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Nothing You Do At Gunpoint Counts Against You

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"You weren't supposed to be here," the man says, sounding a bit perturbed.

"I'm sorry," Sam hears himself say, "please, don't shoot, there's cash in the register—" Distantly, he's aware that this man doesn't look like any kind of robber. The gun's wrong, for one thing, and he's far too steady.

"This isn't a hold-up," the man says pleasantly, far too pleasantly for someone who's still pointing a freakin' gun at Sam. "I'm looking for your boss."

"He's not in," Sam says, trying to calm his breathing, "he asked me to cover for him—please, I'm sorry, please don't shoot me." He's not sure why he's still apologizing to this guy, like it's his fault for being here when apparently he wasn't supposed to, and his breath is still coming too fast.

"Calm down," the man says, in what would probably be a soothing tone of voice, if it weren't for the previously mentioned freakin' gun. "I'm not going to hurt you unless I have to. What's your name?"

"Sam," he says.

The man nods. "Well then, Sam. Any idea when your boss'll be back?"

Sam shakes his head frantically. "He said something about a pipe rupture at his apartment."

The man sighs, looking long-suffering, which is great fucking joke. "In that case, we'll just have to get him back here sooner. Sam, I want you to pick up your phone and call your boss. Tell him you think there's been a gas leak, tell him whatever you need to to get him down here. Do you think you can do that?"

Sam nods, taking in a deep breath, and the man looks pleased. He dials the number with shaking fingers, and his boss picks up on the fourth ring. "Yeah, I know, I'm sorry to bother you, it's just, I think there's a gas leak?" His boss barks something irritated that he doesn't quite catch, then sighs and tells him he'll be there as soon as he can.

Sam drops the phone and turns back to the man—the killer, he knows. "He's on his way. Are you going to let me go now?"

"Not quite," the man says. "Can't have you running off to tip off the police, can I? You just sit tight, Sam, and this'll all be over soon."

He feels tears pricking at the back of his eyes. "Please," he says, in a small voice, "please, I don't want to die."

"Sam," the man says, "calm down. Eyes on me, okay? It's going to be okay."

Sam nods, taking in deep breaths. The man's eyes are a cold blue, and he thinks about how fucking normal he looks. Blonde, middle-aged, stubble on his cheeks. It's the eyes, though, that give him away. They're too icy, and there's something predatory about them. This man is a predator. His heart's still beating erratically, and he wonders if it's ever going to get back to normal. "You're going to kill him."

"I am," the man affirms.

"What did he do?" Sam asks.

"Does it matter?"

Sam thinks about it. "I guess not. Either way, I'm helping you kill someone. Doesn't really matter whether he deserves it."

The man frowns. "This isn't going to be your fault, Sam. Nothing you do at gunpoint counts against you."

He's spared from answering that one by his boss walking in, the jingle of the door much too loud.

"There had better be a fucking gas leak, Winchester, or I'll—"

And then the man is on his feet, whirling around and moving with cat-like grace, firing three shots into his boss' heart, bang bang bang, a look of terrible, furious concentration on his face. There's something oddly beautiful about it, Sam thinks, even as he's fighting to choke down a scream.

The man stands there, looking down at Sam's boss, before turning back around and raising the gun.

"I'm sorry about this, Sam," he says, sounding regretful. "I really am."

His heart about stops. "Please," he says, voice shaking, "please, you said you wouldn't."

The man sighs, looking genuinely sorry, and isn't that a fucking laugh. "Get on your knees, Sam."

He's shaking as he kneels. "Please," he says again.

"I'm sorry," the man says, moving behind him, and Sam feels the cold barrel of a gun against his head. "But I don't leave witnesses."

"I won't tell anyone, please, I promise, I won't tell," he babbles desperately, knowing it's not going to get him far.

"That's what they all say," the man says. "I wish I didn't have to do this. I like you, Sam, I really do. But you're a witness now, and I can't let you leave here alive." A gentle hand runs its way through his hair, and how fucked up is it that the man is trying to comfort him at the same time that he's about to kill him. "Shhh, it's going to be okay. I'll make it quick." Sam's shaking and gasping for air, but there's something soothing in the man's voice, and he reaches for it, trying to focus on that hint of sympathy.

