It was still very raw when Eliot's voice cut into the room, and Sam shifted over just enough to lay his opposite cheek on the bed instead. Once upon a time he'd have cried his way through this, but in the grand scheme of things it wasn't so bad. Lucifer hadn't prolonged the experience, hadn't beaten him or cut into him or burned him. He'd left him tied up, but Sam could untie those himself, and would after the required time was up. An hour, to let the sticky come on his back air dry.

His breathing was level, barely winded, and there was no ragged emotion in his voice as he spoke--it was the same level tone as he'd used earlier, matter of fact.

"I always want it," he answered. "So that when he lets me, when he's in a good mood, I can give him everything he asks for. That's what I want. I put up with this, but I live for the days where he lets me blow him, when he lets me swallow; the days he ties me up and watches my face as he makes me come." He shivered, and paused for a moment. That edge of cold was still ever present--Hell wasn't warm. "If I didn't want it, I'd never survive everything else."