was always about you. Have you tested out your powers yet?”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam snapped, testing his bonds again. If they were planning on boring him into saying yes to Lucifer, then they were going about it the right way, he thought wryly. Granted, learning the truth about his mother had been mildly distressing, but it did not change anything, in the end.

 

“I’m not terribly surprised,” Azazel said, shaking his head. “From what I hear, you’ve had a nosy little visitor for a few months. And before that, you were getting your jollies out by killing people, weren’t you? Ever wonder how it took us so long to find you, when you're such a high profile killer?”

 

“You going to get to the point?”

 

Azazel smirked, his yellow eyes flashing as he regarded Sam. “Someone—more than one someone, actually—has been trying to keep you hidden from us,” he said, folding his hands neatly in his lap. “It’s going to take someone, oh, different from me to remove that block. Fortunately, I’ve got someone around who just might do the trick.” He rose, looking down at Sam with a taunting leer. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back, and we’ll see what you can do.”

 

It wasn’t like he had anywhere to go, even if he could break out of his bonds. Sam sighed—at least they were not physically torturing him, for now. If Lucifer had expected the story of Sam’s past to affect him psychologically, then he had done a piss poor job picking a story teller. Sam drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair impatiently, waiting for Azazel to return.

 

Several long minutes passed before Azazel re-entered the dungeon, pulling a slight, bloody figure along after him. The pale, slender boy stood rigidly, almost regal, despite the medieval device locked around his head, a spike driven directly through his forehead. “Sam, meet Sam. Sam, this is Sam,” Azazel smirked, shoving the young man forward.

 

The boy fixed Sam with a pitying look, an expression far from befitting, coming from a blood-spattered man barely on the cusp of adulthood, strapped to some portable torture device. “I will not betray heaven by breaking him down to his base desires further,” the boy said, his youthful voice firm with tired conviction. “If Lucifer wants the block removed, he can break it himself. I will have no part in this.”

 

“Fucking angels,” Azazel growled, prodding the boy in the small of his back. “You’ll do as you’re told, unless you want to go back to Crowley. I’m sure he’d love to take another crack at that righteous little mind of yours.”

 

Sam raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. An angel? He supposed that, in light of his current circumstances, there could be stranger things. Lucifer was technically an angel, if one went by biblical definitions. If anything, this was encouraging; his captors had a captive angel, bound and bleeding at their hands. If he could be hurt, then so could Lucifer. Sam filed this tidbit of knowledge away for future reference, once he had managed to free his body from whatever bonds his kidnappers placed on him.

 

The angel’s jaw twitched angrily, but he knelt by Sam’s side, his head barely reaching Sam’s shoulder from his position on the floor. “My name is Samandriel,” he said slowly, looking up at Sam, resigned. “I’m going to have to touch his soul to do this,” the angel said, glancing up at Azazel with ill-concealed loathing. “And don’t expect results. Gabriel has been keeping tabs on him, and I will not be able to undo a seal set by an archangel easily.”

 

“I don’t care how easy or hard it is, heaven-spawn,” Azazel snapped, slapping a hand against the metal crown around Samandriel’s forehead. The angel cried out, eyes squeezing shut for a moment, before he opened them, fixing Sam with a blank, almost hypnotic gaze. “Get me results, or I give you straight back to Crowley. He’s already whining about how he’s not done squeezing you yet.”

 

No emotion crossed Samandriel’s face as he reached for Sam with a steady hand. In spite of himself, Sam jerked back, his torso moving a scant inch as the angel laid an open palm on Sam’s bare stomach. There was the slightest of pauses, and then Sam’s skin seemed to explode with stimulus, Samandriel’s hand sinking through his flesh as though skin and muscle meant nothing, worming its way around organs and ribs to grab at something inside him. Sam screamed, jerking as pain and ecstasy assaulted him in tandem, fingers probing, clutching at him. His body hummed as something in him reacted to the angel’s touch, grinding at his very essence as it swerved into the angel’s grasp. Waves of contentment radiated through his body as Samandriel massaged that strange part of him, not quite eclipsed by the pain of being penetrated by an entire arm, digging at bone and organs as he worked. Sam’s mind went blank, and then filled, as though the angel was somehow digging through his brain, pulling at ideas and memories and abilities only to push them back, searching for something that Sam was sure he would never find.

 

Samandriel turned an expressionless face towards Sam, lips moving, chanting words that Sam could not make out. Dimly, his mind registered Azazel, face twisted in fury as he strode towards Samandriel, laying a powerful hand on the angel’s shoulder and wrenching back. Samandriel struggled, leaning forward, and Sam screamed as the angel’s hand clenched tighter inside him, his lips moving as speeds Sam could hardly comprehend, and then he was falling backwards, his arm sliding easily out of Sam’s unblemished torso, his hand drenched in thick, nearly black blood.

 

“You little shit!” Azazel screamed, throwing Samandriel to the floor, his eyes fixed on the angel, not a glance spared in Sam’s direction. “Did you think I wouldn’t realize what you’re doing? Put the blood back, now!”

 

Samandriel laughed hysterically, eyes huge as he stared up at Azazel from the ground. “I serve God, not demon bastards,” he said, giggling with ill-disguised fear. “Sam Winchester will be purified. You may be able to take my mind, but you will never take my loyalty. I am no Lucifer, rebelling when it suits me and damning my fellow angels, abandoning humanity! Sam Winchester will be saved!” he screamed, drawing his hands up in a futile effort to shield his head as Azazel bent. He shrieked, a strange guttural language pouring from his lips as Azazel twisted the metal spike deeper into his forehead. Sam watched, strangely uneasy, as the angel writhed in agony on the ground. “Sam Winchester will be saved, and he will bring you all down!”

 

Azazel snarled and dragged the angel to his feet, gripping his collar and holding the shaking boy nearly off the ground. “Maybe Crowley’s not enough for you,” he hissed, shaking the slender angel hard enough that the tightly fastened metal crown shuddered with the movement. “Maybe I should give you to Meg, or call in Alastair. Maybe I should even deal with you myself!” With a snarl, he threw the angel away from him; Samandriel skidded across the floor and slammed into the wall, where he lay, still laughing hysterically.

 

Sam had no idea what the angel had done to him, but anything that angered his captors was good, in his mind. He felt a slight pang of regret as Azazel’s foot connected with Samandriel’s ribs, jarring the boy’s head against the wall. Azazel seized the angel by the throat, dragging him out of the room. Samandriel’s frightened laughter echoed through the room even as the door slammed shut, leaving Sam alone, bound and angry, in the dark.

 

Sam tried to piece together what he had learned. It did not bother him to learn that Azazel had done something to him as a child, that the man was at fault for his mother’s death and his father’s decision to turn to crime and murder. No, what truly irked him was that he had, apparently, been given some sort of powers by Azazel, and some archangel had blocked him off from them. What sort of powers would a demon even give to a human, and how on earth was it passed through blood?

 

The blood. Sam froze, mind whirring as he thought back to Ruby. The woman’s strength had been unnatural, completely unfitting for her soft, petite body. When he drank it, he had felt stronger and healthier than ever. Had the block been in place then—and if had been, what other sort of things could he do once it was gone? Sam wondered if he would be able to find out, in between bouts of torture.

 

Still mulling the situation over, Sam leaned back in his chair. There was no chance of escaping his bonds; his best bet was to put together every bit of information he had gleaned from his tormentors, and see if he could figure out anything useful.

 

Angels could be hurt. He had swallowed demon blood as a child, and apparently it had given him powers that some archangel had blocked. His entire life had been a set-up by demons, and he had them to thank for his years spent learning to kill and hate humanity. Overall, it could be worse—this could be useful. Sam grinned, flexing and his stiff hands as he waited for his tormentors to return, hopefully to bring him useful information along with the pain.

Chapter Text

Meg stood before Ruby, frowning at her fellow demon. “Mostly, I’m not sure what you’re planning to get out of this,” she said slowly, her round face furrowed in thought. “You’ve already given him to Alastair; isn’t that enough to keep him off our trail? If you’re that worried about this human, it would be easier to take him into custody.”

 

“Lucifer has a hands-off policy on Sam’s family and friends,” Ruby replied with a shrug. “Alastair’s the exception--we can use him, and we can interact with the brother enough to keep him off guard, but no one except Alastair has permission to actually touch him. I need Dean to trust me, so that we can keep him away from Sam without him realizing what we’re doing. If you agree to this, it will give me credibility and help me keep him under control. He doesn’t actually know how to hurt you, so you’ll just have to fake it.”

 

“I thought you said he has a pet angel,” Meg said, folding slim, leather clad arms across her chest. “Winchester doesn’t worry me, but that does. Most of them aren’t exactly on our side. I’m not interested in a suicide mission.”

 

Ruby snorted, rolling her eyes. “What, that one? Little tortured floppy hair? Samandriel’s more dangerous than he is. He doesn’t even know he’s an angel. Not going to be a problem.”

 

“You sure?” Meg asked, interested in spite of herself. “I wouldn’t mind getting a look at that. Think we can bring him over to our side?”

 

“With the way Dean treats him, it’s a possibility,” Ruby mused, frowning thoughtfully. “Lucifer would probably be delighted if we brought in a new ally, even a limp dick angel who doesn’t know how to handle his powers. It wouldn’t hurt to take a look while you’re there.”

 

Meg nodded, smoothing her hands down the front of her scuffed, stained leather jacket. “Then I’m in,” she determined, holding her wrists out to allow Ruby to bind them, a small, slightly flawed demon trap inscribed in the leather strap—may as well make it look realistic, after all. “You’ll get me out before they realize I’m faking, right?”

 

“I’ll be there the whole time,” Ruby promised, smirking. “You just focus on making it believable. I’ll handle the rest.”

 

0o0o0o0o0

 

The sound of the heavy door opening was not one that Sam welcomed. He kept his eyes firmly shut, lounging back defiantly in his chair; if he kept still, he could pretend that he was sitting because he chose to sit, rather than because he was bound in place with thick, unforgiving leather straps.

 

“Goodness, you are a mammoth, aren’t you?” The crisp, accented voice was not one Sam had heard before. He cracked his eyes open and took in the sight of the short, dark haired man before him, impeccably dressed in a sharp black suit that went well with cold eyes and a smarmy smile. “Samuel Winchester, in the flesh. Enjoying your stay with Lucifer and his dogs?”

 

“What’s it to you?” Sam asked coldly, eyeing the man with dislike.

 

“Personally? Absolutely nothing. Politically, why, it means a great deal to me.” The man smiled, charm not quite reaching his eyes. “The name's Crowley. Crossroads demon, businessman of Hell, Lucifer’s bitch, blah blah blah. How are you liking the Devil’s little S and M fantasy so far?”

 

Sam glared at him, refusing to dignify the question with a response. “Thought as much,” Crowley said, producing a silver flask from the inside pocket of his jacket. He poured a capful of amber liquid and downed it with ease. “Drink?” he offered, pouring another capful. “I find that it makes business deals go so much faster.”

 

“So what, you’re here to try to sweet talk me into Lucifer’s deal?” Sam asked, ignoring the proffered drink.

 

“That’s a good guess. It’s wrong, of course, but you’re thinking in the right direction.” Crowley shrugged and poured the capful of liquid down his own throat. He fixed Sam with an intent, almost predatory stare; Sam shifted uneasily in spite of himself. “See, you and I have something in common, moose. We both have the dubious pleasure of being Lucifer’s little bitches. It’s just as unpleasant for me as it is for you.” Crowley shook his head, pulling a disgusted face, his eyes not leaving Sam.

 

“I doubt that,” Sam snorted, glowering at the little man. He highly doubted that Lucifer was torturing the demon the way he was torturing him.

 

“Well, you’d be wrong.” Crowley smiled, leaning back on his heels. “Lucifer may talk about bringing down humanity for both the angels and the demons, but really, he hates us almost as much as he hates you little ground crawlers. Who do you think will be the next targets for genocide when Lucifer’s finished throwing his little temper tantrum about humanity?”

 

“I’m going to guess that you’ll tell me even if I refuse to play your game?” Sam asked drily.

 

“Quick on the uptake. Good for you.” Crowley cleared his throat, adjusting his tie slightly. “I’d like to propose a little deal. You go along with Lucifer, let him train you up and get you into a position of power, and before he jumps your bones, you figure out a way to take him down. It’s perfectly possible, and he’d never see if coming from you. When Lucifer’s dead, we demons complete his purge, we spare your family and friends, and you’re free to go about your business.”

 

“Why does that sound like the exact same deal Lucifer offered me?” Sam queried sardonically, raising his eyebrows at the demon. Something in him warned him that Crowley was bad news; sure, Lucifer was insistent that Sam would crumble, but he could hold out against him. Agreeing to go along with the devil, even with the intent of betraying him, was a risk that Sam could not take--he may have learned that angels could be hurt, but until he knew for sure how to kill him, holding out was the better option.

 

“Beats me. Mine’s a much better deal.” Crowley’s raised eyebrows matched Sam’s own. “Lucifer wants you for his vessel, you gigantic moron. Do you know what that means? It means you go where he tells you, you eat when he tells you, you sleep when he tells you, you piss when he tells you, because he’s wearing your fleshy body as a dress!” The demon scowled at him. “You take my deal instead of his, you probably won’t spend the rest of your life as a sentient meat suit. Still sound like the same deal?”

 

“I’m either his bitch or yours,” Sam replied, matching Crowley’s glare. “Keep your little deal. I’m not giving in to Lucifer, and I don’t need your help with that.”

 

Crowley threw up his hands in exasperation. “Tough customers are always the worst,” he said to the open air. “Fine. You continue being a stubborn bastard, and I’ll come up with more ways to sweeten the deal. Give me a ring when you decide you want to do business. Ta.” With a mocking, careless wave, Crowley exited the dungeon, leaving Sam alone in the dark once again.

 

0o0o0o0o0

 

The tile floor of their stolen kitchen was cold and hard under Castiel’s bare legs. He knelt, nestled in the corner by the refrigerator, struggling to come to terms with what had transpired the morning before, when Dean had collapsed on the ground, covered in blood, his neck scarred with electricity burns. Were it not for his captor, whole and unblemished at the kitchen table before him, Castiel would have thought that the whole thing was some sort of desperate hallucination, but the evidence was right before his eyes, taunting him with innumerable questions and no hope of finding answers.

 

He had been so frightened when Dean had stumbled through the door, tortured and mutilated to a degree that made Castiel’s captivity look like a stay in a five star inn. In that moment, Castiel had not cared that Dean had been his kidnapper and torturer for months; what mattered was that he lay, wounded and unconscious, in the floor within Castiel’s reach, and Cas was in a position to do something, anything, to help him.

 

He was not sure what had driven him to drag his fettered limbs over to his kidnapper and lay his hands upon him, and had even less of an explanation for how the man’s wounds had healed before his eyes. Something in him had reacted on instinct, uncoiling and moving from his hands to Dean’s body. He wished that he had the words for it, or even knew what he had done—the surge of power had been at once familiar and terrifyingly foreign, as though it was a long-since forgotten ability. Castiel wondered who on earth he had been nearly six years ago; he could practically taste his past in the sensation of healing Dean, but his memories remained firmly locked away, useless, somewhere inaccessible in his head.

           

Dean sat several feet away, intent on Sam’s laptop screen. He had not so much as looked at Cas since he had sat down with the device; Castiel wondered how much of his captor’s inattention was due to his research, and how much stemmed from fear over his unnatural healing. Castiel was surprised to note that it hurt, being ignored by his captor—surely he should be rejoicing, using this time to plan an escape, or at the very least to work on a way to keep Dean occupied the next time he decided to take out his frustrations by murdering innocents? Gabriel’s words floated through his head, taunting him, teasing him with their cryptic nature. “You need to stay with the Winchesters. You’re their guard. Think of yourself as a guardian angel.” Strange, how fitting it would be for a guardian angel to have healing powers. It was almost too fitting, but angels were fiction, and whatever had happened to cause Dean to heal so quickly had to have been a fluke.

 

Then again, apparently demons were real. Was it so hard to believe that angels could exist as well? But were that the case, why had they not kept their eyes on Sam themselves, and why would they leave Castiel as the sole guardian of the Winchesters? He was simply a man, not a divine being with strength and knowledge and power. Castiel felt a sudden, strange longing for a church, a preacher, a bible—something that could give him knowledge of angels and demons, that could help him understand what was going on in this impossible world into which he had been thrust.

 

Dean’s phone buzzed, distracting Castiel from his thoughts. “Ruby,” the man said as he answered his phone. “You got something for me?” His brow furrowed as he listened to the woman—the demon, Castiel reminded himself, the treacherous snake who seemed determined to wind herself into Dean’s good graces—on the other line. “Shit,” the man whispered, staring blankly ahead, his grip tightening on the phone. “Yeah—she knows things? About Lucifer? Yeah, bring her here—I need to be there for this.” He paused again, and Castiel felt a surge of something that almost felt like a mixture between unease, hatred, and jealousy. “Yeah. We’re at 1108 Holling Drive in Omaha. How long will it take you to get here?” Another pause, and Castiel shifted uneasily. “Awesome. Good. I can’t tell you how much this means. See you in a few hours, then.”

 

 Ruby was coming here, to the house Dean had secured? This did not sit well with Castiel--it had been bad enough when Dean had taken the demon to Rufus's safe house. Castiel pushed himself to his feet, steadying himself against the countertop, the chains around his feet clanking slightly with the movement. “Dean,” he said when his captor did not look up. “Trusting a demon is very foolish. This is going to get you killed.”

 

“Can it, Cas,” Dean replied irritably, not bothering to so much as spare him a glance. “You don’t know what it’s like to lose your brother. You don’t even know what it’s like to have a brother.”

 

“True,” Castiel admitted, “I have no memory of my supposed siblings. That does not make trusting Ruby any better an idea. Demons lie.”

 

“Yeah, and maybe this one is telling the truth,” Dean snapped. “If there’s any chance that she can help me find Sam, I can’t pass it up just because demons have a bad rep. It’s not like this is the only thing I’m trying, but it’s the closest to a lead I’ve got!”

 

“And what will you do when your ‘lead’ betrays you?” Cas growled, rearing up to his full height, still several inches shorter than Dean, but imposing nonetheless. “When you are lead astray, away from Sam instead of towards him, or worse yet, dead!”

 

“Damnit, Cas!” Dean shouted, slamming his hands down on the rickety wooden table as he shot to his feet, fixing Cas with a glower that under any other circumstances would have sent him shrinking back in fear and anticipation of punishment. “You don’t get it, and you never will. It doesn’t matter if I’m alive if Sam’s rotting away somewhere, and I can do something about it!”

 

“What good are you to Sam, if you're dead?” Cas snarled, stepping forward as much as his chains would allow.

 

Dean’s gaze darkened impossibly. “You shut your mouth right now,” he ordered dangerously. “I own you, you worthless piece of trash. And the last thing I need from your pompous, self-righteous ass is a lecture on safety! You couldn’t protect yourself, you couldn’t protect your brother! If you say another word, I swear, I’ll take your tongue just like I did his, make it a family trait.”

 

Defeated, Castiel settled for glaring across the room at Dean, who slowly sank back down into his chair, staring at the laptop screen as though willing it to pop up with a conveniently time-stamped and addressed video of Sam. With a low growl, he typed something into the search bar, and Castiel settled down on his heels, watching cautiously from the corner.

 

Hours must have passed, but it seemed like barely a breath before a sharp knock sounded on the back door, and Dean was moving, heading to let Ruby in and lead her to the kitchen, a trussed-up, round faced woman stumbling along behind her. Castiel stared distrustfully at the demon and her prisoner, their faces shifting slightly in his vision where Dean’s did not, warping behind human masks, the something dark, ugly thing inside peeking through.

