There Will Come a Reckoning
» Fandom: Supernatural
» Pairing(s): Sam/Lucifer
» Rating: NC-17
» Classification(s)/Warning(s): Extremely Dubious Consent, Crossdressing, Bondage, Alternate Universe - Western, Ye Olde Sex Shows, The Devil is No Gentleman, Vessels are Angel Catnip
» Summary: For lack-toast-and-tolerant, and this Hotter Than Hell Exchange prompt: "SamLucifer OLD WESTERN STYLE: Lucifer is the leader of a band of outlaws, and Sam is a young "captive" (who is very willing to be where he is)." I've taken some creative license with 'very willing', as the tags will attest. Sam is (at least) eighteen. Also, there is way more plot than is probably necessary.
There Will Come a Reckoning
The first shot punches a neat, clean hole through his forehead and fells the demon behind him, and Lucifer starts to laugh even as the second and third strike his chest, the fourth lodging deep in his gut. Colt's magic bullets itch like acid, burn like fire as they try their damndest to kill him, but Lucifer's made of starstuff and rage and bitter, endless love, and God's own weapons weren't enough to quiet the maelstrom.
From the look on his shooter's face, this comes as a very unwelcome surprise.
"Winchester, yes?" Lucifer asks, grin wide and vicious as he ambles forward, dripping blood into the ring of empty space his lieutenants and their horses have left around the two of them. "The youngest, I think. Sam," he says, letting the syllable coil on his tongue like a spell.
It should be an educated guess at best, as much mud and ash is caked on the shooter's body from his astonishingly (now suspiciously) easy capture the night before. But Lucifer would know this feeling anywhere, that hum of perfect accord between them that says destined, vessel, and loudest of all, mine. He's been waiting for Sam.
Hearing his name makes the boy stumble back, and the watching demons break into whispers of Winchester, Winchester. They're remembering Azazel, and Alistair. Well, let them remember this, Lucifer thinks, and wraps his fingers around the blistering barrel of the colt. At the gun's grip, Sam's hands start to shake.
"How many shots was that?" Lucifer says, voice low and soft, just for the boy's ears. Sam's eyes are the color of lapis and topaz, going blank and wide as the first threads of panic work their way in.
"Go ahead," Lucifer says, lips brushing the hot metal tip. "Empty it. Might as well get your money's worth."
He lets his hand fall, and as Sam stares, parts his lips and strokes under the barrel with the tip of his tongue. "Go on," he urges huskily. "Give it to me."
Sam surprises him. It's a thing not often done, so when the gun whips suddenly to the side and Lilith drops from her horse like a stone, the first thing that registers is shock. On its heels is cold fury, and Lucifer backhands the boy with just enough force not to separate soul from body.
Sam drops just as abruptly, and Lucifer leaves him there in the dirt and goes to Lilith. He pulls his first and best into his lap just in time to see her smile tremulously, and watch the dark leave her eyes.
When he glances back at Sam's unconscious body, it's with a cool, considering look.
"Meg," he says finally. She's there, looking down at Lilith's corpse with blank eyes.
"My lord?" she asks quietly.
"Get ready to pull up stakes." He lays Lilith down in the sear prairie grass and stands, dusting his hands off on his hips. "I think we're coming overdue for a night in town, don't you?"
They have to move quickly. Winchester Senior and the other brother will realize soon that their plan has failed, and while humans are laughably easy to deal with, the angels of Michael's garrison that follow them are another matter entirely. Lucifer's army is vulnerable as long as they remain out in open country, and so they burn Lilith's body there in the brush and ride hard for home.
'Home' is wide valley tucked deep in the Rockies. The merchant who'd found it, while trying to establish a trade route to Los Angeles, had called it the Meadows; the rancheros call it El Valle del Diablo, now— unoriginal, but accurate.
