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They’re fighting vampires when Sam’s rib breaks.
He just got distracted for a moment, hearing Dean’s bark of pain and turning too slowly, slackening his grip for milliseconds too long, and the vamp catches him off guard, punches him in the chest hard enough to hear a loud crack, but Sam’s facing it again, elbowing it in the face and forcing it backwards before taking its head off. By the time he’s looked to Dean, the other one is dead, too, head off to Dean’s left, body to his right.
Sam doesn’t even realize his rib is broken until he tries to take a deep breath and it hurts, and he clutches his chest, feeling for the pain.
“What?” Dean asks, still catching his breath.
Wincing, Sam prods around until he finds it, and his stomach turns at the feeling of broken bone. “Broken rib,” he grunts.
“Broken r -” Dean’s eyes go wide. “Sam, we -”
The sentence dies on his tongue. Wings whistle around them like they’re in The Birds , and Dean grabs Sam by the wrist, pulls him close, stands in front of him with his arms out.
Sam barely registers the sight of at least ten angels surrounding them before there’s another hand on his body and a voice in his ear saying, “Let’s get out of here, hm?” and then, darkness.
The world comes back spinning and Sam collapses onto - a bed, he thinks, or something else soft, but he’s getting woozy from pain and adrenaline, and he closes his eyes. He’s turned over, limp as a doll, and he raises his arms to defend himself, but these hands aren’t hurting him, just feeling around for the broken rib, but they’re cold, like they’d just come out of a bowl of ice.
Above it all, he recognizes his rescuer’s voice. “Now, how did this happen?” Lucifer asks.
“Vampires,” says Dean from a few feet away, terse, angry. “Get the fuck away from him.”
“Relax, I’m healing him. Why would I want him injured?”
Warmth blooms from where the cold hands touch Sam’s ribs. The ache eases as the broken rib clicks back into place, the bone reconnects, and all torn tissue knits together, but his heart is still racing and there’s still pain and fear and panic -
“There,” Lucifer says, still perfectly calm. “Fixed.” He smooths some hair away from Sam’s sweaty forehead and touches his swollen jaw, sore from taking a punch earlier, and that pain, too, goes away.
Sam finally feels steady enough to open his eyes. They’re in some…bedroom in a house, or something, he can’t tell, and Dean’s standing across the room with his hands balled into fists, glaring daggers at Lucifer, who’s - Sam’s heart drops - he’s just standing right above him, cold hands still on his body, pressing around for any more injuries to heal.
“Get - off,” Sam croaks, but he still feels weak, and he’s barely able to raise a hand to smack Lucifer’s arm.
Lucifer tuts. “Is that any way to treat your healer? Did your daddy not teach you any manners?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Dean growls. “He’s fine, now get away from him.”
“Gotta get you two to a safer location first,” Lucifer says. “Angels will be here any minute, and I assume you aren’t ready to say yes to Michael?”
Sam can’t see Dean from where he’s laying down, but he hears footsteps as Dean reluctantly approaches. Lucifer grasps Sam’s hand and he flinches, and then they’re sucked into darkness again, reappearing in what looks like a motel.
“We’re somewhere in another state, they won’t find you here,” Lucifer says, not releasing Sam’s hand. Sam struggles to sit up straight, some residual adrenaline still pumping through his veins, and sees that Dean had let go of Lucifer immediately and was inspecting Sam.
“You okay?” he asks, agitated. When Sam nods, he says, “Okay, let’s - let’s get out of here -”
“Oh, no, I’m not done with him,” Lucifer says pleasantly, and Sam twitches, trying to move away, but Lucifer has an iron grip on his hand. “Don’t worry, Dean, he’ll be fine. You stay put, they won’t find you here. We’ll be back.”
“You son of a bitch, don’t - !”
But that’s the last Sam hears of Dean before there’s another rush of air, then he falls into black, and he doesn’t resurface.
***
When Sam wakes up, he’s in a mostly empty room, laying on a carpeted floor. He blinks sleep out of his eyes and remembers everything, remembers how he got here, but…
Once he’s fully awake, his head and vision clear, he sits up, looks around - he’s never seen this room before. It looks like somebody’s sparsely furnished basement: single lamp on the ceiling, a couch and a table and a bookshelf off to the left, three small windows high up on the walls. The carpet is comfortable, but his sore back would have much preferred sleeping in a bed.
Then, footsteps, and he looks over to see stairs off to his right. He scoots back against the nearest wall and fumbles for - anything, really, and he has his knife, but nothing else.
