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The searing heat wrapped around Sam like a living, nasty thing, burning through flesh, muscle, and bone. His screams tore through the air, raw and primal, as Lucifer watched with cold, detached amusement. It burned and buried itself under his thin flaps of searing layers. The thing he once knew as skin bubbled. Blistering into thick, greased burns before popping from the high pressure of the flames; peeling him away in agonizing layers, only for it to regenerate, starting the torment all over again.
There was no escape, no pause. The fire was relentless, consuming him from the inside out, and his nerves singed with unimaginable pain. Every breath was a struggle, the air itself molten and suffocating, scorching his lungs as he gasped for relief that would never come.
Lucifer leaned in, his face inches from Sam’s, the heat from the flames paling in comparison to the icy malice in the Devil’s eyes. “You know, Sammy,” Lucifer’s voice was a venomous purr, “for a while there, I thought you might actually break. But this… this is something special. You’re a tough one, I’ll give you that. But if your brother could break… so can you.”
Sam’s vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges, but Lucifer forced him to stay conscious, to endure. The agony was beyond anything he’d ever imagined, but he clung to the last shred of his will, knowing that if he let go…
The Archangel’s laughter echoed in his ears, mingling with the crackling flames. “This would be a lot more entertaining if you cried.” Another wave of fire surged through him, and Sam’s body convulsed, every part of him screaming for release. The Devil took a moment to compose himself, fixing his tan, dirtied shirt as if he were preparing for a job application. Sam’s body (or what was left of it) collapsed to the ground. His feet tied down with invisible chains. Binding him to the rusted metal of the Cage.
Sam’s mouth caked in blood, he spat out a wad that fell through the gaps of metal. “You…..” He choked on his words. He could hear the snap of his ustulated vocal cords. Excruciating pain shot up his throat, red waterfalls escaping his inflamed nostrils and mouth. He couldn’t move his tongue, it was frozen in place, bleached and dead. It might as well have fallen out and shattered.
Like the rest of his weak, frail body.
Lucifer’s brows furrowed, leaning forward playfully on his tiptoes. Turning his head to the side, a hand braced behind his ear. “Hmm? What’d ya say, Sammy? Sorry, I couldn’t hear you.”
Sam hacked. Hunched over, his greasy hair slapped over his eyes, his face. It’d gotten long since he’d been here. Stuck here in this Hell away from Hell. Worse , really. Sam’s eyes burned, the tears trickling down his face evaporating immediately. His eyelids slowly enveloped his vision, covered in a rolling, peaceful darkness. Even the darkness wasn’t a worthy advocate, because all he saw when he closed his eyes were Lucifer's burning irises. Flaming golden eyes burned into the back of his mind, pulling all his truths and desires to the surface before his mind would go blank. Void of any emotion, any feeling. Crushed to atoms in a single snap of his finger.
But he could still feel … right?
That only lasted a moment, that peace; Lucifer’s claws ripped and tore into his right shoulder. Bare flesh regenerating cut fresh wounds. The Devil’s nails split his shoulder blade down to his armpit. Sam howled in agony, but he was immobilized by an imaginary wind. Restraining him to sit on the ground and watch his own body be violated again…and again… and again…
“C’mon Sammy…” Lucifer continued, circling him. Sam’s back arched forward to the feel of his burning finger dragging lazily over his skin. Creating tiny, yet not enough to draw substantial blood, slits into his back in the shape of pitchforks and horns. Like his back was a canvas, and it was up to Lucifer on which paints he would use: Blood or tears?
The fire roared louder, a deafening cacophony of destruction, and Sam’s world narrowed to the single point of his suffering, a never-ending spiral of pain and despair. Each flick of the claws, the fire, reminded him of his snapping neck,
“Don’t…” he managed to scoff, his face forcefully directed forward. His body was already repurposing vital organs and parts of his body. His broken bones painfully snapped back into place piece by piece at a snail's pace. His broken leg rapidly righted. A sharp whimper followed by a muffled moan escaped his lips. The leg was twisted, dislocated, and shattered from the ankle up repositioned to default setting with a loud pop.
