But the dreams I've seen lately
Keep on turning out and burning out
And turning out the same

Dean takes the time to destroy the bar, utterly and methodically (the chairs, the tables, the bottles, the windows and mirrors, the fucking dartboard), before deciding he's done and still angry and miserable (We are not capable of love, Dean) and that he might as well join the Wings Club in the other room. He doesn’t even feel guilty about the mess he made, because he has this feeling that all of it – most definitely the furniture, but also, in a more elaborate, covert way, time itself – has been created from scratch by Raguel and is, somehow, suspended from reality.

And that’s why he takes another full minute for himself after he’s done – he just stands there, right next to the door, his heart beating very fast, and he sucks a splinter out of his thumb as he tries to brace himself for what’s coming next.

He is not sure he believes Raguel; not completely. And yet – yet he can’t take the risk. Not today, and not ever. After all, Cas’ behaviour towards him has always been (weird as fuck) bizarre, that cold self-confidence giving way, pretty quickly, to a kind of I look up to you attitude that Dean had done nothing to deserve. Without mentioning the rest of it, that is. The fact that Cas liked watching him sleep, would always stand too close, would often look at Dean’s lips as Dean was talking, would always, invariably make clear that Dean was his priority, his mission, the one and only reason for all his actions.

From the very beginning, Dean had read all this as a come-on. Jesus, who wouldn’t have? And, to be perfectly honest, it’s not like Cas wasn’t his type. In fact, most of the men he’d been with (the ones he’d liked, that is; not the other ones) had been exactly like Cas (dark-haired, strong, smart, and a bit, or a lot, daredevil). So of course, when Cas had appeared in that barn claiming to be an angel, the first thought going through Dean’s mind had been, No shit. He’d almost been glad Bobby had been knocked out, because Bobby knew him better than anybody (except, perhaps, for Sam) and he would have read through his manly, aggressive, painfully restrained stance straight away.

But once he’d gotten to know Cas, Dean had checked himself. He'd felt like he was always second-guessing the angel – was it possible he was just that clueless? Were angels even allowed to do that sort of stuff? Of course, after that doomed mission to get Cas laid, it had turned out the answer was, Yes, and (thank God) Yes. Which, in a way, had made the problem even worse, because Cas had seemed so lost, afraid, even, when that prostitute had hit on him, that trying anything would have been downright abuse.

And it went beyond these self-sacrificing and noble feelings. Dean knew full well he wasn’t supposed to go with men, to be attracted to them. His father, and most hunters he knew, had not left a lot of wiggle room in that department. Hunters were hunters, and faggots were something altogether different(‘Taking it up the ass day in and day out - no wonder they walk funny. Fucking unnatural, is what that is.’). Dean had grown up convinced there was something wrong with him, and servicing men for money hadn’t been so much about making a few dollars as it had been about forcing himself to acknowledge how disgusting his secret desires truly were. He’d allowed himself to be used, cheaply and filthily, as a reminder that he was not worth anything better – not when he couldn’t control himself around muscular bartenders. After his father had died, of course, something had snapped inside him – a big, heartfelt FUCK YOU to the universe itself – and he’d stopped with all of that; he’d moved away from men who just saw his as a pretty mouth and were as full of self-loathing as he was, and had chosen instead the other ones – the ones who’d wink at him, and smile at him; the ones who’d treat him kindly, and steal a last kiss afterwards, their fingers hooked around the loops of Dean’s jeans, before disappearing back inside a crowded dance floor, or down an empty dark street.

They were all strangers, of course. It had felt too risky, way too difficult, to be that person with someone he actually knew; with someone who would seem him again. It had happened, the first time, with Richie – they’d met each other before, shared a few beers, but Dean hadn’t seen him in at least five years when they’d met again, out of the blue, in a Brooklyn public library. They’d been on the same hunt – a thing that had already killed six people and had turned out to be a succubus – and Dean still remembers his fuck it moment in all its glorious details – he’d been in his motel room, trying to wash off the blood, the high, the lingering arousal, and then he’d paddled out of the shower, cold water still on, had grabbed a towel and had opened the door – except Richie was already in front of it, looking exactly like Dean felt – exhilarated and ready to do anything. I’ve got oils, he’d said, in his adorable Italian accent, and that had been it. And that second time with Ash – now, here was a guy Dean had thought could become a second night guy. He was funny, good-looking, and had a kind of whatever personality which was highly appealing. Not that Dean had ever put the thought into words, to Ash or even to himself, but after that first laugh until you cry encounter in the back of the Impala, Dean wouldn’t have minded – not that he could tell Sam, or anyone – in fact, he’d been moody and out of sorts for a few weeks as he pondered, in the very back of his mind, what, exactly, was to be done.