But Lucifer is there, of course he is, and the knife is useless, he can do whatever he wants, and Sam is frozen, breathing, and - and he’s breathing just fine, like his rib had never broken.
Lucifer looks at him and he just smiles, like this is normal. “Good, you’re awake. I didn’t want you to sleep very long.”
Sam holds up the knife even knowing it can’t do anything. “What do you want?” he asks tersely.
“I want to help, Sam,” says Lucifer, patient, calm. “You’ve been dealing with so much.”
“It’s your fault.”
“And you don’t have to fight it,” Lucifer reminds him. “You can say yes to me.”
“No way in hell,” Sam retorts.
Lucifer sighs and shakes his head, saying, “I figured you’d say that. But I have time.”
He approaches and Sam tries to retreat further, but his back is flat against the wall. Lucifer crouches down until he’s at eye level with Sam, then sits, one leg pulled to his chest, the other extended. He tilts his head to one side and says, “You’re angry. I see it on your face, I see it in your soul. You’ve been angry for so long, and you have good reason to. I know about Lilith, I know about Ruby. You lost your father before you could truly reconcile with him, and your whole life was haunted by Azazel.”
“Who you sent,” Sam spits out. Lucifer sounds sympathetic, but all he was doing was making Sam angrier, every horrible thing that’s happened to him, how they led him here, with the bringer of the apocalypse staring at him like he hadn’t cursed him, like it wasn’t all his fault.
Lucifer shakes his head. “Don’t get me wrong, I wanted to learn about you, Sam. I wanted to know who you were, who you are. The intricacies…Azazel’s plans, those weren’t from me.” He frowns. “I would have done it differently. Demons, they serve a purpose, but they interpret their orders…loosely. There was no reason to put you through so much pain. We were always going to end up here.”
Sam doesn’t, can’t believe that for a second. “Sure,” he grunts.
“You don’t believe me?” Lucifer actually sounds disappointed. “Well, I do have a reputation, I suppose. How annoying.” He sighs and rolls his head, then says, “Anyway, I understand why you’re mad. And you’ve been holding it back for so long because it frightens you. You’re supposed to be kind, gentle, loving, a protector, a savior. And you are, Sam. You’ve helped so many people. But you’re still so angry.”
He’s right, of course he’s right, and that old, old anger built up over years and years bubbles in Sam’s gut, threatening to rise, fill his chest, erupt from his throat. He’s shaking with it, he feels it burning behind his eyes, glaring at Lucifer like he could kill him with his gaze, and in that moment, it almost feels like he can.
Lucifer’s eyes widen and he purses his lips, then smiles again. “I see it in you. You’re furious. Furious at all of this, and - oh, you’re mad at me.”
“Of course I’m fucking mad at you.” Sam doesn’t curse often, not like this, and it sounds so harsh in his voice. “All of this is your fucking fault. I” - he swallows - “I let you out of the cage, but you’re the one who decided to destroy the world. People are dead. Places are ruined.”
Blue eyes meet his, bright with Grace, dark with excitement, and it makes Sam’s stomach turn. “You want to get back at me, don’t you?” Lucifer asks. “You wish you could beat it out of me. You wish you could kill me like you kill monsters. I’m not a monster, Sam, I’m an angel. There’s one thing that can kill me, and you have no chance of getting a hand on it.”
Lucifer stretches and cracks his back, then says, “But, I have an offer for you. I don’t want anything in return. This is just kindness, a gesture of good will.” He drops his leg and sits, leaning on his hands. “You can fight me. Fight me like you fight monsters. Take all that anger out on me, Sam. Get it out of you.” He wets his bottom lip, adds, “Don’t worry, I’ll make it fun. I’ll put up a fight. But I won’t do any serious harm. You’ve had enough of that.”
That anger is still roiling in Sam’s chest and it’s tempting, why not? Why not attack Lucifer, even if it ultimately means nothing, he can still do it, and maybe for a while pretend that he has some modicum of control over - over anything. That he isn’t just a man facing incomprehensible horrors. That he isn’t helpless. That he can do something.
Slowly, Sam staggers to his feet, letting his rage go, digging it out from where it’s been buried deep inside of him. He glares down at Lucifer, whose eyes widen, and he gets to his feet, too. “Is that a yes?” Lucifer asks, almost a purr, what does he get out of this? What does he want?
It doesn’t matter. Sam attacks.