 

“This is the demon I told you about,” Ruby said, shoving her down into a chair and fixing her hands to the armrest with foot after foot of ragged twine. “She’s not quite in Lucifer’s inner circle, but she’s close. She can definitely help you out.”

 

“Aw, so sweet, the little traitor thinks I’m going to talk?” the demon sneered, and there was something almost scripted about her words, something triumphant about her leering grin. The hackles rose on Castiel’s neck—this wasn’t right. Dean was walking into a trap just working with them. Cas huddled on the floor, watchful eyes flicking between the two women.

 

Ruby reached into her jacket pocket, pulling forth a small knife and a bottle of some sort. “Holy water and silver,” she said, glancing up at Dean. “Don’t get those near me. You want to hurt a demon, fists and normal knives won’t hurt. This here is the good stuff. I’ll leave it to you to get what you want from her.”

 

That wasn’t right. Castiel gritted his teeth, digging his nails into his palms. Silver would do nothing against demons—he could not be sure how he knew it, but it echoed deep in his bones, some sort of primal knowledge that simply refused to leave his head. Holy water would hurt them, but Castiel would bet his life that whatever was in that flask was normal water at best, far from consecrated or spelled, nothing that would be even a setback for a real demon.

 

Dean seemed to share none of his misgivings. He picked up the knife, eyes roving angrily, hungrily, across the round faced demon before him. “That so?” he asked, grinning tightly. “I’ll have to keep that in mind.” Focused as he was on the round faced woman, he missed Ruby’s smirk, which Castiel filed away as further evidence against their so-called lead.

 

“Oh, help me, I’m so frightened,” the round faced woman said sarcastically, rolling her eyes and shrugging leather clad shoulders. “You going to sweet talk me all night, or are you going to get on to the down and dirty, pretty boy? Maybe bring that sweet little angel of yours over here to do some real, cosmic damage on me?”

 

“Oh, trust me, I can handle you on my own,” Dean breathed, tightening his grip on the knife. He pressed the blade lightly to the demon’s face, watching her with cold, calculating eyes. “Tell me where Lucifer is,” he demanded, digging the tip of the blade into her skin.

 

“Go fuck a nun,” the demon replied lightly. Dean’s gaze hardened, and he sliced sharply down her cheek. The demon screamed, blood running down her face, but Castiel knew the screams of someone truly in pain, and his every instinct shrieked at him that this was an act, that the demon felt nothing from the wound in her face.

 

“I’m just getting started, sister,” Dean whispered, his voice barely carrying to Castiel’s ears as he fixed the demon with a positively demented grin. “Tell me where your boss is, and I’ll think about not giving you the working over of your life.”

 

“Oh yeah, work me over,” the demon spat, glaring at him. “I won’t even make you buy me dinner first—” her words cut off into a shriek as Dean plunged the knife into her shoulder. “Fuck you! Fuck you!” she cried, twisting away from the offending object. Dean rotated the knife and pulled it from her flesh with a sickening sucking sound, eliciting a howl from the demon.

 

Castiel watched, unconvinced, as Dean experimented, dragging the knife through her skin, pouring “holy water” into her wounds and down her throat. For hours, Dean worked under Ruby’s gaze and advice, and Castiel sat, staring coldly, and the demon’s cries slowly shifted from defiant and sardonic to agonized and desperate. It was like watching a charade play out before his eyes, Castiel thought, and one that was not going to give the desired results, no matter what Dean did.

 

“Please,” the demon begged as Dean dragged his blade across her ruined scalp, removed several times only to grow back before Castiel’s eyes. “Please, I told you, I don’t know where Lucifer is. I wasn’t with him—no!” she shrieked as Dean worked the knife beneath her flesh, ripping off chunks of skin and hair. “I don’t know where he went!” she howled, struggling to get away from the knife. “I don’t know where he went, I don’t know where your brother is, just stop it, please!”

 

“That’s not what I want to hear,” Dean growled, twisting the knife, the gut-wrenching sound of metal scraping across bone echoing through the room.

 

“It’s true,” the demon sobbed, tears streaming down blood-soaked skin. “I haven’t met with him personally in months, I’ve been off on my own assignments, he doesn’t tell me where he is. Please—I can tell you where he was then, but he won’t be there now!”

 

“Where was he?” Dean asked coldly, eyes fixed on the shaking mess in front of him.

 

“Richmond, Virginia,” the demon gasped, hiccupping as wounds slowly knitted together across her face and torso, leaving behind unblemished skin. “But that was months ago. I don’t know where he would be now—not there, he’d have moved on ages ago. Please, that’s all I know!”

 

Dean clenched his fists. “Useless,” he hissed, turning away from the demon. He glared at Ruby, green eyes flashing with frustration. “Get rid of her,” he snapped, jerking his head at the demon. “She hasn’t died from what I’m doing, so I’m guessing it takes some sort of special demon mojo to kill you guys.”

 

“Correct,” Ruby replied calmly. “Well, almost. Not so much demon mojo as special tools, and I couldn’t bring them with me. I’ll take her and destroy her though.”

 

Dean ran a hand harshly through his hair. “Guess it’s the best you can do,” he said begrudgingly, as Ruby moved forward to untie her prisoner from the chair.

 

“Such a pretty angel,” the round faced demon slurred, throwing a frighteningly cognizant look at Castiel. He shivered in spite of himself, glaring up at the demon from the floor. “What’re you doing hanging around this jackass, huh?”

 

“Shut it, bitch,” Ruby snapped, roughly tying her captive’s wrists behind her back. “I’ll let you know if I find anyone else who can help,” she called, dragging the slurring, mumbling demon to the door.

           

The door slammed behind the demons, and Dean sank down into the blood-flecked chair, rubbing his eyes, hard lines of tension obvious in his stiff, set limbs. “Freaking useless,” he whispered, staring ahead, bright green eyes glinting with something that looked like tears.

 

Castiel chewed his lip, weighing his options. “The entire exercise was useless,” he said cautiously, just loud enough that his words would reach his captor. “Silver does not harm demons, and I highly doubt that was holy water that Ruby gave you. Nothing the demon said is to be trusted.”

 

“Thought I told you if you gave me any more crap about trusting Ruby I was taking your tongue,” Dean snapped, not looking at Cas.

 

“But it’s true,” Castiel said, emboldened by Dean’s lethargy and frustration. “Ruby just happens upon a demon close to Lucifer, and still that demon cannot give you any information? She’s setting you up, Dean, and you know I am right.”

 

He had been too bold, and he knew that as soon as he finished speaking. Dean rose, jaw twitching, and slowly, deliberately, walked towards Castiel, still crouched in the corner at a disadvantage. “And how do you know what holy water looks like? How do you know that silver doesn’t work on demons? You talking out your ass, Castiel, or is there something you want to share with the class?”

 

Castiel swallowed hard, craning his neck to look up into Dean’s stormy, furious green eyes. “I just know,” he said slowly, raising his hands, whether to protect himself or to placate Dean, he was not sure. “I don’t know how I know, but it’s something I understood before, I think. Demons are not harmed by silver, and that was not holy water that Ruby gave you.”

 

Dean seized Castiel’s wrist, yanking him roughly to his feet. “I am so sick of this cryptic amnesiac bullshit,” he hissed, slapping Cas hard in the face. “You don’t have any actual answers, then shut your mouth!” A hard blow connected with the side of Castiel’s head; he staggered,  back slamming into hard countertops, and raised his free arm in a pitiful attempt to shield his head. Dean snarled and seized his shoulder, throwing him bodily to the hard tile floor. Castiel gasped in pain as the wire ring in his back bent, sharp copper edges digging into his spine and shoulder blades. Dean snarled, kicking him in the side and dropping to his knees, straddling Castiel and seizing him by the throat, lifting his head off the floor to deliver a solid punch to his face. Castiel felt his nose give under the pressure, and warm blood rolled down his face and down his throat.

 

“Dean, please—”

 

“Shut up.” Castiel’s vision went grey as Dean slammed his head down, cracking the tiles beneath him. Stunned, he lay immobile, limbs barely twitching as he struggled to move, to get up and flee and hide until Dean had calmed down. As though through a veil, he watched Dean struggle out of his clothing and situate himself between Castiel’s fettered legs. He needs a different way to vent his frustrations, Castiel thought hazily, heart fluttering as Dean worked himself into hardness. A weak cry slipped out from Castiel’s lips as Dean shoved dry, cruel fingers into him, stretching him just enough that Dean would not crush himself as he raped Castiel.

 

The intrusion was expected, but still unpleasant. Dimly, Castiel felt his skin split as his underprepared body struggled to handle the foreign object, but far more pressing was the growing pain in his head as Dean slammed repeatedly into him, jarring his skull against broken, unyielding tile. Scattered thoughts raced through his head—demons lie and the demon had called him angel, who was Lucifer and what did he want with Sam, how had a man like Dean grown into a monster, how did Castiel know that he was meant to be righteous and Sam was meant to be caring and demons lie and silver will not harm them and angel there were angels and he was—

 

Dean slammed hard into Castiel, cracking his head again into the floor. Vaguely, he felt blood seeping from his skull as a shard of broken tile pierced his skin and scraped against bone. Castiel went uncontrollably limp as darkness rose up from within him, swallowing him in an all-consuming unconsciousness.

 

0o0o0o0o0

 

Demons lie. Silver will not hurt a demon. I don’t know how I know. Don’t ask how you healed so quickly. I don’t know. Lucifer is my brother. I don’t know. I don’t remember.

 

Fury coursed through Dean’s body as he thrust hard into the unresisting body beneath him, his eyes screwed shut as he grunted his rage. He had even less patience for cryptic wisdom than he did for demons who gave shit information and could not even give him an idea where their boss was. So consuming was the fury that burned in him, he barely even realized when he had finished, intent as he was upon working out his frustration and teaching the little shit beneath him that passive-aggressive little comments and bits of “advice” were unwelcome to him.

 

When he pulled out, a long trail of blood followed him. Disgusted, Dean left Castiel on the floor, stalking over to the bathroom to clean himself up and think, away from that obnoxiously self-confident tone, a tone he should have broken from his prisoner a long time ago.

 

Hours wasted on that demon, and he was no closer to finding Sam. He should have stayed with his laptop; there was always the chance that a news story could point to Sam’s location. Growling, Dean turned on the shower and scrubbed his body until he was pink and raw, all traces of blood and spit and semen having swirled down the drain. He needed to get back to his laptop, make up for lost time.

 

Dean did not bother to dress as he made his way back into the kitchen. Intent on the laptop, he stumbled when is foot came in contact with Castiel, still lying on the floor where he had left him. “Get out of the way, damn trip hazard,” he snarled, stepping over his prisoner, pulling out the chair and flopping down, determined to get at least another several hours of research in.

 

Castiel did not move. Frowning, Dean spun the chair around to glare at the man. “What part of get—” his voice gave out unexpectedly as he stared at the sight before him.

 

The tiles under Castiel’s head were cracked and broken, shards scattered across the floor several feet away. The man’s dark hair was matted with the same rich red blood that streaked his face, stemming from the back of his head. “Cas!” Dean shouted, leaping to his feet, his heart thudding with something that felt alarmingly like fear. “Get off the floor Cas, this isn’t funny!” He skidded across the blood soaked tile, crouching down beside his prone captive. “I swear, if you’re faking this, I’ll kill you,” he growled, pressing two fingers under Castiel’s jaw. His pulse was weak and fluttering, but still there. Apprehensively, Dean turned his prisoner around, wincing at the sight before him.

 

The back of Castiel’s head was swollen and matted with blood, shards of porcelain tile peeking out from underneath thick, dark hair. Dean cursed, sliding piece after piece of the broke floor out of Castiel’s hair, his pulse racing in his ears the entire time. He swallowed hard as something like guilt threatened to rise up in him. “This isn’t funny,” he whispered, staring at the unconscious man. “Wake up, Cas. Wake up! You’re not allowed to die, damn it!” he shouted, his previous anger at the man all but forgotten. In his mind’s eye, he saw Sam in this situation, raped and bloody and unconscious at the hands of a strange man, but then the image faded and it was simply Castiel, and Dean was surprised to realize that that reality hurt just as badly as the image in his head. “You’re not allowed to die,” he whispered, horrified, as he ran a freshly cleaned hand through the mess of tangled black hair.

 

Dean knew he needed to be online, looking for Sam, that Castiel’s well-being should be at the bottom of his list of priorities. Still, the guilt gnawed at him, and fear worked its way into the feeling as he regarded the unconscious, barely breathing figure beneath him, still as a corpse and covered in blood. “No,” Dean whispered, horrified, hardly even cognizant enough to wonder when Castiel had stopped being a diverting slave and has started to be a priority.

 

Two people that he cared about, one kidnapped and surely undergoing tortures that Dean did not want to even think about, the other captured and tortured unconscious at Dean’s own hand. That was on him, and what was the most frightening about the situation was that Castiel’s plight dug at him almost as deeply as Sam’s. With a regretful sob, Dean pulled Castiel’s head onto his lap, pulling out shard after shard of tile, desperate murmurs slipping out of his lips, hanging in the air.

Chapter Text

Sam gagged, spluttering, as raw egg and broth rolled down the tube shoved deep down his throat, his stomach roiling in protest. Lucifer watched impassively, unrelenting as Sam choked, tears streaming unbidden down his face as he heaved, his own vomit trickling back down his throat along with the unending stream of liquid sustenance. After several days without eating, his stomach was shrunken and small, and the pressure of food combined with the nauseating sensation of being force fed was too much. Stretched and bloated, Sam thrashed miserably in his bonds, the need to break free, to empty his insides and breathe, consuming his every thought.

 

Lucifer pulled at the tube, dragging hard plastic from his stomach out through his throat. Sam leaned forward and retched, raw egg splattering on the floor, droplets of liquid splashing up onto his legs as his stomach rejected its contents. Calmly, with no visible indication of disgust, Lucifer scooped up the raw egg, the substance clinging to his fingers as though by magic—it probably was, Sam realized hazily—and forced his hand down Sam’s throat, the egg trickling down into Sam’s stomach. He gagged, but forced himself to keep the food down, his insides squirming in discomfort as they stretched painfully to take in the substance.

 

Sweat trickled down his face as he glared at Lucifer. The devil seemed distant, morose even, as he regarded Sam. “I don’t like putting you through this, Sammy,” the man said regretfully, running a hand through Sam’s greasy, sweat soaked hair, knocking tiny remnants of vomit loose, to fall on the floor and Sam’s thighs. “I want only the best for you. Hurting you—it hurts me, believe it or not.”

 

Sam snorted derisively. “I don’t expect you to believe me,” Lucifer said, voice sympathetic, “but it’s true. Just let me in, and I will give you everything you ever dreamed of. No more lies, no more pain, nothing but power and success. It’s not about losing, or letting me win, Sam,” he said, and the sincerity that shone from his eyes was maddening. “We both win when you let me in. You were made for me, and I am meant to be with you. You have to feel it, Sam—surely you feel how incomplete you are, a burning mass of discontent and fire, all that power and no way of ever directing it. Let me help you, Sam.”

 

Sam shook his head, straining at his bonds as he stared resolutely ahead, his nerves on high alert. Lucifer sighed, disappointed, though Sam could tell that his tormentor was unsurprised by his answer. “How can I make you understand?” he asked aloud, though he clearly did not expect an answer. “You’ve been in pain your entire life, Sam. Every day without me is a drain on your soul. You’re only now feeling in your body the agony your soul has endured every day since your conception.”

 

Sam spat, snarling at Lucifer. The devil shook his head regretfully, casting a sad look at Sam. “You leave me no choice but to break you, then,” he said, bending his knees and unfastening Sam’s limbs. With a powerful hand, he dragged Sam’s protesting body up and pulled him to the Saint Andrew’s cross. The bonds bit into Sam’s skin as Lucifer secured him tightly, though Sam doubted that he could have moved to escape even if Lucifer were to leave him free and unchained on the ground.

 

 A menacing sizzle sounded in the otherwise silent room. Weakly, Sam twisted his head, struggling to catch a glimpse of Lucifer even as his vision swam before him. A long poker rested in Lucifer’s hands, the tip heating to an orange glow in his palm, even as waves of cold radiated off his body, ghosting over Sam’s skin. Sam swallowed hard; there were a myriad of unpleasant uses for burning iron, and few were pleasant.

 

“I understand that you and your brother have a particular way of bringing each other to heel,” Lucifer said seriously, catching Sam’s eyes with a steady gaze. Sam shivered and turned his face from his tormentor’s dispassionate stare. The thud of feet across the hard dungeon floor sent goose bumps rolling across Sam’s skin, and he doubted they were strictly caused by the cold emanating from Lucifer’s body. “It pains me to use those happy memories against you,” Lucifer said, voice soft and soothing in Sam’s ear, “but you already know exactly how to make me stop.”

 

Burning iron sizzled against Sam’s backside, and he screamed as Lucifer pushed the poker inside him, heated metal searing his skin. His flesh bubbled and burned, sloughing off as Lucifer thrust the poker at a slow, steady rate, in and out, scraping Sam’s insides until he thought he would pass out from the pain. Sweat ran down Sam’s body and face, dripping into his open mouth, sizzling where it slid down his back and onto the poker. The inferno inside him built, until it seemed that his insides themselves were bubbling and burning with his skin, melting to drip out of him along with his flesh. Sam shrieked until his throat was raw and cracked, until his voice gave out. Raw, cracked whimpers passed through his lips as his lungs gave out, barely able to draw in enough air to breathe, much less cry out.

 

It was an age before Lucifer withdrew the long-cooled poker from Sam’s body, allowing it to clatter to the floor with a distant clang. Sam barely registered the loss, his every nerve alight with agony, consuming his mind and body. Lucifer’s touch was cool, comforting, as he laid a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder, massaging the knots of tension that wrenched through Sam’s back. “It doesn’t have to be like this,” the angel crooned, stroking Sam’s abused body with firm, light fingers, healing grace seeping through Sam’s body, flushing away burned and broken skin, pain ebbing away as though months, rather than minutes, had passed. “Let me show you how it can be, Sam,” he whispered, unfastening Sam from his bonds, catching him easily as he collapsed. Lucifer settled Sam’s long, muscled body easily in his arms, carrying him out of the dungeon and into a brightly lit hall.

 

The light was too much after so many days in the dark. Sam whimpered, instinctively closing his eyes and pressing his face to Lucifer’s chest. His tormentor cradled him close to his body, strolling at a leisurely pace down the hall, climbing an endless flight of stairs to reach a large, spacious landing. With a foot, Lucifer nudged open one of the many doors on the landing, carrying Sam into a light, airy room, equipped with nothing but a massive four poster bed.

 

The door shut, unbidden, as Lucifer strode to the center of the room, gently letting Sam slide from his arms and onto soft golden sheets. Sam shivered at the sensation of fine cotton and silk against his skin, allowing Lucifer to position his weak, trembling limbs as the devil saw fit. Splayed out spread eagle, his hair spread across fine fabric and polished wood, Sam was exposed, Lucifer’s for the taking. The idea should have shaken him to the core, but after days of starvation and torture, he welcomed the respite, however chilling it would have been under ordinary circumstances.

 

Lucifer’s gleaming white suit vanished, as though it had been an illusion to begin with. Sam watched through half-closed eyes as the man crawled onto the bed with catlike grace, positioning himself over Sam. Sam allowed his eyes to close fully as cold, chapped lips brushed his own, kissing him gently, sensuously. Sam opened his mouth without thinking as Lucifer’s tongue swiped over his bottom lip, requesting entrance to his mouth.

