Chapter Text
The knife remained in his body as Sam collapsed, covered in blood, bruises, shame, fear, the smell of brimstone, and everything reminiscent of Hell. Seeing himself die for the second time that day was something that would take a while to wrap his head around, but as the version of himself that remembered Hell turned into a stream of light much like the Soulless version of him did not too long ago and poured into him, he understood that he had more pressing things to worry about. Sam felt every memory, every bit of torture, every decade of his time in the cage flow into him all at once all too quickly. Once it was done, he found himself heaving, trying to catch his breath– he remembers when Lucifer took away his lungs– and was ready to wake up.
But he didn't.
Sam furrowed his eyebrows, trying to understand. The other parts of him had said he needed to do this to wake up. To get back to the real world.
So why hasn’t he?
“Just one more piece, partner,” he hears from behind him.
Sam swiveled around and immediately, his knees gave out from under him.
It was Sam’s face, for the third time that day, looking at him. His voice, his body, but a totally different cadence. The glowing red eyes instead of the normal hazel, power behind his voice, and confident posture gave no room for confusion as to who it really was.
“L-Lucifer,” Sam said, his voice barely a whisper.
Disbelief flooded Sam’s senses. The soulless version of him had said they were all fighting for the chance to wake up because they were all a version of Sam.
“The one and only,” Lucifer responded with a smirk. His own voice, so velvet and smooth and not him.
A pit formed in his stomach as he had to even consider the fact that this– it– he was even considered a version of Sam, a part of his mind, a piece of his soul.
Snapping out of his shocked state, Sam remembered what he had to do to get rid of the others that looked like him. The thought alone of killing Lucifer shook him so deeply that the house around them literally vibrated as if an earthquake had hit.
Lucifer looked around curiously. Sam did not take his eyes off of him.
No, he couldn’t do it. He had to get away. He couldn't stand the idea of Lucifer being part of him. Not ever again. The being who had tortured him for all these years. The Devil being a fragment of his soul.
But if he didn’t that would mean Lucifer could kill him and end up being the one to wake up.
And Sam would rather be damned again then to let Lucifer walk in his body on Earth again.
His hand reached for the knife that had been left behind by the previous version of him. The handle seemed elusive as his fingers struggled to clasp around it, and he inadvertently pushed it further away.
The scraping sound of the metal against the wooden floor brought the archangel’s attention back to Sam. Lucifer stepped closer to him, reveling in the look of fear and confusion on Sam’s face. Sam leaned over, reaching harder for the knife before it suddenly flew from the ground. He glanced at Lucifer who had his hand up, mid flicking motion. Of course he had used his powers to move the weapon away from him. The crash of glass behind him and distant sound of metal hitting pavement confirmed that it wasn’t going to be his weapon of savior.
“Damn,” Sam muttered to himself.
Quickly, he scrambled to his feet and grabbed the gun from the table before spinning around to point it at Lucifer. His grip caused his knuckles to go white, but he didn’t care. He needed to make sure this wouldn’t be another weapon that Lucifer did away with.
“You don’t have to do that, Sam. I’m different,” Lucifer says as he steps closer to Sam.
Sam cocked the gun as a warning. Everything in him was screaming to pull the trigger already but he couldn't. He didn’t know how he knew exactly, maybe it was the plane of existence in Sam’s consciousness that made him so sensitive to it, but he could hear his Hell fragment warning him.
He could feel it warning it.
Don’t fight back. Don’t resist. Stop rebelling. It makes it easier. He won’t burn us if you just obey. If you just stop fighting.
Panic and dread engulfed Sam until his muscles trembled. Memories of punishment from the angel in front of him caused his body to break into a cold sweat. His fingers froze, unable to tense enough to pull the damn trigger.
“We’re different,” Lucifer continued, getting closer.
Sam couldn’t move. Seeing his body, his face, and his own voice move towards him filled him with an anxiety that made his mouth run dry and brain stop thinking. His heart felt like it would leap out of his chest. All he was now was a frenzied bundle of nerves, a concoction of human fragility standing before a divine being infinitely more powerful.
“We’re a packaged deal. I’ll always be with you.”
Lucifer reached out his hand and touched his chest. The gesture was almost comforting. His palm laid flat against Sam’s chest. Even through the layers of clothing he had on, Sam could feel it.
The cold.
Like the other versions of Sam, Lucifer becomes a stream of light. Instead of being the blue-ish white that the other versions of him had been, Lucifer becomes a bright red light.
A stream of ice cold angelic power flows into Sam.
Just like in Detroit, but far less overwhelming and all-consuming, more of a trickle in like drinking your first cup of ice cold water on an unbearably hot day.
The cold bloomed in his chest before creeping up his spine and through the length of his arms, down his legs, and finally up his neck to his eyes. A buzzing brain freeze with a pressure too intense caused Sam to suddenly drop the gun and clutch at his head, pulling at his hair for any sort of relief.
It was too familiar in the worst way. Sam wanted him out. Needed him out.
