Chapter Text
His name is Sam Winchester.
Lucifer’s head snaps up, eyes wide, staring blank but with impregnable focus at the ice covered walls of his Cage as his Grace stretches and bends to recapture whatever in Hell just exploded into existence.
His name is Sam Winchester, he is Lucifer’s vessel, the One, the chosen, and he has just been born.
A chaos of sensations—emotions, as humans would call them, but that’s a filthy ape word and Lucifer refuses to use it—envelope Lucifer’s being, pinning him to the cold, flat sheet of frost behind him and causing his Grace to flare and spin wildly in the tight confinements of the Pit. His Grace, his very reality has bloomed back into life after eons of reclusion and despondency, thrumming excitedly and pushing impatiently at the solid walls around him. The Cage is cruel and keeps him contained, but he assumes that’s for the better. A great deal of Hell would be destroyed by the sheer intensity of every fiber of Lucifer’s existence roaring back into gear if the Cage couldn’t fully restrain him. It can’t completely—he’s still Lucifer, and his Father is merciful, albeit barely—but it has its cracks, enough for Lucifer to know what has just been created, just for him. Lucifer feels Hell buzz with enthusiasm, hears the demons scream with joy and he grins wryly.
It has begun.
~*~
By the human measurement of time, Sam Winchester has turned five years old. The cracks in the Cage aren’t wide enough to project an image of Sam’s appearance, but Lucifer’s Grace can seep just so through to feel the soft, new brightness of Sam’s soul and how it flutters with happiness. For a fallen angel who has spent an incalculable amount of time with the bare nothingness of the Cage and the numb absence of Heaven, he finds this bareable for the moment. (Human’s call this, “beggars can’t be choosers,” and it sickens Lucifer to employ an ape phrase, but it’s surprisingly accurate.)
That, however, does not mean it still doesn’t infuriate him.
Lucifer has an ugly habit of annihilating the demons who stop by and whisper bits and pieces of information to him. Sam Winchester’s hair is chestnut brown—shut up he’s mine—his eyes are hazel—he’s meant to only see me—the skin of his cheeks dent in once on each side when he smiles—they’re called dimples and you’re not allowed to look—oh, the list mounts as high as the demon death toll. It should frighten the demons but they’re servile enough to accept it, possibly even happily. Demons are pathetic.
Today is Sam Winchester’s fifth birthday and a reminder that God’s mercy is ever unpredictable.
Lucifer is shell-shocked, to say the least. He thought his Father was gone—that had been the rumor, and it frightened Lucifer for the longest time—but the indescribable sense of God’s presence suddenly filling every crater and notch that peppered Lucifer’s fallen and fractured Grace obliterated that gossip.
“Father,” Lucifer is on his feet, the stained, ruined remains of his wings twitching behind him with nervous curiosity. God says nothing, simply reaches forward and touches the ice plated wall separating them. The portion of the Cage God tapped melts away and Lucifer finds himself stumbling forward involuntarily. God catches him—Lucifer’s Grace sings beautifully—and adjusts him back onto stable ground.
“You have a new purpose now,” God says, moving away from Lucifer. “Sam Winchester.”
Lucifer is no longer in Hell. God has vanished, but Lucifer doesn’t bother to search for him as he knows it’s useless. The body of a man named Nick tethers him to the human plane, and he blinks. He pushes himself onto Nick's elbows, rolls Nick’s neck, clenches and unclenches his hands, testing, then surveys his surroundings.
He’s lying on soft grass, the branches and leaves of the large tree hanging above him casting cool shadows across his face and skin, random fractals of sunlight filtering through and warming his cheeks. There’s a sound of quiet scurrying accompanied by excited little pants growing steadily louder, and when Lucifer turns his head, he finds a small boy scampering up to his side. The boy is smiling, teeth small and white and his chubby cheeks dented with dimples. His eyes are large, hazel, his hair is a wild mess of chestnut brown curls and he has some dark brown colored substance smeared all over his mouth and chin. He looks blindingly happy, wriggling with mirth, and he’s breathing heavily. He swings his arms and his smile turns a little shy. Lucifer might’ve thought it adorable could he think past the sudden upward vault of his Grace’s octave of intensity matched with the inexpressible feeling of wholeness that devours him.
“Hi, I’m Sam,” the boy greets, holding out a chubby hand. “Wha’s your name?”