 

After all the pain and suffering of the last several days, Sam would have expected Lucifer’s kiss to be domineering and possessive. Instead, the cold man explored Sam’s mouth gently with an interested tongue, running an icy hand gently down Sam’s side. Sam shuddered at the freezing touch, but when Lucifer drew away, pulling back to kiss his way down Sam’s neck, hands planted on the bedspread, he found himself mourning the loss of the touch. His skin felt hot, dry and overheated, where Lucifer’s cooling touch had been, and he moaned in protest, reaching out with a trembling hand to pull Lucifer down onto his chest.

 

Lucifer hummed, amused, and slithered down Sam’s body, swirling his tongue around a hardened nipple. Sam’s cock twitched with interest as Lucifer grazed the sensitive nub with the edges of his teeth, nipping and worrying at Sam’s flesh. A single cold finger trailed across Sam’s stomach, ghosting over his growing erection. Sam gasped at the unfamiliar sensation—hands he was used to, warm and hot and grasping, but never cold, never so light and tender. He thrust his hips, seeking greater contact, and was rewarded when Lucifer wrapped slender fingers around his erection, slowly stroking him until his cock lay hard and leaking, flushed red against his muscled stomach.

 

Sam’s eyes flew open as Lucifer sat back on his heels, his hand still working Sam’s erection in easy, languid strokes. Without thinking, he reached shaky fingertips out towards Lucifer, seeking the man’s icy body, only for the devil to catch his hand, clasping it in his own. “None of that, now,” the man whispered, pressing Sam’s hand back down into the bed. “This is all for you. You don’t have to do a thing.”

 

Maybe he didn’t have to, but he wanted to, much to his surprise. Sam was quite aware that he was far from a traditionally moral person, but he would have thought that fucking the devil was a line even he would not cross. Lying back and being fucked by his torturer was one thing, but getting involved? That he wanted to participate rattled him—perhaps Lucifer was right; perhaps he had been made for the devil himself.

 

Sam was ripped from his thoughts as Lucifer bent in half and removed his hand from Sam’s erection, replacing it with his tongue. Sparks of pleasure shot through Sam’s body as Lucifer licked the head, teasing. He flicked his eyes up to meet Sam’s, staring at him with an expression that almost seemed loving, and opened his mouth, swallowing Sam down whole. Proportionate as he was, Sam had never had a sexual partner deep throat him in one go without gagging at the effort. Sam was sure that his cry of pleasure could be heard through the entire building as Lucifer hollowed his cheeks, throat fluttering as he sucked Sam down, his mouth pulsing around Sam’s cock. Sam clenched his hands in the sheets, a wanton moan escaping his lips as Lucifer drew back, swirling his tongue around Sam’s shaft, before rearing back on his heels, a trail of saliva dripping from his mouth and landing on the head of Sam’s cock.

 

Sam whined at the absence of stimulation, rolling his hips desperately as whimpers slipped through his lips. Lucifer hushed him, stroking a cold finger across Sam’s shaft, reaching down with his other hand to cup Sam’s balls. Sam threw his head back, gasping as sparks flew behind his eyes. Lucifer kneaded Sam’s sack gently, sending waves of pleasure crashing through his body. Sam could feel his orgasm beginning to build slowly, a rising pressure, and he groaned his need, arching desperately into Lucifer’s hand.

 

Lucifer released his grip, keeping contact with Sam’s skin as he trailed a finger over his perineum, his finger halting teasingly just outside Sam’s entrance. “This might be a bit different than you are used to,” he murmured, placing a gentle kiss on Sam’s sharp hipbone. Sam tensed, unsure of how to take the statement. Lucifer hummed a soothing tune as he pressed a finger into Sam, sliding slowly, easily inside of him.

 

Lucifer’s finger was cold and dry, and somehow soothing against Sam’s body. He relaxed, enjoying the strangely painless sensation, as the devil fucked him with a single finger. The second finger was a bit of a stretch, and the third should have split him open, but still there was no pain. Sam moaned as Lucifer filled him with his fingers, fucking him as gently as a lover, exploring Sam’s passage with slender, soothing fingers, searching for that spot inside him.

 

It was all Sam could do to keep from coming on the spot as Lucifer’s fingers brushed across his prostate, wracking his body with the most intense pleasure Sam had ever felt. “Oh God,” he gasped, shuddering, as Lucifer pressed a finger directly atop the gland, wiggling his fingertip back and forth, creating an unrelenting pressure that threatened to drive Sam over the edge.

 

“No, just me,” Lucifer said, no end of amusement coloring his voice. He withdrew his fingers, eliciting a keening cry of protest from Sam. “Hush, Sam,” the devil crooned, hooking his arms beneath Sam’s knees, lifting his body off the bed. “I won’t leave you wanting.”

 

Sam cried out as Lucifer pushed into him, his body stretching painlessly to accommodate the angel’s long, overpowering girth. The world swayed before him as the devil began to move, his thrusts long and slow, brushing against Sam’s prostate in powerful, unrelenting strokes. Sam’s reddened cock twitched frantically against his stomach as pleasure overtook him. Steadily, Lucifer increased his speed, picking up the pace until Sam lost track of the devil’s actual movements, incapable of focusing on anything except the pleasure and his own, desperate need.

 

 Lucifer ghosted a finger across Sam’s swollen erection, and the sensation finally drove Sam over the edge. With a cry, he came, shooting spurt after spurt of hot, sticky cum across his chest. Lucifer did not slow down, not even when Sam finished and sank, boneless into the bed. The devil drove forward, dragging his cock repeatedly over Sam’s sensitive, overstimulated prostate. Sam groaned weakly in protest, shaking his head as Lucifer pushed him, hooking Sam’s legs over his shoulders and reaching down with an icy hand to grip Sam’s flaccid, hyper-sensitive cock.

 

Sam squirmed in discomfort, and Lucifer stilled his thrusts. Still firmly inside of him, Lucifer leaned forward to kiss Sam, teasing his lips with a cool tongue. Tentatively, Sam arched up to meet him, returning the kiss in kind, parting his lips to allow Lucifer access to his mouth. Lucifer’s hands reached down and under him, pulling him up scant inches until he was flush against the angel’s chest, cold flesh a satisfying contrast to Sam’s own heat. He sighed into Lucifer’s mouth, allowing the devil to take control of the kiss, relaxing bonelessly into his hold.

 

Lucifer held him, kissing him gently for several long minutes. Sam slumped back when the devil released him, sinking into plush pillows and soft sheets. Carefully, Lucifer rocked back and forth, short, gentle thrusts sending waves of sensation through Sam’s body. Sam whimpered as his cock twitched, interested again much too soon. Lucifer whispered soft, meaningless words as he wrapped icy fingers around Sam’s overstimulated cock, grazing his prostate with tender thrusts as he worked Sam to arousal.

 

The sensation was too much. Sam allowed whimpers and moans to pass freely from his lips, lying limp as Lucifer carefully worked him towards a second orgasm. He came, shuddering, in Lucifer’s hand, almost in tandem with the devil’s own orgasm. Sam’s world went white as his body protested; exhausted, he barely twitched when Lucifer pulled out, a trail of semen leaking from his backside.

 

Sam floated in a state of half-consciousness for what felt like hours. Dimly, he registered Lucifer beside him, stroking his hair and whispering meaningless words in a strange, guttural language. He longed for a proper sleep, but his blank mind refused to cooperate, the exhaustion in his limbs too pressing, keeping him from blissful unconsciousness in a fit of cruel irony.

 

“So good for me, Sam,” Lucifer whispered, and the English words jarred Sam to full wakefulness. He stiffened, the gravity of the day’s events fully hitting him. He had not simply been fucked by the devil; the devil had just made love to him. The absurdity of the situation struck him suddenly, and it was all he could do to keep from laughing. “You are perfection. Perfect for me. Is this not preferable to pain and suffering, Sam? Don’t you see what we could be?”

 

Sam shuddered, biting his tongue before he could reply with something scathing. Lucifer sighed, toying with Sam’s hair. “I know you’re stubborn, and you think you have something to gain by refusing me. But there’s nothing for you if you continue to reject me, and a world of opportunity if you just let me in. What I just did for you is nothing but a physical representation of what your soul can have if you accept me. No pain, no suffering, nothing but ecstasy and bliss. You have everything to gain, if you’d just say yes.”

 

If he refused to acknowledge the devil, maybe he could stave off the pain. Sam drew himself into a ball, pulling his head from beneath Lucifer’s fingertips. The angel exhaled, sliding his hand over Sam’s shoulder. “I will give you some more time to consider my offer. I’ll send a few of my lieutenants in to keep an eye on you.” Lucifer rose, his white suit sliding back over his body as though he had never undressed, and made his way to the door. He cast a regretful look over his shoulder before exiting, shutting the door and leaving Sam alone on that soft golden bed.

 

It was the first time that Sam had been left alone and unrestrained since he had been taken by Lucifer’s people. He knew that he should get up, search for a way out, attempt to free himself—but the bed was so inviting, and he was exhausted. It would do no good to find a way out if he was too weakened and burnt out to escape, he rationalized, sliding beneath the soft, cotton sheets, running his fingers over the fine silk top of the bedspread. A few hours of sleep was all he needed, and hopefully he would still be unsecured when he awoke. Sam relaxed properly for the first time in days, allowing himself to nod off into blissful unconsciousness.

 

0o0o0o0o0

 

Dean waited five days before he allowed himself to panic. Five long, nerve-wracking days, and Castiel was still unconscious, a prone, pitiful figure, unmoving no matter what Dean did for him. He was almost tempted to dump him by the side of the road and let someone find him, take him to a hospital, but Castiel knew his movements and habits much too well by now. If he let his prisoner go, it would only be a matter of time before the cops latched onto Dean’s movements. He was no good to Sam from a jail cell, and on his own, there was likely no getting out.

 

Dean toyed with the idea of beating the unconscious Castiel, of releasing the picture and offering Lucifer a trade—brother for brother. That, however, assumed that Lucifer felt as much for Castiel as he did for Sam. Considering that nearly six years had passed, and Castiel had not even been aware of Lucifer’s existence, this was likely not the case.

 

Castiel was unconscious, possibly dying, and Sam was rotting in the clutches of a madman. Dean could not recall having ever felt so helpless in his life. No amount of alcohol could stave off the pain of his failure. He had failed at keeping Sam safe. His one true calling in life, protecting his brother, had slid by him, a red mark on Dean’s purpose and self-worth. And then there was the matter of Castiel. Dean knew better than to get attached to someone who was neither a Winchester nor of use to the family. By all rights, he should not care about Castiel’s plight; he should have killed him as soon as he realized that the man was probably never going to wake up. Castiel was a weakness, and as much as that rankled, Dean despaired that he had put the man in such a situation, harming him irreparably, and for such a petty reason as speaking his mind.

 

Dean desperately wanted to go out and blow off steam, but the idea of arrest felt entirely too prominent and possible ever since Sam had been caught. He needed a foolproof plan, and a way to ensure that the police would not suspect him even if they were called. Diners and gas stations were out, then. Sam and Dean had never had a preferred type of location for their murders, but they had nearly always gone ahead with something simple, something that did not force them to go out of their way. He was going to have to think differently if he wished to pull off a murder without getting caught this time.

 

Dean pulled out a map of the city, carefully circling businesses and banks as potential targets. An idea grew in his mind as he planned—an idea so perfect, he wondered why it had not occurred to him when he first learned that Sam had been taken by Lucifer. With a wolfish grin, Dean selected his location and rose, heading off to the bedroom to prepare himself for a long overdue spree.

 

0o0o0o0o0

 

Office buildings were so plain, so nondescript, Dean mused as he casually strolled into the out-of-the-way building. A growing insurance company had set up shop directly outside a neighborhood known for sketchy behavior and illicit dealings; it was the perfect place to commit a crime without drawing too much attention to himself. The receptionist looked up from her computer, flashing Dean a bright smile that faded as she took in stock the hard set of his jaw and the belt of bullets wrapped around his chest. Dean smiled tightly, locking the door behind him and pulling the clean, shiny automatic from behind his back. “You scream, you make any sort of noise, you even think about calling for help, and I’ll shoot you on the spot,” he ordered, training the gun on the trembling woman, her dark face gone ashy with fright. “You got cameras?” he demanded, smirking as she nodded shakily. “Good. You’re gonna get out from behind that desk and walk with me. No funny business.”

 

A single tear slid down the woman’s cheek as she slunk out from behind the desk, dark eyes huge and glistening as she stared at him. Dean nudged her with the gun. “Walk,” he ordered, pushing her out of the lobby and into a small, door lined hall. He stopped at the first office and poked his head in, smirking as the occupant looked up, the pleasant smile dropping off her round face as she took in his hard face, his gun, the shaking receptionist. “Out of your office,” he barked, fingering the gun warningly. “You’re going to walk with us. I’ve got more than enough ammo for everyone in this building, so don’t test me, all right?”

 

It was an easy walk down the hall, dragging occupant from office occupant out to join Dean’s group. There were few clients, which was a pity, but Dean figured that so early in the afternoon, he could hardly expect that tons of people would be around checking on their insurance claims. He herded the group into the front room, grinning as he positioned the rabble before the security camera, his own face prominent before the tape.

 

“Turn and smile for the camera,” Dean ordered, gesturing threateningly with his gun. Almost in unison, the pack of office workers and corporate clients turned, tension evident in each person’s stance and shoulders. One man was murmuring prayers under his breath, the words just carrying to Dean’s ears. With a grim smile, Dean lifted his gun and opened fire, spraying bullets into the backs of each of his hostages, gunning down every single person who tried to flee, until they all lay, bloody and broken, a heap of human carnage on the carpeted floor.

 

“I’ll bet this fucker doesn’t have sound,” Dean muttered, looking up into the camera, ensuring that his face was clearly visible, captured on tape for the world to see. “That’s fine. Voiceover it is,” he murmured, turning and stalking down the hall to the security office. He’d take the tape to Ash, have the man help him figure out how to create a satisfactory voiceover.

 

The tape in hand, Dean drove back to the house to collect his belongings. He situated Cas in the back seat of the Impala and covered him with a tarp. Humming, Dean drove, the knowledge that he was finally doing something concrete to move the situation forward warming him, settling his nerves as he relaxed back, content to enjoy the long drive.

 

 

Chapter Text

None of his associates, not even his fellow angels, would summon him without urgent cause, Lucifer mused, powerful strides carrying him easily down the long, brightly lit hallway to the room that Uriel had claimed as his office. The double agent was one of his best, feeding false information to Anna while spreading Lucifer’s message through the lower ranks of angels. Lucifer would that all of his associates were as capable as Uriel; being subject to his summons was uncomfortable nerve-wracking. Lucifer had ordered his spies to report to him only if the matter was dire, and Uriel, of all angels, was unlikely to misread a situation.

 

“What is it?” Lucifer demanded before he had even crossed the threshold. Uriel was grim, fluttering anxiously behind the heavy, impassive features of his vessel. That was a bad sign—it was hard to rattle the good-natured angel, who stood so stoically even when killing his fellow soldiers.

 

“It’s the older Winchester boy,” Uriel said cautiously, gesturing at an open laptop computer. Lucifer frowned, settling into the plush leather chair, glancing at the open browser window. Youtube, it read. “One of your demon boys sent it to me for review. Apparently it’s been sent to all the major human news networks, and is circling on all the most popular media websites. We might want to consider tossing him a few bones to get him further off our trail.”

 

Lucifer frowned, searching for the button that would allow him to play the video. Human technology was cumbersome at times like this, but even an angel could not know the contents of video without viewing it first. After some searching, he found the icon and clicked it.

 

The footage was grainy, but Lucifer could clearly see several humans, pathetic beings by the looks of them, facing the camera with expressions of abject terror. Mercilessly, Dean gunned them down, face twisted in intense concentration. The footage itself was silent, but the dark, low voice of the elder Winchester played over the video, thick and hard with determination.

 

“Here’s to you, Lucifer, you little bitch,” Dean’s voice said, twisted with ill-concealed rage. “You see these little fucks? This is what your organization is going to be if you don’t let Sam go. I want my brother back, and you’re going to give him to me. Don’t think I won’t find a way to kill every last one of you if that’s what it takes. You let my brother go, and you find someone else to be your little bitch boy, or whatever the fuck you want from him.” The feed fizzled out, and Dean’s face appeared onscreen, his surroundings black and obscured from view. “You gonna keep hiding from me like a little bitch, I’ll just have to sniff you out. Believe me, you won’t like it when I find you. You let Sam go, I’ll let your little organization go around doing whatever the fuck it is you do. Try to keep him, and I will slaughter every single one of you that gets in my way. Tell me I’m lying, I fucking dare you.”

 

He wasn’t lying, or at least, he thought he wasn’t. Lucifer shook his head, mildly amused by the pretentious grandeur the poor human exhibited. It seemed that Sam’s delusions of power and strength were a familial quality. “A confident video, yes, but he hardly poses a threat. He’s a human with no way of knowing how to actually harm any of us,” Lucifer said, glancing up at Uriel, curious to see what about the video had unnerved his stoic associate so.

 

“It’s not Winchester that I’m worried about,” Uriel said tightly, a grim smile crossing his vessel’s face. “Your demon bitches Ruby and Meg have confirmed that Castiel is with him. That’s what I’m worried about. If Castiel is working with him, he could very well do some damage, at least to the demon soldiers, and even to those of us who aren’t of your… Standing,” he said, the tension in his grace giving his worries away. As an archangel, Lucifer would be safe from any attempt Castiel could make to help Dean retrieve Sam; Uriel, as a lesser angel, was not protected by such immense power.

 

“Naomi told me that she wiped Castiel’s mind,” Lucifer said slowly, mulling over the implications of an angel explicitly working for the Winchesters. “I take it she was not as thorough as she could have been.”

 

“Considering that Winchester is up and moving after a night with your torture master, I would say that she could have done better,” Uriel reported, shaking his head. “It’s to be expected. She wiped his memories, but his grace is still intact. If he recovers his memories, or even remembers how to access his powers and knowledge independently, he will pose a great threat to us.”

 

“Not as great a threat as Gabriel,” Lucifer countered, cocking his head at Uriel.

           

Uriel sighed, rubbing his eyes with a thick, dark hand. “I wish that were the case,” he said finally, looking away from his brother. “Gabriel still trusts me, like all the other angels working against you. I can still help direct the search away from you, keep the garrisons tied up in make-work and civil war. Castiel is no longer a part of any garrison, and he seems to be bound to the Winchester boy. I don’t know if he is a willing participant or not, but regardless, he is free to devote all his energies to tracking us down. It’s a delicate situation, and we need to prepare for it.”

 

“And you cannot go to Castiel and convert him to our side before he gets too involved in helping the Winchesters?” Lucifer asked tightly.

 

Uriel hesitated. “I can try to reach him, if I can find a way to do so without the rest of the angels realizing that he has awakened to himself again,” he replied slowly, examining his hands. “It will take time, though, and at this rate, I don’t know how much we have.”

 

Lucifer nodded. “I will make preparations against Castiel, then, just in case,” he declared, smiling at his brother. “Continue your work in leading the rest of the angels astray. If you have time, bring Castiel’s mind back and convert him to our side. If not, I want you to either bring Castiel to us for reprogramming, or kill him—whichever is the most convenient. Use your judgment. I could find use for him easily, were he to work for us, but I don’t have the resources to spare to keep him contained if he fights you. Holding Samandriel is a drain enough.”

