Threefold..., 2/11
Part One
--
Sometimes it isn't so bad.
Sometimes Lilith comes in and traces the arch of his cheekbones, fingers cool and slick like they've been dipped into oil. Sometimes she murmurs and coos into his ears, singing songs of hell's history, telling him stories of Azazel and Lucifer. Sometimes, when she fucks him with her fingers or rides him with her cunt tight around his dick, she tells him how good he's being, how he belongs to her and that she'll always be there for him, always take care of him and love him and how she's waited for aeons to have him.
Those moments are the few that Sam truly fears. In and among the pain of hell, Sam begins to treasure the quiet moments when Lilith enters, sends Sycorax away, and heals him before treating him as if he really is a prince. Sometimes he almost believes it.
Sometimes it isn't that good, but is still better than the torture. Sometimes Sycorax pulls up a chair -- Sam tries not to look at it too closely but he can't help noticing that the ribcage still looks as if it's alive, caught and tied to lungs that can't breathe, to a throat that can't scream, and a mind in terrible pain -- and talks. Sometimes the demon reads him books, Christian ones to laugh at and horribly violent ones to take apart as a master editor does a novice writer. Sometimes Sycorax expounds philosophy, taking both his side and Sam's, which is kind, really, as Sam can't speak for himself without a tongue.
Sam finds himself enjoying these times, even as hellfire eats away at the flesh on his bones first, then the bones themselves later. Sycorax is learned, highly intelligent, and he raises points that Sam has trouble disputing. It's disturbing, really disturbing, how much Sam looks forward to these sessions.
"You're an educated young man, Sam," Sycorax says, the twelfth time he pulls up that still-living chair. Sam wonders where this is going, doesn't have to wait long. Sycorax leans forward and runs his fingers down the length of Sam's tibia, charred and breaking to dust in the aftermath of the demon's touch. "You've read the great books. You've read Blake, I know, and more than just the required reading. He was a good man, William Blake. He came here once, did you know?"
Sam swallows, wants to say that he's thought, more than once, that that might have happened. Lilith said Blake loved her and hated her; he doesn't think she'd leave hell for anyone other than the boy king, Azazel's heir.
He can't talk and yet Sycorax nods as if the demon's heard him. "In the early days of his marriage, when he realised his wife was barren. William prayed and his god granted him three hours of our company." Sycorax trails off, as if he's remembering the events in vivid detail. "They passed too fast," he finally says, "for the works he was able to create." Sycorax seems to shake himself. "All of the great writers came here in one way or another, though for some that meant dreaming of our domain. Coleridge, Milton, de Sade, of course. I went to Shakespeare, so that was different, and we sent Pride to Dante though we'll never do that again. War to Machiavelli, Famine to Poe, and we let David Fincher meet some imps, once. Lilith visited Keats' dreams."
"La belle dame sans merci," a demon says, interrupting. It isn't Lilith. "After all, 'hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,' and even less when it comes to the queen herself being scorned. What was it she did to Wordsworth? Tricked him into giving up his redemption and then locked him up in one of the suicides' branches after driving him crazy?" The demon adds confidentially, as if he's talking directly to Sam, "Thinks he's been trapped in fucking Tintern Abbey since he died, Wordsworth does. Wonder what all of those Lit Department fucks would think of that."
Sam tears his eyes away from the picture Sycorax makes and glances toward the door. When he sees the demon there, leaning, casual and indolent, he shudders. Sycorax looks over as well, stands up with a frown written on his face. "What are you doing here?" he demands to know. "And with so little respect for our queen. Lilith."
"Sent me," the demon says, smoothly interrupting Sycorax again. It straightens up, slinks inside, hips swaying from left to right, eyes fixed on Sam. "She said, and I quote, 'I want him to get a view of our four less reputable cousins. He will need to understand their fate eventually and now is as good a time as any.'"
Sycorax scowls but nods, backing away from Sam and jumping up to sit on a counter-top even as he says, "I hope you'll understand if I stay here to supervise." There's no question but the other demon doesn't treat it as one, merely smiles and lifts one finger to its mouth, watching Sam, thinking.
Sam takes the opportunity to study this demon closely: dressed in white, a diadem perched carelessly on white hair, white eyes around black pupils. Sam doesn't know if this demon's male or female, can't tell from the clothes of the physical manifestation, can't tell from the voice or the mannerisms.
"Conquest," the demon says. "My name's Conquest. You might've heard of me?" It sounds hopeful, lets out a distressed sigh when Sam doesn't respond.
"No tongue, you idiot," Sycorax growls. "Now say your piece and be gone."
At first, when the demon appeared, Sam had thought Sycorax was jealous that Lilith asked another to join in. Now, Sam thinks that Sycorax might actually be protecting him. It makes him wonder why before he realises that Conquest, that's the first of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Sam gets shivers, glances at Sycorax in mute query.
"Lilith called them our 'less reputable cousins,'" Sycorax says, eyes fixed on Conquest like the other demon's less than dirt. "They're not full demons. We at least fought to win our freedom from heaven. The horsemen, they still have a place in the divine plan. They're still ruled by celestial prophecy." Sycorax swings his legs and says, "'I watched as the Lamb opened the first of the seven seals. Then I heard one of the four living creatures say in a voice like thunder, "Come!" I looked, and there before me was a white horse! Its rider held a bow, and he was given a crown, and he rode out as a conqueror bent on conquest.' Celestial prophecy, divine plan. The horsemen have both. They have connections to heaven which means they aren't true demons."
"Close enough to be kin and kindred," Conquest murmurs, voice silky in its argument. "Why did you cut out his tongue?" Sycorax growls and Conquest smiles, looks up at the other demon with a coquettish smile, batting its eyelashes. "Peace, cousin. It was only a question."
Sam glances between the two, watching as they squabble. Sycorax doesn't like Conquest, that much is clear to see; Sam wonders if that extends to the other horsemen as well, or if it's just this particular one, Conquest's attitude.
Sycorax studies Conquest, finally says, "He needs to learn to listen. He can't do that if he has the ability to talk. Besides, Lilith and I can understand him well enough."
Conquest raises an eyebrow, looks at Sam. "Ah. So he is what they say he is, then? Fascinating." Conquest slides closer, reaches out when it gets close to Sam and lightly draws its fingers down Sam's chest. "So much power contained inside of this meatsuit. So much authority." Conquest bends down, whispers in Sam's ear. "Hail, conquering hero. Except right now, that's me. I'd expect accolades, but as you don't have your tongue, I think I'll take your ass instead. I am the victor, after all. I'm going to enjoy plundering you."
