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“While I’m here, I suppose I can… do more than touch your soul—which you did ask me to do so nicely.”
“No,” Sam breathed, pressed against the pillar, wishing it wasn’t there, that Lucifer wasn’t in front of him in his friend’s body, that he wasn’t so close they were touching, that he could run, and run, and run. Already his mind was conjuring up a million horrible things Lucifer could do—would do.
He had a hand on his chest, which heaved at the touch; the touch of his friend’s hand . It wasn’t his friend controlling it.
Oh, Cas, why?
To save me. To save Dean.
Yet he couldn’t hate him, because he knew; he knew what that was like, what it was to have someone in you, know you, control you.
Sam gripped the pillar as that hand caressed him.
“Please,” he gasped. “Don’t—don’t touch me.”
The words thoughtlessly left his mouth. They were words he’d been taught time and time again by this very being that they wouldn’t be heeded. That begging didn’t work. That no didn’t work. No matter what Sam did, even if he twisted himself inside out for his pleasure, he could not get Lucifer to leave him alone, or to change his mind. If Lucifer wanted to touch him, to hurt him, then he would. God would have to strike him down to stop him, and God seemed to have checked out of this universe, to have never listened to Sam’s prayers, even now, even the pointless ones that ran through his head, saying he’d never eat meat again, that he’d never take an innocent life, that he’d bleed out his impurity all in return for Lucifer to stop, to please please please take his hand off his chest.
Lucifer gave him a look of mock sympathy. He’d know that look anywhere, on any face.
“Sam. Sam, Sam, Sammy Sam.” With each word he tapped his fingers against him in a little dance. “I just want to help.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Okay, well, first I do want to have some fun first. But could you blame me? I’m free! And even better, I’m—with— you . So I was thinking, why not just…”
Those fingers went into him, but not through skin or tissues. In. On a completely different plane. A plane in which Sam still, unfortunately, existed.
He seized up, feeling like someone had scooped out part of his chest.
Breathe. Breathe.
“...play around a little.”
Then there was an ache that traveled all the way down his right side, and up into his shoulder. Sam panted, feeling worse pain with each inhale. Lucifer’s fingers curled.
They must’ve because why else would it feel like his entire right side was being crushed, like there was an insurmountable weight against him, making it so he couldn’t breathe?
Lucifer leaned in, or maybe Sam was collapsing. One hand was in him, squeezing his right lung, and he couldn’t breathe. Black spots were starting up in his vision, and now, even if his grip loosened Sam knew he’d be a goner. There was swelling, the pain worsening, growing sharp, like his lungs were going to pop. The Devil’s other hand was on his chin now, and he stared at him. Even as Sam let out choked and breathless grunts, even as his head pounded, as air rasped in his throat, his eyes were on Lucifer. He had to keep him in his sight, had to look at his enemy. But the look on the face staring back at him disgusted him. That was Lucifer’s expression on Castiel’s face, and it was one of profound joy, and dark desire.
Sam’s eyes started to close.
No, no. Keep them open.
He was dizzy, and tired. So tired. God, it was exhausting fighting for each breath.
Lucifer released his lung, but then his hand went deeper, not exactly through his body, but through the space it inhabited in each plane of existence, to where it housed something very important.
With his swollen and irritated bronchial tubes, his lack of breath… Sam’s vision went black, everything going numb, when Lucifer used his best friend’s hand to touch his soul.