Lucifer doesn’t run, barely dodges, and it’s easy to get a grip on him. His body is cold, so cold, cold like a corpse but alive, he elbows Sam in the gut but Sam throws him to the ground and he nearly bounces off with the force of it. He pins him down and punches him in the face, breaking his nose with a loud crack, and he didn’t even think he could do that to an angel, so he hesitates.
Unfazed, Lucifer just reaches up and sets his nose back in place, healing it instantly, and all that remains from the injury is a trickle of blood. “You’re so strong,” he remarks, admiring. “No wonder monsters are so afraid of you.”
Sam punches him again, this time on the cheek, before Lucifer shoves him up with inhuman strength and they’re on their feet again. Sam kicks him hard in the solar plexus and sends him staggering backward, then punches him hard in the chest and hears ribs crack and it’s so satisfying. Blood’s roaring in his ears as he approaches Lucifer, who’s standing against a wall, legs bent, smiling bloody.
“You’ve still got your knife,” Lucifer suggests. He’s breathing hard, even though he doesn’t have to, a good imitation, like the fight means something. “I left it for you to use it.”
Sam retreats to grab it, and turns it over in his hands while Lucifer waits. How many demons has he killed with it now, after he stopped using his powers? So many. He’s watched them flicker with not-life, watched their stolen bodies slump to the ground, but what else could he do? When there wasn’t time for exorcism, what else could he fucking do?
So he picks it up, crosses the room in a few wide, angry steps, and shoves it into Lucifer’s shoulder, just under the collarbone, and Lucifer cries out in pain, and Sam can’t tell if it actually hurts or if he’s pretending, but it’s good, blood’s welling up at the wound and Sam pulls it out with a sick tearing sound, the serrated edge slicing through flesh, and this body wasn’t stolen, no, it was given. Some man, somewhere, had willingly given his body to the Devil. So there’s no guilt. No sorrow. No loss.
He drags the blade from Lucifer’s jaw down to the hollow of his neck, not even pricking the skin, but falters, because - oh, fuck, he can smell it. Blood, angel blood, already cooling on Lucifer’s skin, but it smells like - nothing he recognizes, but so much. It’s every smell he’s ever enjoyed and so much more: something sweet, like maple syrup, like vanilla, then - exhaust fumes, comforting; the Impala, every good moment he’s had with Dean, and - lavender, patchouli, something woodsy, musky, something he feels low, deep inside of him - Jess’ perfume - fresh pine, rain in the woods, the first frost in winter, everything all at once in perfect harmony. He’s frozen, breathing deep through his nose, his nostrils flared.
Lucifer smiles, and there’s still blood in his mouth, staining his teeth. “Almost forgot about that. You still like blood, don’t you, Sam? Angel blood is much more potent than demon blood, you know. I don’t know exactly what it does to humans…but you want it, don’t you?”
His voice is low, dark, there’s something underneath, something menacing, something sly, and Sam slashes across his neck. Blood drips and pools, dark maroon, and it takes Lucifer a moment too long to react, choking and coughing and gasping, blood pouring down onto his shirt. Sam just stares at it as the smell grows more intense.
“Don’t lose your focus.” Caught off guard, Sam doesn’t notice Lucifer kicking him in the stomach until the wind is knocked out of him and he falls to the ground, coughing, still clutching the knife.
Lucifer approaches him, then straddles him, knees on either side of his torso, and he breathes, gets ready to grab Lucifer by his waist and wrestle him to the ground, but all Lucifer does is pin Sam down and - blood drips onto Sam’s face, making him twitch, and fuck, it’s so close to his mouth. His breathing is ragged, covered by the smell, more blood falling onto his face and neck.
“It’ll make you stronger,” Lucifer says. “You can tear me apart, if you want.” He actually sounds excited at the prospect.
Sam raises his free hand, shaking, and swipes some of the blood off of his face. He stares at his bloody fingers for a few moments, his heart sinking. You can’t fall into this again, he thinks, briefly full of despair. You can’t let it control you again.
“Oh, Sam.” Lucifer combs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face, and he flinches. “Your restraint is admirable, but it’ll be so fun to see you at your full potential. So close to how we’ll be together, you and I, when I’m inside you.”
Sam’s stomach lurches at those last words, something stirring within him. “No,” he says thickly. “Never.”
Lucifer sighs. “Well, you asked for it.” He swipes two fingers across his neck and, before Sam can protest, shoves his fingers in his mouth.
