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They spent the first three days in the room, Lucifer watching over him while Sam napped. Sam ate sparingly, still feeling sick with the rejection that came so heavily from being separated from Dean. That was Dean's fault, though—Dean didn't listen. Sam had only been trying to help.
On the fourth day, Sam got himself together; he showered and put on the clothes he'd rinsed in the sink the day before, and then he demanded that Lucifer either take him on a mission to reclaim his belongings or take him shopping.
That was how Sam ended up in Target on a Thursday with the Devil.
Lucifer found money to be curious thing, but managed to get his hands on some—revenue from the motel, he said, saying that it was perfectly fine because his demons were running the place, after all. Sam decided to ignore the moral ambiguity in favor of a change of pants.
The experience was a strange mix of his old life and his new life; a brightly-lit, very public store, and Lucifer at his side, curiously inspecting a rack of sunglasses. Sam idly remembered the first time he and Dean had taken Castiel to Walmart—Cas had questions about everything from fishing tackle to the candy they sold at the checkouts. Angels and retail; Sam wasn't entirely sure they were meant to mix, but this was a necessary evil if he was to continue living here.
Sam kept his head down as he zipped through the clothes section, not bothering to be fussy as he went about picking out a couple of shirts that looked roughly his size and a few pairs of sturdy jeans that were the approximate size he last remembered being. It felt strange to be buying things new—John had always shopped for them at thrift shops and good will, and Sam and Dean had stuck to tradition. A Hunter's clothes didn't have to be nice; just functional and sturdy and cheap, considering that most of them eventually got ruined (and most happened sooner than later). Sam stocked up on the bare basics—socks, boxer-briefs, four shirts, three pairs of jeans, a bag of plain tee-shirts. If he wanted flannel, this definitely wasn't where he was going to find it. He stashed it all in a red plastic basket and tried not to think about what Dean would say if he could see Sam right now.
“Is that all you're getting?” Lucifer asked, turning into Sam's aisle and stopping at his side. He blinked slowly. “Sam, we're probably going to be here for a while. You should get more than that.”
“Luce—”
“Money isn't a problem, Sam. You should get what you want,” replied the archangel evenly, raising an eyebrow at his human charge.
“It's all new,” Sam hissed under his breath. “I don't know how to shop for new clothes. Couldn't we have found a thrift store or something?”
“No,” Lucifer said in return. “This was a compromise.”
Sam shuddered at the thought of the conversation before, where Lucifer had tried to get Sam to agree to something higher-end. Sam had turned him down flat; new clothes were bad enough. Nice clothes were out of the question.
“I still don't like it,” Sam replied, shoulders tensed.
Lucifer lay a comforting hand on Sam's lower back, and Sam did his best to avoid shivering at the electric chill the touch sent up his spine. Lucifer's thumb rubbed back and forth over a vertebra through the thick layers of Sam's clothing.
“We should pick up some other things while we're here,” Sam said, changing the subject. “You know, for the... room.”
Lucifer did that slow blink again as he looked up at Sam. “What did you have in mind?”
Sam would later silently praise the archangel's strength when it came to hauling their overabundance of newly-bought belongings back to the tiny motel. He tried to ignore the cost of it all (he was still reeling at the way Lucifer had shrugged and handed over a wad of cash and had gotten an alarmed look from the cashier) and instead considered the possibility that, with the influx of new dishes and cutlery and the new shower curtain for the bathroom and a pair of rugs for the bathroom and kitchen that maybe, just maybe, their tiny motel suite might actually be considered something like an apartment.
The longer they stayed, the more Detroit grew on Sam, and the more he got Lucifer to understand the boundaries between what was human and what was distinctly angel—namely, unordinary.
For instance, keeping a motel and keeping it entirely vacant save for them—that was suspicious, especially considering the sheer number of “staff” demons that Lucifer kept up for appearances. It was Sam that suggested they actually open the place (in an ideal world, he would have liked to open a small, safe place for Hunters, but considering all the demons manning the place, normal people would have to do), and that was how he found himself playing mechanic to everything that went wrong with the old motel. Eventually, that transitioned into painting rooms and laying down new carpet; for all that mechanics perplexed the archangel, he was a quick learner, but when it came to more artistic things, he excelled. If someone had told him six months ago that he would now be planning room designs with the Devil, he probably would have given them a face full of holy water.