 

Uriel nodded. “Anna’s garrison will be missing me. I should head back,” he said, hesitating only slightly.

 

“Bring me the prophet before you go,” Lucifer ordered, settling back in the chair. “Or send some demon to fetch him. If Dean is so determined to have contact, it’s only polite to reply.”

 

0o0o0o0o0

 

The associates Lucifer had sent to keep an eye on him turned out to be none other than Azazel and Crowley. Sam could not say that his familiarity with the men endeared them to him, nor him to them. Azazel lounged through his shifts, taunting Sam with whatever verbal barbs came to mind, all the while keeping a healthy distance from the bed, leaving Sam wary—the bed was a safe zone, but how long would it be before Lucifer authorized his cronies to fall back to torture?

 

“She was beautiful, as humans go,” Azazel had reminisced, his eyes boring into the back of Sam’s head. Sam had seen the demon’s smirk in his mind’s eye, clear as if he had been looking directly into the man’s face. “Your mother. All smooth skin and blonde hair, and a body that just wouldn’t quit. I imagine that when I was human, I would have fucked her, no questions asked. But that’s just why humanity is limited. You measure beauty and artistry in terms of how fuckable a person is. But demons—we see the art in pain, in destruction and a perfect murder. You’re just like us in that sense. And oh, your mother’s murder was perfect.” Sam had lain on the bed, refusing to acknowledge the demon’s words. “She burned so beautifully. The way her skin crisped, dripping off her bones, was art to surpass any painting or sculpture your kind has ever created. Even Alastair rarely brings forth such perfect agony as her screams. Music to my ears, they were. I only wish you could remember them. Maybe then you would have used fire to its full potential.”

 

As infuriating as Azazel had been, as much as his words had tormented Sam, Crowley was surely worse. He sat with Sam now, his third visit since Lucifer had left, and Sam was steadily growing overcome with the desire to rip the man’s lips from his face, if only to shut him up for a few blissfully short minutes.

 

“If it’s eternal servitude you’re looking for, by all means, keep on the path you’re going down,” Crowley said, his crisp, accented voice jarring and irritating to Sam’s ears. “You’re going to end up there if you keep mindlessly defying Lucifer. I suppose it’s not your fault that you were raised with no sense of economy, but now might be a good time for a crash course. You scratch my back, I scratch yours, et cetera. It’s not that difficult to understand; even monkeys have that concept down to a science.”

 

Sam rolled his eyes, staring resolutely at the smooth expanse of wall away from the door. Sooner or later Lucifer would return; with luck, he would not have died of boredom by that point. Or maybe it would be better if he did. Dead, he would not have to listen to Crowley’s repetitious proposition ever again.

 

“Just going to lie there and sulk the entire time, Jolly Green?” Crowley seemed incapable of calling Sam by his name, electing to christen him with a new nickname every time he spoke. Sam noted that down as yet another irritating thing about the man. If he ever figured out a way to kill demons, Crowley was going to be first on his list, before even Azazel. “Really, here I thought that you might actually have some spark, the way everyone talks about you. That ready to be Lucifer’s prom dress, are you?”

 

God, shut up, Sam thought, fully aware of the irony in invoking God in his struggle. If there was a God, he had clearly consigned Sam to Lucifer before Sam had even taken his first steps. A merciful deity would have stricken Crowley mute by now, in any case.

 

Crowley droned on, irritatingly pompous voice a bane on Sam’s ears, for what felt like hours. Zoned out as he was, Sam realized only when the door opened that his guard had gone suddenly silent. Sam listened; two sets of footsteps sounded, muffled against the carpet, neither of them the heavy tread of Azazel’s feet. Warily, Sam rolled over to take in the sight of the newcomers.

 

Lucifer stood in the doorway, his hand clamped tightly over the shoulder of a slender, sickly boy who could not even be out of his teens. A slight quiver betrayed the boy’s otherwise stoic expression; he stared at Sam with wide eyes, unblinking as he took in his thin, underfed appearance.

 

“Out,” Lucifer ordered, jerking his head at Crowley. “I have business with Sam.”

 

“You brought the prophet along for your business?” Crowley’s lips twitched with amusement as he regarded his master and the boy, though he rose from his chair without hesitation.

 

“I do not need to explain myself to you, Crowley.” Lucifer’s voice held a hard edge, warning the demon. “What I do need is this room empty, and you back in negotiations with Dick Roman. Or I could simply feed you to him, and rid myself of your sass.”

 

Apparently it was a common threat, because Crowley seemed unperturbed by Lucifer’s words. Gracefully, he exited the room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. Lucifer shoved the teenage boy towards the chair; the boy sat, his eyes fixed on Sam with careful study, as Lucifer advanced towards the bed.

 

“It grieves me to have to do this,” Lucifer said slowly, twisting his hand carelessly. Sam’s arms snapped above his head, immobilized by some unseen force. “It seems that your brother is persistent in his attempts to get you back. It’s a pity, but it seems that nothing but force will get through his thick skull, and force is always more effective when directed at loved ones than at oneself.”

 

Sam strained against invisible bonds, his gut roiling with fear as he drank in Lucifer’s hard, unpitying expression. If the devil took notice of Sam’s apprehension, it did not show on his face. Sam tensed, twisting away in anticipation, as Lucifer curled long fingers into a fist.

 

The blow to his face shattered his nose like clay. Sam cried out as Lucifer drew his fist back, landing a second blow square over Sam’s eye. Blood vessels burst, and he screamed, his eye nearly collapsing under the pressure as tears spilled out, unbidden, from squashed tear ducts. Lucifer slapped him hard enough to leave a mark across his cheek, and delivered a flurry of hard blows to Sam’s stomach and chest. Bone ground against bone as his ribs snapped, and Sam let out a shriek of agony that echoed around the room, writhing in his invisible bonds as Lucifer beat him, stars blinking behind his eyes as the blows came progressively faster, hard enough to snap bone and break through his skin.

 

Regret shone through the devil’s eyes as he lowered his fists, but Sam could hardly bring himself to care. He did not even have the presence of mind to be mortified by the whimpers that slipped through his lips as Lucifer dragged him off the bed, holding him aloft by the scruff of his neck. “Get up,” he ordered the teenage boy, the silent witness to Sam’s agony, who scrambled to his feet, guarded eyes still fixed on Sam. With a powerful throw, Lucifer hurled Sam into the chair, chains materializing seemingly out of nowhere to wrap themselves around Sam’s arms and ankles. Sam slumped, hard metal links barely holding him upright, his ribs screaming in agony as his torso protested the position.

 

With Sam secured, Lucifer roughly manhandled the boy to stand in front of Sam, stepping back and pulling a miniature camcorder from his suit pocket. “Quit your quivering,” he ordered the teenager, eyes flashing dangerously. “You’re my spokesperson for the night. Unless, of course, you want me to send your mother to Roman as a part of our negotiations. I doubt he’d say no to her, even as tough as middle aged meat supposedly is.”

 

Sam stared at the back of the boy’s head with his one good eye, his vision swimming. Miserable, he turned his head away from Lucifer, unwilling to meet the devil’s eyes. Torture was all fine and easy enough to handle, but after the last few days of reprieve, the beating had seemed somewhat more intense than it should have. He wondered if perhaps Lucifer had planned this; it would be easy enough to spread false words of regret if that were the case.

 

Sam realized that Lucifer was recording only when the boy in front of him began to speak, his youthful voice trembling as he stumbled over his words. “Hello, Dean,” he said, breath hitching as his eyes darted to Sam, slumped over in his chair. “Lucifer sends his greetings. The—The One Who Brings Light wishes for you to know that he is impressed by your gumption, and—and commends your attempts at threatening him. Only someone with true strength of character would threaten the devil himself, and he praises you for trying. It is a—pity, a pity, that you are doomed to fail before you even begin. Sam belongs to Lucifer, and he will never let him go.” The boy swallowed, glancing back at Sam. “Your brother will be safe in Lucifer’s care as long as you stand down. If you insist on making threats and searching for him, Lucifer will see him punished for your actions. This will do no good for anyone involved. Lucifer regrets—um, regrets having to harm him, and hopes that you will cease to give him cause to do so.” The boy fidgeted, and Sam closed his good eye, determined to shut out the situation. “Heed this warning, Dean. Your brother is lost to you, but—but you do not have to make his life a misery simply because you will never see him again.”

 

Sam sucked in a deep breath, disbelieving. Never see Dean again? That had never been a part of Lucifer’s deal! He wanted to protest, but it was all he could do to keep breathing, drawing in lungfuls of stale air as his world crumbled around him. Dean was the one good thing the world had to offer—Dean and the rest of their family friends, the people like them. Lucifer had promised their safety; Sam struggled to remember if the devil had ever said anything about Sam eventually returning to his family. If he had, Sam’s mind was drawing a blank; it was written out of his consciousness. Panic clawed at his chest; he clenched aching hands into fists, struggling to keep hold of his desire to wrap them around Lucifer’s stupid, self-righteous throat. There was nothing he could do from the chair, he reminded himself. Perhaps it was time to seriously visit Crowley’s deal; surely the smarmy demon would not conspire to keep him from his brother, no matter what his other plans for the world were.

 

Sam was acutely aware of Lucifer’s cold touch as the angel unwound the chains from Sam’s limbs. The devil lifted him with ease, carrying him over to the bed and laying him down on soft, unmade sheets. “Don’t keep me from Dean,” Sam muttered, cracking his good eye open to glare at Lucifer. “You can’t keep me from him. He—” He’s all I’ve got, Sam thought, ashamed to feel the prickling of tears at the back of his eyes.

 

“We’ll visit the idea when you say yes to me,” Lucifer murmured, tenderly stroking the hair from Sam’s eyes. “It’s not something I want you to worry about right now. There are a lot of things more pressing than whether I let you see your brother again.”

 

That was a lie, Sam thought as Lucifer left, guiding the captive teenager out with a hand on the back of his neck. Nothing was more pressing than Dean. Even when Sam had been away at Stanford, having rejected his family, Dean was no more than a phone call away. Now, when Sam needed his brother, they were separated, with no way of contacting each other. Sam allowed thick tears of self-pity to roll down his face, turning his head and squeezing his hands into his pillow. He needed Dean, and now it seemed he would never get the chance to tell him.

 

0o0o0o0o0

 

Dean cracked open his sixth beer of the night, eyes glazed as he played the video for at least the tenth time. He had gotten a response; something he had said must have struck a nerve, for Lucifer to order a video made. He ignored the half-dead kid reciting scripted lines nervously, his vision wavering as he stared at his beaten brother. Sam was alive, and apart from the bruises, swollen eye, and bloody lip, he appeared relatively unharmed. Dean had given Sam worse than that for spilling a bottle of whisky. Then again, Dean had never beaten Sam with the intention to harm him. He had beaten him to teach him a lesson, to punish him for his transgressions, but it had always been out of worry and care and love for his brother. No one but him had the right to touch Sam, especially not some megalomaniac bastard.

 

The camera was so positioned that Dean could not catch a glimpse of the outside, and searching the country for rooms with white walls and tan carpets would hardly narrow the search at all. Hell, for all Dean knew, the bastard had spirited Sam out of the country, and the video had been uploaded from the Czech Republic or Madagascar or some other place on the other side of the globe. Dean had sent the link to Ash, but somehow he doubted that the man would be able to pinpoint the IP address from which the video had been uploaded. Ash was a hell of a guy at tracking and masking internet coordinates, but Dean would bet money that Lucifer had some equally talented computer genius in charge of keeping busybodies from finding his location.

 

Dean sighed, slumping in his chair and pausing the video, drinking in Sam’s living visage. At least his brother was alive. If he lived, then Dean could find him, Lucifer’s warnings and threats be damned.

 

A slight shuffling drew Dean from his thoughts. He froze, his hand wrapped around his half-drunk bottle of beer, the buzzing in his head clearing as he focused on the noise. Soft words in a strange language carried from the living room, soothing and low in his ears. Dean’s heart thudded alarmingly loud in his chest. Castiel was still unconscious, and that was not his voice. Someone was in the house with them—a family member or a friend with a key, perhaps. Dean cursed himself for not remembering that not every family was as paranoid as his own. Some of them gave keys out easily; he had to act fast, to kill the intruder before they discovered the remains of the owners in the garage, soaking in plastic bags filled with bleach, but still clearly human and far from decomposed.

 

Like a damn rookie, Dean had not thought to bring a knife or a gun into the kitchen with him. As quietly as he could, Dean made his way to the cutlery drawer, palming the largest knife he could easily wield in his tipsy state. He took care to step lightly as he headed for the kitchen door, pushing it open with his palm and tip-toeing out into the living room.

 

He had to be drunker than he had thought. There was no other explanation for the sight before him—or at least, what he thought he saw, because it was so far out of the realm of possibility, he would have been less surprised to see Sam himself kneeling beside Cas, palm on his head, intoning words in a strange, guttural tongue. There was no way that the man he saw was actually there, because he was speaking, and only a few weeks ago, Dean had seen his brother cut out the man’s tongue and fling it across a motel room.

 

The scene did not change when Dean blinked and rubbed his lying eyes. Castiel’s brother knelt by the couch, focused on the prone body before him, chanting a rhythmic tune that made Dean quake at his core. “SOLPETH OL, MERIFRI PIRIPSOL DOOAIP OAID. TORZV, CASTIEL.” Dean shivered as the man intoned the words repeatedly, seeming almost to glow as he spoke. Beneath his hand, Castiel shifted, but did not open his eyes. “TORZV, CASTIEL. MADRIIAX OD CAOSGA VNIG G LONSA. TORZV.”

 

Dean shivered, tightening his grip on the knife. He willed his feet to move, but he remained frozen, as though stuck to the floor. Castiel’s brother rose, turning on his heels to face Dean, flicking his impossibly whole tongue tauntingly over his upper lip. “This is the last time I ever ask you to babysit,” he said, cheerful tone tainted by an undercurrent of menace. “Not that Castiel did the best job of watching your brother, but I didn’t expect to show up and find him comatose in your care.”

 

Dean wanted to speak, but his tongue curled back in his throat even as he opened his mouth to—to question the man, or to throw out a retort, he was not certain. Frustrated, he ran a finger across the blade of the knife as he struggled to regain control of his body. Castiel’s brother seemed to take delight in his predicament. “Oh, I know, this body of his is fragile. He’s only been locked away for a blink of a moment in time, but to his shattered mind, it’s been his entire life. I think you did him a favor in putting him in a coma; he should wake up and remember everything, if I’m right, and I’m pretty much always right.” Eyes made of liquid brandy darkened as the man looked up into Dean’s face. “You may have done him a favor, but you didn’t mean to. If we didn’t need you around, I would smite you right here.”

 

Dean’s tongue uncurled just enough to allow him to force a short “why?” from his throat. The word came out weak and stuttering, and he flushed in embarrassment.

 

“Because Sam needs you, and we need Sam.” Castiel’s brother took a step forward, and despite his diminutive stature, his presence seemed to fill the entire room. Were Dean not locked into place, he would have sunk to his knees in an attempt to placate the overpowering man. “You give Sam hope, and you’re the only one who can find him. Lucifer has him shielded from the rest of us. You find Sam, and you bring him back before he submits to Lucifer. Get him out, and have my little brother give me a ring. I can set this right, but I need Sam. Lucifer’s whole plan hinges around him.”

 

“Why should I trust you?” Dean forced out, his heart hammering against his chest as he glared at that unassuming, overwhelming man.

 

“Why don’t you ask Castiel? He should wake up in three, two, one—”

 

A sudden shriek drew Dean’s attention away from the man. His feet abruptly freed, Dean practically flew to the couch as Castiel convulsed, bright blue eyes flying open for the first time in days as screams ripped from his throat, piercing Dean’s ears with harsh agony. Out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn that he saw Castiel’s brother vanish into thin air, but the thought flashed through his mind for barely a fraction of a second before his attention was ripped away from the strange man. He seized Castiel’s hands in his, roughly squeezing them in an attempt to bring the man down from whatever was causing him such distress.

 

“Cas!” he shouted, digging his nails into Castiel’s palms. “Cas, be quiet! Stop, stop screaming, Cas, oh God Cas—”

 

“I remember,” Castiel breathed, sinking into the couch, his breaths quick and haggard. He stared at Dean, but his glassy eyes did not seem to register before him. “I remember everything. Who I am. Who I was. What I must do.”

 

“Cas?” Dean whispered, a spike of terror shooting through his chest.

 

The man blinked, his eyes focusing on Dean, as though seeing him for the first time. Dean shivered at the intensity of the gaze, which seemed to cut him to the core, piercing flesh and bone and even soul. “The righteous man, battered by sin, who drowns his soul in depravity and decadence to protect the fragile innocence within. The man who carves his glory and honor from his soul, but no matter how he mutilates it, it always returns, a seed that can never be carved away. Songs and poetry and untold gospels have been written about you, Dean Winchester.”

 

“Cas, what—” Clearly, the coma had messed with the other man’s mind. Dean was anything but righteous; he was a murderer, and it was a title to which he would lay proud claim. In any other situation, he would have laughed; now, terror bit at his insides, an uncomfortable feeling when directed at someone who he should have looked down on.

 

“Beneath your sinner’s shell lies a righteous soul, struggling to cast off its sins and live as God would have it,” Castiel breathed, reaching out with hands still clenched in Dean’s grip, brushing his fingers against a flannel clad shoulder.

 

“You’ve gone insane,” Dean whispered, releasing Castiel’s hands.

 

“Rather, I have regained my sanity,” Castiel corrected him, rising from the couch with impossibly steady limbs. “I remember everything. I am an angel of the Lord.”

 

“What—”

 

“God has granted me back my mind to help you stop Lucifer and prevent the genocide of the human race,” Castiel whispered, smiling at Dean, his eyes shining with frightening innocence. “And now that I remember, I will not waste this gift. I promise you, Dean, I will help you save your brother.” The sincerity in his voice shook Dean worse than a threat would have. “I will do whatever it takes to save Sam Winchester.”

Chapter Text

He could have so easily broken free of the shackles that bound him, curling about his powerful wrists and looped around the foot of the bed. With a thought, he could have sent them into nothingness; with a twitch, he could have snapped the chain. It made Dean feel better, though, to think that Castiel was trussed up and secure, and Castiel fully intended to handle Dean with kid gloves until they had retrieved Sam. The man’s broken soul deserved that much.

 

There had been a flurry of excitement in heaven when Dean was born. Michael’s vessel, one of the few truly righteous men, had at last come into existence. And there had been grief and wailing when the demon Azazel had broken John Winchester, setting Dean up for a life of hardship and misery. Castiel remembered watching Dean give in to nurture and human frailty, grief striking the whole Host as their righteous man built a monstrous shell to shield his soul from the torments of a murderous life. Many of the angels had written Dean Winchester off as a lost cause, a mistake, a deviation from God’s perfect plan. No soul could remain righteous while soaked in so much blood and sin.

 

Castiel had never lost faith, and even now he knew, deep in the essence of his being, that Dean was not a lost cause. God did nor err, could not err, and if Dean Winchester was destined for a path of righteousness, then he would eventually atone for his sins. It was not for Castiel to question God’s will, or even to wonder how a soul so shattered as Dean’s could ever become whole and glorious again. Faith and trust were the most important angelic qualities, and Castiel would cling to those at any cost—even more so now, having had his angelic nature ripped from him once. He might have a unique blend of human experiences to entwine with his angelic essence, but it could never change who he truly was. His mission was clear; he must save Dean Winchester’s soul at any cost, and if the man had to hit the bottom of human depravity before he could claw his way back to the light, then Castiel would remain a beacon, guiding Dean back to purity and goodness. It was as clear an order—no, it was clearer than any order Castiel had received from the leaders of his garrison.

