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The chain whips around Sam's ankles, jerking him off his feet, dragging him backward.
I missed you, Sammy.
Sam reaches for furniture but it disintegrates as his fingers brush against it. He tries to grab the carpet, but Bobby's threadbare rug has been replaced by glass that shatters as he clutches it, shards of glass leaving his hands slippery with blood.
C'mon and play.
It's not real, this isn't real. Sam presses his injured hand but nothing happens - the Devil's imaginary pain is so much stronger, he can't even feel the real pain of his hand. The glass carpet is cracking under his body now, pushing spears into his legs, his torso, his arms.
It'll be just like old times.
Dean, he gasps, please. I can't do this. I can't stop this one on my own. Please.
No one's here, Sammy. Just you and me.
Glass shards plunge into his face, his throat. His screams are soundless, his vocal cord severed.
Cat got your tongue?
A booted foot kicks mercilessly at his side, rolling him onto his back. He blinks the blood from his eyes and sees Lucifer laughing above him. Oh god, Dean, please, he begs silently, please make it stop.
Big brother can't do anything, Sam. He's topside, and you're back in the cage with me. Can't you tell? Didn't you notice your little trick isn't working any more? Didn't you wonder why?
No no no no no. Sam pushes his fingernail into the scarred hand, feels the skin break, but there's no pain, not enough to compete with the long shards of glass slicing into his flesh.
Lucifer grabs his shoulders and hauls him to his feet. Time to go, buddy. I've got a rack with your name on it. He wraps one of the chains tightly around Sam's neck, grabbing one end as a leash.
Sam grabs the largest glass blade shoved into his chest and yanks hard, harder, finally dislodging it with a gush of blood. He plunges the glass into his hand and yes, it hurts, god, it hurts. Thank god, it hurts.
Sam! Lucifer yells in anger. Stop it!
Sam ignores him and thrusts the shard further into his hand. Lucifer grabs his wrist and tries to pull his hand away. Stop, Sam! Stop it! He sounds more frightened than angry now, and suddenly Lucifer's voice doesn't sound like Lucifer, and the hand latched around his wrist isn't icy cold. "Stop, Sam. Stop! You're okay!"
Sam looks up from his bloody palm into his brother's terrified face. "Dean?"
"Shit, Sam. What the fuck?"
Sam looks around. He's standing in Bobby's kitchen, and the floor isn't shattered glass and he's not covered in blood. And there's an icepick shoved through his hand. A wave of nausea rushes over him, and he collapses into a kitchen chair.
Dean kneels in front of him. "You okay? You back with me?" He gently pulls Sam's injured hand toward him. "I've gotta get this out. Can you do this? Are you ready?"
Sam can't speak, but he can nod. Dean says "on three" and then pulls the icepick out at two. "I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't know it would get like that. I shoulda..."
"Should have what? Hidden the pointy things from me?" Sam laughs humorlessly as Dean retrieves Bobby's first aid kit from under the sink. "I'd be kind of a crap hunter if you had to hide all the weapons."
"Still," Dean says, as he preps Sam's hand for stitches, "An icepick through your own hand? Gotta be a way we can avoid that."
Sam shrugs. "Not like it's the worst thing that's ever happened to me."
Dean looks up at him for a few seconds. "Can't argue with that," he finally says, as he bends over Sam's hand and begins stitching.