Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Lucifer Morningstar had never been one for humility. The embodiment of pride, he’d carried himself with all the elegance of someone who knew what he was. The Devil, Samael, the Lightbringer—titles like those were not earned through modesty.

But now?

He woke to a world too quiet, too unfamiliar. His body ached with a kind of emptiness he couldn’t place. He felt like something was missing, like a part of him had been torn—not physically, but deeper.

In the courtyard of a forgotten building on the outskirts of Los Angeles, Lucifer stood. The concrete beneath his bare feet was cold. His hands trembled slightly, and he ran them through his hair—golden, like sunlight, but darker, almost like the remnants of something smoldering.

He turned to face the reflection in a broken mirror on the ground. His eyes—blue, startlingly blue—met his own. Those are my eyes, he thought, but the recognition was faint, distant.

The name that flickered in his mind felt more like a ghost than a memory.

“Samael... Demiurgos,” he murmured. It sounded right, but it also felt strange. It wasn’t Lucifer, and it wasn’t Samael either. It was both and neither.

---

A shadow fell over him—tall, imposing, and yet there was a softness in the presence, like a protector. He didn’t turn right away, but when he did, there she was.

Maze.

Her expression was unreadable, but he saw the way her eyes softened when they landed on him. "Lucifer," she said, but there was no anger in her voice, no bitterness. He had been prepared for it, had expected some sharp jab or sarcastic comment, but there was none of that.

Instead, Maze reached for him, her hands hesitant for the first time in centuries. The last time she'd touched him, she had been trying to break through his walls, trying to drag the Devil out of him.

Now?

It was different. She seemed... relieved.

“You’re not him, are you?” Maze asked softly. “But... I’m glad. You’re not him anymore.”

Lucifer blinked at her in confusion. He didn’t know who he was anymore. The name Lucifer felt foreign to him, too far away.

“I don’t know who I am,” he whispered. "But... I think I want to know."

---

Far above, in the vastness of the universe, the presence of an ancient power stirred. The divine weapon that had shattered Lucifer's essence had been forged long ago, and now it was scattered into pieces—each fragment of his forgotten self, each fleeting memory, drifting aimlessly in the space between what was and what could never be.

Back in the courtyard, Lucifer played the piano. The keys were familiar beneath his fingers, each note plucked from the air like a thread. He didn’t remember how to play, but his hands knew. His fingers danced over the keys, creating a melody that filled the air with bittersweet beauty.

His mind flickered with a few images—strange, haunting things: Floating sharks. Ribbons. Pigeons dressed in suits, arguing in a courtyard. He frowned but kept playing, the music flowing from him as if it was his only connection to the past.

---

Lucifer stood in the center of his penthouse, still staring at his reflection in the large windows that framed the city below. It felt like the world was muted, a distant hum beneath his skin. He had no idea where he was, who he was, or how he got here.

Maze stood quietly behind him, watching, her arms crossed, her gaze protective, but something else there too—relief. She hadn’t seen him smile like this in… well, ever.

He looked happy.

Lucifer tilted his head at the strange sensation in his chest. He was happy, wasn’t he? No self-loathing. No sharp memories of fire or blame. There was just this… quiet calm.

But it wasn’t just him who felt the weight of what had happened. Amenadiel had arrived shortly after the chaos, looking at Lucifer with a mix of confusion and concern, and then, of course, the scroll. It was the only thing that could explain what had happened—the divine weapon, the scroll that had shattered Lucifer’s celestial essence into pieces.

Amenadiel hadn’t said anything about it, but his eyes told the whole story.

“Lucifer,” Amenadiel sighed, unable to mask the weight in his voice. “What the hell happened? I can barely recognize you. And what’s this? Three pairs of wings?”

Lucifer turned, still confused, but curious about the mention of wings. His hands instinctively touched his back, where something large and feathery was stretched wide, out of his control. He’d never seen anything like it before—six massive, stunning wings, gold and white, so bright they seemed to absorb the sunlight coming through the windows.

Maze, sensing his hesitation, stepped forward. “Don’t look so shocked, Luc. You’ve always had wings. You just… didn’t want them anymore.” She walked up to him, resting her palm gently against his arm, a grounding force. “These ones? They’re better. They’re yours now.”

But Lucifer couldn’t help but frown. His eyes flickered over to the nearest reflective surface, where he could see the glow of the feathers. Gold and white, sun-kissed and moon-married. The wings didn’t feel like his. He didn’t remember having them, didn’t remember wanting them.

Still, when he looked closer, there was something almost… soothing about them. The way the feathers glimmered, almost alive, with subtle threads of gold. And somewhere hidden within their folds, like a secret stitched into his very being, was the faintest outline of a cross. Burned into the feathers, not as a symbol, but as if it had always been there.

He reached out and brushed his fingers over one of the feathers, feeling a warmth pulse through him. His heart was still uncertain, but for the first time in forever, he didn’t mind.