“Don’t what?” He snickered. Another set of X’s and O’s peppered his back. “Don’t… stop?” The Devil’s palm heated, he pressed it firmly against Sam and he yelped once again. Writhing in his torment. “Kinky little thing— I could very well keep going,” he chuckled, “as long as I want.” His gaze fell on Sam. The youngest brother’s eyes rolled back into his head, his jaw slack and charred in the corners. His lips were as cracked and dry as the Sahara desert. Scabbing already. Sam’s experience was no doubt painful, it was going to get worse too. He knew it was coming. As this was only one brother’s doing. And if he couldn’t stand to survive another hour with his fire— then how back was the latter?
“So, what will it be?” Lucifer finished, grabbing the human by the chin. Forcing him with an ironclad grip to stare into his swirling golden eyes glowing with fury and a millenniums rage. “Hmm? Nothing? Samuel— ugh!” He threw a hand to his chest. As if he was offended by his silence, “I thought you’d be better than that. After all, what's a legendary Winchester brother without the wit?” He chuckled in his face, the smell of burning flesh and sulfur catching his breath. Fuck. He spoke slowly, taunting him for a reaction. “Cat got your tongue? Or are you finally going quiet? The party’s just started Sam!” he clucked, knives for nails slicked across his bare, sensitive cheek. Slashing a gash the length and size of a pencil. The hunter winced, but it was no near his fingers being broken one by one, or decapitation from the chest down.
The hunter’s body swayed, white-knuckled clutching the Cage’s bar’s like a lifeline. In some ways, it was. It was the only tangible thing he knew wouldn’t change. Wouldn’t shapeshift into the image of himself, or a twisted version of Dean or Mom. It was hot, rusty metal crusted between his fingertips. Dirt pressed against the undersides of his fingernails while he panted. Gathering his bearings, and preparing for either verbal or physical (he preyed on the former).
Sam shuttered, jerking his neck. Surprisingly detaching him from Lucifer’s grasp as he lay sprawled on the floor. Flames licked at his skin. Surrounding his body in a tamed bonfire. They didn’t burn, but his body was losing oxygen and water— fast. He was wringing him out like a sponge was what it felt like.
He couldn’t answer because Sam’s mind was void of any rational thought, of any kind whatsoever that wouldn’t have a chance to bite his ass in the future. He had to choose his words carefully, though in the position he was in… rationality came last. His toes curled, “I…” he coughed, hacking like a lifelong smoker, “…don’t…don't call me…Sammy.” He gasped between breaths. Sam’s lungs began to constrict on themselves. The lack of oxygen was getting to his head, as all he’d been inhaling were smoke and flames for the last two hours. Or maybe Lucifer finally decided to circle back on the ‘choking on your own air’ joke. As well as being burned to bones and regenerating from nothing.
Lucifer tilted his head curiously, plucking the boy out of his momentary train of thought. “Why not? I thought we were best buds, bud!” He wasn’t serious, why would he be? He was talking to Sam as if he was a young child rather than a man tentatively murdering him a hundred times over with no remorse.
The little Devil gripped his face, stretching and playing with it. Sam was tempted to snap at him, sink his teeth into his wrist. Maybe he’d get lucky and draw blood for a change. He swallowed, “In your dreams.” He snarled, leaning forward with a new look of refreshed determination. A lopsided smirk pierced his scarred lips.
The pain wasn’t over, for all he knew… Lucifer was either bored or running out of ideas. “Oh-ho! There he is!” Lucifer jumped up in excitement, clapping his hands in mock celebration. He braced his hands on his hips and peered down at the hunter. Shifting his weight and swishing his hips from left to right teasingly. “There’s that little Winchester fire I’ve been dying to see!” The asshole slapped his hand against his back, disappearing from his image in the front. Sam took a long double-take, his mind unable to catch up with his sudden disappearance. He jumped when he heard the chucking voice of the Archangel behind him. He could practically see him grinning ear to ear, tailing him. Hovering over him like a malicious shadow, a predator in the open. “Let’s get started.”
Three hours in, and Sam couldn’t tell the difference from right to left, up or down.
He’d blacked out somewhere around the two-and-a-half-hour mark, when his vision would start to fog and the counting numbers slowed unevenly with his dying heartbeat.
