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The cage is hot. It always is, no matter what season it is up top. Sam used to think he’d get used to it, get used to all of this, but the impact never lessens. Or maybe Lucifer is getting better at torture. Sam is usually so lightheaded from the heat and pain that it’s difficult to tell.
It’s not like Sam regrets jumping into the cage, not like he regrets stopping the apocalypse, but sometimes he wishes it didn’t need to hurt so much. Maybe that’s the price he pays for being able to house Lucifer. Eternal pain seems a fitting punishment for someone destined to let Lucifer inside of him.
“Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, what ever would I do in here without you to keep me company?”
From where he’s tied to a chair, gag in mouth, Sam glares at his captor. I can’t talk.
“Sorry,” Lucifer says in an over exaggerated manner that makes it clear just how not-sorry he is. “I forgot.” He taps a finger over his own lips and pouts a bit.
Sam sighs around the gag. His jaw aches.
“Not amused?”
After it becomes clear that Sam doesn’t want to answer, Lucifer frowns, then decides to take a slow stroll around the chair that Sam is so unfortunately confined to. He stretches an arm out, drags his grimy fingers through Sam’s hair, and Sam inwardly cringes. It’s not like that will make him any dirtier, he’s been here for years, his hair is filthy, but that doesn’t make the action any less pleasant because Lucifer is dirty in a way that goes deeper than his skin. If the devil had a soul, Sam assumes it would be dark, covered in hellish ash from being cast down, burnt through by villainous intentions.
“Well, you’re boring today,” Lucifer gripes as he grabs a handful of Sam’s hair with each hand and pulls.
Sam bites back a cry of pain.
“What do you say we spice things up?”
Lucifer releases Sam’s hair, walks back in front of him, and leans in so they’re eye to eye. It sounds more like something Dean would do, but Sam is tempted to spit at the Devil.
“Come to dinner with me?”
What?
Lucifer straightens back up and pops one hand on his hip, then snaps. The gag in Sam’s mouth disappears, and Sam’s mouth clacks shut with a jarring gnash of teeth.
“Well?” Lucifer asks. “Whadda ya say, Sam?” He tips his head, and his eyes glow red in anticipation. “No funny business, I promise.” He stalks forward another step, then moves to straddle Sam. “Just you, me, and a three-course meal.” Lucifer’s snakelike tongue darts out, and he licks his lips. “I know you’re not as much of a meat man as your brother…” He winks. “But what do you say to steak?”
Sam closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath. He doesn’t like having Lucifer this close, positioned like this. It’s… it makes Sam think of torture sessions that he would rather forget.
“Okay,” Sam finally says. The word is barely a breath, said so quietly that Sam himself can barely hear it. Lucifer hears all, though.
“Alright!” Lucifer crows. Sam flinches as the sudden increase in volume, and Lucifer slings his arms around Sam’s neck, then leans back. “Now we’re talking!”
He snaps his fingers, and suddenly Sam is clean, or at least he feels clean, and finds himself seated at one end of a table. Lucifer sits at the other, clad in a crisp tuxedo, and when Sam looks down he can see he is dressed in the same thing.
Softly glowing candles grace the sides of the table not occupied by Sam or Lucifer, and plate sits in front of Sam. An identical one is in front of Lucifer, and there’s a large cut of meat on it—-cooked, thank god—-but that’s not what Sam is focused on. What Sam is focused on is the steak knife in front of him. It’s sharp enough to cut meat, and Lucifer, despite being a deity of incomprehensible power, looks like he’s made of flesh.
It’s worth a shot.
“Eat,” Lucifer says. Demands.
Sam picks up the knife, grabs the fork opposite to it, and goes about cutting the steak. It slices like butter, but Sam doesn’t eat any of it. Instead, he watches Lucifer, bides his time. Waits. Sam isn’t sure if he’s doing this because he foolishly thinks it could help him escape, because he wants a change of pace, or because he just wants Lucifer to hurt.
Part of him hopes it’s one of the first two. Another part knows it’s the last one.
That doesn’t make him a bad person. This is Lucifer he’s talking about, after all. Besides, Sam is already going to be here for eternity, it’s not like his actions tonight will have cosmic consequences when it comes to his final destination. Sam has already made his bed, so what if it gets a little bloody? It’s not like God is going to come peep at the sheets.
“Not hungry?” Lucifer asks. “I guess that does make sense after I shoved your stomach up through your throat.”
Sam shivers at the memory, and his grip on the steak knife tightens. He looks back down at himself, steadies his hands with a deep breath that aggravates his aching lungs—-they’re still sore from the last time Lucifer had run them through a paper shredder—-and looks back up at Lucifer, a tense smile on his face.
Then he lunges.
Lucifer catches Sam’s wrist before Sam can even get close to harming the devil.
“Nice try, Sammy.” Lucifer forces Sam’s arm against the table. It lands with a thunk, and the flames on the candles flare with Lucifer’s seeming anger. “But you’ll have to do better than that to touch me. He tightens his hand around Sam’s wrist, Sam’s hand spasms, and his knife clatters to the table.
Hellfire in his eyes, Lucifer grabs the knife with his free hand, lifts it over Sam, and drives it through Sam’s hand with a deranged laugh. The crunch of bone and slice of flesh is loud in Sam's roaring ears, thick with pain. Sam doesn’t scream. He barely resists holds it back and ends up biting his tongue hard enough to taste copper. Viciously red blood blooms across the painfully white cloth of the table like some morbid rose, and a copper tang hits the air, as the cloth becomes saturated.
“This is what happens when you don’t play nice,” Lucifer hisses as he leans in close to his prisoner. “Now—-” Lucifer taps at the handle of the knife embedded in Sam’s hand. Sam winces. “Obey.”
Minutely, Sam nods.
“Good boy.”