Not that it had mattered.

Not that he would ever see Ash (alive) again.

And this was the thing about spending a night with someone whose name you actually knew: you forgot people died. All the bloody time, and especially around Dean.

So by the time Dean had decided that maybe he was reading Cas right, all of that – men, women, fucking werewolves – didn’t even matter. No, the thing was – he was a hunter, and he wasn’t supposed to - he couldn’t ruin someone else’s life, the way Mum had ruined Dad’s. Fucking Hell, Dean had made one single exception to that rule after Sammy had died and Cas had disappeared, and look what had happened. Feeling empty inside, completely undone, he’d gone back to Lisa. He’d tried to forget about his actual life and had spent almost one year mowing the fucking garden and washing the fucking dishes. And next thing he knew, Lisa and Ben had been kidnapped by demons, had come this close to be torn to pieces.

Right. So after that, any kind of relationship had been out of the question, for good, and what was really tragic, like, on a Shakespeare fucking around drunk level, was that the closer Dean came to this realization (Be alone and stay alone, or else), the closer Cas was coming to the other one (Yeah, so, it’s not actually normal human behaviour to need to be close to that one person all the time: it’s because you luuuurve them). And yet, apparently, they’ve still managed to meet in the middle of Fucked Up Town – they both want it, and they both need to forget all about it.

Dean finally manages to suck the damn splinter out, and he spits it out. He puts his hand on the door handle, hesitates. For a split second, he can feel all of it – Cas’ hands on his wrists, Cas’ lips on his own – he can even feel that ghost space between them, could guess, give or take one inch, how close he’d been to Cas’ body – he’d actually felt the heat radiating off him, that Touch me, touch me right now vibe that often happens up during first kisses, but never, in his experience, so strongly and desperately. In fact, he’d been hard as soon as Cas had put his hands on him, and had wanted, had needed, to shift his hips just that one inch forward, to know if Cas was feeling the same or –

But yeah, he was. Of course he was.

Only, Cas is an angel, and none of it matters, not anymore, thinks Dean, his fingers closing so tight around the door handle his knuckles turn white.

What is it that Raguel had said? He doesn’t understand what’s going on between the two of you, and it is paramount that he never does.

Okay, then. If there’s one thing Dean knows how to do, is denial. And if this will be the time he will end up broken – if this time he won’t be able to put himself back together – then fuck it. He’s dead already. What else can he lose?

And the answer is, apparently, a huge fucking lot, Dean realizes, as he schools his features in a leave me alone frown and pushes the door open.

Because the first thing he sees, the first fucking thing, is Cas, looking back at him from the other end of a huge white room. Their eyes lock for a second, and Dean has to work really hard to remember what’s at stake here – Cas’ bloody life – before managing a friendly, whatever wave of his hand and looking away.

As he walks towards the angels (Don’t think about what those lips taste like; don’t you dare remembering that lost, raw moan) he turns on himself, looks around. The room is a typical angel room, white and unfurnished. No windows and no doors, not even the one he just used. The only piece of furniture inside, except for the three figures waiting for him in the far corner, is a white thing, too high to be a table and too table-shaped to be anything else. As he walks beside it, Dean can almost hear the weird humming coming from it, and he knows at once the real nature of the object is cloaked. He stores away the information for later, though, because there’s more pressing matters at hand: the world, the Darkness, the bloody archangels, Lucifer, of all things, and – and Cas (Do not look at him).

“So, it’s all friends together then,” Dean says, stopping a few feet away and trying to be as rude and obnoxious as he can. “Do you girls need more time to chat, or is now a good moment?”