 

So Castiel sat, his shoulders straining slightly in their unnatural position, and allowed Dean to stroke his hair, murmuring words aimed as much at his own comfort as at Castiel’s. “It’s for your own good, I’ll let you out as soon as your mind’s back on straight, but you have to understand—you’re sick, and you’ll get better, but I can’t have you running around freely when you’re in the middle of a psychotic break,” Dean babbled, the pads of his fingers gentle and soothing over Castiel’s scalp. Castiel closed his eyes in appreciation, leaning into the touch, allowing awe to settle in his chest. He was an angel, and more powerful than any human being, but as angels went, he was simply another number, a name and a face like any other in their ranks. This man, on the other hand, this small, fragile mortal, was one of God’s chosen. One of God’s chosen, and Castiel was in a position to guide him towards his heavenly purpose. It was a heavy duty, but an honorable one, and Castiel was breathless at the idea that he personally had a role, however small, to play in directing the righteous man towards salvation, towards his fate.

 

Castiel supposed that in ideal circumstances it would be Michael in his position. In ideal circumstances, Michael would be the one on the floor, bound to a human body, receiving comfort and offering guidance to his vessel. But Michael had gone missing years ago, and many among the Host feared that he may have fallen along the way of Lucifer. Lucifer, whose vessel was Sam Winchester, the boy whose birth had rocked the Host with trepidation and agony. Sam Winchester, around whose choices hinged the fate of Heaven and Earth, of humanity and of the Host. Sam Winchester, the Boy King, fated to rule the demons, who with a word could save or condemn humanity. Dean may have been a sure thing, but Sam was a wild card, his destiny a curious unknown in the gospels of heaven.

 

The memories burned, consuming Castiel with their intensity. He delighted in them, in the strange yet familiar sensation of knowledge, of being privy to not only his own past, but to God’s plan for the world. Perhaps if he had not been so enthralled by his memories, he would have taken greater note of the pressure building in his head, signaling the growing presence of another angel.

 

The burst of energy sent the room’s electrical wiring into chaos. Castiel leapt to his feet, snapping his cuffs in the process, as he stared hard at his fast emerging brother. Encased in a mortal vessel, Uriel’s essence still rang true in Castiel’s senses, spilling out around the human container in a blazing display of power. “Castiel,” he said, his true voice ringing in Cas’s ears over the low, smooth tones of his vessel. “It is good to see you again, brother.”

 

“Uriel,” Castiel breathed, practically vibrating in nervous anticipation. He had always liked Uriel, seen him as a friend even more than a comrade, but something was off about his presence. The hair on the back of Castiel’s neck raised in warning as he drank in the sight of his fellow angel, a being who Castiel would love to welcome under any other circumstances—but not now. Not when there was something so intense, almost predatory, about the way Uriel looked at him—a hunter watching his prey. “Why have you come here?”

 

“I have come for you, Castiel,” Uriel said, stepping forward to clasp Castiel’s shoulder in a firm grip, strong beneath his vessel’s weak human fingers. “I see that you have regained your sense of self. I suppose that is why Gabriel came to you—the last we had heard, you were still without memory.”

 

“Gabriel was here,” Castiel replied, guarded. “He awakened me to myself. Now I am better equipped to protect Dean Winchester and search for Sam. Why have you come here?”

 

Uriel shook his head, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. Again, Castiel was reminded of a hunter staring down his prey. “You’re not still a believer in Dean’s righteous soul, are you?” he asked, his gaze boring into Castiel, searching his face and his grace for an answer. “That righteous soul was destroyed the moment Samuel was conceived. You know why I’m here, Castiel.”

 

Lucifer. That explained a great deal. Of course the fallen archangel was not working alone—the garrisons of Heaven would have long found him otherwise. So many angels had lost faith in God’s plan the first time Dean had rent his soul—who else would they go to, with their faith in their absent father obliterated? “You know where Sam is,” he replied, stalling for time as he groped for a plan, his mind fluttering with disease. “You have been working with Lucifer to conceal him. Uriel, you know that this is wrong.”

 

Uriel’s face tightened with displeasure. “I curse Gabriel for giving you back your memories so carelessly,” he said, his grace rippling powerfully within his vessel. “You always were stubborn when you got an idea in your head. Hear me out, Castiel?” he asked, his dangerous tone broking no argument. “As my brother, as my comrade. Even as my friend. This does not need to end in bloodshed.”

 

Castiel hesitated, and nodded. Perhaps if he listened to Uriel, his fellow angel would be willing to listen to him in turn.

 

Uriel removed his hand from Castiel’s shoulder. “It has become increasingly clear that God’s supposed plans for this world have been abandoned,” he said, and his voice carried an aching undercurrent of betrayal and resignation. “Our father preferred humans to us. With the exception of Lucifer, all of us knew this and accepted it as his wisdom. But it’s not wise, Castiel, it’s cruel, and every last member of the host is in danger.” He swallowed, his words thick with emotion. “I was not convinced for some time that Lucifer had the right of it. It hurt that our father prefers the frailty of mankind to the loyalty of the angels, but I always accepted that our father is all knowing and forever just and wise. The first time Lucifer approached me, I attempted to kill him.” Uriel smiled distantly, caught up in some far off memory. “And then he brought me to Michael.”

 

“Michael has rebelled?” Castiel whispered, horrified. Uriel was bad enough, but Michael, God’s warrior, forever proud of his known position as the most loyal, the Good Son?

 

“No, Michael has seen our father’s ways for what they truly are,” Uriel spat bitterly. “You remember that he was gone for years, even before you were stripped of your mind and sent to Earth, do you not?” Castiel nodded slowly as memories of frantic searching and heavenly mourning flooded through him. “Michael was trapped here, chained and buried inside the body of a mortal child.” A growl ripped its way from Uriel’s throat. “It took Lucifer months, perhaps years, to draw him to the forefront of that child’s mind, to allow him to take control. Humanity is growing in power, if they have the means to trap angels and enslave us in their bodies. Is this God’s plan for us?” Uriel shouted, slamming his fist against his thigh for emphasis. “Confined and enslaved beneath the bootheels of a broken, degenerate race? It is no longer a matter of God’s preference, Castiel! God has abandoned us entirely!”

 

“He wouldn’t,” Castiel breathed, his chest constricting. “God would not throw us away like that. If he has graced mankind with the power to control us—”

 

“Where was that in God’s plan, Castiel?” Uriel snapped angrily. “Even you cannot lie down and accept domination at the hands of flawed, broken beings!” His eyes narrowed. “Then again, it looks like you already have. Why did you sit there, chained like a slave, until I arrived? No mortal has exercised power over you the way that child did to Michael.”

 

“Listen, Uriel,” Castiel commanded, his heart heavy as he gazed at his anguished brother. “I am still here because I choose to be here. Our strength is in our faith, brother.” He extended his arms wide, begging for Uriel to heed his words, for God to come down and soothe the angel in front of him, to assure him that all was as planned, all was as it should be. “I do not know what happened with Michael and the child, but God would not simply abandon us. And Michael’s vessel is here, broken and scarred, but ultimately still the righteous soul we have been promised from the beginning of time. You must let me heal him, Uriel. Heal his soul, so that God’s plan can be set in motion.” An idea sparked in Castiel’s mind, the desperate prayer of a child. “Help me, brother,” he pleaded, reaching for Uriel, laying a hand on his shoulder and allowing his essence to brush over the tormented angel before him. “It is not too late to leave Lucifer and come back to us. Please—bring back Sam Winchester and help me save Dean. Mankind is not so fallen as you believe.”

 

Uriel met Castiel’s eyes, cold and unyielding as he stared deep into Castiel’s grace. “You trust God so completely, you would condemn us all to genocide and slavery in chasing folly,” he said finally, his voice heavy with resignation. “There is nothing left to salvage in Dean Winchester’s blood-stained soul. There is only one option; fight, and eradicate these fallen beings before they destroy us all.” Castiel opened his mouth to argue, but Uriel swiftly cut him off. “I had hoped I would not be forced to do this, brother.”

 

Castiel saw Uriel’s movements just in time. He released his brother and leapt backwards, narrowly avoiding death on the end of the angel’s blade. “You do not have to do this!” he cried, leaping onto the bed as Uriel lunged forward, stabbing directly where Castiel’s chest had been. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement; Dean was standing in the doorway, jaw slackened, a shiny black handgun at his side. Castiel shook his head warningly, dropping off the bed and backing away from Uriel.

 

“I will not stand by and watch my entire kind suffer death because of soft-hearted, faith-blinded fools like you, Castiel,” Uriel growled, stalking forward. Castiel moved, his back to the wall, heart hammering as Uriel slowly backed him into the corner. “If you cannot see that God has forsaken us, it will be my duty to destroy you before you can assist in our downfall.”

 

Castiel’s shoulders pressed against the wall as he leaned away from his brother’s blade. Uriel’s hand shook, his face sorrowful as he lined the blade up against Castiel’s throat. “Uriel, please,” Castiel begged, seizing the angel’s wrist. “Think about what you are doing. God—”

 

“God is dead, or as good as it, for all he has done for us,” Uriel snarled, digging the point of the blade into Castiel’s throat. “But since you’re so determined to hang on to this pointless pipe dream of a loving father, I will give you a moment to pray.”

 

“No!”

 

Castiel’s head snapped around only a fraction of a second behind Uriel’s. Dean raised his gun and opened fire, emptying the cylinder into Uriel’s back. With a growl, the angel slammed Castiel’s head against the wall, adjusting his grip on the angel blade as he turned to face the shaking human.

 

Dean’s face drained of all color, his freckles standing out starkly against mottled white skin, green eyes glistening with something that might have been the beginnings of tears. He trembled as he held the empty gun trained on Uriel, his finger twitching against the useless trigger. “Don’t you fucking touch him,” he forced out, his voice quivering with rage, laced with terror.

 

“Are you going to stop me, boy?” Castiel could hear Uriel’s dark amusement twining its way through his words. “Armed with an empty weapon, and one that wouldn’t do anything to stop me at the best of times. Does that make you brave, or stupid?” Uriel cast a triumphant look back at Castiel. “I think it makes him stupid, don’t you, Castiel?”

 

As a trained soldier of one of Heaven’s finest garrisons, Castiel had spent his entire life learning to watch for an opening, and swiftly take it. Uriel took a step towards Dean, and Castiel saw his chance. He leapt on the other angel, wrapping his legs around the vessel’s waist, and seized Uriel’s wrists with both hands, grasping at the hilt of his blade. Uriel roared in fury, leaping backwards to slam Castiel against the wall. Were he still bound so completely to a mortal form as he had been for the past six years, the impact would have surely knocked Castiel unconscious; with his angelic powers restored to him, it simply made his vision waver briefly. With a triumphant battle cry, he pried the blade from Uriel’s fingers, dropping his legs from Uriel’s waist so that only the body of his vessel held Castiel against the wall, pinned several inches off the floor. He plunged the blade into Uriel’s stomach and wrenched upwards, disemboweling his brother in one clean stroke of the blade.

 

The vessel slumped, and Uriel writhed within it, gasping as the mortal wound began to take its toll. “Cover your eyes!” Castiel shouted at Dean, who threw himself to the ground with his hands clamped over his face. Uriel’s dying essence burst from the vessel, his grace sputtering feebly as he instinctively tried to recover from the mortal wound, to no avail. With one last betrayed cry, which reverberated in Castiel’s grace and shook him to the core, his brother burst into nothing but white light, his grace curling in on itself before vanishing, leaving nothing but a bloody vessel on the floor and scorched wing marks on the carpet and walls.

 

Castiel panted, dropping the blade and sinking to his knees. With a trembling hand, he reached forth to brush the face of Uriel’s vessel. The man had a good soul, loyal to God and devout in every way that mattered. He had never asked for the angel inside of him to go rogue. “Rest, now,” Castiel whispered, though the man’s soul had fled for heaven as soon as the angel blade had pierced his skin. The loss of his brother weighed heavily upon him; in the back of his mind, he could hear a resounding wail as the host of Heaven noticed the abrupt silence of Uriel’s voice, a ghost where his presence had been. Castiel bit back a sob; Uriel might have strayed, might have made an attempt on Castiel’s life, but he had been his brother before anything else, and killing him had brought no satisfaction. The senselessness of the situation overwhelmed Castiel, and a tear slid down his cheek as he traced over the imprint of his brother’s wings with a listless finger.

 

This was Lucifer’s fault. Lucifer had twisted the situation of the angel’s, blasphemed against God’s plan, had been the one to lead Uriel to rebellion. He had taken Castiel’s brother from him, wounding him even more than he had wounded Dean in snatching Sam. Another silent tear slid down Castiel’s cheek, followed by another, until the dam inside him snapped. He crumpled to the ground, clutching at the scorched carpet, the last tangible sign that his brother had ever existed.

           

Castiel flinched violently as a gentle hand brushed down his spine. He looked up, Dean’s concerned face blurry, obscured by the tears that streamed from his eyes. “Cas,” Dean whispered, reaching out to trail a hand over his jaw. “Oh my god, Cas.”

 

Castiel allowed Dean to pull him into a tight embrace, leaning forward to rest his forehead against his captor’s shoulder. Dean’s large, calloused hand rubbed soothing circles down Castiel’s back, careful to avoid the copper ring between his shoulders. “I thought he was going to kill you,” Dean whispered, his voice cracking. “And I—I shouldn’t care, but then he had that knife to your throat, and I—”

 

“He was going to kill me,” Castiel whispered, clutching Dean’s shirt with tight, white-knuckled hands. “But it wasn’t his fault—not really,” he said, wiping his eyes on Dean’s shoulder. His captor did not protest, squeezing Castiel gently as he tightened his arms around him.

 

“Who was he?” Dean asked, shifting against Castiel as he turned his head in the direction of Uriel’s dead vessel. “I don’t even know how he got in here.”

 

“Uriel,” Castiel whispered, his voice catching on the angel’s name. “My brother. We were… We were comrades, once. Friends, family, soldiers of the same garrison. And Lucifer twisted him against us.” He shuddered. “He came to convert me or kill me. I do not think that he saw another option.”

 

Dean tensed around him. “Why does Lucifer want you?” he asked softly, his voice darkening around the name of the fallen archangel.

 

Castiel shrugged. “The more soldiers, the better,” he said, drawing back slightly so that he could look into Dean’s face. “I suppose he thought that I would be easy prey, having only recently regained my mind. He may not have even known that I remember myself.”

 

Dean’s face hardened, his bright green eyes flashing angrily. “First he takes Sam, now he threatens you?” he said slowly, clutching at Castiel’s flesh as though to reassure himself that he angel was still with him. “I’ll kill the bastard,” Dean swore furiously. “I’m gonna find Sam, and I’m gonna kill him!”

 

“Dean, you can’t,” Castiel replied earnestly.

 

“Cas, I know he’s your brother—”

 

“No, I mean, you can’t kill him. Literally, it’s impossible.” Castiel sighed. “Even I can’t kill him.”

 

“Watch me,” Dean replied darkly, the muscles in his throat twitching as he stared past Castiel.

 

Castiel reached up to cup Dean’s jaw, his pale, sun-deprived skin a pleasant contrast to Dean’s tan. Dean blinked, the touch seeming to bring him back to his senses. Castiel hesitated, his mind at war with itself, and then leaned forward, pressing his lips against Dean’s in a gentle kiss.

 

This was wrong on so many levels. All those times when Dean had assaulted him had been an act of violence, a war tactic committed against another human. Thousands of times Castiel had seen such a strategy put in place over the course of human history, and while it made his stomach roll, he understood it as a means of control. This was no assault; it was not about dominance or breaking the enemy, as Dean’s attacks on him had been. This was an act between captor and captive, a forbidden kiss between angel and human, a brush of angelic grace against a ruined mortal soul, hardly better than falling in an explicit act of rebellion. And yet, Castiel knew that where words would not get through to Dean, wordless actions could heal him.

 

He would sate Dean’s desire for revenge and heal his soul through methods Dean understood. The flesh could help Dean understand where words and faith would not. Castiel felt a twinge of sorrow that his righteous man had been so corrupted, only an act forbidden by heaven could get through to him, but surely this was a lesser sin than allowing Dean to continue to stray. Surely, if he submitted his body to Dean, built up a bond between them, and allowed that bond to piece together the man’s soul, God would forgive him this transgression. At the very least, Dean’s soul could not be harmed by such comfort, as shattered and twisted as it was.

 

Dean sat stock still against him, and for a split second Castiel thought that he had been mistaken in his choice of actions. Then Dean moved, pushing Castiel to the floor, his tongue sweeping over the man’s lips in a request for entrance. Castiel parted his lips, entwining his tongue with Dean’s as the man pressed his torso against Castiel’s chest, kissing him with an intense fervor that sent pleasant shocks down the angel’s spine. He moaned into Dean’s mouth, wrapping his arms around the man’s torso, pulling him flush against his chest and gripping him tight.

 

Dean pushed himself up, his eyes bright as he stared into Castiel’s gaze. “Why did you kiss me?” he whispered, disbelieving, unblinking as Castiel drank in sparkling green irises and sun-kissed skin.

 

“Because I need to get through to you,” Castiel replied softly. “Because I wanted to. You can still be saved, Dean Winchester.”

 

Dean’s lips twitched in a slight smile. “You’re a basket case,” he said, pressing his forehead against Castiel’s. “A basket case with a heavy dose of Stockholm’s Syndrome.”

 

“Perhaps,” Castiel replied, trailing a hand down the smooth expanse of Dean’s back. “Perhaps my memories are the product of a coma, and I don’t know what I am doing. You may believe this, if it gives you comfort.” He tilted his head up, sweeping his lips across Dean’s in a light kiss. “Sane or not, regardless of my intentions, I am offering myself up to you. Dean Winchester shall be saved.”

 

“You can’t save someone who doesn’t want it,” Dean whispered, curving his head around to nip at Castiel’s earlobe, and the sensation was so intense, so consuming, it sent a surge of desire coursing through Castiel’s body. He moaned, allowing his hands to drop to his sides as Dean plundered the side of his neck, sucking large, dark marks in a haphazard line from Castiel’s ear to his collarbone. “If you’re hoping to fix me,” he said, his lips vibrating against Castiel’s skin, “you’re going to be very disappointed.”

 

“We shall see,” Castiel gasped, his fingers curling as Dean licked and sucked the same spot until Castiel thought that he was going to explode. His body throbbed, desire coursing through his veins, blood rushing to his length at a speed that left him light-headed.

 

Dean smiled regretfully, sitting up to peel his flannel over shirt off of his shoulders. He yanked his grey cotton T-shirt over his head and tossed it to the side, shimmying out of his jeans and boxers with breathtaking speed. Castiel had never before appreciated Dean’s beauty; now, he reached up to trace a hand over the hard planes of Dean’s chest, marveling at the solid muscle and sleek lines that composed the man above him. Castiel’s years as a human had given him insight into mortal beauty, but Dean Winchester surpassed such standards; if the host had possessed natural understanding of physical beauty, they would have wept at the sight of him.

 

In his coma, Dean had seen fit to dress Castiel in a soft T-shirt and a pair of oversized sweatpants. He pulled at the waistband of the soft green fabric as though requesting permission; Castiel divested himself of his shirt as Dean tugged his pants over his legs, tossing them aside with his own shirts. Castiel gasped, arching up, as Dean lowered his body over Castiel’s own, the sheer heat of flesh on flesh searing him to the core. His cock twitched as Dean’s own interested length brushed against it. Dean moaned, grinding down against Castiel, the friction sending waves of pleasure rolling through Castiel’s body.