It takes a moment before it hits him, and holy fucking shit, it’s good, like demon blood but better, so much better because this doesn’t taste like sulfur and dirt and burnt rubber, this tastes like - like light, is the only way he can describe it, tastes like the scents from before and glory, the feeling makes his head fall back onto the ground, he’s high, floating in it, his back in a steep arch. But he’s not dull, senses muted - no, this hits like the demon blood, too. High, good, but powerful, new strength in his veins, flooding his body, fueling his muscles, and with a grunt he shoves Lucifer off of him, then kicks him in the chest, sending him sprawling. He yanks him up by his hair and punches him hard in the face.
“There you go,” Lucifer rasps; he’s good at sounding hurt, good at bleeding, and he looks delighted . Before he can speak again, Sam grabs the knife and stabs him through the neck, more blood and a sickening gurgle, and seizes him around the neck to strangle him and coat his hands with blood. He kicks Lucifer over again, then licks the blood off his fingers, more, God, fuck, he’s so strong, he’s in control, he’s standing tall over Lucifer on his back in front of him. He stomps on his stomach and Lucifer shouts in pain, curling off to his side, and Sam steps on his side, digging the edges of his boot into his skin, probably leaving bruises, he wants to leave bruises. Wants to hurt him. Wishes he could kill him.
Sam gets down on the floor, rolling Lucifer onto his back again, and looms above him, casting the angel in shadow. “Thought you were gonna fight back,” he taunts.
Lucifer smiles, his lips bloody, and says, “If you insist,” then plants his hands into the floor, rears back, and slams his head against Sam’s, sending him stumbling backwards and groaning. Lucifer gets to his feet and then their positions are reversed, and he kicks Sam hard in the chest again, then hauls him to his feet and punches him in the nose, another loud crack, grabs him by his shoulder and - he bites down, and his teeth are sharp, and something warm bubbles within Sam even as he tries to get away, throbbing pain all over his body, and he ends up stabbing Lucifer’s arm to get him to retreat. Before he does, he reaches up and sets Sam’s nose, taking that pain away. “Can’t ruin your pretty face,” he says, and then he’s gone again, stepping away, ready.
Sam coughs, there’s blood in his mouth, too, just iron, no light, no glory, but there’s still some angel blood smeared on his face so he gets the rest on his fingers and sucks it off. Every drop is like another hit, his head is full of bliss and power, and he looks at Lucifer. Blood on his shoulder, his mouth, all over his neck.
It all builds within him again as he approaches Lucifer, shoves him against the wall. His own pain doesn't matter, what little of it Lucifer allowed him to feel, he can barely feel it now. This is his fault. All his fault. People are dead. The world’s being torn apart. He’s done this. He’s doing this. Make him pay.
Rage pulses behind Sam’s eyes, blood-red in the corners of his vision, and he grits and bares his teeth as he shoves the knife into Lucifer’s stomach, hearing and feeling it break the skin, listening to Lucifer’s cry of pain, maybe exaggerated for effect, maybe not. His breath is hot on his tongue and his lips and he twists the knife, feels blood on his hands as he drives the knife in up to the hilt, blood so much hotter than Lucifer’s cold skin.
He looks up, wanting to see the pain on Lucifer’s face, and he’s rewarded by a perfect facsimile, tears at the corner of Lucifer’s eyes, his face hot, his expression twisted in agony, but - a smile flickers on his face for half a second, and then one of his hands is fisted in Sam’s shirt. “Good,” Lucifer says, his mouth open and hot and bloody, and he pulls Sam into a kiss.
For the first moment, Sam’s just shocked, maybe even outraged - morally, this is wrong, isn’t it? On every level, this is wrong. But he can taste Lucifer’s blood and it’s so good, and if he’s honest with himself he’s felt that otherworldly but all-too-familiar pull towards Lucifer from day one, and he hasn’t kissed anyone since Ruby - but how is this any different from her?
As if in reply, Lucifer releases Sam and says, “No ulterior motive, Sam,” his voice tight, the knife still sticking out of his stomach, blood soaking his shirt. “No tricks. Your move.”
Sam twists the knife and kisses Lucifer, cutting off another sound of pain, swallowing it, licking the blood off of his tongue, his teeth, fuck, he’s never wanted anything more in his life. Kissing him, his soft lips, their noses bumping, feeling his stubble against his mouth, feeling his warm blood on his hand, in his mouth. Better than Ruby. Better than anyone. It shouldn’t feel like this, he knows that.