There is something which looks very much like guilt, and also annoyance, in Gabriel’s expression, and, again, Dean wonders how he could ever be fooled by Raguel’s impersonation of the archangel. He’s known the guy for years, after all, and there’s no way –

But just to be sure, Dean looks and doesn’t look at him, allows his eyes to unfocus, feels almost reassured when he sees the familiar fiery halo, the sword hilt over Gabriel’s shoulder. Knowing it’s a very impolite thing to do, he turns around and checks out Raguel (Yep, definitely eyes, that’s gross) and then, inevitably, Cas.

The first thing he sees are the wings, blackened and broken, and he feels his heart aching inside his chest; but then he has a glimpse of something else – there is a second set of wings behind the first one, and another one behind that. All of them are mere stumps, a few dark feathers still hanging from raw bone, but they are still huge, extending at least fifteen feet over Cas’ head – Dean moves his head downwards again, thunderstruck, because he needs to see Cas’ face, to check this is really him, and also to make sure, quite sure, that Cas is alright, because how can he move around like it’s nothing when he’s hurt, mutilated? Dean looks straight at Cas’ eyes - only they’re not really eyes anymore, but blue fire. In fact, there are blue flames (a changing, iridescent blue, shifting seamlessly from near white to ink black, like a bird’s plumage) all over his body, and Dean –

“Stop that,” says Cas’ deep voice. “It’s dangerous.”

Dean backtracks at once – he blinks, and the image is gone. He’s still in that white, sterile room, and the three angels are looking back at him curiously.

“You can spy on our true forms because you’re dead, and it’s really obvious –” starts Gabriel, and then checks himself, clearly goes with a different idea, “that you shouldn’t do it. It’s still likely to burn your eyes out.”

Dean scoffs as he covertly steadies himself, because, fuck it, that was (beautiful) different.

“Okay. Well, great. Another damn thing that can kill me. What about the Darkness, then? How do we stop it?”

“God is the only one who can stop it.”

“Yeah, we know that, Squinty.”

Raguel looks back him, frowning in disapproval, but Dean is not going to back down. He’s not the freak with actual eyes in his armpits, thank you very much.

“So, where’s the old man? Going to show up, is he?”

“Not quite,” says Gabriel.

“We think our Father chose immanence over transcendence,” says Raguel, as if this clears matters up.

“What, for tax reasons or something?”

“This means he doesn’t exist as a – as he existed before,” starts Cas, just this side of mournful. “He is now part of this world. Of all its living creatures.”

Dean looks at his serious face (I never said I don’t), then turns quickly to Gabriel, and finally to Raguel. All three angels seem to think Cas has said something profoundly significant, and that there is no need for further discussion.

“Wanna elaborate on that?”

“Look, dummy, we need the original Grace – God’s Grace – to fix the mess you made, and God is not around anymore. Which means we’ll have to recreate it, somehow. Ever fucked around with a chemistry set as a kid?”

Dean looks back at him in disbelief. He has a brief flash of a fourteen-year old Sam colouring a Periodic Table with bright pencils - remembers spying the thing from over his brother’s shoulder, envying how neat it was, not only the colours, but also Sam’s minuscule handwriting in the margins, explaining and defining things Dean had never been able to understand. His need for his brother, for Sammy to be actually okay, and not just a word in a demon’s mouth, is suddenly overwhelming. Dean looks back at Gabriel, trying to keep his face blank, but he can feel, mounting inside him, a sickening knot of worry and panic. He almost looks at Cas for reassurance, but that is something he apparently can’t do, not anymore, and therefore he keeps his eyes fixed in Gabriel’s honey stare, anchors himself in it, and hopes it will be enough.

.:.

When Sam looks up again, he sees the two angels looking at each other. It’s obvious from their body language (Lucifer perfectly relaxed; Michael openly threatening) that they are somehow talking, and Sam wonders, for a second, if they would even notice if he and Madison slipped away. But as soon as the thought is formed inside his mind, Lucifer turns to look at him.

“Michael will not harm you. After all, we both know you’re not his to harm, don’t we, Sam?” he says, smooth and velvety.