Completely closed to the angelic Host, Lucifer's very own Hell away from Hell, El Valle is a city he's building up to be the richest in the Americas. It's a beautiful place, rife with all manner of sin and perversity the way only a place populated by thousands of demons and their playthings can be. How he loves it. When the circle surrounding it closes over them like warm, still water, he breathes out a sigh of pure pleasure.
They ride into town proper to cheers and enthusiastic welcome, and Sam stirs where's been slung over the back of Lucifer's horse. When he starts pulling at the ropes tying him to the saddle, Lucifer reaches back, lays a hand over the boy's neck. "None of that," he says mildly, squeezing. Sam subsides, though the muscles under Lucifer's palm are locked hard and tense.
The wagon with the rest of the captives, all miners but for their one Winchester cuckoo, rattles off, and the party begins the climb to Lucifer's personal villa. It crouches over El Valle like a mantling hawk, sprawled out over acres of land he cut out of the side of the mountain with his own hands. Well, wings.
It's good to see it. For all that this is their home, their base of operations, coming into town is a rare and cherished occurrence for Lucifer's army.
Upstairs, in his private quarters, Ruby cries when he tells her Lilith's dead. Her eyes clear and sharpen when he tosses Sam, gagged and bound, at her feet. "Make him presentable," is his only instruction before he leaves, and her answering smile is slow and cruel.
There's barely-leashed excitement in the ranks that crowd into Lucifer's receiving hall, demons hardly able to contain themselves in their human shells. Tonight's festivities, he suspects, will rival the Saturnalias of ancient Rome. The meeting is consequently short; he promotes Meg to Lilith's position without fanfare, expresses the wish that at least three quarters of the city remain standing in the morning, and dismisses his generals to their unholy revelry.
After that, unfortunately, there are other tasks waiting for him. As 'mayor' of El Valle, the petty politics of trade and labor are also his to direct, and he has been absent from town for weeks. Lucifer works with little attention to detail. Most of his mind is upstairs, with Ruby and the young man at her tender mercies.
Sam Winchester. If Lucifer can manipulate the situation to his liking, loosing Lilith might almost be worth it.
The light fades. Night falls. Lucifer's library glows dimly in the warm cast of the gaslight fixtures, and through the open balcony door a cool breeze flows, bearing faintly the smell of gunpowder and the laughter of the damned.
The door opens, and Ruby enters, curtsying deep.
"Your prisoner, my lord," she says sweetly, before she steps aside to reveal—
"Miss Ruby, you are a terror," he says with a chuckle, which makes the vision in the doorway stiffen and raise his chin defiantly. Lucifer gets to his feet and comes around the edge of the desk towards them. "Come in, come in," he motions, and Ruby tugs a resisting Sam forward into the light.
The mud is gone, as are the filthy trousers, shirt, and dilapidated boots. For all Sam's height and the thick musculature of his young frame, Ruby has somehow found a lady's evening gown of the same or similar measurements. The white satin painfully stretches tight over his broad chest, dips flirtatiously below the strong lines of his collarbone, pools on the floor at his feet. Scandalously, he appears to be without a bustle, but Lucifer supposes there are limits to even Ruby's resourcefulness.
She's shaved Sam's face smooth as a woman's but left his hair long, tied back in a small queue with a ribbon as pale as the dress. There are pearls, Lucifer sees with startled delight, pearls and round colorless stones gleaming at his ears and dripping down his exposed throat. Sam's still gagged, still bound, but the gag is made of silk, his hands prettily gloved and caught in front of him, the rough jute replaced by the same sort of ribbon that ties his hair. Cream-colored strands wind in intricate patterns around his wrists and twist up his forearms to his elbows, where they end in lavish bows.
Washed and clean-shaven, the boy is beautiful, and beauty is something Lucifer has always appreciated. But more than that, far more, above the silk Sam's eyes are ablaze, his body all but vibrating with frustrated anger. When Lucifer breathes, "Perfect," into the expectant silence, that is exactly what he means.