And then there's a burst of noise at the door, the bar's doors banging open, shouts of "Freeze! Police!", the cold pressure is gone from the back of his head, and the man is swearing and vaulting away, over the bar and through the back doors. There are tears of relief making their way down his face, and someone is crouching next to him, asking him if he's okay. He's alive. He's alive, he's going to live.

They take him down to the station, tell him that the man is a hired killer, well-known in the underground. They tell him his name is Luke Milton, that in the underground he's known as Lucifer. The name is fitting, Sam thinks. He'd been beautiful and terrifying at once, with a cold sort of grace.

They get a statement from him, tell him he's lucky to be alive. Lucky, Sam thinks. He wonders.

His apartment feels too big that night, dangerously empty. Sam knows he should probably have stayed at the station overnight, or stayed with a friend for the night, but he'd just wanted to get home to his own place. Only now every creak feels like it's the man—Lucifer—returning to finish the job.

He sleeps fitfully that night, but morning comes and he's still alive.


He doesn't tell anyone else about the encounter. He's not sure why, but it feels private, like something he wants to keep for himself. It's not that he doesn't want to think about it. It's that it belongs to him and no one else.

There's probably something wrong with that. He doesn't really care.


Sam's walking home from work—from his new job, seeing as his old boss has been, you know, murdered—and it's a skeevier part of town, one he doesn't usually like to frequent, but this time he'd missed the bus, and hadn't really had a choice—when there's an arm pulling him back into the shadows and a sickly-sweet smelling cloth is clamped over his face.

When he comes to, it's in a dark, abandoned-looking warehouse. He's tied down on some kind of table, arms stretched above him like some sort of sacrifice. He turns his head, trying to get a good look around him, but all he can see are shadows.

And then he steps out of them, Lucifer, the killer. "Hello, Sam," he says. "I see you're awake."

He's going to die. He's going to fucking die. "Lucifer," he breathes, and Lucifer looks pleased.

"They told you my name," he says, smiling.

"Are you going to kill me?" Sam asks, because it's not like there's any harm in asking.

Lucifer looks pensive. "Have you ever wondered how someone gets into my line of work?" he asks instead of answering. "It's not to pay the bills. Not entirely. You have to be good at killing. You have to like it." He runs an idle hand through Sam's hair. "I enjoy what I do, Sam."

Sam thinks his heart might just beat out of his chest. Lucifer's hand moves down to his heart, resting there, feeling it beat. "You asked me if I was going to kill you. I don't know. I'd like to. I'd like to know what your heart would look like, bleeding out in my palm. I don't want to see you die by anyone else's hand but mine." He sighs. "But alive, you intrigue me. I've never let a witness live before. You're a black spot on my otherwise sparkling record."

"You didn't let me live," Sam argues, distantly aware of the fact that he's talking back to a hit man, which could probably be qualified as a suicidal tendency. "The police showed up and you ran."

Lucifer chuckles. "If that's what makes you feel better, keep telling yourself that. You escaped, sure."

His breathing is coming too fast, and all he can think about is the fact that there's a hired killer's hand on him, stroking his face, brushing a thumb over his cheekbone. "You're quite beautiful, you know," Lucifer says softly. "Soft and innocent. I'd like to do all sorts of wicked things to you," and fuck, it sounds too dirty, too much like an innuendo.

And then he leans down and Sam can't breathe, he knows what's about to happen, and then Lucifer kisses him. It's a long, slow kiss, soft, not forceful and Sam—Sam tries his best not to open up to it. When Lucifer pulls away, it's with a soft sigh of regret. "Goodbye, Sam," he says, and then the cloth is pressed over his mouth and nose again.