One of Lucifer’s hands goes to his hair, grabs a handful and keeps their faces together, and the other pushes up his shirt and touches Sam’s stomach muscles, fingers running over brand new bruises, humming in some lascivious approval, and Sam isn’t sure why that turns him on so much but - fuck, he’s hard, has been for a minute, maybe even before they kissed, what’s wrong with me? he asks out of obligation, not because he cares. How can he care, now, biting Lucifer’s lip and feeling that fucking gorgeous high he hasn’t felt in months?
He feels it, then, with Lucifer's blood in his mouth and on his hands and down his throat, he feels all that Lucifer feels, and overwhelmingly above all of it is love. Not love the way Sam knows it, not anything he would call love, but what love is to Lucifer. It's almost too much, hot and heavy and pounding like a drum, but it's intoxicating, all this love and yearning and the satisfaction of just being near his other half. Somewhere underneath it all, the feeling sends ice through Sam's veins.
Stronger, now, Sam grabs Lucifer’s shirt collar and rips, tears it until his shoulder is exposed, then ducks his head and shoves Lucifer’s arm against the wall so he can press his mouth to the stab wound he left there, licking at the drying blood, and he can’t stop the desperate, faint noises he’s making. Lucifer’s free hand combs through his hair and holds him in place, keeps his lips and tongue on the cut, and he licks until there’s nothing left, then gasps for air, he can taste it on his breath, it’s so much, so good.
Sam rips out the knife with another gruesome noise and backs away, breathing hard. Lucifer’s shirt was already ruined but now the bottom right is completely stained and sticky with blood. Sam’s hand is shaky around the knife but he raises it to his face, staring at it, and -
“Oh, let me,” Lucifer says, and snatches the knife out of his hand. He looks into Sam’s eyes, his own full of Grace, and licks his own blood off of the knife, flinching as it nicks his tongue. “Can’t let you cut your tongue, you feel pain more than I do.” He speaks without swallowing any of the blood collecting in his mouth. His free hand is on Sam’s chest, keeping him away, even as Sam breathes with his mouth open and his hands balled into fists.
But he’s patient, patient enough to wait until Lucifer’s licked the knife clean before grabbing him and kissing him, one hand on his jaw to keep his mouth open, licking the blood off of his tongue. Lucifer’s lips were cold at first but they’re warmer now, so are his hands, his nose, every part of him that Sam has touched. The angel’s hands, one holding the knife, are sliding up his shirt again, up to his heaving chest, then clawing down, and it’s nothing compared to every other injury he’s taken in this fight - if it can even be called that, now - but it still pulls a groan from the back of his throat.
When he opens his eyes, he sees the blood he smeared on Lucifer’s face and remembers there’s still some on his hand, but Lucifer snatches it before he can and licks up the length of his index finger until the fingertip is balanced against his front teeth, then takes it in his mouth, his tongue curling around every wrinkle, and Sam exhales all of the air in his lungs through his teeth. He shoves his middle finger into Lucifer’s mouth and he doesn’t even flinch, just takes the knife and drags it down Sam’s bare stomach, and Sam doesn’t even know how he’s bleeding at all because it’s all in the pit of his stomach now.
“Someone’s getting into it,” Lucifer comments around the now three fingers in his mouth, his pupils blown as he looks down. Sam pushes his fingers in up to the knuckle and Lucifer makes a little mfh sound, then puts the knife into Sam’s free hand and goes for his belt, and Sam’s heart rears back before slamming against his ribcage. He shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t be high off angel blood, shouldn’t be so hard he’s getting dizzy, shouldn’t yank his fingers out of Lucifer’s mouth to kiss him and taste the blood on his tongue, but it’s the apocalypse and nothing fucking matters anyway.
So he lets Lucifer unbuckle his belt, unbutton and unzip his jeans, but then he pulls away and wipes his mouth and gets to the floor, no longer trusting himself to stand. Lucifer’s looking down at him, curious, smiling, but Sam’s eyeing the wound he left in Lucifer’s stomach, and he pushes up the ruined shirt to see it. It’s big, still oozing blood. Sam grabs Lucifer by his hips to lean in and press his mouth to it, cooling blood on cool skin, licking up anything that had spilled down, and when he does go for Lucifer’s belt, it’s because blood had run under his jeans and he needs all of it, doesn’t mind at all when Lucifer grinds against his bicep and sighs as he tangles his hands in Sam’s hair, pushing him against the wound.