He reaches out, smiling when Sam twitches but holds his ground, and tucks a stray piece of hair behind the boy's ear. "Untie the gag," he says absently, and cups Sam's cheek as Ruby darts forward to obey.
Sam spits the fabric out the second it comes loose and snarls, "You goddamn—"
"Think, Sam," Lucifer urges, stroking a thumb over a prominent cheekbone. The vessel calls to him, the soul inside licking at his grace like tongues of flame. "Do you really want to provoke me?
"You know who I am, or you wouldn't have gone through all that trouble to get Colt's little peashooter into my camp. Killing the devil didn't work out too well for you, did it, son?" he says with some sympathy, pursing his lips and letting his fingers feather over Sam's jaw. "I have to admit, though, no one else has ever come close enough to try that thing on me. Too bad it's useless."
"Killed that whore of yours just fine, didn't it?" Sam retorts, and Lucifer's smile thins. Behind Sam, Ruby's face contorts in silent fury. It must be a family trait, this reckless disregard for personal danger.
"Thank you, Ruby. You may go," Lucifer says, glancing past Sam's partially-bared shoulder. He waits until she's left, pulling the door closed behind her, before speaking again.
"Now listen here, Sam," he says, low and slow for the benefit of the boy's bravado-addled wits. "It would be very easy for me to kill you where you stand. It would be even easier for me to hand you over to Ruby, or some other deserving demon who makes Alistair look like a slackwit amateur. Dean ever tell you about Alistair, Sam?" he asks silkily, and some of that defiance drains from Sam's eyes.
"Thing is, Sam," he says, tracing the pulse beating hard in Sam's throat, "I don't really like to kill people. Alive, you're all much more... interesting," he temporizes, eyes sliding appraisingly over the supple skin, firm muscle revealed by the satin gown. "Useful, potentially. So, we can do this the easy way and Sam Winchester can come to a bloody, bloody end, right here in this room. Just know," he says, "that it's not my preference."
Lucifer leaves him be then, walks back to his desk to pull whiskey and two cut-glass tumblers out of his bottom drawer.
It's a long time, but not discouragingly long, before Sam asks hoarsely, "What's the hard way?"
Lucifer hides a smile as he pours. "Sit," he invites, gesturing at the chairs abutting the desk. Sam steps forward, hesitantly, and Lucifer's attention is momentarily arrested by the flash of silk stockings and dainty slipper at the gown's hem. Ruby, it seems, has been very thorough indeed.
After a moment's confusion about where to put all his ruffles and folds, Sam shoves it all to the side and collapses awkwardly into the chair. Lucifer sets a glass in front of him.
"Here is what I offer," the devil says, lifting his own glass to watch the light glimmer through the amber liquid. "Tonight, from now until the sun rises, you are mine to do with as I wish. No protests, no refusal. Anything I tell you, anything I ask of you, is mine. In return," he says, overriding the beginnings of Sam's angry rejection, "you leave El Valle in the morning, unharmed and free to rejoin your family."
"That's—" Sam starts. "Unharmed?" he repeats, uncertain.
"Completely. I'll even give you a horse, and rations enough to make for Omaha if you're so inclined."
"Just tonight," Sam says slowly, frowning in confusion.
"One single night," Lucifer confirms. "Less than ten hours, this time of year."
"You can't mean it," Sam returns. "What could you possibly stand to gain?"
"The things you'll do for me, obviously," Lucifer answers archly, and Sam stares narrow-eyed up at him, gaze filled with suspicion.
"I won't kill anyone," he says after a pause.
Lucifer shrugs. "Fair enough."
"I won't hurt anyone, either."
These are the things that concern him? This poor lamb has no idea, none at all. Lucifer shakes his head. "I've no intention of making you torture or murder, Sam," he says quietly.
"Then what can you intend?" Sam exclaims. "Your terms make no sense. I know that white-eyed woman was important."
"May I suggest, Sam, that you not go looking a gift horse too close in the mouth?" Lucifer says with some exasperation.
"I can't trust you."