He wakes at home, in his own bed. He tries not to think about the fact that Lucifer apparently knows where he lives. He absolutely, definitely does not think about the kiss. He doesn't think about the way Lucifer's stubble had brushed against his face, doesn't think about the softness of his lips, doesn't think about the naked curiosity in his eyes. He doesn't think about all of these things.


Sam knows he should call the police, tell them about it. Tell them that a notorious hit man had kidnapped him and tied him up and—what? And just talked to him? (And kissed him.) It sounds stupid, even in his head.

He should call. It would be the right thing to do. Not calling them probably counts as aiding and abetting, after all.

He doesn't call.


Two weeks pass uneventfully. And then as he's letting himself into his apartment (he should have moved, it would have been the smart thing to do, given that a killer knows he lives here, but he didn't) he's startled to find someone already sitting at his kitchen table.

"Sam," Lucifer says pleasantly. He's holding a gun, and Sam stops breathing.

"Oh, God," he says, "I thought..." He thought what? That Lucifer wasn't going to kill him after all? This is a cold-blooded killer, after all, regardless of whatever fondness he seems to have for Sam.

Lucifer glances down at the gun. "Don't worry, this is just a formality. I just want to talk."

"A formality?" Sam says weakly.

Lucifer smiles. "I'm a killer, Sam. I can't exactly expect you to just sit still and have a conversation with me without some form of insurance, can I? I don't want you calling the police on me."

Sam nods, breath resuming its normal patterns.

"Sit down," Lucifer says. "I put the kettle on for tea."

"This is my apartment," Sam points out.

Lucifer shrugs easily. Boundary issues, evidently.

"So," he says, after a long pause. "You wanted to talk."

"Yes," Lucifer says. He's been studying Sam's face, and it's a little unnerving. "You fascinate me. It's been a long time since anyone's caught my attention the way you do."

"I don't know whether to be flattered or creeped out," Sam says honestly.

Lucifer just smiles. He watches Sam for another minute, when they're interrupted by the sound of the kettle boiling. "Better get that," he says. Sam does so. He's never made tea with a gun pointed at him before.

"There's... peppermint, earl grey, and chamomile," he calls, after rummaging through the cupboards.

"Earl grey is fine," Lucifer says, and Sam takes a moment to reflect on the fact that he's making tea for a killer. He's bothered by how much it doesn't bother him. He sets the steaming mugs down in front of them both, and sits down.

"Tell me, Sam," Lucifer says. "Anyone special in your life?" and Sam nearly chokes on his tea.

"N-no," he says, wiping his watering eyes. "No, there's no one."

Lucifer smiles. "Good," he says, and Sam doesn't ask him to elaborate. He's not sure he wants to know the answer. "I'm a little surprised, though," he continues. "You're a very attractive young man."

Sam frowns. "Again with the flattering, but creepy."

"Because I'm a hit man? That's a bit discriminatory, don't you think? Killing people for a living doesn't make me blind, you know."

"No, because you killed my boss, in front of me, and then basically stalked me. Regardless of what you do for a living, that's kind of weird," he says patiently.

Lucifer hums. "I prefer to think of myself as concerned about your well-being."

"You were going to kill me," Sam points out, and he can't believe he has to do this. Honestly, he can't believe this entire conversation is happening.

Lucifer sighs, looking put-upon. "Are you going to hold that against me forever? I told you I didn't want to do it. I would have very much regretted it."

"Do you think you're being romantic right now?" Sam demands. "Because you're really, really not."

"Do you want me to be romantic?" Lucifer asks, smiling. "Because I can be. If that's what you want."

"No!" Sam says, cheeks flushing. "I mean—you realize you can't consider it a date if you're holding a gun to me, right?"

"I hadn't thought of this as a date," Lucifer says. "I like the idea, though."

Sam glares at him. "Can I repeat the part where you're holding a gun to me?"

"Maybe next time I won't need it," Lucifer says.

"Next time." Sam does his best to sound duly horrified, but he can't quite bring himself to feel it.

"If you want."

Sam doesn't answer. They drink their tea in silence.

"You kissed me," he finally bursts out.

Lucifer nods.