Conquest straightens up, smiles as its fingers trace the contour of Sam's hipbones, deftly avoiding Sam's dick. The demon's just about to push one finger inside when Lilith's voice washes over him.
"Stop," she orders, and Sam nearly closes his eyes in relief. She sounds furious. "I said to introduce yourself, not take your enjoyment from him. That pleasure is left to me and those of mine I deem worthy. You will never be worthy of him."
Conquest pouts but Lilith merely stands to one side of the doorway and points outward. Her arm is trembling with rage and Conquest must see it, because the demon rolls its eyes and then beats a hasty retreat. Conquest, conquered, Sam thinks, and then swallows when Lilith turns her gaze on him.
"What is it that we all see in you?" she asks, and through the anger she sounds honestly baffled. "What draws us to you, Samuel? Is it the shreds of humanity you cling to? The power Azazel placed inside of you? What?"
"If you'll allow me?" Sycorax asks, quiet and respectful. Lilith turns a baleful gaze on him, but nods. "I believe it is his endless capacity for suffering. We could never craft one so well as this."
Lilith holds Sycorax's gaze for one of Sam's four thousand, three hundred and twenty eternities. He's getting used to hell's idea of time. He's obviously been here too long.
"I believe you're right," Lilith finally says. She rips her eyes from Sycorax, turns them back to Sam. "I want you to meet the others but I no longer trust their restraint. I will be here, as will Sycorax, at their introductions."
She sounds -- Sam thinks she's trying to comfort him, reassure him. The sad thing is, he believes her and finds himself soothed by the promise.
He's been here far too long.
--
Sycorax plays with him for a little while, has him coughing up blood and screaming more than just his throat raw. Lilith comes back and heals him, just enough so that Sycorax will have a blank canvas to play with when they start over again, and says, "I've tracked down the other three. They'll come in, say their piece, and leave. Quickly."
Sam wants to ask her what she means, she's tracked them down, but Lilith sees the look on his face and clucks her tongue, fingers sweeping over one of his feet. "War likes to surf nightmares," she says, "and it's nigh on impossible to pin her down long enough to get her to come here for any length of time. Famine spends most of his time on earth frequenting your all-you-can-eat buffets," and her lip curls, though whether it's at the thought of those restaurants or simply being on earth, Sam doesn't know. "As for Death, it grows bored with the reapers from time to time and decides to create new ones. I found it up to its bony little elbows in dead reaper bits."
Sycorax snorts, shakes his head at the thought. Sam glances at the demon, Sycorax's hands still holding the hacksaw, and then back at Lilith.
"You're right," she says. " Let's get this over with." She turns, faces the doorway, and calls out, "All of you, here, now."
War comes sweeping in first, her red leather clothes moulded to and highlighting every curve, her flushed skin spattered with blood. Sam swallows when he sees the sword in her arm, the wild look in her eyes, the way she can't hold still, and Lilith tightens her hold on his foot, like she's offering him silent comfort. Famine creeps in next, slow and insidious, as if he's materialising one sagging piece of off-colour flesh at a time. He's naked, belly protruding, dick and balls shrivelled and tiny, and the tattoo of a set of scales surrounds sunken-in eyes and cracked, bleeding lips.
Lilith waits as Famine moves about the edges of the room, the stink of death and decay filling the air he passes through. Sam's holding his breath, waiting for Death to enter; the fourth horseman doesn't. "Swear on the Styx," Lilith mutters, before yelling, "GET THE FUCK IN HERE. NOW." All of hell shakes at the command and Death appears in the doorway, phalanges picking something off of its left clavicle.
Sam blinks, closes his eyes for longer and opens them again. When Lilith referred to Death's bony elbows, she wasn't kidding; Death is a skeleton and Sam can only think of Family Guy and the Discworld novels. He half expects a scythe and a rat, but Sam just sees the bones, dotted with bits and pieces of what he assumes are former reapers. The stench is incredible; he really doesn't want to know how the fuck a reaper dies.
Famine's muttering something, so Sam turns his head and tries to listen, finally hears him saying, "Loaf of bread for a day's pay, a day's for a pint of beer, and the goddamned oil's gone off. Best to stockpile, store up reserves." It makes Sam shiver to hear.
It's worse when War passes Famine, snarls at the other demon, and bites out, "I'll clear the way for you, get them to kill all the farmers." She smiles at the thought, though her eyes still glitter and flash with bloodlust, adding with a laugh, "See how well blood-soaked soil grows your fucking barley, yeah?"
Sam glances at Death, sees the skeleton still standing in the doorway, regarding Sam carefully even though it has no eyes.
"Say what you will to your prince," Lilith orders them, and the ice of her words is enough to make the hellfire floor freeze over and crack to shards. "Before I lose any more patience." The tone warns them to tread carefully; Sam already knows they won't listen and he's grateful for the protective shield Lilith and Sycorax provide.
Grateful. He must be going crazy, no matter what Sycorax has said about his strength of mind.
Famine opens his mouth and War turns on him, brandishing her sword and then bringing the point to Famine's throat. It's clear she wants to go first, but Death breathes and the rattle makes War close her eyes and freeze in place.
"I go to all people, in their time and place," Death murmurs. Its voice sounds like the scrape of nails against a blackboard, nothing male or female in the noise, and yet not like the androgyny of Conquest, either. It just hurts, makes Sam's eardrums rumble and shatters his maleus. Lilith's hand on his foot reforms it a split-second later and the sudden changing makes him dizzy and light-headed. "When I come to you, I will bring you here and set you upon your father's throne myself."
Lilith heals him again, just in time to see Death incline its head to him and leave. Sam has the irrational urge to ask how on earth Death moves, how it talks when it has no larynx, but he just shakes his head, trying to clear his own head from the vibrations of Death's voice.
"Fucking Death," War snorts, looking in the direction Death has just disappeared in. "I do all the work, it reaps all the souls. Lazy assed bastard." She turns her eyes to Sam, bares her teeth at him. Uncowed, sure of his place in Lilith's plans, Sam merely lifts an eyebrow at her show of aggression. She laughs, takes the sword away from Famine and lifts it up, shoving it in the scabbard strapped to her back. "I tell you what, prince. I made a bargain to ride the winds and nightmares for your father. I'll do the same for you, if you promise me one thing."
Sam lifts the other eyebrow in question.
War steps closer but not close enough to touch, mindful of Lilith. "Promise me an apocalypse. A good one, a proper one, where I can let my dogs roam wide and free. I want blood staining rivers red and turning soil to mud. I want screaming in the night air and despair come morning. I want fear and suspicion. Give me your word that you'll bring this to pass and I'll serve you from now until heaven's commander summons me."