Sam feels Madison’s hand squeezing his reassuringly, and thank God – she clearly doesn’t understand what is going on, and who these guys are (Sam didn’t have the heart to get into all of it the night before, because how do you tell someone – someone you actually like – that you’re so weak and evil the actual Devil is fated to come and live inside you?), but she’s keeping her wits about her. Sam squeezes back and stays silent. Not that he knows how to deal with Lucifer; he’d never found a way which really worked (talk to him, ignore him – Lucifer had always seemed perfectly happy with both, with a slight preference for conversation) and now is not the time to experiment.

“Are you afraid of me, ahuvi?” says Lucifer, and he seems almost displeased.

From the corner of his eye, Sam sees Michael sheathe his sword, glance at his brother, once, a strange expression on his face, and then school his features into perfect indifference. So it looks like he will stay out of whatever is coming next, but that doesn’t reassure Sam one bit. A human can’t fight an angel: it can’t be done. And Lucifer is even more than an angel: he is (or was) God’s favourite and his best commander.

Also, he knows Sam inside and out; his dreams, his weaknesses. He's defeated Sam once before (his own mind turning upside down, becoming very hot, then cold; the bright light, the sick feeling of familiarity), and Sam feels a bitter taste in his mouth as he waits for Lucifer to speak again.

“You shouldn’t be. I have behaved childishly towards you, I will admit to it. But I am no longer what I once was. I am not confined in a cage, Sam, and I do not rule Hell. I have been reborn.”

The light of the clearing has assumed an even more otherwordly, translucent quality. Sam thinks, fleetingly, that it may be some significant time of the day; or, perhaps, the angels’ presence is doing it, changing the forest around their vessels to reflect the boundless Grace within them.

Lucifer takes a step forward but remains silent. Sam realizes he’s waiting for an answer. He looks at Lucifer, really looks at him – his vessel’s frayed jeans and faded tee-shirt, the unkempt blond hair, and then he shakes his head.

“What does it mean?” he says, and he hates how weak his voice is. “Does it mean you’ll leave me alone?”

To his horror, Lucifer takes another step forward – they are now about ten feet apart, and it’s really, really too close – and crosses his arms. He looks vaguely upset, as though he can’t believe Sam would say that, as though their time together (Lucifer haunting his nights, Lucifer taking the appearance of his dead girlfriend; the constant whispering, the syrupy promises, the loving words; those suggestions of boundless power and possibility – and, of course, that other fun period which came after the Cage – the sarcasm, the firecrackers, the constant, earnest suggestions that reality, wasn’t, in the end, real at all) was something to be cherished and fondly remembered.

“My brother,” Lucifer says, after a moment, and somehow, it’s clear he means Michael, even though he’s speaking like Michael isn’t standing two feet behind him, “was more than happy to abandon yours. Well: not more than happy. Let’s give credit where credit is due,” he adds, and this time he turns towards Michael, only slightly; smiles at him. “He was most reluctant, and – as I think the phrase goes – very nearly blew a fuse, but he still did it. He left Dean behind. But you and I, Sam –”

Sam doesn’t even need to hear the end of the sentence to know what Lucifer is going to say. He remembers that voice in his head, saying this very same thing, for months, over and over; and he hates himself for remembering what a comfort it was – not all of the time, and not even most of the time, but on a handful of nights – still too many (and it’s still unforgivable) – Sam had woken up from a nightmare and had been lulled back to sleep by Lucifer’s words; because, to him, Sam was not some flawed creature; he was not a freak. Instead, he was someone good, exactly right; he was the one person Lucifer had been waiting for for all eternity.

“- I always knew there was no one else but you. And I knew you’d come to me.”

Do not say it, thinks Sam, his fingers tightening around Madison’s hand. Do not say it.

Lucifer looks at him strangely, then. He cocks his head to one side, a bit like Cas used to do in the very beginning, and a soft smile appears on his lips.