When Sam has all but licked the wound clean and is sitting with his head tilted back, high as fuck, his chest heaving, blissed out, Lucifer gets down to his level, pulls him against him and kisses him, slow and deep, his lips warm now, and murmurs, “It’d feel so good to fuck something right now, wouldn’t it?”
The idea goes right to Sam’s dick and he groans something unintelligible against Lucifer’s mouth. He wants more blood, he wants sex, he’s a blood addict again except this new shit is so much fucking better, he wants warmth in his mouth and on him and around him, he pushes his hips against Lucifer’s and oh, even that feels good.
Lucifer kisses him one more time, then pulls away and takes off his shirt, the wounds even more obvious now, including the one still bleeding, and Sam’s eyes zero in on it, his mouth dropping open involuntarily.
Then Lucifer lays down and - oh, he has the knife, he took it from Sam at some point, and he drives it into the stomach wound. His back arches, pornographic, and the veins strain in his neck as he twists the knife further. He takes it out, panting, and licks it, licks it all, and drops it with a clatter.
“You like how I taste?” he asks, still pretending he’s out of breath, and it’s hot, it’s fucking hot. Sam swallows. “Imagine how good it’ll feel.” Lucifer reaches to the wound and digs his fingers in, pulls it wider, and he grimaces but doesn’t stop, and Sam can’t stop staring.
Smiling again, his eyes dark, Lucifer says, “I want you to fuck it,” and Sam’s already there, yanking his jeans and boxers down, his cock bouncing against his stomach, and as he’s bracing himself with one knee between Lucifer’s legs and one knee outside, he sees Lucifer’s eyes drop and widen, watches his tongue dart out to wet his bitten lips. He wants Sam, and Sam wants him, wants this, so he leans over Lucifer’s body and hoists one leg up to get him at a better angle, then - fuck, he’s - the head of his cock pushes into the cut, so hot and the fucking blood -
“Sam,” Lucifer breathes, reverent and loving and desperate and satisfied, and Sam fucks into him with an obscene squelch sound and moans, it bursts out of him, and he’s worried he’s already about to come but he can’t, he’s barely got four inches of his cock buried in Lucifer’s stomach and he wants - God, can he fit? He wants to fit, wants to be balls deep in flesh and blood, so he pushes in, gasping for air, hands clutching Lucifer’s leg and hip so tight there’ll be finger-shaped bruises there, at least until Lucifer heals himself.
He’s fucked people in every hole and this is different, maybe not better but different and good, tight and wet and hot and - yeah, he can’t taste the angel blood covering his dick but somehow it feels like how it tastes, light and frost and glory, and when he bottoms out he moans again, his voice shaking, he reaches down and pushes a finger into the wound next to his cock and Lucifer grunts and he sucks the blood off his finger -
- and then he’s fucking him, gripping him tight and driving his cock into the wound, hot blood churning, flesh constricting around him as he rips it, listening to every little sound of pain and thinking good, good, hurt him, he hurt you, he hurt you, it’s his fault, all his fault, this is good, it’s good, feeling almost righteous, like he did back when he was pulling demons out of their stolen bodies. Every thrust into Lucifer’s warm body is strong and Sam is tense and shuddering, overwhelmed by the sight, smell, taste, touch, sounds, God, it should be disgusting, the sounds he makes with every movement, but they only make him want it more.
And it’s not like Lucifer doesn’t want this too, isn’t egging him on by arching his back and running his hands down his chest and stomach and moaning his name, fumbling for his dick but not quite reaching it at the position Sam has him in, and the part of his mind that’s going insane from adrenaline and sex and angel blood has him pull out, flinching at the change in temperature, and, panting, rearrange Lucifer’s body so the angel can reach himself, because he wants to watch, watch him get off to getting his stomach fucked to shreds.
Sam fucks into the wound again and Lucifer’s head falls back, just a quiet moan, just Sam, and Sam bares his teeth and tries not to come, but it’s harder now with tight flesh around his cock and Lucifer jerking off, clearly new to this, his hand shaking and hesitant, and Sam’s gripped with the urge to help, show him, but he can’t let go of his hip. He focuses on the steady give-and-take of the wound, how it clings to him, sticky thick blood covering his dick and the skin and hair above and around it, and fuck, he wishes he could reach down and get it on his hands and lick it off, his body’s demanding more, can hardly taste it in his mouth anymore, but he’s not about to stop, not now that his cock is twitching and his hips are making gross, sloppy smack sounds against Lucifer’s stomach faster and faster.