"And what, pray tell, are your other options?" Lucifer asks. "This is my offer: one night, whatever I want, excluding the aforementioned acts, and you leave alive in the morning. With a horse, supplies, and all your limbs still intact. Do we have an accord?"
Oh, he has him. There's distrust in those gemstone eyes, hatred too, but worse, far worse is the curiosity he can see peeking out from behind it. Sam, Sam, Lucifer thinks with rueful affection, that kind of thing will get you into so much trouble.
The room is quiet and Lucifer has no need to fill the silence, coiled like a diamondback waiting for the unsuspecting mouse, a puma for the doe at the stream. He puts a hip against the desk, sips his whiskey, and lets the anticipation build.
When the boy finally speaks, his "Fine," is so faint Lucifer might have missed it if he wasn't listening so closely.
"I'm sorry, what was that?" he asks, cupping a hand over his ear.
"I said I accept your terms!" Sam snaps, and Lucifer's smile spreads slow across his face.
"I knew you'd see things my way," he murmurs, and leans forward. "Now, let's seal this arrangement all official-like, shall we?"
"What?" Sam asks, pressing himself back into the chair in alarm. "How?"
"How else, Sam?" Lucifer says, fingers combing through Sam's hair to curve against the back of his skull before he can jerk away. "A kiss. We seal it," he breathes across Sam's lips, "with a kiss."
Ah, El Valle del Diablo, pearl of the desert valleys! A city mired in sin, every type of lewd woman and degenerate man making up her populace, every manner of vice and depravity practiced openly in her streets, her saloons, her dancing halls and gaming parlors. Truly, there was never so fitting a place for Satan's regiments as this. Sam doesn't understand, not yet, but Lucifer has every hope he can be taught.
As predicted, the setting sun heralds a town caught in the throes of wild vicious debauchery, raucous noise and maddened crowds thronging across the wide boulevards and clogging the cramped stinking alleys. The demons find Sam's pretty dress and dainty accoutrements quite fetching, and catcall obscenities as the open buggy rolls past them. Lucifer finds Sam's growled threats and furious blushes even more so, and tells him to watch the flush deepen and spread.
Unsurprisingly, Sam balks at stepping out of their conveyance, looking around at the sea of the celebrating possessed with wary, assessing eyes. The boy is hardly the oddest thing out and about tonight, and the masks and furs of some cannot hide their strange faces and inhuman forms.
"Anything I want," Lucifer reminds the boy, holding out his arm for Sam to take.
Sam glowers but deigns to descend, refusing the offered arm and tottering uncertainly down the steps to the cobbles. He's holding his head high but he moves with all the elegance of a fresh-hatched gosling, and Lucifer allows him only a few wobbling steps over the rounded stones before snagging Sam's bound wrists and tucking them into the crook of his elbow.
"Allow me," he says, and the firm hand he folds over Sam's makes it an order.
He leads Sam up and off the street, through high and narrow rooms, air redolent with the sweet smoke of opium, to the dim little corner where Mammon holds court over card tables and games of chance. The prince of greed tips his hat to Lucifer and wagers caskets full of gold against Sam's underthings, laughing uproariously at the pinched look of horror he receives. Lucifer accepts on Sam's behalf, and Mammon's smile is as toothy as an adder's.
He has to coax Sam into sitting at his side, the boy's spine ramrod straight and body stiff as a board; Lucifer wraps an easy arm around his waist and begins to talk him through the games. As it happens, Mammon has played centuries longer but Sam is a dab hand at cards, and with Lucifer whispering in the ear they do fairly well. "My very own Lady Luck," Lucifer says teasingly, his mouth lingering at the taut curve of Sam's shoulder. Under his lips, the faint hum of Sam's soul answers the soft touch of grace, and almost imperceptively, Sam shudders.