Apocalypse. Destruction. Sam is getting a good idea of what his fate is. Destruction is the least of things he'll be expected to accomplish. He knows what war is. Everyone in this room knows that he's been waging one for as long as he can remember.
Lilith and Sycorax looking on, Sam nods.
A smile blooms across Lilith's face. It. They've bent him so far that he's starting to fray around the edges. It pleases Sam to see that smile. It fills his belly with warmth to know that he's responsible for it. He's starting to break.
War tilts her head in Sam's general direction and walks away, cracking her knuckles.
"Don't forget about me," Famine pleads, pitiful and small in one corner. "I'll bring you souls, I'll cause chaos and pain and arguments. I'll raise prices and I'll force humans to decide between food and housing and I'll kill the earth and send disease roaring through population after population. Just don't ignore me. I can do so much for you if you remember me."
Sam nods, almost against his will; he remembers all of the commercials for starving orphans in Ethiopia and Somalia, he's campaigned for the refugees in Darfur and to clean up the Ganges. He's seen the power of War, sure, and felt the heady lust of Conquest, but he and Dean have had to cheat and steal money from people in order to eat for years now. He's intimately experienced the fear of Famine's presence. He won't forget.
Famine practically crawls out of the room. Lilith takes a deep breath, then turns to Sycorax. "That went well," she says. Sycorax nods, just once. Lilith sweeps toward the door, pauses at the threshold and puts one hand on the doorpost, turns to look at Sam over her shoulder. "Our little Wilhelm," she murmurs. "You've made me very proud, this eternity."
Sam blinks evenly, tries to pull up what he can remember of Goethe.
"Mignon, I think," Sycorax replies. Sam blanches at the implication and Lilith harrumphs, sweeps out of the room.
Sycorax studies Sam, then says, pleasant as can be, "Right. I think, perhaps, we'll try some acid from the seventh circle next. The only question is where to apply it." Sam swallows and starts mewling piteously when Sycorax begins to place small drops of acid all over his body.
--
Lilith sweeps in to the room, covered tray in one hand. "Leave," she orders Sycorax. Sam wants to go limp in relief but lacks the muscles so he glances at the tray warily and then lets his eyelids flutter closed. Dean, he reminds himself. He's doing this for Dean. He can make it; he has to be getting closer and Dean would survive this treatment, demonic gifts or not, about as long and as happily as a fish would survive on dry land. Of course, Sam thinks, Dean wouldn't be here, like this, favoured pet of Lilith. Dean would be in the second circle, maybe, or the seventh; his punishments would be limited but fitting enough and hell itself would break his mind in a matter of moments. Dean, Sam thinks. He has to think of Dean.
A smack right on his nipple has Sam opening his eyes, jerking in the chains, tearing his back to shreds on the table. He sees Lilith frowning at him. She had only just healed him.
"I don't appreciate your distraction, Samuel," she says. Sam bites back the urge to apologise. "I suppose it's only natural, though. Sycorax and I have been asking a great deal of you lately. Unfortunately we're only going to be asking more. So I thought a break was in order. If you'd rather spend it thinking of your brother."
She trails off and arches an eyebrow. Sam's torn, knows that before his stay began he wouldn't have hesitated to retreat to Dean but he's curious about Lilith's definition of a break, wonders what she has in mind. Curiosity killed the cat, he knows, but Lilith heals him when she comes in, heals him and talks to him and fucks him. Sycorax is the one who pulls his body apart, who makes him scream and wail and cry, not Lilith. Knowing that he's one step closer to truly damning himself, knowing he shouldn't, Sam flicks his gaze from Lilith to the tray she's holding, back to her.
Lilith smiles, raises a hand, and watches as the floor rises upwards to create a small table next to the one Sam's chained on top of. She sets the tray down and lifts the lid; Sam's not sure what he was expecting but it definitely wasn't a bottle of red wine, a loaf of ciabatta bread, a plate of rare meat, and a hunk of white cheese.
He looks at Lilith, stunned, and she says, "Yes, well. I know we don't expressly need food down here but it can be so nice to indulge sometimes. Hungry?"
Sam's stomach growls and he feels acid rising up through his throat. He gags, turns his head until the chain holding the collar to the table yanks him, and wishes he could ask Lilith where she got the food and why it hasn't gone putrid and rotted already in hell's heat. He has no tongue and no need for food.
"Not for you," she says, taking one of Sycorax's knives from the counter, using it to slice some bread, pile up meat and a piece of cheese. "For me. But I thought I could share the wine." Lilith takes a bite, chews and swallows, murmurs, "There really isn't anything like a pound of traitor's flesh."
Sam stares as Lilith takes another bite, looks at the plate of meat. His stomach turns and he vomits again. Lilith wipes his forehead with her hand, tilts his head and opens his mouth. She pours wine down his throat and strokes his chest.
She smiles, says, "Come now, Samuel. This one has been aged nicely in Judecca -- the ice keeps the flesh sweet and tender. You'll enjoy this once you've the tongue to taste it."
He feels sick, watching her eat, half-wondering if the cheese is really cheese or something else. She doesn't say, just tells him stories of Azazel as she finishes the plate, as she helps him drink the rest of the wine. Sam gets light-headed from the alcohol and is letting it dribble out of his mouth by the time she's satisfied. She sucks her fingers and then licks up wine from his skin, and after he's cleaned, she fucks his ass with the wine bottle while she rides his dick.
--
Sycorax wants to cut off his arm. Actually, Sycorax wants to bring some sort of creature down here to bite off Sam's fingers, one at a time, and then let a barghest gnaw away his arm from the wrist to the elbow -- Sam's learnt his lesson on precision and learnt it well.
Lilith won't let him. At this point, with his vertebrae charred beyond recognition more than once, with every bone is his body broken at least four times, with the flesh melted off of more than feet, Sam wonders why not. It's not as if he has any choice. He'll scream whatever they do, scream and cry and beg without words, but it's late in his second day and he hasn't gone back on the deal. A day until Dean's safe; all Sam has to do is hold on.
"Oh, please," Sycorax asks Lilith, the demon almost begging. Sam's never heard that before, that tone; he looks at Lilith in disbelief. It demeans Sycorax to beg, makes the demon less than what Sycorax is and should be. Sam finds himself wanting to yell at Sycorax, close to desperate for the demon to act normally, and he's glad in the moment that his tongue's gone.
It's almost insane. Sycorax hurts him, has hurt him over and over again in the most terrifyingly imaginative of ways, and yet now he wants that demon back, would rather have Sycorax's nails drawing bloody furrows across his stomach and down his legs than witness the demon pleading.