He looks amused. "And what?"

"Why'd you do it?" Sam demands.

"Because I wanted to," he says quietly. "Because I've learned how to take what I want. And I wanted to find out what you tasted like."

Sam's heart is fluttering in his chest. "I think I'd like you to leave," he says, in a very small voice.

Lucifer nods. "If that's what you want me to do. But I'll be in touch, Sam."

As he leaves, Sam thinks, for perhaps the hundredth time, that he really should call the police. But he knows he won't.


"You can't just keep calling me like this," Sam says, sighing.

Lucifer chuckles, and even through the phone it sends shivers down his back. "And why's that, Sam?"

"Because—you're a contract killer, you can't just call me up to chat. I could be calling the police, having them trace the call. I should be calling the police."

"But you're not," Lucifer says evenly. "You've had plenty of chances. Why haven't you called them, Sam?"

"I don't know!" he says, feeling annoyed. "Because you're—I don't know."

"I fascinate you," Lucifer says. "You know you shouldn't look too long, because if you look too long into the abyss, the abyss looks back into you. But you keep coming back, because you're intrigued by me, by what I am. You're mesmerized by me. You find me strangely captivating, and you can't bring yourself to look away."

Sam doesn't answer for a long time. When he does, it's in a quiet, small voice. "You scare me," he says.

He can practically hear Lucifer's smile through the phone. "I have that effect on most people."

"That's because you kill most people," he points out.

"And yet I haven't killed you," Lucifer says. "Why do you think that is?"

Sam doesn't have an answer.


He starts finding little notes, left on his pillow. It unnerves him, reminds him that Lucifer could be watching him at any moment.

The notes themselves are a twisted parody of romantic. Things like I think you'd look beautiful covered in red, or I'd like to keep you tied up in my basement so that no one else could hurt you. Sam senses that there's a certain amount of irony to them, but he can't tell how much.


And then there's the morning Sam wakes up with his wrists tied to the headboard of his bed. He tugs at them, but they're securely fastened.

"It's Tuesday," he says, "I have work in an hour, you complete fucker."

"I called you in sick," Lucifer says. "Don't worry about it."

"You did what," Sam says, feeling horrified at the thought of Lucifer having contact with someone in the other part of his life, the normal part, the part that's not being stalked by a hit man.

Lucifer smirks. "I told them I was your boyfriend and that you weren't feeling well."

Sam lets his head drop backwards and knock against the headboard. "Oh my God, you asshole." He just called a hit man an asshole. Sometimes he can't believe he's still alive. He tugs at the restraints again. "I thought you'd decided I wasn't going to call the feds on you."

"You can never be too careful," Lucifer says seriously. "And I like seeing you helpless."

Sam blushes. Lucifer settles on the bed next to him, tucking an errant lock of hair behind his ear, and he can't suppress a shudder. "Is there a reason you're here," he snaps, to cover the momentary weakness, "or did you just come to tie me up and stare at me?"

"I won't deny that I'm enjoying the view," Lucifer says, tracing a finger down Sam's chest, and he's fervently glad that he'd put on a t-shirt before going to bed the night before. He kind of wishes he was wearing more than just boxer shorts, though. "But you've seemed so stressed lately," he continues. "I thought you could use a day off."

"I've seemed stressed?" Sam echoes. "You mean you've been watching me."

"How else am I supposed to make sure you're safe?" Lucifer says, sounding oddly—protective.

Sam sighs. "Either way. Keeping me tied up is kind of a boring way to spend a day off."

Lucifer grins, and there's something dark and wicked in it that makes Sam's stomach flip over. He moves with the same grace he'd shown in the bar to straddle Sam's hips, who sucks in a sharp breath. "I thought I might be able to find a way to help you relax."

"No," Sam says immediately, pulling at his bonds. Lucifer ignores him, rolling his hips and smirking, and fuck, he can't stop himself from responding. Gentle hands draw his boxers down his thighs, caressing his dick, and he can't help the whimper that escapes his lips. Lucifer's eyes meet his, and he has to jerk his gaze away.