His eyes were bloodshot, rolling to the back of his head where his neurons were singed. Where his body sagged on the firm, blistering metal of the Cage. His body collapsed, failing his mind’s pleading orders to ‘stay up, keep going’. He must’ve been out for some time since Lucifer strutted away from his stoop in the back right corner. Flicking a black speck of whatever out of the crevice between his teeth.
Sucking on the tip of his nail, his sharp eyes darted over Sam’s body lazily. Like a cat had just discovered its prey was still indeed alive, and more importantly playable.
The hunter’s head spun, running laps inside his mind like a personal carousel rather than a train of thought. Words that were all the more familiar were on loop—
Dean needs you.
Keep fighting.
Don’t let Lucifer win.
….what’s next?
The fallen angel caught wind now that he was waking up after hours of him being face-down and unmoving. Minus the occasional rise and fall of his chest, it gave him all the more reason to scream in his ear with a horrific pitch.
Sam swore that for a former angel of Heaven, Lucifer was pretty tone-deaf.
“Good morning Vietnam!” He sang with horrifying cheer, a way of signifying the next cycle he was going to endure for the next day. The next hour. The next minute—
“Or should I say… Sammy?” He teased, his arms folded behind his back in a regal manner. His original clothes, the tan button-down and Floridian chic were now changed to a cleaner alternative. He wore yet another button-down of the same style, but instead of a plain color, it was instead a dark gray (probably black without the constant flames in the Cage). And at the bottom, crawling to his midsection was an ombré of red and orange flames, peppered with little Red Devils flying around the top and sleeves. He also wore a baggy, wrinkled pair of black jeans, ones that were as plain as his old ones. Lucifer’s hair was combed following the part of the left side of his head— fluffy as ever.
Sam wanted to snap, “Go die in a hole.” He growled. Bad threat, he realized moments later. Maybe he was starting to go insane after all.
Lucifer’s head cocked to the side like a confused puppy, before releasing a dark cackle. “Oh, Sammy,” he said, his voice lowering as he leaned in. His breath tickled the side of his face. His breath reeked of Death. “I thought you would’ve realized by now, given that thick head of yours.” He pressed a claw to his forehead. Twisting his nail tediously. “We already are.” He whispered, and that is when he felt his shoulder shatter.
Sam was so focused on him and him alone, he was oblivious to the featherweight against his left shoulder. The hand gripped just above his collarbone and squeezed. Hard.
Blood inked his freshly regenerated shirt, wetting and dripping down his side as a cry flowed from his lips. Slamming his eyes shut, and leaning his body to the side in an instinctual attempt to escape Lucifer’s clutch.
He wasn’t even trying. Holding Sam by the hand, planted down to the ground below, his legs once tucked now sprawled out underneath him. His bare feet burning, pressing his heels against the bars to cower away in the small Cage. Just so he could distance himself and catch his breath.
But he couldn’t. He never could.
Unless the little bastard wanted to bring back the birdcage. The swinging thing that at least gave him a fighting chance at some peace. Some time to collect his bearings and mentally as well as physically prepare himself for the next options.
“You never just… stay down. Do you?” Lucifer snarled, flames twisting around his feet. He raised his right boot into the air, Sam braced his hand shakily but not in time. His chest and lungs compressed with the force of an elephant colliding with his front. Sending his magnetized body flying, and slamming into the bar’s behind him. “Always clawing and scratching and kicking, God! You never give up!” He threw his hands down beside him in a childish fit. Where just a few feet over, in the far right corner, was Michael. Standing there silently wearing Adam as usual, leaning against the bars with one foot propped and the other slightly bent. His arms crossed with an indifferent expression.
He might as well have been a brick wall for Christ's sake. Michael did nothing, he didn’t contribute to his fitting brother, he didn’t aid Sam in the moments of thick silence— he did nothing. And that pissed Sam off somehow.
He should be grateful that Michael, the Sword of God wasn’t taking part in using him as a personal punching bag and plaything. But he stood there, scrutinizing him while he lay in agony convulsing at his feet watching his brother make a stew out of him…
The man had no intention of stepping in whatsoever. He was trying to distance himself from the inevitable situation. To be the bare minimum in his dilemma.
Sam would sometimes look up, and stare at him with red, pleading eyes. Hoping, praying there was still a shred of humanity deep down inside the Archangel.