Their relationship was... odd. Sam himself was a tactile person, but the newness of this whole situation was more than he could handle. Still, Lucifer offered frequent, casual touch; a hand on the back there, a squeeze of the wrist there, short embraces on the mornings when Sam was most tired, and the occasional kiss to the cheek when Sam was engrossed in his work and the archangel could sneak up on him (which was often). He never seemed to expect anything in return, and for that, Sam was extremely grateful; on those rare nights when there was something interesting on television, Lucifer would never make a point out of saying anything when Sam collapsed into his side and clung to him with his head resting on the archangel's slightly-soft stomach, the two of them sprawled out over the low, long couch (Sam's idea; Lucifer's opulent purchase).
A month passed like that; before Sam knew it, Easter had passed (uncelebrated, unacknowledged) and they were approaching the end of April. Business was good; they got something of a tiny reputation for being a good, safe place to stay in one of the worse parts of town (Sam laughed; safe, they said, never knowing that it was the Devil that was constantly refusing management and his duties and passing them onto Sam because this is something to pass the time, I don't care about the humans, you can have them). They pulled in a decent profit, and Sam was careful to keep the demons in line; he slowly brought up the topic to Lucifer of assimilating them into unoccupied bodies. The demons began to filter into coma patients and burned-out addicts a hit away from an overdose. Meg had sneered at Sam's weak morals (but she told him eventually that she'd learned from her last vessel that having a screaming voice in the back of her brain wasn't much fun when it was all the time; her own vessel was a girl who had gone brain dead after a car accident).
Sam had figured out Meg's presence not long after his arrival. She was extremely dedicated to Lucifer's cause—singularly dedicated, in fact, which Sam found impressive. She had snapped back something bout demons being capable of love and loyalty, and so started their bonding via arguing over morality and philosophy and everything in-between. Meg was charismatic and charming, though, and her punk-rock-charm, as she called it, made her an interesting candidate for manning the receptionist's desk. On slower days, she moved things around the lobby with her telepathy—sometimes those things belonged to Sam. Sometimes those things were Sam, depending on how much he irritated her. It was all good fun for her until Sam managed to shove her back, even without indulging his addiction to demon blood. From there, their arguments turned into supernatural tiffs and stealth matches to see how much they could fight without getting caught. (Lucifer still hadn't found out about them yet.)
Eventually, Sam even managed to convince Lucifer to allow him to hire some unsuspecting human employees. It had been a long battle in which the victory had been won with Star Wars, M&M's, and a long several days of pleading puppy-dog looks. When Lucifer finally decided to allow it, Sam had leaned over from his side of the couch and kissed him slow and soft. It was the first kiss since the first kiss that Sam had instigated, and this one had his consciousness behind it. Lucifer had cradled Sam's face in his hands like Sam was precious and breakable, kissed him like he might never get to again. Sam had murmured his thanks and appreciation into Lucifer's chilled mouth, drinking in the taste of clarity and ice and sweetness.
“You won't regret it,” Sam whispered as he reached out to wind his arms around Lucifer's shoulders and rubbed his back. The archangel arched contentedly into Sam's warm touch, hissing out a satisfied murmur; Sam's heat already made him sensitive to touch, but Lucifer had confessed near-silently once that rubbing his back was incredibly close of a sensation to Sam touching his wings. Lucifer didn't often allow himself the vulnerability, but it seemed that now was an exception. “Thanks, Luce.”
“Don't hire idiots, Sam, or I'll be cross,” Lucifer replied, attempting to be stern and failing as he leaned bodily into his charge.
Sam snorted slightly, using both hands to massage Lucifer's shoulders, feeling the shiver of a moan against his neck where Lucifer had tucked his head. “No one says cross, Luce. Usually they say mad, or, you know, pissed. Not cross.”
“You just like to disagree with me,” Lucifer said, his hands loosely gripping at the front of Sam's plain black tee.
“No, it's true.”
“There you go again.”