"I can't—" he starts, but a soft finger pressed to his lips silences him.

"You can," Lucifer tells him. "You want this. You need it."

"No," he says, "no, no, I can't do this," but Lucifer ignores him, gives his cock a few more expert strokes, and he's swearing, tilting his head back, and squeezing his eyes shut. His fingers are deft and clever, and Sam thinks about how many times those fingers have been wrapped around the trigger of a gun, and he's briefly overwhelmed by the fact that this man who is capable of so much beautiful destruction is focusing the fullness of his attention on Sam. "Fuck," he murmurs, arching up into Lucifer's hands.

"That's right," Lucifer coaxes, "give in. You can't tell me you've never wanted to flirt with danger. Just a little." His hands keep working Sam's cock, and Sam can feel his gaze piercing into him, but he can't bring himself to look back. Lucifer's not having any of that, though. "Look at me, Sam," he orders, and he's helpless to disobey. "I want to see your eyes when you come."

"Fuck," Sam says again, "fuck, Lucifer." He's pulling too hard at the restraints, and he knows he's going to have burns from them later. Lucifer's eyes are focused on his, and he wants to look away again, he can't stay focused on that gaze, but he knows he can't, knows he's not supposed to. It's a little fucked up that he's worried about obeying what a contract killer wants from him. He whines, low in his throat, and Lucifer's eyes go dark, his strokes increasing pace.

"I love hearing you say my name," he says, almost conversationally. "No one makes it sound like a prayer quite the way you do."

Sam thinks about telling him that no one makes his own name sound like a threat so much as Lucifer does, but can't quite get the words together. He settles for just groaning and arching his back as Lucifer gives a particularly good pull. He seems to know just the right places to take Sam apart. He's breathing in shallow little gasps, and he doesn't know how the hell he got here, with a hired killer jerking him off. "Lucifer," he says again, as Lucifer thumbs over his slit, and then he's shaking and swearing as he comes.

Lucifer smiles fondly down at him as he regains his breath, stroking his clean hand through Sam's hair, before leaning down and kissing him softly. And this time he doesn't even try to fight it, opens his mouth willingly to Lucifer's hot tongue, lets him suck on his bottom lip before pulling away. He closes his eyes while Lucifer gets up, returns with a damp towel to clean him up, and isn't that considerate of him. He tucks Sam back into his boxer shorts and presses a kiss to his forehead. He's feeling warm and safe, and he knows that he shouldn't fall asleep like this, shouldn't feel like Lucifer is watching over him, but. But he does.

When he wakes again, his hands are free, and there's a new note on his pillow. The look on your face when you come is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, it says, I'd like to see it again.


Dean takes him out to a bar, tries to get him laid. Refuses to listen to Sam's protests, introduces him to a nice girl named Madison.

And sure, he likes Madison. She seems nice and the type of person he'd probably go for were he not already—he doesn't want to say in a relationship. He's not in a relationship. But he's definitely not single, and while Lucifer's never exactly forbidden him from seeing anyone (not that he needs Lucifer's permission for anything, he tells himself), he doesn't think it would go over so well. So he smiles, plays along, flirts back, but there's not real feeling behind it. And if he's conveniently a little too drunk to sleep with her at the end of the night, well, it doesn't mean anything.

He's half-expecting to wake up tied to the bed again the next day. But it's a normal morning, and a normal day, up until the point when he's walking home from work and he's pulled into a darkened alleyway, the cold barrel of a gun pressed up underneath his chin.

His pulse is racing and his breathing is quickening, but he relaxes a bit once he looks into familiar blue eyes (which kind of says something about his mental health). He's almost not sure he recognizes them, though—they're dark, almost black with fury.

"Do you have any idea how badly I wanted to kill her," Lucifer grits out, pressing Sam back into the cold brick wall of the alley.

"Calm down," Sam says, "Jesus, you can't just go around pulling a gun on everyone, man, calm down. Nothing happened, okay? We didn't do anything."