They slip away before Mammon can recover his losses and continue in and out of the halls of the high and mighty, those demons and humans who have grown rich enough to erect palaces here in the heart of El Valle. There's food and drink along the way, and music. Perhaps too much drink, even for a body as impervious to its effects as Lucifer's; time goes fluid, fast, events and places running into one another like taffy pulled and wound. At one point they encounter Meg, resplendent in a top hat and coattails. She appears at the edge of a lively swirling mass of dancers, and sweeps a startled Sam into her arms and away across the ballroom floor.
"I expect a place on your dance card!" Lucifer calls after them, highly amused, and settles back with a glass of blood-red punch to wait for his turn.
Their bargain had been for one night and one night only, so Sam can hardly blame the devil for running them from pillar to post in his desire to share everything El Valle is. Exhaustion and alcohol work to blunt Sam's sharp tongue and wary gaze, and still he submits only gracelessly to the chaste caresses, allows himself to be pet and pulled into Lucifer's lap only after the devil presses the issue. As the night wears on, though, red-cheeked and hazy-eyed, Sam is more and more free with his words, becoming almost pliant under Lucifer's hands.
Defiant, Sam is interesting; made malleable, he is perilously attractive, and Lucifer cannot stop touching him. The lure of a true vessel is too great, like warming his hands at the only fire in a world made of ice. Worse, or rather, best, the boy clearly does not comprehend his own danger. There's no fear as he pushes Lucifer's hands away, and no trepidation in his face when the demons call him bello, charmant, beloved. Only annoyance, and exasperation as he forcibly removes Lucifer's fingers from his hip for the hundredth time, and the devil could almost pity Sam, if the taste of the boy wasn't already lying heady and sweet on his forked tongue.
The rising moon finds them ascending the wide marble steps of the local theater, greeted by the playhouse staff and escorted up several flights of spiraling staircases to a small private box. The heavy curtains that wreath the close, dark space are pulled back just enough to reveal the lighted stage below, the contents of the box remaining hidden from the rest of the theater. Exactly as Lucifer wishes.
"You'll enjoy this, I think," he tells Sam, dismissing the demons who usher them in with a wave of his hand. "Jezebel is an artist."
Sam slumps back against the plush red velvet with a grateful sigh, hair curling and sticking damply to his forehead. "I'd enjoy anything that lets me sit down," he mutters darkly, and Lucifer makes a falsely sympathetic noise. Sam's pale satin gown is not quite so pristine as before, but mussed and disheveled is a very good look on him.
"You look like a man who needs another drink," he decides aloud, and plucks a waiting bottle of champagne from a bucket ice at their feet.
"I need another drink like a bullet to the head," Sam groans, then winces at his choice of words. Still, bound hands reach for the flute Lucifer offers. Might he finally have learned the futility of refusal? Lucifer resists the urge to applaud.
"This place suits you," Sam says after a time, peering down at the stage, the boisterous mass of demons and humans filling the public seats below.
Lucifer created El Valle to suit him. "Really? How so?"
Some of his facetiousness must leak through, because Sam throws him a dark look and drinks instead of answering.
Lucifer leans forward to refill his glass. "No, truly, tell me. I'm very interested to know what you think."
"It's... well. Wild. Shameless. Utterly devoted to hedonism," Sam says, lifting the champagne as proof. "I can't see any redeeming features, yet I find it strangely compelling. Though confusing," he adds.
"Compelling," Lucifer repeats with a small smile, and Sam can't quite meet his eyes.
"Confusing," the boy counters stubbornly, looking down at his champagne flute. "I don't know what this goddamn bargain is supposed to be about. Or why I'm still wearing all this lace and folderol," he adds, shifting uncomfortably.
No lace is readily visible on Sam's person. This leads Lucifer to the sort of speculation that would make Caligula blush. "Ruby wanted to humiliate you as much as she was able, I suspect. Think, Sam," he purrs, with a smile that's too sharp for his light tone. "After this, every demon you'll ever meet will have seen or heard about your predilection for lady's clothing."
Sam does look at him then, eyes wide in consternation. "God, what? Is that why she—"
The house lights choose that moment to dim, and Lucifer shushes him. "The play is starting."