Lilith rests one hand on Sam's foot and the skin around her touch heals, a wave of comfort spreading out as the sweet smell of burnt almonds gives him back his skin, his bone marrow, healing out the scabs and replenishing his blood. He sighs, relaxes and flinches as the glass shards underneath him undo everything that Lilith's just done -- flinches, but doesn't move off of them.
She gives him a kind smile, caresses his skin and moves her hand upwards. Sam arches, can't help it, not with the way her touch feels, the only cool thing Sam's come into contact with since he stepped into hell.
"I gave you leave to treat him as you see fit," Lilith says, voice a crisp rebuke, sharp as any of Sycorax' knives. "You, Sycorax, not any of your pets." Lilith glances at Sam, smile curving her lips. "Though I take precedence."
"Of course you do," Sycorax says. His eyes flick between them and he steps backwards, spreading his arms as if offering Sam to Lilith. He smiles, dipping his head.
Lilith nods her head, waves one hand absently so that the hellfire-floor shudders and breaks open, specks of lava splattering over Sam's skin. He whimpers, twisting on the glass, but Lilith runs her hands down Sam's side, playing absently with the knots of his tired, sore muscles. The floor rises; Lilith steps on it, straddles Sam and draws her nails down Sam's chest, drawing blood.
"Our little prince," she murmurs. She doesn't have to do anything else; he's hard, aching for her, at the feeling of his skin split open by her nails, the breath she exhales next to his face, rank and reeking of death. Lilith slides down onto his dick, settles there, and lifts a hand. "Whip him," she says, imperiously. "Now, with the silver, while I ride him."
Sam shudders underneath her, the tight heat of her cunt, the anticipation of the whip.
His back is in shreds, skin hanging off of him in tatters and chunks of bone burning on the floor, when he comes.
Lilith laughs and strokes his cheek, leaving a line of welts down the side of his face. "My little general."
--
Lilith comes to visit early on the third day -- Sam's getting a better sense of hell's fluid time the longer he stays here, something he finds slightly terrifying if he focuses on it for too long.
She takes a seat next to him, strokes nails as sharp as rusted screws down the nerves of his arms. He shivers, grinds himself down on the glass beneath him to keep from making any noise. Still, she smiles.
"I thought perhaps I'd give Sycorax a break," she says, "and a few of the other demons have asked if they can help with your." She pauses, plays his muscles like a guitar. "Education. They heard the horsemen came to see you and I think some of them are a bit jealous."
Lilith gestures over her shoulder with that and Sam's eyes slide from the ceiling to Lilith, then to the doorway. Change is never good when it comes to Sycorax, but Lilith is different. Sam understands what Lilith has been doing to him, why she comes to see him every so often, and as much as he wants to fight, he can't. He understands her because she understands him; every time he fights, she fights back in a way he can't refute.
Lust is leaning against the door, all indolent smile and lazy invitation. Sam's mouth dries; he looks at Lilith, shakes his head.
"You are only human, still," Lilith says, standing. When she takes her hand off of Sam, he's as healed as he's ever been since entering this room. "'The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom,' and if wisdom is your destination, the journey must be completely excessive. So let's take a walk through your excesses, shall we?"
She crooks a finger and Lust comes walking forward, hips swaying, to take Lilith's finger in her mouth, sucking with hollowed cheeks. Sam swallows, feels the heat of hellfire flood through him but he knows this is all from Lust.
Lust. Sam looks at Lilith, clearly confused.
"Oh, you thought they died?" Lilith asks. It's clear she's enjoying this. "And it's only crossing your mind now that my daughter killed a few, that you and your friends sent the others back here? Come, Sam. You're more intelligent than that. My Magnificent Seven can never be destroyed, not so long as humanity exists. You recreate them at every turn, with every breath."
That shouldn't surprise him and, on one level, it doesn't. What does, though, wholly and completely, is Lilith's reference to her daughter. Ruby is Lilith's daughter?
"We'll talk about that later, Sam. For now, let's focus. Let's explore your lusts," Lilith says, and pushes Lust closer to Sam. The demon comes close and looks back; Lilith nods, and so Lust leans down, licks a path around Sam's left nipple, still sore although it's been healed. "The lust for power, which explains your choices at Stanford. The lust for knowledge, which can never be fulfilled, can it? The lust for revenge, against Azazel, against your human father, against your destiny. The lust for meaning, which led you here. And then there's the other lust."
"More fun," Lust murmurs, before latching on to Sam's nipple and biting, sucking. Sam arches upwards, cock hard, fighting against the bonds on his wrists. "So receptive," Lust adds, straddling Sam and forcing him down, back onto the glass. "Dean will have a field day with you, won't he." A rush of fire goes through Sam's body, head down to his feet, as Lust says his brother's name. He shakes his head, tries to clear his mind, but Lust says, "You can't hide that, Sam. Not from me," before forcing his mouth open and her tongue inside.
Sam whimpers. All he can think about is Dean, Dean forcing him down, Dean opening his mouth wide and fucking it, first with his tongue, then with his dick, hard and rough, claiming, Dean tying him to the bed and fucking him open, fucking him so hard that Sam won't be able to walk, will feel it for days even though Dean won't wait that long before doing it again.
"Give it up, Sam," someone says, by his ear. His mind knows it can't be Dean but it sounds like him, the way Dean sounds just after he's had a good session of sex, comes back to the motel room reeking of come and sweat. Sam shakes his head, tries with all his might to ignore the teeth biting his neck, tongue soothing away the sting. "Sam. Come for me, little brother."
Lust astride him, Lilith next to him, Sam keens and comes, panting. He comes and comes and he tries to say his brother's name but the closest he can get is a minute of tears, licked away by Lilith.
"Incest is such a delicious sin," Lilith says, when Sam's caught his breath, when his blood is dripping in a steady rhythm on to the floor of hot coals, sizzling up and filling the room with smoke. "So excessive, Sam. So decadent."
Sam wants to fight, wants to say he's never even thought about it, but that would be lying. He has, he's jerked off more times than he knows to the thought of Dean, but he's never, ever, said anything to anyone else.
"Lust knows," Lilith says, following the path of Sam's thoughts. "If anyone other than you and other than me was to know your deepest, darkest sexual secrets, it's going to be Lust. Does this surprise you?"
It doesn't. Then again, Lilith already knows that, too.
--
Lust stays for a while, coaxes more out of Sam; thoughts about Dean, thoughts about Jess, even a few he'd forgotten about, from the time he was twelve and had a crush on his English teacher to the time he was seventeen and wondered, once, what it might be like for his dad to come home drunk and act on something Sam's convinced he only imagined seeing in the back of John's eyes, to the night before he came to hell, watching Dean flirt with a woman and thinking about being in the middle.