"You flirted with her," he says, voice low and dark. "She wanted you, anyone could have seen it."

"Yeah, but nothing happened," Sam says, feeling exasperated. "My brother made me go out with him, and I couldn't exactly tell him I had an overly possessive contract killer stalking me, could I?"

Lucifer sighs. "If you were trying to make me jealous," he says, "you were doing an excellent job of it."

"I'm not trying to make you jealous, oh my God," Sam says. "As if this relationship isn't fucked up enough already."

Lucifer draws back slightly, studying his face. "I don't want you seeing anyone else."

"You don't get to tell me what to do," Sam says.

"I'm not telling you what to do," Lucifer says, the corner of his mouth tugging up. "I'm telling you what I want you to do."

"While holding a gun to me."

Lucifer gives him a look. "You're the one talking back to the guy who's got a gun to you."

"You won't use it on me," Sam says, sounding more confident than he feels.

Lucifer chuckles at that, low and rough. "Won't I?" He drags the gun up, along Sam's jawline, brushing it against his lips, and Sam's lips part, the tip of his tongue darting out to taste the gun's barrel. Lucifer pauses, eyes searching out Sam's, and he takes a deep breath, opening his mouth to let Lucifer slide the gun all the way in.

The gun is heavy and cold in his mouth, but the way Lucifer's pupils go dark with something he can only describe as lust is more than enough incentive to keep working it, sucking on it, tracing his tongue around it and letting his eyes fall half-closed. It's only when Lucifer pulls the gun away with a groan that he notices they're both hard in their jeans.

Lucifer's hand is in his hair, curled around the back of his head, and Sam knows what he wants. He sinks slowly to his knees, unbuttoning Lucifer's jeans and unzipping his fly with shaking fingers. "Fuck," he murmurs, contemplating the consequences of giving a notorious contract killer a blowjob in a dark alley. But it's not like he hasn't been pretty reckless about consequences lately. This is just one more bad decision to add to the list, he thinks, and takes Lucifer into his mouth.

It's not elegant. It's messy and rough, and inexperienced. He hasn't really done this much, but he thinks that enthusiasm may be able to make up for inexperience, and if the way the hand on his head is clutching at his hair is indication, he's doing okay. Lucifer's hard and leaking, impossibly huge in his mouth, and he pulls back to swipe his tongue across the head. He's rewarded by Lucifer swearing and tugging sharply on his hair.

"Sam—" he says warningly, and then he's coming, warm and salty down the back of Sam's throat. He tugs Sam up by his collar, glancing at his face critically. "You've got come on your face," he says, and then he's pulling him in, kissing him and licking it off. He's still holding the gun, Sam notices, but the press of it against his chest no longer feels like a threat. It feels more like a promise.


"They're going to catch you, you know," Sam says, stroking a hand through Lucifer's hair. They're lying together on Sam's saggy old couch, have been since he came home from work to find Lucifer sprawled on it, holding his usual gun. Hello, Sam, he'd said, and then added, come sit on Daddy's lap. There's something about the dirty talk coupled with the threat of the gun that manages to press all his buttons, and he'd found himself obeying almost unconsciously.

"No, they're not," Lucifer tells him. "They're not that competent."

Sam frowns down at him. "Everyone gets caught, eventually."

"No, they don't," Lucifer says, sounding supremely unconcerned. "Some people just live out the rest of their lives on their private island with their gorgeous boy toy to satisfy their every whim."

"I'm not your boy toy," Sam says. "And you don't have an island."

Lucifer smiles. "I'd settle for private estate on an island. Somewhere preferably without an extradition treaty with the US. Without any neighbors for miles." He slips a hand up the back of Sam's shirt, and Sam shivers.

"We'd get bored eventually," he says, stretching his arms as Lucifer's fingers trace down each bone in his spine.

"I'd never get bored of you, Sam," he says seriously, running his fingers down Sam's sides and making him jump. "Not if we had eternity together."

Sam sighs and curls himself into the curve of Lucifer's arm. "Let me know when you've found a suitable island."