A/N: Though this is fiction, I felt it important to write this for sexual assault awareness month (which is April). It's not too graphic, mostly just Sam's own thoughts. But, since this does deal with sexual assault, don't read it if you think you're going to be triggered. That would be the last thing I want. This is a heavy topic.

Sam didn't like being in his room. It didn't feel like his room. Not anymore. Not after Lucifer had been in it. He hadn't had any choice in the Devil staying in his room. He'd taken it from him just like he'd taken everything else. As he lay there on his bed watching the blades of his ceiling fan rotate he had the sudden urge to rip his skin off. Lucifer had surely lain on that bed, had maybe even touched the clothes he was currently wearing. He knew it was beyond hoping that he hadn't gone through his things. He felt entitled to him, so of course he would have. There was no privacy for Sam where Lucifer was involved. His time in the Cage had made that clear.

And now that wasn't the only torment that weighed him down.

His foot burned, his ribs ached, his thigh throbbed, multiple places on his face stung, as did his left shoulder, his muscles were tense with cold, his head hurt, and he was dizzy. But none of it was real. Not anymore.

His family had saved him: Dean, and Castiel, and… Mom. His Mom.

Was he really saved from Toni? What if the potion she'd given him was still messing with his head, and she was trying to put him in a false sense of comfort?

No, that wouldn't be.

He wasn't comfortable in his room.

This was real.

Why did it have to be real?

There was something darker about his imprisonment, and he recognized it for what it was. And he tried to fight it, not wanting to be a victim of that… not again. Not ever again.

That hadn't been what had happened. It couldn't have been.

It'd been in his head, so it wasn't real, right?

He'd liked it so it wasn't bad. Right?

What did it matter that Toni had forced it on him? What did it matter that she had taunted him about it afterwards, asking, "Was it good for you?" What did any of it matter?

It hadn't physically happened, so maybe it didn't count. It couldn't count.

But then what did that mean? That his own mind didn't matter?

What if it had been his soul?

He already knew what that was like from Lucifer, and that had all been terrifyingly real, so that meant that what Toni had done to him was real too. Weren't the soul and the mind similar things? He remembered being soulless, had still had his mind then, but not in the same way he would've had his soul and body been one. Looking back, he didn't think the soulless thing that had been walking around while he was humiliated and tortured and violated down in the Cage had been him. It'd just been some pathetic actor, walking around with his body and his memories, making play at being Sam. So, it would make sense to say his mind was connected to his soul, to him, even connected to his body since his soul resided in it. He was the vessel for himself, and he wished it was only for himself, but right now, it was just him. So that meant that what Toni had done to him was real.

But he didn't want it to be.

Maybe it didn't matter that it was real.

He'd been dominant, so surely that meant he'd wanted it. And he'd liked it, remembered feeling really good.

But there were times where he'd felt good in the Cage, too.

Did that mean he'd wanted it those times, as well? Maybe he was just some depraved creature who enjoyed any sexual touch, no matter who he received it from and it what manner. Maybe there was a sick part of his mind that had a thing for being tortured, who found his torturers attractive.

But… He didn't think that was true.

Then why had he felt good?

Sure, he knew it was a stupid physiological reaction.

But he'd felt it. He'd been aware when it was happening. How was he supposed to be in tune with his body most times, and then just give it a free pass about any of that?

Was he supposed to not care about his body's reactions sometimes? If so, then what times? How was he supposed to detach himself from it? How could he detach himself from something that could breathe, and move, and ache, and burn, and… and… feel good? How was he supposed to make sense of that?

Maybe there was something wrong with him.

There had to be.

Why else would he have multiple attackers?

Why else would it have happened too many times for him to make sense of?

Was it the way he moved? The way he talked? The way he dressed?

Did he need to stop being him?

Sam wanted to be himself. There had been too many times when he hadn't been himself: Meg, Lucifer, Gadreel. He just wanted to be himself. But he didn't want to hurt.

The repetitive swirling motion of the ceiling fan made his eyes unfocus. As he lay there he started having a hard time breathing, started feeling his body tense, started wanting to rip out his insides.

He closed his eyes, and tried forcing himself to take deep breaths. He didn't know how to breathe properly, not with blood and pleasure in his mind. Not with hands on him, not with the feeling of a body against his. First it was just Toni, lying beneath him, her legs around his hips, and that was already too much. But then there was Lucifer, behind him, his arms around him to hold him steady.

Sam was drowning in skin, and nausea overcame him.

He wanted them gone. He wanted the memories gone.

If he asked Castiel would he take them from him?

But… But he'd fought for those memories from the Cage, had fought to be himself. And in turn, those memories had nearly killed him. And with each breath, it still felt like they were killing him. And now there was Toni.

No, no. Stop, he told the memories in his head. Stop.

Dean, think of Dean.

Dean wouldn't understand. Sam didn't know how to get him to understand. He didn't know how to speak of any of this. Why would he have to? He didn't need to share his memories with anyone. It would burden them, not as much as they burdened him, but it wasn't fair of him to place this agony on anyone else.

Sam tried thinking of his brother's smile, tried to think of his laugh, to hear it in his head, to feel his arms around him.

He was alive.

His brother was alive.

Just as Sam started remembering to breathe, he felt immense relief wash over him. Truly wash over him. He'd been shocked before to see Dean, to see that he was alright. But it hadn't hit him. Not until this moment.

And his Mom.

She was alive.

Sam didn't know how to make sense of that.

He didn't know how to make sense of any of this.

He tried to relax his tense muscles, taking in deeper and deeper breaths, and the bodies against him faded, the memories of pain remembered by his own body faded. Sam opened his eyes, and he felt despairing when he saw the ceiling fan was still moving.

He wanted it to stop moving.

He wanted time to stop moving. Just for a little bit, so he could get a damn break for once. He wasn't ready to go after Lucifer. He wasn't ready to deal with the British Men of Letters, and as much as he loved the idea of having a mother, he wasn't ready to deal with his own Mother. He wasn't ready.

But the blades kept rotating, time kept ticking, and Sam lay there, hating himself and feeling even more tainted than when demon blood had pumped strongly through his veins.

A/N: I would also like to make a point in saying that even though I do write a lot of stories about Sam's time in the Cage, I didn't add that in here just to keep up with that. It's very likely that his trauma with Toni would mix together with his past traumas as well since they follow the same feelings of helplessness.