He comes and Lust licks up every drop; he cries and Lilith drinks his tears down like the finest wine.
Lust leaves and Sam watches her, eyes glazed over with exhaustion, dick raw and aching in pain, wanting to call her back.
"She's always had a soft spot for you, Sam," Lilith says. The demon leans down, whispers as if she's sharing a secret. "I think she'd like to displace your brother, take you for her own. But she's not strong enough to tame you; I can only think of one other, besides me, and she won't bring you to heel for fear of breaking you. So what about sloth, hmm?" Lilith asks. "Shall we move on? Oh, I know you're too proud to admit to it but I think if you knew the history you might think otherwise."
Sam stares at the ceiling, wants this to be over even though he has the majority of the seven left to suffer through. He can hear a demon shuffling in, too lazy to pick up its feet, too down to summon up the energy. Lilith strokes Sam's forehead, leans down and presses a kiss to his temple.
"Dissatisfaction, discontentment, restlessness, instability," Lilith lists off. Sloth comes closer, collapses over Sam's feet, driving them through stakes, grinding his calves into the glass. "Lie to me, Sam. Tell me you've never felt any of those. Your life is one unstable episode after another and you've internalised that. Stanford, its rules and regulations, they bothered you; half the lure of the practice of law was due to your dissatisfaction and discontentment."
Sloth hums and Sam can hear his Con Law professor reciting dry antitrust act facts, feels like he doesn't fit in his skin. He longs to break free, cut open his skin and fly outside of his body, go in search of something that suits him, something that feels like home, but all he can hear are statistics, all he can think of is the majority opinion in the Sherman case.
"'Every person who shall monopolize, or attempt to monopolize, or combine or conspire with any other person or persons, to monopolize...'"
Sam wants to run away but Lilith strokes the curve of his skull, whispers calming words, and says, "You fit here, Sam. You've thought before that you feel things more keenly than other people do, that things affect you more. Certain ones do, Sam, because of what you are underneath that meat-sack. You belong here with us. We welcome your excesses. We embody your excesses. And you are our manifestation."
She brings in Gluttony and Sam gets the most intense craving for sushi he's had in years, since Stanford and Jess' indulgence of his odd hankerings. He explained it away as having come from a family unwilling to explore new things, never told her about diner after diner with no difference.
"I know you think Dean fits Gluttony better," Lilith says as the other demon's putting its ear to Sam's belly, listening as Sam's stomach gurgles. "Don't get me wrong, your brother has his downfalls and gluttony's a big one, but don't think you're any better. It was Aquinas who thought that gluttony was also found in the constant eating of rare and expensive foods."
Sam smells steak, something spicy and grainy, like curry and couscous, and his mouth waters. Gluttony keeps its ear pressed to Sam's skin, following the line of Sam's stomach up to his esophagus, to his throat, pries open Sam's mouth and licks inside to scour for that saliva. Sam tastes rare beef and grilled asparagus, deep-fried lo mein and saffron rice. He whimpers, opening his mouth wider, trying to swallow the taste down. He wants more, wants it all.
Distantly, Sam can feel fingers sliding in his ass, but his attention is focused on the flavours bursting in his mouth and not on the way his legs are spreading as far as they'll go, not the way Sloth's pushing him full of restlessness, writhing under the three demons.
--
Sam comes and Lilith scoops up the mess, pushes Gluttony out of the way and sends Sloth tumbling on the floor so that she can shove come-covered fingers in Sam's mouth and order him to suck. His mind has dissolved into fuzz, Dean and the need to run and caviar all mixing together, and it's all he can do to pull edges of his consciousness back together and remind himself of who and what he is, why he's even here to begin with.
Lilith smiles at him, uses her sticky fingers to cup the curve of his skull. "And that's why you're so different, Sam," she murmurs, before licking traces of his taste out of his own mouth. "So many would have simply fled. So many would never have made it this far."
He still has come drying on his skin; Lilith digs her nails in, wipes up come and blood and flecks of skin. "Open for me, little Sam," she murmurs, and Sam, focused on keeping his mind from dissolving at the edges, does as directed without thinking. Her fingers fill up the hollow where his tongue should be, nails scraping the back of his throat, and she says, "Suck me clean."
Sam does, cheeks hollowing from the vacuum. He tastes like sin on her, wild and wicked, just as corrupt and craven as Lilith tastes, flavour bitter and sour but he can't get enough. He tries to swallow her fingers like he would a dick, working the muscles of his throat.
She laughs, her other hand playing with one of his nipples. He shudders, shivers, and when she takes her fingers out, slick with spit, his head moves, blindly following, trying to get her back.
"We'll get there," she promises, and Sam opens his eyes to see her summoning another demon forward. "We have plenty of time left, after all."
--
In the time it takes Sam to stop his head from spinning, the next demon comes into the room. Sam can smell the plastic of new textbooks, fresh paint, and hear the sound of money on top of the revving of new engines.
"Greed, then Envy," Lilith says, almost as if she's reciting a lesson. "The two are close but not the same. Greed for possessions, envy for less," she pauses, pats Sam's forehead, "material things. But all in good time. Now open your eyes or I'll be forced to pin them open."
In an instant, Sam's eyelids move upwards; he doesn't want to chance pushing her too far, not when her moods are more mercurial than his. He sees her smile at him and then his glance slides to Greed. Gluttony was fat, huge and rotund, taking up space even as it wanted more and more, but Greed is a thin, angular demon, full of sharp pointed edges and a demand to be more. Sam is suddenly terrified, but if Envy comes next there are only two after that, Wrath and Pride, and Sam knows which one will be last.
"Focus," Lilith orders, voice cracking a sharp demand. Sam wishes he could disobey, wishes with everything in him, but he can't. More than that, he won't.
Greed doesn't come too close, prefers to stay back, near the door, as if it has something outside and is terrified of losing it. Sam doesn't need the demon to come close, though, not to feel the effects.
Lilith strokes his cheek, leaving a line of festering sores in the wake of her touch. "Greed has spent much time with you over the course of your life," she says. "All of them have, but where Pride takes a particular interest in your destiny and Lust finds herself smitten by your physicality, Greed likes to scamp about in the playground of your soul. Do you know," she adds, "that Dante put Greed over all of the traitors, the deserters, the thieves and robbers?"
That might have been my life, Sam wants to say, but I never bought into it. I never liked it. All the fraud, all of the lying, all of the stealing, I never wanted to do any of it but I had to, they made me.