“S’ it good, Sam?” Lucifer asks, breathless, smug. “Tell me.”
Sam spits the words out, “F-fuck, yes, fuck yes,” his thrusts more erratic, his muscles taut, “so - so f-fucking good, you feel - so good.” He barely feels the words in his mouth, every sensation is consumed by the blood, the tissue parting just for him, just for his cock, violently pushing into Lucifer - and Lucifer wants to push into him.
“You won’t - have me,” he gets out, fucking deeper, shoving his hips against Lucifer’s stomach and grinding, enjoying the little punchy sounds of pain, how blood is getting everywhere, all over him, matting the hair on his stomach, spilling onto the floor. “I’ll never - let you in. You’ll - say it to me. You’ll fucking - you’re taking this, you - you say yes to me.”
Lucifer licks his lips, they’re curved up, he’s beaming. “Yes,” he says, tilting his head, arching his back further, hand clenching around his cock, tensing his stomach muscles so Sam can feel it, “yes, Sam, oh -”
His fucking name in Lucifer’s voice again and again and he doesn’t even care about the sheer delight there, just cares about fucking him harder and harder, thinking about how hot it’ll be to come deep inside of the wound he made, “I’m inside of you,” he growls, losing it, gasping for air, “you fucking - you know how it - fucking feels, I’m inside of you.”
Sam feels victorious but all he hears is another moan, another adoring whisper of his name, and he’s not winning, is he? This isn’t winning, hasn’t been winning from the beginning. This isn’t the yes Lucifer wanted, but it’s something, and he really fucking wants it.
But angel blood is still roaring inside of Sam so there’s no room for anything resembling disappointment or anger or shame, just powerful want, need, urging him on and on and filling his head with bliss, fuck, fuck -
“Sam,” Lucifer gasps, his head thrown back, and that’s it, that’s it, Sam grips Lucifer so tight his hands go numb and shoves himself deep into the wound with an obscene squish and his whole body shakes and his cock twitches as he comes and his mouth is open, little broken noises falling out. He mindlessly thrusts into the wound, he doesn’t stop , he’s completely spent and empty but he’s still hard and it still feels so fucking good to fuck the wound full of blood and come. He finally looks down and sees white mixing with red and fucks in again, keeps moving until he’s too sensitive and it starts to hurt, only then pulling out with another carnal sound. He pants, out of air, his whole body heaving, and his hands tremble as he finally loosens his grip on Lucifer and sets him down, backs away, blood dripping from his cock onto the floor.
Lucifer adjusts his position, looking up at Sam with something like desire in his eyes, then down at the wound, all ruined flesh and blood and come, and he lets out some broken noises of his own, stroking himself furiously before coming on his stomach, some getting on or in the wound, and Sam just stares, zeroing in on the bloody wound.
Lucifer can tell and he says, “Go ahead,” like Sam needs permission, but a moment later his body is pressed to the floor and he’s pushing Lucifer’s leg down and licking the blood off of his skin, suppressing a moan, and when come gets in his mouth, it - fuck, how does it taste almost like the blood, he licks that up too, all of it, licks up Lucifer’s cock, still hard, and swallows him down, swallows all of it down before going back to the blood, and if he had been coming down from the high at all it’s back now, flooding his head with bliss again, so good, so good, and when he’s done he collapses onto the floor, still catching his breath.
For a while, they lay there, and Lucifer’s stopped the pretense of needing to breathe so only Sam is audibly breathing, and it’s weird, after who-knows how long Lucifer had pretended to gasp for air. He’s unmoving, recovering, and then his body shines and Sam turns his head to watch him heal. The brutal wound seals up, cuts fade into nothing, the last specks of blood vanish. Some bruises remain, like the ones Sam left on his hips - the sight of them sends his heart into the pit of his stomach - and Sam wonders if that’s something he can’t heal, or if he’s leaving them there on purpose. In seconds, he’s back to normal, like nothing ever happened.
Then the angel sits up, pushes some hair out of his face, and rolls over to face Sam, looking wistful as he reaches out to touch his cheek, and Sam makes a weak little grunt but doesn’t move away. For a while, Lucifer doesn’t say anything, just rubs his thumb over Sam’s cheekbone until the swelling in his face goes down, then strokes his hair, and Sam can’t help but close his eyes and relax into it, angel blood chasing out the horror and guilt and fear he would feel otherwise.
“Feeling any better?” Lucifer asks, sympathetic, almost overly so. “You were so pent up. Maybe now you can go about your days a little easier.”