And you did, says his voice, but this time it is right in Sam’s head, and Sam is sort of grateful for it, for this one small mercy, because he is a bastard and a coward, and he can’t bear for Madison to find out all of this, not now. That he said Yes to Satan. No, he needs to get her out of here first, to give her back her life, and then – then, maybe –

“So we’re starting all this again? What are you even doing here?” he asks, trying to sound stern and defiant; but Lucifer, of course, can see right through him, can see his very soul, and his smile widens.

“I have never lied to you, Sam, and I will not lie now. My brother and I have been given a task. A penance of sorts.”

We sinned, and grievously, says Lucifer’s voice inside Sam’s head, deep and mournful.

“Monsters are an abomination. Purgatory is an abomination. And I know what you will think – that I am harsh, unforgiving; but it is not about the monsters, per se; it is not about being different, or craving blood. I understand both, believe me. No, it is about Purgatory itself. It is endless, Sam. Punishment without the chance for redemption.”

Lucifer pauses, takes one more step towards Sam, slowly, hesitantly, as if stepping into cold water, and Sam wishes he could move back, but he can’t. He really, physically can’t.

“Now, one might argue that Hell is the same – but Hell is not the same, Sam. Hell is not even a place, not in the physical sense of the word. No, Hell is something you carry around with you. Not somewhere you go. The souls and demons down there are doing the same things they always did. Only, they’re doing it to themselves. That’s Hell. And, therefore, Hell is not unjust.”

He takes another step forward, and now he’s within striking distance, and Sam finally unfreezes, reacts on instinct: he lets go of Madison’s hand, pushes her behind him (mercifully, she lets him). He doesn’t move back, though. He still can’t. Instead, his eyes hesitate on Lucifer, look for weapons, move automatically to the weaker points of his body (his blue eyes, his throat, his belly) before remembering that this is Lucifer, Satan, the Devil, and of course Sam can’t take him. Can never hope to defeat him.

“We will empty this place, Sam,” Lucifer adds, and his voice drops lower, becomes intimate; and, again, this is something Sam remembers, this suddenly low and serious tone; and he knows it’s a trick, nothing else, but it still goes straight to his guts and nests there (a filthy, diseased thing; a sweet, loving promise). “We will put these souls to rest.”

“You mean you’ll kill everyone,” whispers Sam.

He’s hoping Madison won’t hear him, but he also finds he can’t talk any louder. Lucifer is two steps away from him now, and his presence is overwhelming. Even though he’s not touching Sam, it feels like he is; his presence is inescapable, like rain or sunshine, and Sam is almost shivering from the weight of it.

“And their souls will be freed by the disease they’re carrying, and go where they belong.”

“And where is that?”

“Hell, for most of them. Heaven, for some others.”

Sam doesn’t answer, because there is no good answer. This, after all, is what Lucifer does best: justify his actions, make them seem perfectly reasonable, even compassionate.

“The Leviathans, of course, we will destroy. They are unlike every other creature here in that they do not possess a human soul. We will put an end to them, swiftly and without mercy. But, as gentle-hearted as you are, Sam, I do not think you will weep for them. They took everything from you, after all, didn’t they? Your almost father; your almost brother.”

“Dean is my brother.”

“Dean is many things, but he is not your brother. Not truly.”

Sam has no idea what that is supposed to mean, and no inclination to find out.

“And this woman – I am glad you found her, Sam. My brother wanted to kill her, because this is, after all, our mission: to end them all. But as soon as I sensed your presence on this plane, I stilled his hand.”

Sam licks his lips, tries to think of something to say. Dean would say thanks, of course, would manage it in a sarcastic and fuck you way (and how does his brother remain so focused and talkative when under fire? Sam has always envied and resented him for it).

Leave her alone - she doesn’t deserve to die, he thinks, in the end, because the words don’t come out.

“I allowed her to live because I needed you to understand, ahuvi. To understand how I feel.”

The light shifts around them, becomes a bit darker, as if a cloud passed over the sun; only, right now clouds, and the sun itself, for that matter, seem so far away as to not exist at all.

“How - how you feel?” stammers Sam, and tries to add something, anything else - their only hope here (they can’t run, they can’t hide, not from him) is to stall the angels, to wait for a miracle – but nothing comes. His mind is completely blank.