"Excuses," Lilith says, dismissive. "All excuses and not even believable ones at that. You always had a little thrill getting away with your crimes when you were a child. That hasn't changed any, Sam. Don't lie to me. It's not becoming. You want more money, you want a better home, you want a faster car; all of these things are normal human desires. Don't be ashamed of them. And don't be ashamed that you can pick pockets or hustle at pool or don't mind a bit of breaking and entering. We all have our skills, we all get our fun from different places."
She's right. Sam hates it but she's right. He's not sorry he wants more and he's not about to leave hell and give back everything he's wrongfully taken. Sure, some of that was necessary and some of it was to test his skill, but some of it was for fun and it was much more harmless than any other number of things he could've been doing. Nothing he did ever hurt anyone.
"Justifications are a beautiful thing, Sam, but you don't need them here," Lilith murmurs. "Not here, not with me."
Sam blinks up at her, apology in his eyes, and she lets out a long exhale, nods for Greed to leave, the lesson over. "Send in the next one," she calls out, and as Greed scurries out, Sam can see the shape of the next one in the doorway.
Green, bulbous with spikes sticking out; Sam doesn't need the demon to come any closer to realise that this is Envy. Envy cuts, bleeds, and his mind is flooded with images of Dean hooking up with a new girl in every city, the fire in his belly that just keeps saying wantwantwant, flooded with images of perfect suburban life, lawyers on television, children with two parents.
Like the beat to one of Dean's cock-rock songs, wantwantwant.
Sam shakes his head, tries to force the pictures away, tries to block off his mind the way Missouri taught him, but Envy comes over and drops spikes into Sam's hand. He arches, pain flooding through him and disturbing his efforts to hold his mind sacrosanct.
Pain brings with it hatred for everyone who had the normality Sam wanted so desperately and it brings Lilith whispering, "You feel things so strongly, Sam. You have never been happy, have you? How did it make you feel, all your life, to have to lie, to have to pretend, to have to tell people you liked your life when you just wanted someone else's?"
Envy's spikes dig into his hand, deeper and more far-reaching than a knife. Envy laughs, a jealous, sick sound, and rolls on top of Sam. Lilith breaks one of the spikes off and gives it to the other demon, gestures at Sam's ass. Envy starts to fuck Sam on one of its spikes, and Lilith goes on, says, "Ride it, Sam. There's no need to lie. We know you, we know your wants. Take it from them."
When Sam was eleven, he punched another kid, simply because that kid had a mother who picked him up from school and took him to soccer practice twice a week. He watched the kid bleed, broken nose, twisted ankle, and felt wantwantwant like food poisoning in his gut.
He can see that kid now, wants to kick and rage and scream and steal, and in his wild, near-mindless attempts to get free from his bonds, he fucks himself deep and hard on Envy's spike, blood running everywhere. He doesn't care. At this point, the pain is what he wants, to remind himself that he's human at the same time he's reminding himself of causing pain to someone else, someone who had something that Sam wantwantwants.
When Sam was nineteen, he saw a girl he wanted and, in the next instant, saw her boyfriend. He saw Jess -- perfect, beautiful Jess -- and he coveted her. She never knew that Sam orchestrated her most painful break-up ever, that she didn't run into Sam by chance, that Sam even knew of her before that day in the café. His perfect, beautiful Jess never knew him or what he was capable of or the level of wantwantwant that he's been trying to fight off his entire life, trying and failing.
"What do you want, Sam, at this moment?" Lilith asks him. Sam has no tongue, he can't answer, but he leans up and lets another of Envy's spikes puncture his upper lip, drive through his mouth and out of the back of his neck, puncturing blood vessels and severing nerves. He clenches his muscles around the spike in his ass and comes so hard he blacks out.
When he was sixteen, Sam looked out of his bedroom window and saw Dean practicing a kata in the back yard, shirt off, face tilted up to the sun. Sam felt want.
Lilith wakes him up and Envy is gone, he is healed. She looks pleased at the same time Sam can see the sadness in her features. "The depth of your carnality," she says, calmly, "amazes even me, at times." She sighs, just looks at him for a moment, and then asks, "Shall we see if your anger does as well?"
Sam doesn't want Wrath to get anywhere near him. He already knows, without the demon close, that he's made a life out of anger and hatred, that there's a core of pure fury deep at his centre, giving him power and determination and stubbornness.
He looks at Lilith, plea in his eyes, but she sighs, pats his hand, and says, "All of them, Samuel. Or else the bargain's broken. Is this your limit, one of the glorious seven, when you've already seen five of them? When Lust has already delved to the core of your obsessions and when you've been fucked on a spike of Envy?" Lilith leans over, tugs at the collar around Sam's throat, and says, almost idly, "Will you reject me even now, after I've placed this on your neck?"
In some part of him, Sam actually wants to apologise. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath through his nose, shakes his head once. If accepting her will save Dean, he'll do it. Anything, he told himself, before he came down to hell; he'd do anything for Dean's soul to be saved. That hasn't changed yet with all of the torture and indignity they've put him through and it's not going to change now, no matter how terrified he is of the last and more powerful deadly sins.
Lilith snaps her fingers and Sam feels it like he's standing in the middle of a storm, electricity from a distance meeting his skin and bouncing back. Another second and it hits like a sheet of rain, drenching him from head to toe; it's all he can do to ride the waves of rage. He snarls and bares his teeth at nothing and no one in particular, forced deep into an animalistic fight-and-destroy response. He's only soothed enough for conscious thought when Lilith kisses his cheek and licks at the corner of his mouth, her breath mixing and mingling with his.
"Hatred," she says, and Sam opens his eyes to see Wrath, a demon in female form, eyes bloodshot and wild, hair and cheeks red, hands clenched into fits. "And anger, and the willingness to carry out a just punishment when the law is not. Spite, suicide, rejection, murder, self-denial, assault. One of your writers characterised it as 'ill thoughts, ill words, ill deeds,' and she was right. What ties you and Wrath together so tightly, Sam? Shall we see?"
"He never listens to me," Wrath says. Her words are Sam's words, as if she's peeling them right from the surface of his thoughts. "He doesn't think I'm any good. I can't ever do anything right. I'll always be the little one. They're suffocating me. They think I'll never learn." Sam closes his eyes. "I'll kill them. I'll kill them all for this. They need to pay. Nobody's going to make them pay. I hate you. I'm so angry with you. You'll never understand. They don't deserve to live. Come here. Stop fighting me. I could kill you I'm so mad. Let me go. What the hell are you doing? You never fucking listen. You don't want me back? Well I don't want to come back. I hate you, I hate you, I hate you."
Sam breaks out into a sweat as Wrath's words burrow deep into him, find that pit he's closed up so tightly and explode it open and outwards. Everything she's said, he's thought before, at the very least; most of those statements have come out of his mouth at one time or another. Tears leak out of the corners of his eyes; hearing his words in someone else's mouth, he sees how selfish he's been, how young and naive and stupid.
