Sam was fine. Sam stayed still, just concentrating on his own balance, breathing through the agony that was his back. It was nothing compared to what Lucifer had done to him over the first few years of his time in Hell, and he was grateful - immensely grateful - when Eliot took over. Lucifer wouldn't have hesitated to use the vicious device he'd shown him. He'd have driven it deep, pulled it free, then used his blood as a lubricant.

Eliot's touches were practically loving in comparison, slow and tender. Sam knew those, too. Lucifer had touched him softly, he'd made him come tens of thousands of times, like Sam was doing to Eliot.

Apparently Eliot was learning by example very well. He pressed his finger inside and began to twist and shift it, and Sam curled his fingers into the bed in anticipation. Pleasure was good, yes. It took a lot to make Sam come, now, but if Eliot couldn't do it - which was likely considering he was already close - them Sam would have to be put through more still. He always had to come.

He couldn't move much, given the spikes, but he rolled his hips back against Eliot's touch to encourage him, anyway, breathing out a soft exhale of encouragement that he barely felt. It was for Eliot, reassurance.

This was Hell. What did Eliot expect? Sam had grown to accept it. Lucifer could have thrown him into a pit and let every demon in Hell have their turn with him, but he hadn't--this was practically merciful.