Sam shushed him, digging his fingers into a particularly sensitive knot of tension, built up and unacknowledged over the months of Lucifer wearing Nick as a vessel. This time, the sound was more pained than pleased, and Sam paused. “Luce? You okay?”
Lucifer tensed. “I'm fine,” he answered quietly, attempting to buy Sam's distraction with a kiss to his neck. “Thank you for your concern.”
“That didn't sound fine,” Sam replied uncertainly, reaching for the hem of Lucifer's button-up and tee; the archangel immediately reeled back, holding Sam at arm's length. Sam's suspicion peaked. “Luce, what's wrong?”
“Sam, I'm an archangel. I'm perfectly fine and I'm capable of looking after myself,” Lucifer replied tetchily, giving Sam a gentle shove back and climbing off the couch. “I appreciate that you want to help, but leave it alone. There's nothing wrong.”
Coldness welled in Sam's throat, but this kind was entirely unpleasant. He tried to swallow down the bitter rejection and worry—and failed. He didn't move to follow; Lucifer didn't want to be near him right now. Sam understood; Lucifer so often respected his boundaries that it was only fair that Sam do the same.
Maybe he'd come around if Sam gave him time.
Until then, Sam could only stare at Lucifer's back as he left the room. He wondered how he could have fucked up such a spectacular moment; wondered what Lucifer was hiding that allowed the moment to be ruined.
Somewhere in the midst of Lucifer avoiding Sam's second round of pleading glances and pointed questions, things smoothed over. They didn't talk about how clearly Lucifer was avoiding an issue; Sam only stared when Lucifer wasn't looking. It was as close to a compromise as they could come to on this particular issue.
The world went on, peaceful and uninterrupted. Lucifer started disappearing for hours on end, and Sam got worried. When he got worried enough to point it out to Meg, he only got an exasperated eye-roll and an address written on a scrap of paper; he goes there when he's not here. I don't know where it is, I don't know what it is. It isn't my business, and it probably isn't yours, but I know you're a little attached to the guy and I'm feeling generous.
Sam didn't waste time, taking off at a brisk jog with his wallet and cheap phone crammed in his pocket (one he deliberately asked for; otherwise Lucifer would have given him something high-tech and expensive as a gift). It took a little searching, but Sam was good with directions and memory; it didn't take more than half an hour for him to find the place, which ended up being a tiny little hole-in-the-wall cafe about a mile-and-a-half away.
It was the last thing Sam expected to find when he went looking for his evasive, elusive, and decidedly Satanic... roommate.
Of course, curious as Sam was, he had to check it out.
There was a cheerful little bell that rang when he opened the door; Sam's senses were bombarded by soft light and the rich smell of fresh-roasted coffee beans. It was a strange little place that hosted mismatched furniture and a color scheme comprised of earth tones and pastels. Along one wall, there were hundreds of coffee bean dispensers for a variety of the house blends. Behind the sales counter, there were racks upon racks of unmatched mugs, ranging from sports teams to sculpted snowmen; upon ordering a cup of something, you could choose a size and a mug to go with it, as well as a variety of syrups and add-ins to spice things up—for the more adventurous customers, they could elect to allow the barista to make something random and give it to them, no fuss or complaints or refunds, barring allergies and medical conditions.
Sam couldn't picture Lucifer here at all. In fact, he was so convinced that Lucifer would never come to such a strange spectacle of humanity voluntarily that he was convinced he had the wrong address—up until the very moment he turned to leave and saw Lucifer taking up an atrocious mustard-yellow-leather half-couch that looked like it wandered out of the sixties or seventies, engrossed in what looked like an ancient book and sipping from a mug shaped like Hello Kitty.
Sam stood stock-still, frozen in place, half-convinced he was hallucinating. Lucifer looked up and locked eyes with Sam; his expression flickered through a few possible emotions, but Sam found himself staring at the mug more than anything else.
Satan was drinking out of a Hello Kitty cup.
When Sam looked back at Lucifer's face, the archangel visibly sighed and waved him over. Sam awkwardly trotted over and sat on the very edge of the seat when Lucifer cleared his feet off to make room.
The archangel watched Sam steadily, completely unreadable, and asked, “Meg?”