"Not stupid," Lilith says, motioning Wrath to come closer. "Never stupid. You feel, Sam. Demons have always answered to chaos when angels are ruled by order. We are an emotional set of beings and you are our prince; you're the same as us in this. You did hate your father. Parts of you still do just as parts of you are pleased to be released from the rules and regulations of the law, free to take your own brand of justice into your own hands."
Wrath slides one palm over Sam's leg, up his thigh and over his hipbone, rests it on the curve of his ribs. "You should be proud of me," she says. At first, Sam thinks she's talking to him but when she goes on, he realises she's still parroting thoughts from his past. "If only you knew. I could kill you all and you'd never be able to stop me. But I don't. I won't. You should be thanking me. I hate you all."
"You were born to rule," Lilith says. "They should have all been kneeling at your feet, thankful for their puny little lives and your munificence."
Sam wants to nod but that would mean she's right. She is, though, he thinks. Isn't she? He was born to rule; he's always felt like he was supposed to do more, be more, and Azazel confirmed it, Lilith's confirmed it, Sycorax has and Ruby has and even Pride, back on earth. He could have killed them all -- the more time he spends in hell, the more he thinks it would be so easy -- and he didn't. They should be thankful, all of them, shouldn't they? No, that's wrong. Something in that, it's wrong. Dean wouldn't, Dean won't -- it's wrong.
"I have never lied to you," Lilith says. Sam searches her eyes for deceit but finds none. "I will never lie to you, Sam, never. You were born to rule and you were imbued with the power. You were raised with full knowledge of us. When the rest of Azazel's children died, you were granted the crown, and when he died at the end of your brother's vengeance, you were granted the throne. They owe you, Samuel. They owe you everything."
That's. It sounds wrong but it makes too much sense. It. He has the power, he knows that, and the demons don't have any reason to lie to him about this. He shouldn't be here, he should have humans and demons alike kneeling to him, his father should be begging him for forgiveness and mercy, even from heaven, and Dean. Dean wouldn't do that, though, would he? Dean would never bend his knee, not even to Sam.
Dean.
Sam screws his eyes shut, focusing on his brother. Dean's in Limbo. Dean's in Limbo and the only reason Sam's here is to save him.
"You can't use him as a shield," Lilith murmurs. "That's too much of a weakness, Sam. You don't need to hide behind him like that, not anymore."
Dean isn't that -- Sam's not using Dean. Sam's never wanted to use his brother. Dean would never let him.
Sam shakes, shivering as his mind seems to divide, as Wrath is making his blood boil, making him break out into a cold sweat. "He'll never care about me," Wrath says. "I could die for all that he cares. If I leave, maybe he'll realise. If I act like him, dress like him, talk like him, hunt like him, fuck like him, kill like him, maybe he'll notice me. What am I talking about, he never will. He's never seen me. He'll never see me, not even if I kill myself."
"You've thought all of that," Lilith says. "So why should you cling to the idea of your brother here, surrounded by those of us who have always seen you, even before your birth?"
Wrath's touch is making Sam feverishly warm and the only thing cooling him is Lilith, her lips brushing over his cheek every time she talks, her hair sliding against the scabs on his scalp. He's too hot to think, doesn't know what he'd think if he could.
"I'll kill them all," Wrath murmurs, as soft as Lilith even as her nails dig into Sam's chest and break his skin. Blood wells up in tiny drops; Wrath swipes a finger through them and then sucks her finger clean, eyes fixed on Sam's. "I know how." She pauses, then adds, "And they'll never see me coming."
The words strike a resonance deep inside of Sam and he can feel something straining to break free and flood through him. Half of him wants to let it, wants to see what'll happen, but the other half is absolutely terrified. Dean wouldn't like it, he knows that like he knows -- not himself, because Lilith is tearing him apart little piece by little piece -- like he knows Dean.
Lilith sighs, waves Wrath away. "Very well, Samuel. If you're going to be stubborn, then we'll let you be stubborn. For now, at any rate. We'll see what, if anything, Pride has to say about it."
Pride. Sam grimaces as Wrath leaves crescents of blood dotted all over Sam's chest, storming out of the room like she's absolutely furious. She probably is.
--
Sam's not looking forward to Pride, especially not when he's already so off-balance, twisted out of his mind by Lilith, who is still sitting next to him, now running her fingers over his scalp. He doesn't have a choice, though, he knows that, knows this isn't going to be pleasant. It's not that he's been a prideful person, except he has; he's always thought of himself as one of the smartest people in whichever room he's in, one of the deadliest, one of the better-looking. He's arrogant and hates the ignorant even as he envies them and covets their ignorance for himself. He makes assumptions. He's the Boy King, the chosen heir of Azazel, psychic who killed the only competitor for the title.
If Pride goes before destruction, before a fall, it's no wonder Sam's found himself in hell.
"Ah," Lilith murmurs. "To think all that on your own. You've spent some time pondering your connection with the original sin, haven't you, Sam?"
Of course he has. The first weeks after meeting Ruby, Sam could think of little else but her and the last words Pride said to him. The prodigy, the boy king. He's spent hours wondering what it meant, how he could use it.
Lilith coos, still rubbing his scalp. "And then to come face-to-face with Pride, down here. That's half of why you let me place that collar around your neck, wasn't it? Because Pride was watching and you still have your own? Because you couldn't bear for Pride to see you beaten and cowed? And what about now, Sam? Do you fear what the echo of your soul will tell us?"
"Of course he doesn't," Pride says, stepping into the room. Sam opens his eyes, compares the form in front of him with the host on earth. He likes this one more. It suits Pride better, no surprise, really, as this is her true manifestation. Pride smiles, seeing Sam's study of her. She brushes a hand down one side and Sam's eyes follow the movement from the curve of Pride's breast to the swell of her hip, from graceful neck to shapely calf. "Because he knows it's all true. Hello, Lilith. Saving the best for last, are we?"
Pride's laugh makes Sam shiver, but the tone of Lilith's answer sends chills down his spine. "As always," Lilith replies, and she sounds warm, kind, affectionately amused. Lilith looks down at Sam, leans to kiss his forehead. Her knuckles stroke across his cheek. "Tell Sam," Lilith orders Pride, "what you mean by that."
