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.