It wasn't like Sam was doing this because he wanted to--it just was. This was what his life had become now. He had to do these things because if not, he'd be in Lucifer's bed forever. It wasn't an option. He'd been tortured every way he could possibly be tortured, fucked every way he could possibly be fucked. If making Eliot bend to him was his way out then he'd take it unflinchingly. He needed to, for the sake of his own mind, and his own survival.

But he was aware that he'd slipped too. He could look at how he was and recognize that he wasn't the same man as he'd always been. He'd once been something. He'd been a hero, a man whose efforts to save the world had actually meant something once upon a time. He'd let that slip, and now he just looked at that version of himself with a kind of desperate sadness. How had he lost sight of being who he'd once been? There was no path back to that, no solution he could feel out, or even dream of.

It was like the ability to make truth out of hope had passed him by. Things like finding their father had always seemed possible, for example; or finding God; convincing an archangel to help them. Sam thrived on hope--he had once upon a time. Now that hope had been turned into a weapon to use against him. Like now: his hope was to escape Lucifer's bed, and he'd damn well do anything to make that happen.

He squeezed his fingers, intensifying the friction, the pressure, little by little. He stroked harder, pounded harder, rubbing his cheek against Eliot's back as he worked.

"I already intend to," he told him, softly. "But you'll work it out soon enough."