Pride smiles, lifts one hand. The hellfire floor mimics her movement, forming steps that go up. Pride steps on the first, then the second, and tells Sam, "I don't jump. Neither do I crawl." The ground moves to accommodate her and she walks around to the side of Sam's table, halfway up between the table's surface and the floor. Sam didn't know other demons could manipulate hell like that, like Lilith does. Pride, though, the original sin. That makes sense. He wonders, in a far distant corner of his mind not occupied with Pride, if she was responsible for Lilith's original decision to make hell her home.
Clucking her tongue as if Sam's misbehaved, Pride perches on the edge of his table, faces him, one foot tucked under the other thigh, the other foot hanging off the table. She's gloriously naked; Sam can't take his eyes off of her.
"You don't fear me, do you," she says, rather than asks. "Because you know you're my equal in all things, if not my better. I, though, am hard-pressed to consider anyone above me. Which you also know. Funny how you can think of yourself in such a way, even tied down and stripped bare, wearing the signs of someone else's possession all over yourself. That amount of pride, Sam, makes me think I've done my job when it comes to you." She smiles, shifts to rest her weight on one hand, and purrs, "Tell me. Do you think it's beneath my dignity to suck your dick?"
Sam's eyes widen. That wasn't at all where he thought this was going. He tears his eyes away from Pride's, looks at Lilith.
Lilith shakes her head. "Don't look at me, Sam. Pride has always understood you quite well on her own merits."
Pride, who's still sitting there waiting for an answer. Sam looks at her, eyes narrowed, and thinks. Beneath her dignity? That would imply that cocksucking is something beneath dignity, worthy of disdain. He doesn't think that's true at all, even for Pride. Sex isn't something to be ashamed of and neither are wants and desires; Lust taught him that and Envy pinned the lesson to Sam's mind. If Pride wants to suck his dick, why should she be ashamed of that? Why should he?
"Not even if it means I've implicitly accepted your power over me?" Pride asks. "To make me get on my knees would require nothing less, you and I both know that."
Positions are power, then, in Pride's mind. Well, Sam's not exactly standing up at the moment, but he can see her point. If he'd be on his feet, she'd be on her knees, but he would be displaying a weakness just as important; no guy Sam's ever known likes to think about teeth and biting when their dick's in someone else's mouth. Beneath her dignity? Pride should be willing to accept Sam when she's not willing to accept many others. Sam's the boy king, Azazel's heir. If hell's general isn't good enough, who is?
Pride, smiling, leans down, licks a stripe up one side of Sam's cock, down the other. "Not to mention," she adds, "you taste good. You usually don't look so bad, either. Do you know why Lilith mentioned echoing souls?" Pride asks, before going down on him in earnest.
Sam can't think, not when she's sucking him like her life depends on it, but he tries to focus when she lets her teeth run up and down his shaft, reminding him what he'd just thought about teeth in relation to dicks. He focuses, thinks. Echoing souls. What Lilith said before -- Lust played with his physicality, Greed with his soul, Pride with his destiny -- that's important as well. Souls and destinies, and Pride understanding him; Sam gets it, then. Pride, the original sin, downfall of Satan, of Eve, in a sense, of Dean's desperate hope that his soul was worth Sam's life, of Sam for thinking he could survive hell. Pride's been there his whole life, closer than anyone, even Azazel, even Lust, even Lilith.
But Pride doesn't understand him, not completely. Yes, he counted on Lilith accepting his counteroffer, and he knew he would find a way to save Dean's soul, but he had such fear, such desperation. He asked for help, he worked hard to grab the chance he found even knowing what it would cost.
"And yet you're the only one here," Pride murmurs, releasing his cock with a wet pop. "All alone, all at our mercy. To think we won't kill you, to think we won't harm you, such knowledge of your place among us, but such pride in using that. Has your pride taken a blow, giving yourself over to Lilith? The boy king at someone else's mercy?"
Of course not. Lilith is the queen. He would be foolish to think he could ever be more than she is. Sam looks at Pride, bares his teeth in a grin that threatens to split his face. Even though Lilith is above him, he is above Pride. Chained here, wearing Lilith's collar, he's still more than Pride, still better. No one else, not even Pride, would be worthy of Lilith's collar, of Lilith's attention, of the lessons Lilith's trying to teach him. No one else. Just him.
Pride scowls, slides forward and captures Lilith's mouth in a kiss. Sam tilts his head to watch and the smile only grows bigger as Lilith fails to respond beyond a perfunctory return. Lilith kisses him better. Lilith's ridden him and whipped him and made him fuck her with his dick and his mouth and Lilith's put a sign of ownership on him, one she never had to, not without her own desire to see it there, on him, no one else but him.
Lilith pulls back, watches Pride, and then says, dry, "If you wish to make him give you pleasure, feel free. In any form," Lilith adds.
Pride's eyes, narrowed, widen in surprise, then in glee.
--
She straddles Sam's face, makes him suck and nibble at her clit. She comes all over his face but doesn't stop there. With a whirl of heat and displaced air, Pride has suddenly gained a male form and he manipulates the hellfire ground, forms steps and finds the perfect height to fuck Sam's ass raw. He does that, then fucks Sam's mouth, then returns to her female form and rides him like it's going out of style.
Pride spends three or four of Sam's eternities doing everything she can to humiliate him but Sam bears it all with a half-smile on his face. Lilith is still there and her collar is still around Sam's neck. Lilith finds this amusing, so Sam will undertake to deal with it for her sake. Lilith is pleased with him and Sam is happy to have pleased her.
When Pride finally steps back from the table, her breasts are heaving and her cheeks are flushed. Sam hasn't moved. "I know you're still there," Pride hisses, sounds bitter and furious. "You're too strong to've fled from that. Why the fuck didn't you fight me? Why did you just, why did you just accept it?"
Lilith strokes Sam's brow, healing him. Her eyes are like a cool balm to his mind. "Sam knows that courage and cowardice are often two sides to the same coin. He has learnt, where you haven't, that pride and humility can be the same way."
"Are you saying he's more capable than I am?" Pride asks. Her hands are clenched into fists. "That he's more intelligent than I am?"
"Yes," Lilith says, meeting her glance. Sam sees Pride reel back as if Lilith's just punched her in the face. "You are your own destruction. I have told you that before and you never listen. Perhaps you will consider my words now, Pride, before you fall?"
Pride's lips thin and her nostrils flare. She nods once, jerkily, and Sam can only think that she still looks beautiful, that he understands her because he's been where she is now. It was a hard lesson to learn but it made him better, made him stronger. It will do the same for her.
As if she can hear him, Pride's shoulders lose some of their rigidity. She studies Sam, then Lilith, and finally says, "By your leave, Lilith?" Lilith waves her away and Pride nods again, this time more thoughtfully. "You are an interesting personality, Sam Winchester," Pride says as she leaves. "I trust you'll remain that way."
Part Three