 

“Bed,” Dean gasped, pushing himself to his feet and extending a hand to the angel. Castiel allowed Dean to help him up, and staggered over to the soft, inviting covers of the large bed, a few feet much too far away. He collapsed onto soft flannel, pulling Dean unceremoniously on top of him. Dean wiggled, pushing Castiel to the center of the bed, and lifted his torso to drink in the sight of the angel beneath him.

 

Castiel reached for Dean with a steady hand, clasping his shoulder tightly. “Anything you desire is yours,” he whispered, and from the way Dean shuddered at his words, he was sure that his sincerity passed from his eyes into the man’s soul. Dean nodded, bending forward to mouth at his chest, trailing his lips from Castiel’s collarbone down to his navel. Castiel gasped, hips bucking instinctively, as Dean swirled his tongue around the dip in his skin, but the sensation was quickly overwhelmed as Dean reached between his legs with a calloused hand and rolled his palm across Castiel’s balls. Castiel cried out, arching into the touch, as Dean rolled his sack in a warm, gentle grip, kneading the flesh as his mouth descended to place a tender kiss at the base of Castiel’s shaft.

 

It was all Castiel could do to keep from arching up into the man’s mouth. His hands fisted the bedspread as Dean trailed his tongue across Castiel’s erection and down over his thighs, sucking lightly at tender flesh. Castiel whimpered, his hips delivering short, desperate thrusts into the empty air. Dean laughed softly, his breath ghosting over Castiel’s skin. “Please,” Castiel gasped, the word thick, barely coherent on his tongue.

 

“I’ll take care of you,” Dean whispered, licking the crease between Castiel’s thigh and his perineum. Castiel groaned, his breath coming in short pants, as Dean kissed his way back up Castiel’s body, latching gently onto one of his nipples and pulling with his teeth. He drew his hand away from Castiel’s balls, and Castiel moaned at the loss, but then Dean drew his hand up Castiel’s side to circle his other nipple, and the sensation that crashed over him all but erased any rational thought. He screamed, arching into the touch, his shoulders all but coming off the bed.

 

“Like that you’re a screamer,” Dean mumbled around Castiel’s nipple. With his free hand, he reached for the bedside drawers, fumbling the top drawer open blindly and pulling out a partially used bottle of lube. “Gonna wreck your voice, make you forget how to talk.”

 

“Please,” Castiel gasped, unsure if he was asking for Dean to continue his ministrations, or if he was asking Dean to make good on his promise. It was probably both.

 

Dean smiled, drawing away from Castiel’s chest. Castiel moaned at the loss, writhing beneath Dean, his cock throbbing in protest at the loss of contact. Dean looked at him, smiling, and ghosted a hand across his swollen erection. “Wait for me, Cas,” he crooned, popping the cap to the lube and drizzling an obscene amount over his fingers. “Just wait. Gonna take care of you, I promise.”

 

Castiel pushed his knees up, getting his feet under him and raising his ass off the bed. Dean’s mouth twitched, amused, as he pressed a well-lubed finger into Castiel. The angel hissed at the burn, shuffling his feet to spread his legs wider, making room for a second finger, and then a third.

 

Castiel felt pulled tight as a bow when a fourth finger breached his body. His erection throbbed with need, the pressure building up inside of him, but without outside friction, it was just on the underside of enough. He whined, pushing back against Dean’s fingers. Dean shushed him, withdrawing his hand, hastily pouring more lube onto his cock. “Almost ready,” Dean breathed, his finger frantic as he coated his erection, his dry hand moving to Castiel’s hip. “I’ve got you, Cas. I got you.”

 

Castiel screamed, pleasure ricocheting through his body, as Dean pushed in with one solid thrust, angled in just the right way to slam over his prostate. “Fuck,” Dean gasped, a feral glint in his eyes as he drank in the sight of Castiel splayed out beneath him. “Fuck. Never knew you’d be like this,” he groaned, his words barely intelligible as he pulled out slightly, snapping his hips forward into Castiel’s body.

 

Dean set a punishing pace, dragging Castiel’s body back and forth across the bed as his fingers tightened on the angel’s hips, bruising the skin underneath. Castiel moaned, instinctively reaching up to grasp the headboard, grounding himself just enough to allow him to push back into Dean’s thrusts.

 

The relentless pounding against his prostate drew moans and screams from Castiel, who writhed beneath Dean even as he thrust against the man’s cock. His erection screamed for attention, but any attempt Castiel made to remove his hands from the headboard sent him sliding across the bed, helpless to remain still. He tried to plead, to beg Dean to touch him, but the words that formed in his head came out of his mouth as unintelligible cries of pleasure. Dean rutted into him, picking up the pace to a point that Castiel would have deemed impossible, his balls slapping against Castiel’s flesh as he drove him up to the headboard, only to wrench him back.

 

Dean leaned forward, tightening his grip on Castiel’s hip and digging his forearm into the man’s side for purchase as he finally reached for the angel’s swollen, purpling erection. Castiel screamed, his vision going white as he orgasmed at the first touch. He sagged, dropping his hands from the headboard and allowing his body to shift as Dean thrust into him several more times before finishing with a low, stuttered moan.

 

Dean collapsed onto the bed, rolling off of Castiel and pulling him into a loose embrace. Castiel limply allowed the man to pull him against his chest, limbs watery and limp as his body tried to process the aftershocks of his orgasm. “I didn’t know you’d be like that,” Dean muttered hazily, burying his face in the crook of Castiel’s neck. “Cas,” he breathed, inhaling deeply, his breath tickling Castiel’s sweat-drenched, overheated skin.

 

It was with some shock that Castiel realized that this was probably the first time that Dean had had sex with a willing partner who was not his brother, or for no other reason than because it was offered and wanted. The realization seared his essence, but it was tempered by the knowledge that this was something that he could give Dean. Already, a connection was blooming between them, and hopefully it would be enough for Dean to let him in, allow Castiel to save his soul.

 

And that was the reason Castiel was offering his body to Dean, after all. It had nothing to do with desire or pleasure or sparkling green eyes that gazed at him with broken, confused tenderness. He was simply in this to piece together Dean’s soul—the soul of his righteous man was motive enough. Castiel clamped down on any thoughts that would suggest otherwise, but even as he did, he could not help but notice that Dean’s gentle embrace was soothing, luring him to blissful sleep.

Chapter Text

She had learned to expect the unexpected in the several years since her son had been taken from her by demons and the devil himself. Linda Tran no longer had any qualms about allowing herself to be taken from her house in the dead of night, blindfolded and compliant in the backseat of various cars, as demonic entities drove her from state to state at random. Sick leave and paid vacation days had long since ceased to be used for their intended purposes; seeing her son, confirming that he was still alive, was of infinitely greater importance than having a day at home to deal with sniffles.

 

The first year had been a drawn out mess of battles with police forces and lawyers, struggling to retrieve Kevin and bring him home. As time had gone by, Linda had lost hope that any human organization could locate her son, much less bring him home. She would have to content herself with seeing him on the rare occasion when he had “earned” the privilege, a harsh reality that left a bitter taste in her mouth.

 

Still, as desperate and miserable as the situation was, everything was worth it at moments like this. Linda embraced her son under the watchful eye of one of Lucifer’s many minions, his sickly frame emaciated and weak beneath her arms. Lucifer poisoned him regularly, Kevin had told her. Anything it took to keep his captive prophet weak and compliant, unable to escape. The knobs of his spine pressed painfully against her fingertips, and Linda bit back the scathing words that she longed to throw at the demon in the room.

 

Kevin clung to her shirt with jaundiced, shaky hands, much the way he had when he had been a small child afraid of thunderstorms and the dark. Linda rubbed soothing circles across her son’s prominent spine, patiently waiting for him to speak. There had been a certain purpose in the demeanor of the demons who had fetched her this time, an unusual occurrence that rang ominous in her mind.

 

Kevin pulled back, a slight smile crossing his gaunt, starved features. “It’s good to see you, Mom,” he said, his voice thick and wavery with emotion. “Are you all right? They didn’t hurt you on the way over, did they?”

 

Linda’s heart ached at the concern in her son’s voice. A prisoner of the devil, and still her good-hearted boy found the time to worry about her well-being. “They never have,” she assured him, guiding Kevin to a rickety chair. He collapsed gratefully, his tortured, weakened body unaccustomed to standing for long. If only she knew how to kill that bastard who called himself an angel! She would take him out in a heartbeat, if for no other reason than to impress upon him the grievous wrong he had committed in taking her child from her.

 

“Good,” Kevin said, propping his arm up against his knee and resting his chin in his palm. “I didn’t think they would, not when they’re supposed to be rewarding me, but I don’t trust the bastards.”

 

“Really, Kevin, I’m crushed that you think so poorly of my men.” Linda clenched her fists at the demon’s oily words, his crisp, accented voice a blight upon their meeting, reminding her that even when she was present, her son was a captive, always at the mercy of Lucifer’s forces. “A deal’s a deal, and I don’t harm my customers.”

 

A deal? “Kevin, what is he talking about?” Linda demanded sharply, scanning her son’s face for answers. Kevin flinched guiltily under her disapproving stare, fiddling awkwardly with the thin, worn fabric of his too-small jeans.

 

“Mom, this is Crowley,” Kevin said slowly, the words falling reluctantly from his lips. “He’s a salesman of sorts. He makes deals.”

 

“Kevin,” Linda snapped, her heart thudding painfully in her chest. It was impossible. Her sweet, shy son would never make a deal with a demon—would he? It was at times like this that Linda was painfully aware of how little she knew of the details of her son’s captivity. “Kevin, tell me you didn’t make a deal with this—demon.”

 

Kevin fidgeted uncomfortably. “Just hear me out, okay?” he said, his voice small and uncertain, still every bit the child he had been on the day Lucifer’s minions had snatched him from their family home. “It’s not a typical demon deal. I didn’t sell my soul or anything.”

 

“Really, as touching as your assurances are, you might want to tell your mother what’s going on before Lucifer gets the bright idea to send in some of his busy-bodies.” Crowley tapped his foot impatiently behind them, the click of dress shoes upon stone unnaturally loud in the open dungeon. “Just cut to the chase, and I’ll leave you two to your happy reunion.”

 

Kevin glanced up, looking over Linda’s shoulder at the demon behind her. “I’m guessing you saw the video Lucifer made me make. You know he’s got Sam Winchester trapped here as well.”

 

As if she could have ignored it. The sight of her son, frightened and shaking in the presence of the country’s most infamous serial killer, incapacitated as he was, had haunted her nightmares for days. She nodded, indicating to Kevin that he should continue.

 

“See, Lucifer’s trying to get Sam to join him and submit to possession. And he’s holding out really well. It’s actually kind of impressive.” Impressive was not a term Linda would have ever imagined her son using in reference to a mass murderer, but Linda supposed that prolonged exposure to demons and horror would warp anyone’s perspective, even her own child’s. “Thing is, with or without Sam, Lucifer’s going to go genocidal on the planet anyways. And Sam’s going to break eventually. The things these bastards come up with—” Kevin’s voice broke. A shudder rolled through his shoulders, nearly sending his frail body to the ground. Linda placed a hand on her son’s back to steady him.

 

“Lucifer’s going to kill everyone and take over,” Kevin said quietly. “That’s his plan. The only reason I’m still alive is because I’m useful, and the only reason you haven’t been killed is because I refuse to reveal any prophecies if they hurt you. But it’s not going to last. When Lucifer kills everyone, we’re going too. He won’t have any need for me if all God’s plans are wrecked—not much use for a prophet if God can be wrong.”

 

“I see,” Linda said, her son’s heartbreakingly cold logic all too understandable. “So you made a deal to do what, exactly?”

 

Kevin swallowed hard. “Crowley thinks that once Lucifer eradicated humanity, demons will be next,” he said. “He offered a deal to Sam. Pretend to submit to Lucifer, and find a way to ice him before he can jump his bones. It’s a pretty pathetic plan, but it’s the only one with a chance of working.”

 

“It’s only pathetic if you’re short-sighted and stupid,” Crowley remarked idly.

 

Kevin ignored the dig at his intellect, another clear sign of the effects of captivity. Before he had been taken, her son would have had a witty reply for anyone who dared insinuate that he was lacking in brain-power. “Sam’s stubborn. He’s not taking the deal. As Lucifer’s precious prophet,” Kevin spat, “I have certain privileges that most of his prisoners don’t. That includes access to the other people Lucifer’s keeping here, including Sam. I told Crowley that I would help him convince Sam to take his deal.”

 

“In exchange for what?” Linda asked, her hand tightening unconsciously on Kevin’s back. She winced, letting up on the pressure immediately as her son’s skeletal shoulders, unused to human contact, dropped under the weight of her grip.

 

“There’s going to be casualties no matter what in this mess,” Kevin said, fixing his eyes on the floor. “I don’t want you caught up in it. Crowley says he can keep you safe when things go south.”

 

It wasn’t right. As a parent, it was her job to protect Kevin, not the other way around. Linda swallowed hard, her jaw clenching as she mulled over the implications of this deal. As far as bargains with demons went, this one seemed practically benign, and yet it still left a foul taste in her mouth. How much of it was because of the deal itself, and how much was due to the situation that her son should have never been forced into, she could not say.

 

“Mom?” Kevin glanced up, his expression guarded, as though he expected her to scream at him.

 

That would never do. Linda enveloped her son in a hug, careful to keep from putting too much pressure on his weakened frame. “I’m not going to lie to you, Kevin,” she said, gently squeezing him. “I don’t like it. I don’t trust any demon, no matter how good their deal sounds.”

 

“I should be offended by that,” Crowley remarked idly. Linda growled, glancing over her shoulder to glare at the demon.

 

“I don’t like it, but I understand why you did this,” she said, pushing Kevin back slightly so that she could meet his eyes. She hoped that her face conveyed what her words could not; pride and grief and the fierce determination to keep her son from any more torment. “I won’t tell you that you made the right choice, but you didn’t make the wrong one either. You’re a good kid, Kevin. Just—” she gulped down the bile that rose in her throat at the thoughts that roiled through her mind. “Just keep in mind that this is not something you can make a habit of. Deals with shady characters need to be kept to a minimum. I appreciate you wanting to keep me safe, but I don’t want you to lose yourself in the process.”

 

“I won’t,” Kevin whispered, his eyes glistening as he held back tears that Linda was sure he had shed a thousand times already. No child—no human—should ever have to go through the torment these bastards had inflicted upon her son. “This is necessary. I wouldn’t do it otherwise.”

 

“Are we done with the television drama?” Crowley demanded tartly. “The longer we talk about this, the more we risk one of Lucifer’s goons walking in on us. I suggest that you two stop talking politics and the end of the world and start talking fruitcake and banal everyday life, or whatever it is you do during your little get-togethers.”

 

If she did find a way to kill Lucifer, this obnoxious demon would be next on her list. Linda forced a smile, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. Crying would not help her son. These visits were the bright point to his captivity, and she intended to keep it that way. “Work’s going well,” she said roughly, taking a moment to compose herself. “And your grandparents are stopping by this weekend. Is there anything in particular you want to know?”

 

Some day, she would see every last demon who had come in contact with her son ripped to shreds. Until then, all she could do was wait, hope, pray, and offer him what solace she could. Linda allowed the conversation to turn to safer, more normal topics, acutely aware of Crowley’s watchful eyes burning into her and her son. Watch away, she thought grimly, because I’ll see you all destroyed for coming near my family.

 

0o0o0o0o0

 

Necessity was not quite enough to drive the apprehension from Dean’s mind as he parked the Impala behind a large brick building, home to an empty slaughterhouse. It was fitting, how Alastair chose his locations. If their last encounter was anything to go by, Dean would be little more than so much ground meat himself by the time he left the building.

 

It was for Sam, Dean reminded himself. Anything that brought him closer to locating his brother would be worth it, including Alastair’s sick little torture games. Dean was a saint compared to the man, he thought, but he could not locate his brother on his own.

 

His footsteps echoed across hard concrete down cinderblock halls as he made his way to the main slaughter room. It had been cleaned before it was last shut down; the floor nearly shone, the carcass hooks were shiny, and the worn conveyor belt was covered by only a thin layer of dust. No amount of bleach, however, could cover the smell of old blood and death.

 

Alastair stood by the conveyor belt, practically lounging against the still, broken device. “You don’t waste time setting the scene,” Dean called by way of greeting, ignoring his churning stomach. A delighted grin crossed Alastair’s face, his eyes crinkling with amusement.

 

“You really are the brave one, aren’t you, Deano?” he said, scratching his chin idly with a thin finger. “Shall we get the preliminaries out of the way?”

 

“You said you have information for me,” Dean said curtly, his mind flashing back to the short, cryptic voicemail the demon had left on his phone.

 

“That I do,” Alastair said, smiling at him. “Come. I’ll get you secured, and then I’ll tell you—scout’s honor. Can’t have you running away on me after you get your information, you know.”

 

“And lose my informant?” Dean scowled. “I don’t trust you to get me tied up and still tell me. Information first, and you get your rocks off after.”

 

Alastair chuckled. “So headstrong,” he replied thoughtfully. “All right. Let’s make a deal. I’ll give you the information in pieces. For everything I tell you, you let me secure a limb, and when I’ve told you everything I have for you, we’ll get to the good stuff, all right?”

 

Dean took a moment to mull over the offer. “Fine,” he said after a long moment. “But you go first.” He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and took several long strides so that he was standing almost directly next to Alastair.

 

Rancid breath ghosted across Dean’s neck as Alastair leaned forward, speaking in a low voice. “Lucifer has many strongholds, and all of them are hidden and anonymous. I found one of them.” Before Dean had time to even open his mouth, Alastair seized his arm, twisting it up behind his back and clicking a shackle around his wrist.

 

“This stronghold is in Omaha.” With a short, powerful jerk, Alastair manhandled Dean’s other arm behind his back, cuffing his wrist. He pressed against Dean, using his chest to hold the man’s arms in place, and grabbed a third pair of cuffs, wrapping the abnormally long chain around Dean’s throat and fastening the ends to the free shackles of each pair of wrist cuffs, effectively trapping Dean’s arms behind his back. Any attempt to tug at the cuffs would choke him; Dean froze, stock still, as Alastair bent him forward, leaning over him to whisper in his ear. “I don’t know if Lucifer himself will be there. But this time next week, he’s sending one of his generals, Azazel, out to keep an eye on things. Let’s just say that Azazel is, hm, well acquainted with your brother.” He drove his heel into the back of Dean’s knees; Dean dropped, thudding painfully to the concrete floor.

 

“Talk to your little friend Castiel,” Alastair hissed in Dean’s ear. “He’s got his ways. He’ll be able to kill Azazel, and take for questioning the person Azazel’s bringing with him. I think you’ll find the little birdy more than cooperative.”

 

“He’ll help me find Sam?” Dean asked, wheezing as harsh metal pressed against his throat.

 

“Oh, very much. He’s one of Lucifer’s bitches, not one of his minions. Of course, you’ll have to hope you’re delectable little friend Castiel can kill Azazel before he kills you.” Alastair’s wiry beard rasped against Dean’s cheek, and he could feel the change in the demon’s face as he grinned. “Personally, I’m rooting for you over Azazel. He was always a pompous ass, and you—you show potential. Rare, in a human.”