Sam shrugged half-heartedly, not exactly wanting to rat out his—coworker? Friend?—and replied, “Mostly me.”
“She gave you the address.”
“I hunted the place down on my own.”
“Why?” Lucifer asked, and that was the million dollar question.
Sam could say any number of things; most of which would be true. I was curious and concerned. I was lonely and it makes me nervous when you leave. Sam shrugged. “Dunno. It was a slow day; wasn't like I had anything better to do.”
Lucifer's expression went smooth and blank. Sam cursed himself silently.
“And I missed you,” he admitted under his breath, ducking his head when he felt the burn of Lucifer's eyes on him. “...just wanted to see you.”
“Sam,” Lucifer said quietly, faltering. Slowly, he set his mug down on a short side table, slid the book beside it, and turned to face Sam again. He let one hand lay face-up in the space between them; a silent offering, which Sam accepted gladly when he twined their fingers together. Lucifer smiled, just a little bit, just for a second.
“I know there's something wrong,” Sam said lowly, hazel eyes flickering up to meet blue and dart away again. “And you've been avoiding me. But I want to help, Luce. I really want to help. I care... I care a lot about... what's happening to you, and...” Sam cut himself off, offering a feeble squeeze to Lucifer's fingers. He licked his lips. “Please?”
“Sam,” Lucifer said again, and once again hesitated. “This isn't the place.”
“Fine,” Sam agreed, looking up to meet the eyes of the archangel. “But promise me you won't shut me out. I'm here so that I can be with you; don't bring me all the way here just to leave me out in the cold. Don't cut me out because you feel like you have to be strong. Let me help, Luce, please.”
“There's nothing you can do, Sam,” Lucifer murmured, leaning forward to lightly press his forehead to Sam's for the slightest second. “I don't want you to suffer for something you can't change”
“Maybe I can,” Sam argued. “You don't know that for sure.”
“I do know for sure,” Lucifer returned snippily, scowling. “And I know—it doesn't matter. I won't allow it.”
“What?” Sam demanded.
Lucifer glowered at him and then, reaching over to snatch his book in one hand and Sam's wrist in the other, flew them back to their apartment; Sam stumbled with the transition from sitting to standing. “I said I didn't want to discuss it there, Sam. I'm not quite so naïve as Castiel; I know what could happen if others found out about what I am, what I can do.” He tossed the book onto Sam's—their—bed. He paced. “Not that they could do anything against me, but I'd rather avoid the trouble. It'll be bad enough when—”
“When what?” Sam asked when Lucifer didn't seem inclined to continue. “When what, Luce? What's this big secret?” Sam took a step toward Lucifer, frustrated and hesitant, just the slightest bit scared of provoking Lucifer's temper, even knowing that the archangel would never hurt him. “Just tell me!”
“Nick is dying!” Lucifer snapped back.
Archangel and vessel both went silent; Sam, however, went pale. “What?”
“He's dying, Sam—slowly but surely,” he said, turning away. “He's not built to contain me; it's a small blessing that he's declined as slowly as he has. But I've worn fairly well through the inside, and it's going to start to show on the outside.”
“What—” Sam started, his voice cracking slightly. He took another step toward Lucifer. “What does that mean?”
The line of Lucifer's shoulders went rigid. “I can't possess a body that isn't living, Sam, and Nick has a few months left at best.”
Sam's hand, which he had been reaching toward the archangel, faltered in its path and fell to his side. Sam felt cold and maybe just a little bit terrified. “What?”
Lucifer spun, baring his teeth at his true vessel—bitter, petulant, and the expression on his face almost looked cheated. “Why do you think Michael has stayed away from Earth, Sam? Any vessel he takes that isn't Dean would meet the same fate. He stays in Heaven because he has a place where he can hold his true form—that's what Heaven is, it's an angel's home. And I can no longer return. Where else am I supposed to go? The only way that I can live now is to take a vessel and contain myself within a human's shape. There are very few vessels that it's even possible for me to attempt this with, and I would still burn through them in a matter of months. It would take less than five years for every archangel vessel that walks the Earth to be burned out, and that would leave only you.” He took a short step toward Sam.