Lucifer smiles. He uncrosses his arms, puts his hands in his pocket – a flirty, shy gesture. He looks down, then up at Sam again, and Sam feels himself go even colder.

“You are human. For you, everything happened yesterday. Like your wolf girl, you have no sense of past and future because a human life is so very short. But I - I am eternity itself, Sam, and I have been waiting for you. Ever since the first tadpole climbed out of the water, I have sensed your presence inside it. I have tracked your scent through the entirety of human history. Even in the Cage, I had glimpses of you - a Roman soldier with your straight nose; a Saxon woman with your hazel eyes, your exact tessellation of green and blue around her dark pupils. I strained against my chains when a sailor gripped his hands - your hands - tight on the boom of his ship, the Atlantic dangerous and angry around him; and I wept, Sam, I wept tears of blood when I heard Azazel’s singing heart, when I knew he had given you his blood. I never wanted you to be corrupted, to be touched by his filth.”

“I -”

Sam opens his mouth and closes it again.

“I always knew you were going to be mine, ahuvi. And now you are here.”

“I am not here for you,” Sam says, because it’s too much – he must wake up, react, before it’s too late. “I will never be what you want me to be.”

“You do not realize it yet, but you do. You simply do not perceive it. Love is an illness, an affliction of the soul. And such ailments, the deeper they go, the more hidden they are.”

“I will never be your vessel,” repeats Sam, and the unspoken again tastes like vomit in his mouth.

He wishes he could take a step back, because something about Lucifer is clouding his thoughts, scattering them. Without meaning to, he lowers his gaze to Lucifer’s blue eyes, and sees exactly what he saw the first time Lucifer appeared to him (in his bed, that is; he’d had probably watched Sam sleep, spied on his dreams, before waking him up): a naked, undisguised fondness.

“I told you. I do not need your body, Sam, not anymore.”

“So leave me alone.”

Please, he adds, in his own mind, without even meaning to, and immediately he is disgusted by his own weakness.

Lucifer’s eyes cloud with – sadness, perhaps, or disappointment.

“You don’t mean that.”

“I want nothing from you.”

There is a moment of silence. Lucifer looks down, then up again.

“I was hoping we could be – what is it called, in this day and age – friends,” starts Lucifer, and his sentence ends in Sam’s mind, low, enticing; with benefits?

“What?”

Sam almost chokes on the word, because surely, this is it, he’s going mad, and this time for good – surely Lucifer didn’t just say – he didn’t just suggest -

I know I do not resemble what would be your usual choice, says the voice again. But this is not who I am. This is who I am, ahuvi.

And Sam is still in the clearing, but, at the same time, he’s standing on the edge of something boundless and cold and so bright it’s blinding him. It’s unbearably beautiful, and frightening, and as the light becomes even brighter, Sam finds himself falling, as if from a great height – his body (a small, insignificant thing) breaking against sharp, hard angles on the way down – Sam is bleeding, dying –

Morning Star, he thinks, and then: You’re hurting me.

“My apologies,” says Lucifer.

Everything goes away, as if it never existed at all. Sam keeps his eyes closed, fights to maintain his balance, and then, before he can even straighten up, Lucifer is talking again.

Think of the best sex you’ve ever had, Lucifer says, and Sam stumbles forward again, almost falls to his knees. And Lucifer doesn’t say the words as such, it’s more like a suggestion, a gentle push against his mind. Sam tries to resist it, but he can’t; he might as well try to fight against high tide. Instead, he tries to shield himself, to focus on the women he loved, or almost loved – on Sarah (they were seventeen, and it was a disaster, but they were laughing so hard he hadn’t much cared), on Jesse (that night they were coming home from a party, happy and tipsy, and she’d trapped him against a wall, looked up at him as she opened his belt), on Amelia (she was an early riser, and she would look at him wake up, then lean over, kiss him, take off her nightie as she straddled him), on Madison – Madison, who’s standing not two feet behind him, the girl he’d hurt, the girl he’d killed, the girl who gifted him one of the most intense nights of his life – and yet, yet he is a terrible person, completely and utterly fallen, because what comes to the surface, despite his best efforts, is Ruby.