 

Dean gritted his teeth, but he refused to rise to the bait. With a low laugh, Alastair stood back, pressing a powerful hand to the back of Dean’s neck. Dean bowed his head, choking slightly as the links of the chain pressed unrelentingly against his skin. “That’s all the information I’ve got for you. Now, let’s play.”

 

A rough cloth pressed against Dean’s eyes, blinding him entirely. Alastair secured the blindfold with an efficient knot, and shoved a pair of earplugs deep into Dean’s ears, the smooth foam wiggling in deep enough to brush against his eardrums. Instinctively, Dean tossed his head, earning him a sharp slap. Rough, bony fingers held his jaw steady as Alastair clipped a clamp over his nose, cutting off Dean’s airways. He gasped, his mouth dropping open to take in air, and Alastair took the opportunity to shove a circular ring gag in his mouth, keeping him from closing his lips or teeth.

 

Dean shoved down the panic that rose in his chest as Alastair hauled him to his feet and spun him around, disorienting him. His legs gave out much too quickly when the demon pressed down on his shoulders, and he fell hard back to the ground, his knees screaming as they came in contact too fast with rough concrete. Panting, Dean forced himself to quiet, gripping his thumbs in a feeble attempt to find something safe to hold. It was only one night; he could get through a single night without his senses.

 

Something small and light tickled the edge of Dean’s lips. He tossed his head, and Alastair roughly seized his chin, holding him still. Spindly, insectoid legs scuttled across his tongue, and Dean heaved as Alastair pushed the thing—the creature, it had to be a bug—towards the back of his throat with a single finger. Alastair’s hand was unrelenting; he gagged, reflexively swallowing as the demon pressed against the back of his throat. A live, squirming body rolled down his throat, tickling the inside of his esophagus and triggering his gag reflex, yet Alastair kept his hand in place, forcing Dean to keep down whatever he had just swallowed.

 

Alastair withdrew his hand, only to return it with several more bugs. Dean forced himself to relax his throat, swallowing the insects as Alastair fed them to him. It was disgusting, but it could be worse. Some people ate insects, after all. It wouldn’t kill him. Alastair wanted him alive; he would not feed him anything poisonous.

 

Dean tensed as Alastair hooked a long, hollow tube to the ring gag, twisting it tightly into place. A dull murmur suggested that the demon had said something, but industrial level earplugs were a hell of a muffler, Dean thought wryly. A firm hand gripped his chin and tilted Dean’s head back; he tensed at the change in position, every nerve alert for some indication of what was to come.

 

A small, squirming insect dropped onto his tongue, and another, and suddenly it was as though Alastair had emptied a jar of beetles into the tube—a distinct possibility, now that he thought of it. Dean gagged, sucking in air from the corners of his mouth, as insects spilled across his tongue, skittering across the insides of his cheeks. A wail rose, unbidden, in the back of his throat; he convulsed, reflexively trying to force the small, hard bodies out of his mouth. Alastair tilted his head back, tapping the underside of his chin with a commanding finger, and he swallowed hard, dragging the squirming bodies down his throat. Dean could swear he felt each bug’s legs dragging along his esophagus, fighting the journey down to his stomach. He heaved, vomiting bile and dead insects into his mouth, but there was nowhere for them to go. Tears streamed down his face as he swallowed repeatedly, struggling to calm his insides, until the last bug had dropped into his stomach. Only then did Alastair release his chin, allowing him to drop his head. Panicked, disgusted sobs shook Dean’s shoulders as the demon unscrewed the tube from the gag, pulling it free and swiping a finger along the inside of Dean’s mouth. He shuddered, dry, pitiful heaves convulsing through him, Alastair’s finger stroking his throat to encourage him to keep the mess of bodies down.

 

Dean flinched violently as Alastair laid a possessive hand across the back of his neck. The man pressed down hard, warningly; with only a few seconds of hesitation, Dean allowed the demon to push him flat to the ground. The cold chain around his throat dug into his skin; he shifted, adjusting his screaming arms in a futile attempt to relieve the pressure.

 

Alastair’s booted foot came down hard on Dean’s back, knocking the air out of him. A cry ripped its way from Dean’s throat, spilling out the open gag loud enough that the vaguest tinges of sound played at the edges of his plugged ears. The demon delivered a series of kicks to Dean’s sides and hips; he curled in on himself, trying in vain to shield his body from the onslaught. Alastair’s foot connected once, twice, three times directly with his tailbone; the grate of bone against bone sent sparks flying in Dean’s head, and he screamed as the lowermost part of his spine snapped. Just the tailbone, just the tailbone, it wouldn’t paralyze him. Terrified, Dean twitched his legs, relieved that they still responded to his commands, even as the motion sent a sharp, burning pain up his back. Alastair seized his hips, dragging him to his knees, pressing down on his back to further separate the pieces of his tailbone. Harsh, possessive hands wrenched Dean’s pants down around his ankles without so much as unfastening his belt; he convulsed, blacking out for the briefest of moments as the unrelenting drag of fabric dug into bruised, broken bones.

 

With neither warning nor preparation, Alastair pushed into Dean with one solid thrust, his flesh splitting and parting around the demon’s arousal. Dean shrieked, clutching at nothing, as Alastair set a fast, driving pace. It should have been impossible—without stretching and lube, Alastair should have been in almost as much pain as Dean. Perhaps that’s how the demon liked it, Dean thought hazily, resting his cheek against the blessedly cool floor, allowing his mind to drift away from his body. The drag of concrete against his face gave him something to focus on that was not his screaming ass or his continuously cracking tailbone. He was dangerously close to passing out, and he welcomed it; if Alastair did not notice him fading, it would be a blessed relief from pain.

 

Warm stickiness seeped through Dean’s insides, and Alastair pulled out with a violent jerk. Dean collapsed, his body angrily protesting the movement, and lay spread out on the ground. Dimly, he registered Alastair’s hands on his wrists, unfastening the cuffs. The taut chain slackened, but Dean hardly noticed his renewed ability to breathe properly. When Alastair released his wrists, he let them drop, falling limply to the ground next to him.

 

Dean did not know how long he lay on the ground, fading in and out of consciousness. After an age, and all too soon, Alastair returned, hauling him to his feet. Dean groaned as fire shot through his spine; unresisting, he allowed Alastair to drag him several feet over the concrete floor. The demon pushed him into a chair; a sob tore its way from Dean’s throat as his broken tailbone was forced to take his weight. Thick leather straps crossed over Dean’s torso, cinching him tight to the chair, and he was sure that they were the only things keeping him even marginally upright.

 

He twitched feebly as Alastair pinched his wrist between bony fingers, drawing it forward. The man folded his hand around what felt like a hard block of ice, tapping Dean’s wrist warningly before drawing away. Dean took the hint and kept his fingers closed, tremors running through his body, shaking his arm, which threatened to drop. Drawing up all his resolve, Dean kept his arm outstretched, waiting.

 

He did not have long to wait. The floor beneath him vibrated slightly as Alastair dragged a heavy object forward, stopping when it was only a foot or so away from Dean’s body. Dean could feel intense heat radiating from the object, and recoiled on instinct, shrinking away as far as his bonds would allow. A thick pair of metal tongs clamped around Dean’s outstretched forearm, dragging his hand forward and angling it down to press against the heated device.

 

Flames roared to life, licking Dean’s wrist; the block of ice melted nearly instantly. Dean roared in agony, wrenching back futilely, his lower body spasming in agony even as his arm jerked in the fire. Screams wrenched their way from his throat, ringing clear through the earplugs. His skin sizzled, crisping and oozing, melting off into the flames. He could feel the fire licking at exposed muscle, charring deep to his bones. Alastair’s hand brushed against his face; with a sharp, painful tug, he pulled the clamp off of Dean’s nose, dragging several layers of skin off with it. The smell of cooking meat assaulted Dean’s senses; he gagged, his head spinning.

 

Alastair allowed his hand to drop, and clamped the tongs around Dean’s other wrist. Dean jerked, pleas falling from his mouth, doubtless warped and obscured through his stretched lips. The demon pulled his hand slowly, steadily towards the searing heat of the object—stove, torch, Dean could not tell—and held his flesh in the fire. Dean’s throat burned, raw and abused; he was not certain that his screams even still carried sound as they tore from him. His skin blistered and crisped, bubbling and melting into the fire. Alastair withdrew his hand and released the tongs, wrapping firm fingers around Dean’s wrist. Carefully, he guided Dean’s hand towards his mouth, pressing Dean’s own distorted, melted fingers against his tongue.

 

The taste of his own cooked flesh, the feel of melted skin and exposed muscle, all while combined with the overwhelming onslaught of pain, was too much for Dean to bear. He groaned, slumping, and allowed himself to black out.

 

Dean came to on his side, the concrete floor cold and hard against his abused flesh. He blinked, dim light illuminating the scene, every noise much too loud in his unplugged ears. His hands throbbed, curiously free of pain; a glance at his fingers told of extensive burns and scarring. Third degree burns, then, if he could not feel the damage. Dean swallowed hard, panic bubbling in his chest.

 

Alastair crouched beside him, running his fingers through Dean’s hair in a mockery of tenderness. “I think you might be my favorite,” he said, his nasal voice grating on Dean’s ears. “Most people would have passed out before I even got to their hands. You did well, Deano.”

 

Dean shuddered, drawing his ruined hands close to his chest. Alastair grinned, a mirthless, predatory expression. “Maybe I should keep you. Train you up, make you the perfect little bitch. You might even do well on the other end after a while.”

 

Dean swallowed hard. “We have an arrangement,” he reminded Alastair, his rough voice cracking every few words. “One night per piece of information. That’s the deal.”

 

“Hm, yes, I suppose it is.” Alastair tapped Dean’s cheek thoughtfully. “But I’m not a salesman. I don’t make deals. Technically,” he smirked, drawing the word out in a long whine, “there’s nothing preventing me from keeping you for the rest of your aborted life. Maybe even take you to Hell with me, show you a proper good time.”

 

He had to be bluffing. Dean shook his head, refusing to believe otherwise. If Alastair was serious, there was nothing he could do in his injured state, so the demon had to be jerking his chain. “You’ve got the rest of the night, and that’s it,” he rasped, glaring at him. “The rest of the night, and I’m out of here.”

 

Alastair tutted, caressing Dean’s throat with a clammy hand. Dean shuddered, his skin crawling under the man’s grasp. “You going to make me let you go, Deano?” he asked, digging his fingernail into the man’s skin.

 

Dean shivered. “I’ll call Ruby,” he said, his voice wavering slightly. “Or Cas.” It was an empty threat—Castiel was bound back at the house, and he doubted that Ruby would drop whatever the hell she was doing to come get him.

 

Alastair’s triumphant smirk made it clear that he knew exactly how full of shit Dean’s words were. “You can call,” he said, pressing his own phone into Dean’s ruined hand. “If you can even work the keypad, that is.”

 

Dean shuddered, the phone dropping from his deadened fingers. “Please,” he said, hating himself for begging. “Just let me go. You’ve got the rest of the night, just let me leave.”

 

“Hmm, tell me why I should,” Alastair ordered, pressing Dean’s throat lightly.

 

Dean swallowed hard. “I’ll keep coming back,” he said. “You know I will. Hell, even when I’ve got Sam out, I can bring you others. Just let me go when the night’s over.”

 

Alastair smiled, removing his hand from Dean’s throat and running his fingers gently down the man’s face. “You do beg so pretty,” he said, baring his teeth. “Do it again.”

 

Dean gulped down his protests, acutely aware of the danger of his situation. Cas had been right, all that time ago—dealing with demons was a risky business. He had never foreseen Alastair taking things in this direction. “Please,” he whispered, bile rising in his throat. “Please, Alastair, let me go.”

 

Alastair grinned wolfishly. “For now,” he said, tapping Dean’s cheek with a single finger. “Just because you were so polite about it. I do appreciate decorum in my playthings.” He rose, dusting off the back of his pants. “You just show yourself out now, and do try not to crash your car and die. Of course, if you do, I’ll be waiting for you in Hell.”

 

Dean winced, curling tightly around himself. The idea of sitting, much less rising and walking all the way to the Impala, sent jolts of agony down his spine. Still, he knew he could not simply lie on the floor until he felt better. No one was coming for him, but a security guard or vigilante trespasser might very well take a joyride down to the slaughterhouse. Ignoring his body’s protests, Dean pushed himself to his feet and stumbled out to his car.

 

Sitting was agony, and Dean had never attempted to drive while unable to feel the steering wheel. He kept the car to a crawl, unable to handle even the smallest of bumps in the road without going dizzy from pain. By the time he reached the house, he was a sobbing, trembling mess, uncaring that he doubtless looked like a pathetic victim. He wanted nothing more than to pass out and sleep until all the pain was gone, however many months that would take.

 

The door flew open as Dean dragged himself up the steps. Dean did not even have the energy to wonder how Castiel had gotten free of his restraints. He collapsed in the other man’s arms and allowed himself to be pulled inside, the door shutting behind him without a touch as Castiel carried him to the couch. He moaned pitifully as Castiel laid him down, even that slight movement jostling his broken tailbone. Castiel shushed him, laying a hand on Dean’s head.

 

It was only an instant, but it seemed to drag on for an eternity. The pieces of Dean’s shattered tailbone shook and edged back into place, bone knitting together as torn muscles and nerves repaired themselves. The abused skin of his ass burned out the beginnings of infection, healing along with stretched, frayed muscle. A jolt of vitality sped down his arms as his skin and nerves shed the burn damage, refreshing themselves until they were whole and new. When Castiel withdrew his hand, Dean could have run a marathon; he certainly no longer felt broken and wrung out, as he had merely seconds ago.

 

“You’re not lying about being an angel,” he breathed, glancing at Castiel. A small smile crossed the other man’s face, the corners of his bright blue eyes crinkling.

 

“You had every reason to doubt my words,” Castiel said, “but I hope they have more of an impact now.”

 

“Shit,” Dean breathed, stretching out his arm to stare at new, healthy skin. He ran a finger over Castiel’s cheek, reveling in the sensation of rough stubble over smooth skin.

 

“Was it worth it?” Dean had no doubt what Castiel was asking. He wanted to know about Sam.

 

“We’ll find out,” Dean replied grimly. “Start packing. We’re heading to Omaha. Lucifer’s got a place there, and one of his butt-buddies is going to be there this time next week. That gives us a week to set things up so we can squeeze the bastard dry.”

Chapter Text

For a stronghold, the building sure did not look like much. With calculating eyes, Dean took in crumbling walls and boarded-up windows. The rural house, on the very outskirts of the city, was small and unassuming. However, Alastair had texted him the address, and Dean knew that Alastair would not violate their agreement by feeding him false information—not if he wanted Dean to keep coming back.

 

“I can feel it.” Castiel’s voice was low, barely a rumble in Dean’s ear. “This place is surrounded by angelic wards. It’s designed to keep everything out unless Lucifer himself lets them in.”

 

“Can you get past them?” Dean asked, equally quiet. His nerves thrummed with anticipation; they were so close to getting the information they so desperately needed. Dean thought that if they did not make their move soon, he would snap from the strain.

 

“I can try,” Castiel murmured, his words guarded. “Lucifer is an archangel, and immensely powerful. I do not stand a chance against him directly. But he has not been here in a while; his wards may have faded.”

 

“Do it,” Dean ordered, turning his attention back to the run-down building. He tightened his grip on the barrel of his gun, loaded with salt rounds as per Castiel’s orders. It reminded him of that fiasco, oh so long ago, when Sam had been captured by a drug cartel; he would laugh at the memory when they had his brother back.

 

Stealthily, with the graceful movements of a predator, Castiel edged towards the building. He laid his hand on the door, grimacing as his palm brushed against splintery wood. “Give me a moment,” he ordered, tapping the door with his fingers. The harsh, guttural sounds of a strange language—the language Castiel’s brother had spoken when he had come to heal him—drifted through the air, sending a shiver down Dean’s spine.

 

Quiet at first, but with increasing intensity, a hum grew in the air, emanating from the door. Blood-red sigils appeared in faint outlines, tendrils of energy stretching forth, twining up Castiel’s arm. The angel’s breath hitched as the sigils came in contact with his skin; his voice rose to a shout, static winding through his words. Dean clapped his hands over his ears as Castiel’s voice melded from gravelly and human to an unearthly noise, the quality of which he had never heard before. Castiel shouted, shoving at the door with both hands, and the sigils shattered, deep cracks running through the door, cutting through blood red outlines. In an instant, the tendrils of energy shrank away from Castiel’s skin, leaving the man white and shaking in their wake.

 

Dean ran to the door, sprinting up the porch just in time to catch Castiel as his knees gave out. “Stay with me, Cas,” he ordered, hauling the man back to his feet. “We’ve still got a demon to kill.”

 

“Give me a moment,” Castiel mumbled, his voice drained and shaking. “Breaking seals laid down by an archangel is not an easy feat. I may have over-exerted myself.”

 

Loud footsteps sounded from the other side of the door. “Yeah, well, rest up quick. I think we’ve got company,” Dean remarked, releasing the angel and aiming his shotgun directly at the door.

 

Wood splintered and flew through the air, landing in chunks across the yard. Directly inside the house stood a man, unassuming save for his bright yellow eyes and the sheer strength of his presence. Dean shot automatically, releasing a round directly into the demon’s chest. The demon snarled at him, unaffected, and launched through the doorway, slamming into Dean and sending him rolling down the steps. Dean landed hard on the dusty ground, grunting as the air was slammed from his lungs. He raised the gun, firing wildly, and an unseen force ripped the weapon from his hand, sending it flying several feet, well out of Dean’s reach.

 

An invisible pressure gripped Dean’s shoulders. Without warning, he launched through the air, slamming hard into the side of the house. “Dean Winchester,” the demon breathed, a sneer curling about his lips. “It’s been, what, twenty-three years? Is it twenty-four by now? Time flies when you’re having fun, doesn’t it?”

 

“Cas!” Dean shouted, struggling in vain against his invisible restraints.

 

“Ah yes, you should remember that night well. Mommy died and your house burned, and I took your brother long before he ever physically left you.” Azazel smiled, crooking his fingers; Dean’s insides lurched, spinning inside him. He heaved, struggling to breathe as his body rebelled. “Go ahead and call for your little angel friend. He might do well against lesser demons, but—” Azazel walked forward until he was nearly pressed against Dean, his breath heavy and rancid as he pressed their foreheads together “—he hasn’t met me.”

 

“Maybe not.” From behind Azazel, Castiel reached forward, wrenching him backwards, breaking his hold on Dean. Dean collapsed, wheezing, staring with a strange sort of terror as the angel wrenched the demon’s head back, exposing his throat to a strange, glinting blade. Dean blinked in confusion; Castiel had definitely not had that knife before. “But you’re all the same once you get down to your core. Nothing but mutilated human souls, always subject to death under an angel blade.”

 

Castiel dropped his arm, slamming the blade through Azazel’s throat. The air crackled with an unearthly noise; reality seemed to split around the angel and demon, caught together in a tryst of flailing limbs and glinting metal. Castiel sheathed the blade in the man’s flesh, twisting his wrist before wrenching the knife free. A bright yellow glow swirled around the wound, flickering with bright lights for an instant, and then it exploded from the man, filling the area with light and noise as it burst free of his human body. The body collapsed as the light disappeared. Castiel allowed his arm to drop, falling to his knees on the dusty porch.

 

“Cas,” Dean coughed, dragging himself over to the prone angel. “Cas, you okay?”

 

“Now I have truly overexerted myself,” Castiel mumbled, his eyes squeezed shut. “I will be all right. Azazel was not accompanied by any other demons.”