Sam hisses something uncomplimentary under the sounds of the small orchestra starting up, but reluctantly settles back in his seat as the curtains are pulled back to reveal a set made to imitate a continental chambre.
The floor is littered with soft pillows and sheets, and in the center in a massive four-post bed. On a stool facing a large vanity mirror, a plump woman sits, covered neck to ankle in conservatively-cut dressing gown as she applies paints to her lips.
"That's Miss Jezebel," Lucifer says in a low voice. "Really, the finest of our thespians."
From offstage, a man approaches the freestanding 'door' to the woman's bedchamber. He raises his hand, and a loud knocking noise is heard. At the sound, the music swells and the woman springs to her feet with great excitement, running to throw open the door and pull the man into the room.
He tugs the door closed behind him and they kiss enthusiastically, his hands coming up to push away the dressing gown, revealing—
"My God," Sam says, shocked, and Lucifer smothers a chuckle.
The dressing gown is tossed aside, and Sam lets out another choked, "God," as the man's shirt is disposed of similarly, and a Jezebel bare but for garters and her lover's hands retire to the bed.
"What— what is this, what are they doing," Sam asks almost plaintively, voice all but lost under the hooting yells of the crowd below, and Lucifer can't help but laugh outright. Onstage, Jezebel pulls open the stays of the man's trousers and brings forth his erection, and Sam turns quickly away.
"Oh, no," Lucifer chides, still laughing, sliding a hand up to catch his elbow. "None of that. Watch."
"To what purpose?" Sam bites out, shielding his eyes with his hands.
"To broaden your horizons," Lucifer suggests, tucking Sam in closer to his side. "Jezebel is one of the finest actresses in El Valle; what does it matter that her cunt carries the performance? Although to be fair, it is her mouth that that gentleman seems most enamored of."
Sam makes a low sound, either in disgust or despair as Lucifer pulls his hands away from his eyes. It's difficult to tell in the low light, but Lucifer is certain he's blushing again.
"And oh, dear," Lucifer says with concern, "it looks like her husband has arrived home earlier than she thought he would."
A second, larger man has emerged from offstage to knock on the door, and Jezebel stoves her lover off the bed in her haste to hide him. The crowd cackles and boos loudly as he scrambles under the bed, just as the other man enters.
He seems pleased to see her already disrobed and eager for him, and sets to ravishing while Sam squirms, clutching at the satin of his dress.
"Perverse, perverse place," he mutters. Below, the violins accompany every bounce of Jezebel's ample tits with a trill.
"Yes, isn't it lovely?"
Sam shoots him a glare, but a shout from the stage and sudden crescendo from the orchestra draws his attention away.
Jezebel has been found out, her paramour apparently apprehended in the act of escape while the husband was otherwise occupied. As they watch, the man is dragged out from under the bed by his overlong, dandified hair and thrown over the bed, where Jezebel throws herself over him in turn, so melodramatically as to make it clear that yes, her swollen pink sex is indeed where most of her talent lies.
Her enraged husband shoves her to the side and forces her unfortunate lover to his knees, yanking his trousers down to reveal a rump that would be the envy of many a woman.
"Wait," Sam says, peering down at the tableau. "What's going on?"
"Hmm." Lucifer considers the scene. "I believe he's preparing him to be fucked. Buggered, if you like." And being quite rough about it, not that the lover seems to mind.
"But, that, that's," Sam babbles, shrinking back from the edge, and Lucifer gives him a blandly inquiring look. "A sin," the boy says helplessly.
Lucifer's shrug is careless, but his eyes are fixed on Sam's face when he says, "The city is drenched in them. I doubt anyone will notice one more."
Sam... is perhaps even more inebriated than Lucifer realized. Instead of following that statement to its inevitable conclusion and finally realizing the danger to his own chastity, Sam instead seems utterly transfixed by the spectacle of Jezebel's lover moaning like a paid whore as her husband thrusts greedy fingers into him. The man's legs are lewdly splayed, back arched in a perfect curve of wantonness, and Sam's lips part as he stares, eyes glazed with something surprised, something hungry.