“Get out,” he finally spoke in trembling defiance, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Get out!”
The cold made him tremble uncontrollably, every particle of his being vibrated with power and fear. The house around him began to tremble along with him, cracks appearing on the ceiling, items hitting the floor as they fell from their places, windows breaking and shattering, but Sam could care less even though the house seemed as if it were about to collapse on top of him. He could hear– feel Lucifer slipping into every facet of him, ignoring Sam’s desperation; feel him sighing contently as though he was finally returning home.
He could barely feel his own strength ripping hair straight from his scalp with the overwhelming sensation of Lucifer settling inside of him. Sam fell to his knees, tears stinging his eyes.
“GET OUT!”
When Sam opened his eyes, he found that he was laying on his side. He’s shivering, feeling the after effects of his interaction with Lucifer.
Lucifer.
Sam bolts upright. Not on hardwood floors but on a bed. Even the thought of the name of the archangel sent him into an automatic panic. As soon as he is halfway vertical, he stops shivering. It’s warm and his chest is heaving. He’s even sweating.
There’s no buzzing or cold flowing through him. It feels as if it were just a dream.
Each time he blinks, he sees the afterimage of the vibrant red light of Lucifer seeping into him. His stomach lurches. For a while, his hands stay gripping the sides of the mattress as he searches his mind for the angel. Just to make sure it was a nightmare from having his soul be put back together. It dawned on him partway through his search that he didn't know what he would do once he found him.
Don’t scratch the wall, the memory of a voice echoes in his mind. He listens to it.
Just a dream, he convinces himself. A few deep breaths helps to settle his panicked mind. The faint smell of whiskey is more apparent with each breath. Sam licks his lips in thought as his mind starts to ground him to the space around him. No one else was in the room, but he recognized the place.
The panic room. Iron walls covered with sigils, devil traps, and other magical symbols. Memories of his days of detoxing from demon blood threatened to fill his mind, but he quickly refocused..
Why was he here? What was the last thing he remembered?
Lucifer.
An icy shiver went down his spine. The cold suddenly changed into heat, and the temperature rose. Sam’s face contorts in pain as the memories of hell fire flooded his mind and cried out, slipping from the side of the bed and falling to the floor.
It burns.
His back arched uncontrollably, lifting him unnaturally high off of the ground. It provided no relief.
Burns.
The smell of his own burning flesh fills his nostrils as a guttural scream rips through his hoarse throat. Flames use the opportunity to climb over his lips and teeth and scorch his tongue as they make their way down his esophagus and lungs, making sure to destroy every part of him.
BURNS.
Just as quickly as the pain and memory had come, it was gone. Sam found himself heaving on the floor. His stomach wanted to spill contents that were not there. The cold touch of the concrete was a relief to the painful memory. His mind buzzed residually with the impression of pain. A jumble that was difficult to clear. His heart pounded, adrenaline flooded his senses.
Focus. Sam thought to himself, splaying open his hands to feel more of the cool concrete. The adrenaline sharpened his mind again. No fire, no heat.
He’s alone. He knows that much. But why?
Sam uses the bed as an aid as he lifts himself from the floor, scanning the room. A chair was left next to the foot of his bed. The familiar smell of whiskey registers in his mind. Someone was sitting next to him while he was out.
Dean.
“Dean?” Sam calls out. He looks towards the panic room door which is closed, but sees no movement. He remembers their voices, Bobby and Dean. They were looking for Castiel.
Now focused on an actual goal, his mind settled as he stumbled out of the bed and made his way towards the door of the panic room. On his way, he noticed a note with Bobby’s handwriting stuck behind a pipe that ran along the wall.
Going to stop Castiel and Crowley. Here’s the address.
The building was an old factory. Not one that Sam recognized. He did recognize the Impala though. It was turned over and empty. The smell of sulfur filled the air.
Not a good sign.
Focusing on getting there helped to keep his mind steady. Helped him to not remember the fire.
The fire.
The thought ignited a memory of his hair being set on fire. The speed of which it burned was controlled by Lucifer who took sick pleasure in watching Sam’s reactions. The flame moved closer and closer to his scalp with the promise of inevitable pain for each follicle. By instinct, he froze with a groan. Each second he held out from putting the fire out was a second of a relief that Lucifer would grant him in between torture.
It was one of Lucifer’s favorite games to play with Sam.
Eventually, the heat got too close and his hand automatically brushed through his hair. The fire singed his hand slightly. A curse escaped his lips. He barely held out.
“Eight seconds,” he heard Lucifer say, amusedly. “Seven…six…five…”
Sam shut his eyes. He waited for the inevitable strike from Lucifer as he counted down mentally along with him.
“Four… three…” Sam could feel the flames prickling at his feet. “Two… open your eyes… one…”
Instinctively, he followed the order and opened his eyes.
Lucifer liked to look him in the eyes when he tortured him.