 

“But Alastair said—”

 

“Alastair did not lie,” Castiel said through gritted teeth. “Azazel has an angel with him. His Grace is weak and shredded, but still he clings to himself. I cannot speak with him, which suggests that he is severely injured. Go to him, bring him to me, and I have no doubt that he will tell you everything he knows.”

 

“Right.” Dean pushed himself to his feet. “Because that’s just what I need. More freaking angels.”

 

“Would you rather it was more demons?” Castiel snapped, cracking his eyes open slightly. “Go. Fetch my brethren.”

 

“Freaking angels,” Dean muttered, but he turned and walked into the house nevertheless. Of the three angels he had met, Castiel was the only one he did not want to completely destroy—though Castiel had done his work for him there with Uriel—and that was most likely because Dean had somehow managed to induce the angel with a strong dose of Stockholm’s Syndrome. If an angel was the key to cracking Lucifer’s stronghold, though, Dean would suck it up and deal with him however he had to.

 

A cursory search of the house revealed only empty rooms and dusty furniture. Dean frowned, doubling back to retrace his steps more thoroughly. A bookcase in the study seemed particularly out of place, and when he pulled on its edges, it creaked forward, revealing a dark, narrow passage.

 

“Someone’s been reading too many bad detective novels,” Dean muttered disdainfully, fumbling in his pockets for his phone. Using the glow of his mobile to light the way, he followed the stairs down into a hidden basement.

 

The basement contained several doors, but Dean did not bother trying any of them, for the object of his search lay in a huddled mass in the main room. Blood was caked around a cruel, spiked device embedded in the angel’s head, matting hair that had probably once been blond and soiling the stripes of a red-and-white fast food worker’s uniform. “And they say I’m sick,” Dean muttered, his stomach rolling as he took in the angel’s shredded skin, his skull visible in places where skin had simply given up on growing back. The angel groaned weakly as Dean hoisted him over his shoulder, but he made no move to fight Dean as he carried him out of the basement and into the living room.

 

“Cas, can you come inside?” Dean called through the open door. The last thing he needed was for nosy passers-by to notice the infamous serial killer Dean Winchester out in the open with a bloody, half-dead teenager. He couldn’t find Sam from a prison cell.

 

Cas’s footsteps were slow and heavy, but the angel made his way into the room at a deliberate pace, the door shutting behind him without a touch. “Samandriel,” Castiel said quietly, gazing sadly at the battered angel on the couch. “One of our youngest. He was never a soldier, not like the rest of us.”

 

“Can you heal him?” Dean asked impatiently. It would be just his luck to find a link to Sam, only to have their informant die on them before they could interrogate him.

 

“Yes,” Castiel answered, kneeling before his brother. Steady, dexterous hands gently worked out the spikes in the angel’s head one by one, healing the wounds as he went. It seemed to Dean to take a long time, but a glance at his phone showed that only a few minutes had passed before Castiel laid the last of the spikes down beside his brother. Castiel removed the heavy metal contraption from around his head, brushing his fingers around the raw, skinless patch that encircled the angel’s skull. Flesh healed in the wake of Castiel’s fingers; effortlessly, the man lifted his unconscious brother and turned to face Dean.

 

“It is not safe to remain here,” he said calmly. “Bring the car around. We’ll take him back to the motel with us, and ask him for answers there.”

 

Dean nearly balked at receiving orders from Castiel. He opened his mouth to argue, to remind Castiel who was in charge, but the man was making too much sense. Resentfully, he closed his mouth, turning on his heel and stalking out to the Impala. He drove up nearly to the steps of the porch, tires flattening dry, dead grass in their wake.

 

Castiel laid Samandriel down in the backseat, crawling in with him and positioning his brother’s head on his lap. “I will do my best to heal him further as you drive,” Castiel said quietly, his attention nearly entirely on the bloody, unconscious form in his lap. Dean scowled, but drove nonetheless, speeding onto the highway. He spent the next hour weaving in and out of other cars, determined to get at least a few towns over before they stopped, the better to throw any of Lucifer’s minions off their trail.

 

Dean ordered Castiel ahead to check in, reluctant to expose himself to potential recognition. In the past week, he had come to trust that the angel would not run off on him, even if given the chance. Castiel’s newfound penchant for breaking free of his bonds suggested that he could escape if he wanted no matter what precautions Dean took, but Stockholm’s Syndrome and some sort of heavenly delusion seemed sufficient to keep him around. Dean was not going to complain about this turn of events; it was a treat to not have to keep the angel trussed up whenever they moved, and Castiel was not wanted by the feds. Dean was content to allow the other man to be the face of their party, and spare him the risk of recognition.

 

Castiel returned with a motel key, which he passed off to Dean. Dean led the way to the room, Castiel carrying the still-unconscious Samandriel behind him.

 

“Put him in the chair,” Dean ordered, locking the door behind him. Castiel obeyed, gently positioning Samandriel’s body so that his head rested on his chest. He carefully held the other angel up by the torso, preventing him from slipping onto the floor. Dean shook his head, reaching into this duffel and pulling out a length of rope.

 

“That won’t be necessary,” Castiel protested as Dean wrapped the rope around Samandriel’s limbs and chest, securing him to the chair. “Samandriel was not working for Lucifer of his own volition. You don’t need to interrogate him. We can ask him questions, and he will help us. He does not need to be a prisoner.”

 

“Nice to know that you’re stupidly trusting,” Dean spat, glaring at the other man. “I’m not taking my chances. Last time you interacted with another angel, you almost got your dumb ass killed, so forgive me for wanting to be certain that he can’t hurt anyone when he wakes up.”

 

Castiel frowned, conflicted. Dean ignored him, checking the bonds on his newest prisoner. They seemed secure, though if Samandriel was anything like Castiel, he would have his ways to escape them. Still, it made Dean feel better to have the angel bound before him, rather than free and uncontained, where he could do damage to either of them at will.

 

Samandriel groaned, his eyes fluttering slightly. Dean stepped back, his hand unconsciously going to his gun, just in case. In a flash, Castiel was at his brother’s side, cupping the angel’s face in his hands.

 

“Samandriel,” Castiel said firmly. “Samandriel, it’s Castiel. Azazel is dead. Are you alright?”

 

“Castiel?” Samandriel’s voice was weak and strained, almost painful to Dean’s ears. He nearly felt bad for tying the angel, but not so much that letting him loose seemed like an attractive idea. He hung back—he would step in if Castiel seemed to be wasting too much time, rather than looking for answers.

 

“Yes,” Castiel replied, resting his forehead gently against the other angel’s. “I am here with Dean Winchester. Azazel is dead, and you are free from Lucifer’s grasp.”

 

“Dean?” Samandriel sounded lost, confused. “Dean Winchester still lives?”

 

“Of course he still lives,” Castiel said, frowning. “Was that a question?”

 

Samandriel laughed, a harsh, scratchy noise. “I wasn’t exactly kept in the know about the comings and goings outside of my cell,” he said wryly. “I assumed that Lucifer would have Dean killed to prevent him from coming after Sam.”

 

“That’s not going to happen,” Castiel said firmly. “Dean Winchester is under my protection. Sam—I failed  Sam, and I will atone by getting him back. Samandriel, you have been with Lucifer for some time, have you not?”

 

“Years,” Samandriel croaked. He shook his head groggily, glancing up at Dean. “Is it true, Castiel? Can Dean Winchester still be saved?”

 

Dean shifted, uncomfortable with the angel talking about him as though he was not in the room. Still, if the warning look Castiel gave him was any indication, it was a bit pre-mature to insert himself into the conversation, demanding answers. He hung back, listening intently to the conversation between the angels in the room.

 

“Dean Winchester can still be saved,” Castiel replied, repeating the other angel’s words firmly. “And so can Sam. We can stop Lucifer, Samandriel. He won’t put his plans into action until he has Sam. Keeping Sam from him will buy us enough time to come up with a solid strategy. But we need you to tell us everything you know about what Lucifer is up to, and where he is.”

 

“What he’s up to, I can tell you easily. But… Castiel, it’s horrifying.” Samandriel shook his head, his eyes glazing over slightly. “Our father willed us to love mankind, and the ease with which Lucifer is turning our brethren against us is frightening.”

 

“Tell me everything,” Castiel urged, laying a gentle hand over Samandriel’s own.

 

The angel shuddered and took a deep breath. “Lucifer intends to gain power subtly, so that humanity believes its destruction is its own doing,” he said slowly. “Lucifer is working with a… A thing that calls itself Dick Roman. It’s not human, not an angel, not a demon. I don’t know what it is, but it’s masquerading as a human businessman. Both of them seem to think that they will have the upper hand on the other when their plan goes into action. In the end, it doesn’t matter who actually has the power. Humanity will be destroyed, and we will all go with it.

 

“Lucifer is not planning to overtake the world by force. He’s working his way into mankind’s own infrastructure. He has angels and demons slowly amassing political power in nearly every country across the globe. He’s focusing on getting them legally elected, so that humans will follow them with minimal questioning until it is too late. Once they have political power, he plans to slowly implement laws that will pick off humans one by one, and because he is working so many of his people into positions of authority, there will soon be no one left to overthrow their tyranny.”

 

“That’s a risky plan,” Castiel said, frowning.

 

Samandriel laughed hoarsely, his shoulders shaking as wracking coughs followed. “It’s his way of culling humanity. He says he’ll let the worthy ones live. The vessels, and those with power. That’s probably why he hasn’t killed Dean.”

 

“Whoa, whoa, hold the freaking phone,” Dean said, butting into the conversation. Having his name mentioned alongside angels and demons and global conspiracy theories was severely discomfiting. “I haven’t got power, or whatever the hell this guy’s looking for. Leave me out of this craziness!”

 

Samandriel’s head lolled on his shoulders, his pale, exhausted eyes fixing upon Dean. “No, you’re not powerful,” he murmured tiredly, “but you’re a vessel. Michael’s in another body, but Lucifer wouldn’t keep you alive if he didn’t plan to have Michael take you.”

 

“What—”

 

“It is unimportant,” Castiel cut Dean off swiftly. “Samandriel, please. Where is Sam?”

 

“Probably in the Capital,” Samandriel murmured. “I believe that’s where I was. Washington DC, if I recall. I don’t think I can tell you exactly where.”

 

A city was an easier place to search than a country. Dean relaxed marginally, relieved that the lead had panned out. “Anything else you can tell us?” he demanded.

 

“Underground,” Samandriel answered weakly. “Most of the complex is underground. The Crown of Thorns threw my bearings off, but I know that much. Lucifer has allies throughout the city, some willing, some coerced. If you can find some of those coerced into helping him, you may be able to find out more.”

 

Castiel nodded and knelt, untying his brother. Dean sighed, exasperated, but did not protest. “Guess we’re going to DC, Cas,” he said, his mind whirring with plans. He’d call Ruby. She might be able to direct him to some of Lucifer’s people in the city.

 

Castiel nodded, accepting Dean’s plan without argument. “Samandriel, you should return to heaven,” he said softly, laying a gentle hand on the angel’s shoulder.

 

“I would if I could,” Samandriel replied grimly. “Lucifer clipped my wings—badly. I don’t know how long it will take them to heal.”

 

“Let me see,” Castiel demanded quickly.

 

This was too much. Angels with freaky magical mojo, Dean had no choice to accept, but wings? He was pretty sure he would have noticed feathers sprouting from Castiel’s back by now.

 

Samandriel shuddered and rolled his shoulders. Light seemed to gather around him, ragged white wings unfurling from his back, downy feathers jutting out at odd angles over odd scars. The sparse large feathers remaining were cut at odd angles, shorn in half and bent strangely.

 

Castiel hissed angrily. “That’s not just clipping your wings,” he growled. “What did they do, pull your feathers out?”

 

“Yes,” Samandriel replied quietly. “I’m grounded to Earth for the time. God willing, they will grow back quickly now that I have the chance to heal.”

 

Castiel shuddered. “Dean, he needs to stay with us,” he said, rage and pain warring across his face. “He’s a sitting duck for Lucifer’s people like this.”

 

“What?” Dean demanded. “No. We’re not carting him around with us. I’ve got enough to worry about with the cops on my ass as it is.”

 

“We’re not turning him out for Lucifer to find,” Castiel snapped defiantly, folding his arms across his chest. Dean’s fingers itched with the urge to slap that mulish expression from the angel’s face, but he refrained—he could deal with Cas’s insubordination later.

 

“Fine, so we’ll send him to Bobby’s,” Dean said, glaring at Cas. Bobby wouldn’t be happy, but he also wouldn’t say no. Dean would drop Samandriel off with a bottle of whiskey, and that would be all the man needed. “Happy? Hell, he’ll probably be safer than he’d be running through Lucifer’s little city with us.”

 

Castiel frowned, pondering Dean’s words. “That is acceptable,” he said finally. “Samandriel? Are you all right with this?”

 

Samandriel slumped in his chair. “So long as this Bobby is not one of Lucifer’s men, yes,” he murmured tiredly.

 

“It’s a plan, then,” Dean said, itching to head out. “Come on. A few hours of sleep, and we’ll hit the road.” To prove his point, he collapsed onto the motel bed, kicking his shoes to the ground. “Your angel buddy backstabs us while we sleep and I’ll find a way to kill you from the afterlife,” Dean threatened, glaring at Cas.

 

Castiel nodded, helping Samandriel to the second bed before crawling beside Dean, his warm body dipping the mattress slightly. “He will not betray us,” Castiel said firmly. He laid a finger alongside Dean’s temple. “Now, sleep.”

 

Sudden waves of exhaustion crashed through Dean’s body. Dean hardly had time to contemplate their source before his eyes closed, unbidden, and he fell into a deep sleep, dreaming of Sam, surrounded by demonic creatures with shredded, broken wings.

 

0o0o0o0o0

 

Water dripped from the sink in the corner of the dungeon, a maddening tune that grated against Sam’s ears. He sat, bound to the chair where Lucifer had left him after his last visit, the chafe of metal against his wrists barely even an annoyance anymore. He would give anything to get free—even his life. Even the chance to see Dean again.

 

Would it really be so bad to take Lucifer up on his offer? Sam licked his chapped lips with a dry tongue, serving only to split open the hairline cracks that formed across his skin. “Lucifer,” he croaked, the word coming out as so much dry noise. He swallowed hard and tried again. “Lucifer, if you can hear me, please. Can we negotiate? I want to negotiate.”

 

Several long minutes passed, and the door swung open. “I heard your call, Sam,” Lucifer said calmly, walking over to the chair and resting a cool palm against Sam’s forehead. “You’re burning up. Here.” Seemingly out of nowhere, the angel produced a bottle of water and pressed the edge to Sam’s dry lips. Sam drank greedily, sucking the cool liquid down until plastic crinkled and collapsed in Lucifer’s hand.

 

“Now, then,” Lucifer said, drawing back and regarding Sam curiously. “You said that you want to negotiate. I must admit, I’m curious. What do you think you have to offer?”

 

Sam shook his head. “I want to know what saying yes to you will mean, exactly,” he said. “You talked about genocide and making me perfect and giving me everything. So what’s the catch?”

 

“The catch?” Lucifer smiled, shaking his head. “Sammy, I’ve told you the catch. We get to share a body. It’s not a bad thing, but I can see how it would seem that way on the surface.” Lucifer reached out to cup Sam’s chin, tilting his face and gazing down at him with bright, clear eyes. “I don’t suppose you’re ready to let me in?”

 

Sam swallowed hard. “You mentioned having me work for you for a while before possessing me, or whatever it is you’re going to do?”

 

“It’s not possession per se, but yes.” Lucifer’s gaze softened fondly. “I want you to understand me, Sam, and to align yourself with me willingly. I can’t be sure that you’ve done this if I’m already in you.”

 

“I don’t see how torture goes with willing.” The words slipped from Sam’s mouth before he could stop them, but Lucifer did not seem to mind.

 

“You had to get to the point where you’d give me a chance, before I could put you to work seeing exactly what I’m doing here,” Lucifer said calmly. “It is regrettable, but what else could I do?”

 

It didn’t make sense to Sam, but he supposed he’d have to be crazy to understand the workings of the devil. “All right,” he said quietly, closing his eyes in defeat. “Then, yes.”

Chapter Text

Castiel supposed that Dean would never get over the idea that chaining him up would accomplish something. Dean had insisted that this was for his own safety, to keep him from lashing out. He supposed there was little point in telling the man that even with the brutality of this “makeover” he would not be tempted to fight back. There was nothing that Dean could do to him that would tempt him to harm the soul before him.

His scalp itched with the bleach Dean had rubbed into his hair. Cas shifted as Dean stepped back, eyebrows furrowed as he catalogued Castiel’s every feature. “Don’t use your freaky healing,” Dean warned, drawing a heavy knife from his belt. “I need you to have a new face before we get anywhere near these guys.”

Lucifer would recognize him anyways, but Castiel could not bring himself to deny Dean this small comfort. He grimaced, clutching the arms of the chair, as Dean laid the blade to his forehead. A sharp pain lanced through his skin; he closed his eyes just quickly enough to save his vision as Dean ripped the knife down his face, splitting the skin open deep. “Let that scar,” Dean commanded, flipping the knife and driving the hilt into Castiel’s nose. White, burning spots sparked in front of his eyes as his nose cracked and gave, flattening with a sickening crunch.

The urge to heal himself was strong; Castiel tamped down on the drive before his nose could repair itself. “Better,” Dean grunted, staring appraisingly at his face. “It’s a start.”

Castiel nodded, rotating his wrists in the chains. “Unbind me now,” he said calmly, catching the man’s gaze with his one good eye.

Dean hesitated for a moment before bending down and drawing the key to the cuffs from the cord around his neck. Metal clinked against tile, and Castiel rose, flexing his hands. “How much longer before I can wash this bleach out?” he queried, tilting his head at Dean.

“Give it an hour,” Dean replied brusquely, snapping a pair of gloves onto his hands and unscrewing the cap on a bottle of dark hair color. “We’re going completely incognito for this. Don’t need anyone to recognize us.”

Cas raised an eyebrow. “Of course,” he said quietly. “Will you require me to break your nose for disguise as well?”

Dean snorted. “One guy with a fucked up face is one thing. Two’s too conspicuous,” he said, pooling dark dye into his hair. “It’ll be enough. Rinse that out in an hour and get some shut eye. We’ve got a long drive tomorrow.”

Castiel opened his mouth to respond, but Dean had turned back to the mirror, rubbing the dye firmly into his hair. “I called Ruby,” he said as he squirted the last of the bottle into his hands and smeared it delicately over his eyebrows and several days’ worth of scruff. “She gave me some names. A starting point when we get to DC.”

Ruby. That was not comforting. Castiel shook his head, folding his arms across his chest. “I do not trust the demon,” he said coldly, glaring at Dean.

“Yeah, you made that clear. She’s still our best lead now that cute-and-broken’s exhausted everything he can tell us.” Dean rolled his eyes, peeling off the gloves. “Look, I’m not exactly bringing her along with us, I’m just taking what info I can. We can use her. We’ve been using her, got me?”

More likely she was using them, though to what purpose Castiel was not sure. “And I assume you have a plan for when she betrays us,” he said coolly, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, sure. If she betrays us, we’ll wing it,” Dean snapped, glaring at Cas. “She’s our best lead, and I’m not letting Sam go. We’ve got a better shot now than we ever have, and I’m taking it.”

He didn’t like this, but he supposed there was no reasoning with Dean. Castiel sighed and sat back in the chair, perching on the edge of the seat. At least he, if not Dean, would be going in wary. When the demon showed her true colors—when their plan invariably fell through the cracks—he would be ready.