"It has happened to me," he agreed. "And if you think I'm ashamed of it, I'll remind you that I've lost my pride. There's nothing of it left. I still remember who I was, but it feels like a distant dream; I'm not doing this because I have expectations of anything ever being better. I'm not doing it because I was ever really the kind of man who would take the whip to someone innocent rather than accept the beating myself. I know I wasn't. But now? What's the point? The other person will be beaten eventually, I may as well save myself the wasted empathy.

"But that was never me."

Sam Winchester, the hero? He's evaporated. Sam isn't even sure he could countenance facing himself, considering what he's been through, what he accepts as normal. He'd be ashamed to look himself in the eye, but if Lucifer insisted that he bend over in front of himself for a steady fucking, Sam would do it without flinching. He had lost himself; he didn't need to be reminded.

But he was just so calm, as he admitted these things. He bent in, brushing his lips against Eliot's ear, sighing softly. "Honor used to mean something to me. Heroism. Now I'm willing to fuck you three times a day if it means that, one day, I'll get the Devil off my back." His tone went lower, more sultry. "Have you ever been fucked in front of a room full of impassive demons? Stripped down, humiliated, buried inside yourself to try and escape the cold eyes all around you, their judgement, their muted laughter as you cry and bleed into the dirt? I have. It happens all the time. Trust me, Eliot, I will do anything it takes, even if it means you're the one taking my place. That's the price of freedom in this place. You'll see."