His night and shining armor never came to the rescue, and probably never will.
Way to kick a downed puppy.
Sam gasped for breath, heaving. His chest and ribs were caving in on itself; his floating ribs snapped like toothpicks— like the rest of his bones.
Clutching his shirt with his offhand, he glanced down at his left shoulder to survey the damage.
The shirt where Lucifer’s palm once pressed, dug into his skin was now a gaping hole. Black and charred at the edges, his flesh red and glistening in fresh heat burns. Blisters duplicated before his eyes, spreading down his arm and up the side of his neck like a hyperactive rash. Crawling up and under his sizzling layers in agonizing waves that made thinking unbearable. Made his whole body shut down and immobilized until his form could regenerate.
On the other end of the prison, Devil horns stalked over to the side of the Cage, forgetting Sam in the moment. He now centered on one of the metal walls.
Lucifer’s face contorted into slight curiosity, fingering and playing with the bars, pulling and tugging at them, squeezing the metal in hopes of willing them to bend.
He was unsuccessful, like the last three hundred times.
He let out his own brief scream, one of not pain, but of frustration and fury.
That signal was Sam being dragged out of the penalty box, ready to be unleashed before the rink.
He’d run out of time.
“Sammy? Sammy you up?” A familiar voice, one that felt like he hadn’t heard in a hundred years called out. His gruff voice coated a warm blanket over Sam’s subconscious.
Sam stirred awake, a faint smile on his lips. “Yeah, what…why?” He breathed in through his nose, crisp morning dew wafting his senses.
“We got a lead.”
“A le— on what?” Sam couldn’t hide his baffled expression.
“On who killed our parents, man,” Dean replied enthusiastically, drumming his tight fingers on the wheel.
“Dean, uh…that was…that was Azazel. Are you— are you okay? You look…” Sam paused, “tense.”
“I’m fine.” Dean shook his head, “Just happy we finally got a break in the damn case, ya know? Closure.”
“Yeah.”
Sam watched as the world passed them by, the Impala roared around the soft shoulders of the backroads. The trees a watercolor mesh of greens and freckled oranges. It was almost fall.
The car kept driving until Sam had finally noticed where they were. Where they were going.
As the distance closed in, he could see the faint outline of their house.
Their HOME.
“Hey, Dean?” Sam leaned his head out of the slowing car. Opened the window he was face-to-face with the wilted frame of a place he’d grown up in. Even if it was just for a brief moment in time.
“Yeah?” His brother reached for something in the trunk, he didn’t look to investigate what.
Sam approached the house that stood menacing in the overcast weather above, an eerie glow surrounding the fleshed-out exterior. Drawing him in step-by-step till he was facing the front door.
“Why are we here?” He asked, feeling the rotted wooden beams with a delicate pressure.
“Oh nothin’ in particular,” The brother brushed off casually. “Just to remind you of what you did.”
Sam paused, his back going ramrod straight. He turned to face his brother, “What—?” He said slowly, disbelieving.
When he did so, he heard the light sound of a cocking shotgun, “You know you were the reason, Sammy.”
The youngest brother shuttered, his blood ran cold from the focused eyes of the oldest. “Dean…what are you talking about? It was Azazel who—“ his hands were already going up in surrender.
Dean jolted the shotgun like a cattle prod. “Yeah, it was. But why was he here in the first place, hmm?” A step forward, “He was here because of you, Sam! You were the reason he broke inside the house. You were the reason Mom died that night! You were the reason we didn’t get to have normal lives!” His voice grew louder, firing a shot toward the sky. Swinging himself to center again, and training it on Sam.
Sam blinked vigorously, backing up as the word faded around the edges,"Dean, listen to yourself! This isn’t you! I’m your brother!”
Dean scoffed, “You stopped being my brother the day you tasted that damn demon blood.”
And he fired.
Sam gasped awake, his hands flailing to find purchase on metal bars. Only to find himself swinging erratically inside a three-by-three-foot bird cage hanging from the upper bars. Wrapped and molded by its own independent chain link.
It was just another dream.
Another nightmare.
Thoughts that he’d kept inside for decades, guilt he suppressed for even longer.
He really was in Hell… wasn’t he?