Sam flinched, and the archangel froze. “You said you wouldn't ask me to say it,” Sam said quietly.
“I don't want you to say yes to me, Sam,” Lucifer replied, drawing Sam's eyes to his. He looked conflicted as he started to reach out and paused; resigned. “It's hardly what I expected, but I enjoy this life. I like watching you—I like trying to know you from the outside.” He watched Sam, his eyes old and impossibly sad. “I like watching you wake up in the morning. I like to see you smile. There's nothing that brings me greater joy than being able to reach out with my own hands and feel the warmth of your soul just under your skin.”
Sam was sure his heart skipped a beat, and there was a distinct pain in his chest. He ignored it, as well as his apprehension, and closed the distance between he and Lucifer, wrapping his fingers around a cold wrist and guiding Lucifer's palm to rest flat against his heart. “What happens if you don't take a vessel?” Sam asked softly.
“Without Heaven to return to, eventually I will die,” Lucifer replied, leaning in to press his cold nose against Sam's cheek, nuzzling at his temple. “Being kicked out of Heaven isn't just a punishment, it's a death sentence. Of all the Fallen, I was the only one that survived as a seraph, and that was only because my Cage was made so I could never die while I was contained.”
Sam sighed and wrapped his arms around Lucifer, but even the archangel's proximity could not melt away his anxiety. “You're not gonna die,” Sam whispered, turning his face into the softness of Lucifer's hair. “I'm not gonna let you die.”
“There's nothing you can do,” Lucifer said. “It's already starting.”
“What?” Sam demanded, pulling back. “Let me see.”
“Sam—”
“Luce, let me see.”
Lucifer made an aggravated sound, moving away from Sam and impatiently stripping off his shirt; his hair was mussed from yanking them over his head, but Lucifer didn't seem to care. Neither did Sam, once Lucifer turned around to bear his back.
A pained, wordless exclamation punched out of Sam's lungs. Spread dark purple and red across the pale flesh of Lucifer's back were enormous stretches of bruising—six of them.
“My wings,” he said simply, detached. “I told you once they're closest to the surface, and they are. If I wasn't taking precautions, they would have already burst through.”
Sam exhaled a shaky breath, reaching out to lay his fingertips on one of the few inches of unbruised flesh. “Luce,” he breathed. “This is why you up and left that time, isn't it? The bruises; they're hurting you.”
“Sam—”
“Why didn't you just tell me?”
Lucifer twisted away from Sam's touch. “It wasn't of your concern.”
Sam gaped. “Of course it was of my concern, Luce!” Sam snapped. “Who else's concern would it be?”
The two stared at each other, frustrated and wounded—both emotionally and physically. The tense silence stretched. Eventually Lucifer looked away, down to the tee-shirt he still held in his hands. “You shouldn't worry about me.”
“It's not like I have much of anyone else to worry about right now,” Sam retorted, still agitated. It took seconds for him to have Lucifer wrapped fiercely in his arms, one high around his shoulders, the other around his hips, careful of the deep bruises that marred the archangel's borrowed flesh. “Are you trying to rip my heart out, Luce, is that it? It's bad enough that I don't know how to help you, but you weren't even gonna tell me?”
“I'm an archangel, Sam, not an invalid,” Lucifer reminded him, but the heat was gone from his voice as he lay his head forward onto Sam's shoulder.
“That's not an answer,” Sam replied.
Lucifer huffed quietly. “Are you always this...?”
“Bitchy?”
“...irritable,” Lucifer corrected.
“Only when the people I care about are being evasive jackasses,” Sam answered.
Lucifer brushed his lips over Sam's neck as a silent apology. “I'll endeavor to be more honest with you.”
Sam took it for the olive branch it was and realized that burning it in his anger wouldn't get either of them anywhere. “Good.”
Lucifer tilted his face up to steal a quick kiss, drinking in Sam's taste and breaking away with a quick nip at his lips. “Do you want to know what I was reading about?”
Sam wasn't interested. Instead, he threaded one hand into Lucifer's hair and kissed him deep and slow, determined to prove that it was well within his rights to be concerned when it came to Lucifer. Lucifer found this to be an acceptable alternative.
Maybe Sam would want to hear about it later.