He never loved her, not at all; and he never even trusted her, not fully; and as soon as he understood where she’d been leading him, what she’d wanted from him from the very beginning, how she’d lied and manipulated him to get him exactly there, in an empty church, cannon fodder for Lucifer, he could never think about her again without a spasm of hate and disgust and self-loathing.

And yet.

Sam feels Lucifer’s eyes on him, knows the angel is seeing everything Sam is seeing – a seedy motel room, black sheets, the two naked bodies looking unnaturally pale on top of them (a study in contrast) – Ruby’s full lips, the glint in her eyes as she passed him the knife – and Sam becomes that person again, takes it by the blade, feels his own skin open, welcomes the sharp pain of it. He closes his fingers more tightly, looks down at Ruby (her dark eyes impossibly wide, the skin on her throat and breasts blossoming with bite marks; the sweet, maddening smell of her, half burning embers, half undiluted, shameless arousal) and lowers the knife into the flesh of her shoulder as he sinks inside her again. They are, both of them, violent, unloving actions. And yet Sam shuts his eyes tight against this person he was, because he remembers – he can feel it inside him, right now – he remembers his body singing a song of ecstasy, his mind flickering, shutting off (and finally, finally – Sam had been trying to silence that voice in his head – his father’s; his own – for a long time). Remembers the taste of blood on his lips, sweeter than it had any right to be.

That is nothing, says Lucifer in his mind, waking Sam up from this intoxicating dream, compared to what it will be like with me.

Sam blinks at the voice. He’s in the clearing again, and nothing has changed – his eyes move from Lucifer, standing very close to him now, almost close enough to kiss – to Michael, completely still and silent – and realizes Lucifer said will, not would. Lucifer is sure this will come to pass, and Sam feels a sense of desperate revulsion mounting inside him, because Lucifer was right last time, Sam did say yes to him last time, and how can he fight him now, how can he even –

Desperate and terrified, Sam closes his eyes again, and he prays to Cas. He does it automatically, without knowing, or wondering, if Cas can even hear him. He mutters the familiar words he’d learned in school, words that, ever since he’d met his brother’s angel, he’d spoken, inevitably, directly to Cas (Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God's love commits me here, watch over me throughout the night, keep me safe within your sight) to calm himself down, take control again (or what little control Lucifer will allow), but it doesn’t work, the words melt and bubble in his mouth until they become a huge mess, something that is not even a prayer anymore, and Sam is reduced to chanting Cas’ name, over and over again, hoping against hope the angel can hear him, can help him.

“Trying to make me jealous. That’s cute,” says Lucifer.

His voice sounds so close, Sam is afraid to open his eyes.

“I will come for you in three days,” Lucifer says, right into Sam’s ear. “The time we need to scourge this place clean.”

Sam feels Lucifer’s fingers on the back of his hand, feels them snake up, light as air, on his naked arm; feels them toy with the hem of his sleeve.

“Because I love you so, I will kill your wolf girlfriend last,” Lucifer murmurs, and then his mouth goes lower, ghosts over Sam’s neck in something which is not quite a kiss.

“I know you are afraid to recognize what you truly are,” he says, against Sam’s skin, and Sam shivers. “But now is not the moment to be afraid. Awake, arise or be for ever fallen.”

And then something shifts in the air, and when Sam opens his eyes, pale and sweating, both angels are gone. Sam turns around, slowly, unsteadily, making sure they’re truly gone, and his eyes fall on Madison. She looks worried and as fragile as a doll in her summer dress, and yet Sam finds himself walking towards her, falling into her arms.

“Don’t let him get me,” he says, without realizing it’s not the first time he utters these words (waking up in the dark, aged six, ten, sixteen, twenty-seven, his mouth parched, his skin glistening with sweat – he would never look for a light, because he’d forgotten all about it – somehow, it seemed certain he would live out his whole life in the darkness of his nightmares, taunted and petted by demons and monsters – but Dean would be there, Dean would always be there, would sit on his bed, stroke his hair – I won’t), without even realizing whom he’s speaking them to.

Madison’s arms grip him more tightly.

“I won’t,” she says. “I won’t let him get you.”