Sam just grunts again, and when Lucifer curls up against him, cold, he doesn’t care. It feels…right, actually, to have the angel so close to him, his blood singing in his veins, reminding him of what they are. He reaches out one weak arm and slings it around Lucifer, who makes a pleased little noise and rests his head on Sam’s shoulder, wraps his arm around Sam’s chest.
“We could be like this every day,” he murmurs, rubbing Sam’s sore ribs, and as he does, the ache abates. Other injuries, too, disappear, and his pain fades. “Us, together. I’d let you have control of your body sometimes, you know. You wouldn’t be dead. I’ll give you everything you want.” He kisses Sam’s shoulder up to his neck and lingers there. “You can have this. You can have anything. Everyone you love, I’d keep them alive.”
Sam’s still high, and it’s tempting, it is, thinking about feeling like this all the time after so many years of stress and pain and fear, leaving it all behind. He doesn’t say anything, but he leans over and kisses Lucifer on the mouth, and God, this feels right too, he doesn’t taste any blood anymore but Lucifer’s mouth opens for him and they just fit together.
When they finally break apart, when Sam needs to breathe, Lucifer touches his face again and says, “Just think about it. You’ll say yes to me, Sam. I already know that. I’m just helping you along.”
And Sam nods, because it’s all he can do. He’s not saying yes, but he can’t deny how this feels, even laying on the floor shirtless with his pants mostly off and gore drying on his cock that he can barely tell is there. He should leave, should ask Lucifer to take him back, but he just…doesn’t want to. Lucifer touches his face, stroking his jaw, tilts his head to face him and kisses him again, and all Sam can do is return it. It’s good. It’s right.
Then he groans and twitches because Lucifer’s hand is sliding down his chest, his stomach, and his hips jerk up when Lucifer gets a hand around him. “Why don’t I get all of this off of you?”
It’s not the yes he wants, but he gets one.
***
Sam doesn’t know how long he’s been gone, but Dean says it’s been almost eighteen hours and he believes him. Dean’s got bags under his eyes, he’s been up since the day before yesterday, but Sam is more well-rested than he’s been in a long time. There’s still angel blood energizing him so he’s awake, alert, moving around the room, cleaning up, taking care of things, and insisting that Dean go to sleep.
“Dude, just tell me what happened,” Dean says, his eyes closed, sprawled out on one of the beds.
Sam chews on his lip. “I can’t.”
“Can’t, or won’t?”
“Both. It - look, he didn’t torture me or anything like that,” Sam says. He’s blushing thinking about everything that happened in the last half-day or so, and he’s glad he’s facing away from Dean. “He just…tried to convince me to say yes, and I didn’t. I’m fine.”
“Body? Brain?”
“Fine,” Sam repeats. “Go to sleep. We’re safe here, my rib’s totally fixed, they can’t spy on us.”
He turns around to pick up his laptop and sees Dean narrow his eyes at him, then close them. “Okay,” he mumbles. “Jus’...don’...” He’s asleep before he can finish the sentence.
Sam exhales in relief and undoes the top button of his shirt; there’re marks there that Lucifer gave him and refused to take away, and he’d rather Dean not see them. There are other ones, too, but not anywhere other people could see. Only him, only later, when he undresses, when he sees the body Lucifer wants so much.
It takes another half hour for the last of the angel blood to fade, and that’s when it hits him, when he finally panics and grabs the sides of his head and mentally screams what the fuck did I do?! to no end, because it’s done, it’s done, something so horrible but so good, something he can never have ever again, holy shit. It was bad, it was wrong, it was badwrongbadwrong and Sam couldn't be badwrongbadwrong, not anymore, not if he wanted to fix his mistakes, but - how? How?
He touches his lip, touches the bruises, remembers all of it, all of it. He can’t want it again, can’t feel a rush of heat thinking about it, can’t picture it so vividly, can’t think about how good it felt, can’t want Lucifer to feed him his blood and let it rampage through him until all he feels is power and love, no more misery, not ever again. More than ever, his desire is a monster, something to be beaten into submission and chained and locked away. More than ever, to want is to be wrong.
He shifts and feels something in his pocket that he pulls out - a little note.
I removed part of that pesky sigil from your ribs. When you want more, all you have to do is call for me. I’ll find you.
Sam’s breath catches in his throat and he immediately tears the note to shreds, then shoves the shreds back in his pocket.
He wonders how long it’ll take for him to snap.