A throb pulsed through his head as he did and he was brought back to the cool breeze of the night. Not the suffocating heat of Hell. No Lucifer.
I’m not in the Cage, he thought to himself. I got out. I woke up.
Brought back to his senses, Sam took a deep breath before trudging forward towards the factory.
Sam’s mind was a bit of a blur. He could hear Castiel speaking. Words that didn’t quite sound like the Castiel he knew.
As Sam walked into the room, he assessed the situation. Blood splatter painted one wall with Dean and Bobby standing opposite of it. Sam didn’t even want to think about whose it was at that moment. His friend in the trenchcoat stood with his back to Sam, facing the other two men.
The glint of an angel blade caught his eye. The air turned icy as he noticed shoes right in front of it; ones that he recognized for the worst reasons, attached to the worst being he knew to exist; Nick’s shoes. His breath shuddered quietly as his eyes slowly traveled up the legs of the person.
Before he could make it to the torso, Sam blinked. The body was gone. The cold had gone with it.
A hallucination from Hell, he told himself, though he didn’t feel very comforted by the thought.
No one else in the room had acknowledged the man– the angel that was standing there a second ago. His eyes made their way back to the blade on the ground, refocusing on his mission.
Quietly, cautiously, Sam made his way towards the blade and picked it up. Castiel never made it known that he knew Sam was in the room– could he have noticed the Devil who was just behind him?
Sam’s heart ached as he drove the blade through Castiel. His friend. It wasn’t the first time he had killed him.
No, the first time was Lucifer, not me, Sam reminded himself. Lucifer had snapped Castiel into a mess of blood and organs. And Sam felt it.
Sam let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
Lucifer made Sam kill Castiel over 100 times in the Cage. It hurt less than when he made him kill Dean or Bobby. But it still hurt.
Speaking of the devil, Sam saw him. For sure this time. Standing right behind Dean and Bobby with a twisted grin on his face. A small part of him was relieved that he had taken on the form of Nick instead of Sam
“Very good! You barely even hesitated this time,” he heard Lucifer say with pride. Sam gulped and quickly released the blade, ready to shout out a warning to the other two men, but when his eyes glanced from Castiel back to them, Lucifer was gone.
There was no brilliant blue light that usually followed after an angel’s death. Instead, Castiel simply pulled the knife from himself and turned around.
Part of Sam was so happy to see that his friend wasn’t dead. And that he didn’t kill him
The other part of him is scared shitless at the fact that Castiel, the angel, can no longer be killed by an angel blade, and that he’s talking about being more than an angel.
“Interesting,” Sam hears Lucifer say.
He gives a confused and concerned look to Bobby.
“I’m your new God,” Castiel announces.
A cold pang goes through Sam’s heart at the announcement. An unpleasant feeling he can’t quite describe runs through him. Fear? Anger? Annoyance? He can’t pinpoint it and he can’t understand it. Right now, he doesn’t try to either.
Castiel tells them to bow to him– gosh he sounded so much like Lucifer.
“Cas,” Sam begins. To apologize, to bring Cas back to the angel they knew, to remind Sam that Castiel is Castiel not Lucifer. His voice breaks and his throat is dry. It hurts to even speak. How long was he out for?
“Sam, you have nothing to say to me. You’ve stabbed me in the back,” Castiel responds.
Then there was talking. Sam tried his damnedest to follow along but through most of it, all he heard were screams. Sometimes the air got hot. Sometimes he heard Lucifer's voice.
The room began to shift. He felt woozy.
“Not doing so well, are you Sam?”
Hearing his name snapped him out of it. Not Lucifer talking, it’s Castiel. He felt Dean’s eyes trained on him, and he stood up straighter.
“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m fine,” he makes eye contact with Dean, trying to sound more convincing, but Dean doesn’t buy it.
Neither does he.
“Be grateful for my mercy,” Castiel says. He looks at Sam. “I could have cast you back in the pit.”
That hurts Sam. Strikes him directly in his recently merged soul– too soon to hear that again. His face twitches in response. The cold pang he felt at first was instantly replaced with a hot pit in his stomach. And gets hotter.
They’re talking again, but Sam can’t follow.
The temperature in him is rising. And spreading.
Suddenly Castiel is gone but Sam can’t care right now.
It’s blazing.
He feels something– blood– dripping from his nose.
“Sam, you okay?” he hears Dean ask.
He turns to tell him he’s okay, that he’s fine and nothing is wrong, but he sees Lucifer behind them again snapping his fingers and suddenly Sam combusts and his skin is on fire.
His knees buckle out from under him and he falls to the floor, slamming his hand onto the glass. It stings, and he sees the blood splattered over his palm, but that pain is nothing compared to being burned alive.
If Dean and Bobby are talking to him, he can’t hear them over Lucifer's laughter or the roar of flames.
The next thing he feels are hands grabbing him and helping him up and out of the room. Moments of clarity in his vision tell him it’s Dean and Bobby
He doesn’t know how they’re touching him right now.
He’s on fire.