And suddenly, Lucifer has lost his patience for this game.
"Sam," he calls softly, "Sam," and when Sam turns to him with a dazed expression Lucifer tangles his fingers in that criss-crossing web of ribbon and pulls him forward.
"What are you doing?" he breaths out shakily against Lucifer's open mouth.
Lucifer reminds him, gently, "Anything I want, Sam."
"Where—?" Sam groans, when a single wingbeat takes them from the darkened theater to Lucifer's equally dark bedroom.
"Hush," Lucifer says, and tips his head up to lick his way back into Sam's willing mouth. His hands go to the ties and small buttons that march up the back of the dress, and it parts under his fingers like water before Moses, peeling away to reveal smooth, warm skin and yes, there at the cut of his hip, an edge of lace.
Sam's arms are still bound, but he's looped them over Lucifer's neck to pull him as close as possible, tongue clumsy and forceful where it shoves against his. Lucifer's grace calls to the vessel just as the vessel calls to Lucifer, a deep, unconscious yearning in Sam that translates into a puppyish eagerness for Lucifer's hands on his skin, his taste in Sam's mouth. Sam kisses him, little licks and nips and sucking bites like he just discovered the act, like he can't get enough, and it is utterly intoxicating.
"I wanted this," Lucifer whispers. "Since the first time I saw you, I wanted this." Putting that knife in poor Jacob, while his brother put a bullet through Azazel. Cementing his fate. "You're mine, made for me, two halves of a perfect whole. Can you feel it?" Lucifer lets the barest edges of his true self flare out, brushing along the bowed curve of Sam's spine. "Can you feel that?"
Sam moans, "That— what are you—?" and fists his hands in Lucifer's waistcoat, shivering violently. "Oh, oh."
Lucifer can hardly bear to pull away long enough to unwind the yards of white ribbon, to let the dress slowly slide down to pool at Sam's feet. Free from the yards of cloth, Sam is all long coltish limbs and tiny swathes of silk, and Lucifer's hands stray over the small of his back and down, over the thin soft underthings to where Sam presses hot and needy against the dampening fabric.
The boy makes a low pleading sound in his throat and tries to drag him even closer, and ends up tripping over the dress and falling backwards across the bed. He blinks up at Lucifer with a sort of baffled arousal, and Lucifer laughs warmly as he moves to stand between Sam's knees.
"All in good time," he says, planting his hands on Sam's thighs and spreading them a little wider. The small scrap of cloth leaves nothing to the imagination, Sam's thick length tenting the delicate fabric outward, cockhead turning the weave translucent where he leaks against it. Mouthwatering.
Lucifer's thumbs rub just under the lace and Sam rolls his hips into the movement with a throaty murmur of, "Please," completely unselfconscious, "now, please" and Lucifer sinks down to lap at that slick transparency.
Sam cries out, arching back as Lucifer mouths him through silk. "God, Lucifer!"
It's the first time Sam's said his name, and Lucifer works to hear Sam say it again, words rising in pitch and desperation, "Lucifer, Lucifer, oh—"
"Yes," Lucifer groans, and tongues the wet silk aside to fasten his mouth over Sam in earnest.
Sam's voice cracks in two as he comes, long bitter ropes of come striking the roof of Lucifer's mouth, painted over his lips and chin as he licks Sam through the aftershocks until the boy draws in tight against him, small noises more wounded than satisfied.
As Sam's breathing slows, Lucifer sits back on his heels and all but rips his cravat off, shrugging off his jacket and shirt, rising to pull off his trousers, toe off his shoes. Sam watches him through hooded eyes, lips shiny and bitten red, chest still heaving with the force of his climax.
He urges a still languid Sam upwards, so that the whole of him drapes lax and fluid across the bed and Lucifer can kneel above him, stroking a proprietary hand down his flank and feeling the vessel respond with a vibrant pulse, Sam with a hitched breath and low, strained moan.
"What is that?" Sam asks, following the path of Lucifer's hand with his own. "What are you doing to me?"
"Nothing you won't beg me for," Lucifer answers, complete honesty, and moves away to collect the fragrant oil Ruby has left for them.
When he turns back to the bed, Sam has moved onto his stomach, knees under him so his back arches as shamelessly as Jezebel's lover, his panting mouth open and wet against Lucifer's sheets. "Like this?" he husks, and seems pleased with the devil's wordless, guttural growl.
Lucifer is the furthest thing from a saint, and such a bounty offered so temptingly is nothing he is prepared to refuse or give quarter to. Sam makes high, stunned noises, rocking back against Lucifer as he's breached, first by the point of Lucifer's tongue and then the deeper, slicker reach of his fingers. Just having these small parts of himself inside his true vessel and feeling the tight clutch of Sam's body and soul around him makes Lucifer feel half-crazed with want, and when Sam is thrusting himself back onto the digits that pierce him, the devil's restraint disappears entirely.
And Sam takes it, takes him, surrounds him with arms and legs and the very core of himself, hotter than the forges of Asmodeus. There's a space there, a place meant just for him deep inside Sam, and he drives at it as if there's a chance he can reach it with the limited means the human body provides.
Sam is beautiful, beautiful on his knees, on his back, eyes heavy and drugged-looking, mouth fervent and burning against the cool skin of Lucifer's throat. His hands clutch at Lucifer's shoulders, scrape down his back and dig in hard at his waist and hips, and when he comes again with a sob it's his velvet, vise-like tightness that pulls Lucifer inexorably after him.
"Close your eyes," he pants, feeling himself start to slip out of his imperfect human skin. "Close your—"
Sam's eyes are wide with wonder in the growing glow, and Lucifer curses and claps his hand over them.
"Lucifer," Sam whispers, and for a single breathless beat, Lucifer's control slips and the world around them whites out.
Not all of Lucifer comes free. That would annihilate El Valle, raze the valley floor, level the mountain. But it's enough, enough to know, to feel that he could spill all of himself into Sam and Sam would hold him. The faintest imprint of his wings stretch through Sam's body and Sam screams, soul locked around grace as his body spasms over Lucifer's. It's, oh, it's— sublime, and the devil is not sure he has ever known as pure and all-consuming an ecstasy as this.
Slowly, reluctantly Lucifer sinks back into the purely physical plane with the unsettling and contradictory sensations of being forced into something too small and being too loosely moored in his flesh. Sam is shaking, Lucifer's hand wet where tears leak from under his lids, and Lucifer eases his hand away, leaning in to kiss at the damp trails.
The sun is rising. Outside the windows the sky lightens, and Lucifer draws the boy in close, cradling his lax, trembling body tenderly. Carefully. Because Sam is something precious.
"What the hell," Sam rasps against his jaw, voice ragged and choked, "was that?"
Tired and strangely raw, Lucifer pushes Sam's hair back from his face and kisses the small indent between his brows.
"I told you, Sam," he murmurs into the quiet dawn. "We were made for each other."
Sam leaves, because he is stubborn and righteous and so very naive. Lucifer watches him go, and knows he will not be kept waiting long; what God has brought together, no man can pull asunder.
"Amen," he says to Sam's retreating back, and smiles.
How this fic came to be:
Me: /opens prompt excitedly
Me: ... a western?
Me: What am I going to—
Muse: Sam Winchester in drag.
Me: I— what?
Muse: SAM IN DRAG. CORSETS. BALCONY SEATS AT OLD TIMEY SEX SHOWS. THE DEVIL IS NO GENTLEMAN.
Me: ... are you serious
Muse: ABSOLUTELY. ALSO, THE COLT.
Also, Las Vegas is "the Meadows" in Spanish. Get it? :D