---

Amenadiel watched the scene unfold with a heavy sigh. He couldn’t shake the worry gnawing at him. Lucifer, in all his confusion, seemed too content. It was like he was a different person entirely—someone without the burden of guilt, someone without the weight of his own pride. No fear of being hated by Heaven. No resentment toward their father. No desperate search for validation.

And Maze… Maze was practically glowing. She had been the one to hold Lucifer together through all the chaos, and now, it was as though the burden had been lifted.

But Amenadiel couldn’t ignore the feeling that something was wrong. This version of Lucifer was too unburdened, too carefree.

“What do we do now, Maze?” he asked quietly, his tone strained. “What happens when he starts remembering…?”

Maze’s gaze shifted to Lucifer, her expression unreadable at first. Then, she sighed and stepped toward Amenadiel, her eyes flickering back to the man who was still softly smiling at his reflection. “Lucifer’s free,” she said, her voice low but full of certainty. “He’s finally free. Maybe it’s the best thing that could’ve happened. No more guilt. No more hating himself. We’re gonna keep him like this, Amenadiel. He doesn’t have to remember all the awful things he did.”

Amenadiel’s eyes narrowed, and his wings twitched in agitation. “But what if he needs to remember? What if he can’t stay like this?”

Maze’s lips twisted into a grin, a flash of something dangerous behind her eyes. “If anyone tries to take him from me? I’ll make sure their last memory is being turned into a fur coat. And I’ll gift it to him.”

---

Lucifer, now alone in the penthouse with Maze, couldn’t help but feel a strange warmth settle over him at her words. He didn't understand everything about the wings, or the strange sensations of who he was—but for now, he didn’t need to. He didn’t need the weight of history, or the torment of memories.

All he needed was here, now, with Maze by his side.

And for the first time, he didn’t feel broken.

---

Lucifer—no, Sam—was seated cross-legged on the plush rug in the middle of the penthouse, a perplexed expression on his face as he surveyed the space. The absence of his usual confident swagger was replaced with a cautious curiosity. The place was immaculate, pristine, every detail meticulously designed, but something about it felt… off. He didn’t recognize the things around him, but they felt like they should belong to him.

“No shoes,” Sam muttered to himself as he wiggled his bare toes, feeling the soft carpet beneath them. He glanced at the shoes by the door, neatly arranged, but he couldn’t bring himself to put them on. They seemed… wrong somehow, like they belonged to someone else. Shoes, he thought. Ugh, no. Not for him. The idea of having something restricting his feet felt like a prison.

Maze, sitting nearby, glanced up at him, her lips curling into a smile as she watched him. He was still adjusting, still piecing together fragments of memories, but he seemed so much lighter than he ever had been before. "You never liked shoes," Maze commented, a playful tone in her voice.

Sam blinked up at her, the corner of his mouth curling up just a fraction, though the confusion still danced in his eyes. “I didn’t?”

“Nope.” She shook her head. “You hate them. Always have.”

That felt right. Sam gave a half-nod, then stood up, brushing off the remnants of the rug as he moved to explore more of the penthouse. He wandered, almost aimlessly, passing by walls lined with bookshelves and various pieces of art that felt vaguely familiar but were foreign to him all the same. His gaze shifted to the large windows, the sprawling city below almost dizzying in its vastness. He felt small here, like a stranger in a house that should’ve been his home.

“Did I live alone?” Sam muttered aloud, his voice soft and unsure. It felt like a stupid question, but it was the one that clawed at him the most. Who had he been before? Was he truly alone in all this?

Maze, who had been watching him, stood up and crossed the room, her heels making little noise against the floor. “You didn’t. You were married to me, remember?”

Her words made something flicker in him, but it didn’t connect. He glanced over at her, eyes still wide and searching. “You? You were my… what? My wife?” He was testing the sound of it, trying to make sense of it. The words should’ve felt wrong, but they didn’t. In fact, they felt comforting in a way.

She nodded, though there was a faint edge to her smile, like she was holding back something deeper. “Yep. I was once the Queen of Hell.” Her tone was playful, but it was clear that her past still held weight for her. “Now I’m just your wife. Isn’t that nice?”

Sam tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing as he processed the strange, unfamiliar feeling in his chest. His memory of her was fuzzy, like trying to grab at smoke. But there was something… right about her. He felt warmth toward her, a bond that had been forged somewhere in the hazy fragments of his past.

Then his eyes turned toward Amenadiel, who had been standing by the windows, watching him carefully. The sight of the older angel stirred something inside him, but it wasn’t recognition. It was… confusion.

Sam stepped toward him slowly, his bare feet padding softly against the floor. “And who are you exactly?” His voice was gentle, tinged with curiosity. There was no hostility in his words—just a quiet, searching need to know.

Amenadiel glanced at Maze, who offered him a knowing look. Then, he turned his attention back to Sam, his expression softening. “I’m your older brother,” Amenadiel replied, his voice deep but gentle, a hint of warmth beneath the careful tone.

Sam blinked, processing the words. “Older brother?” The thought seemed to settle into him like a comfortable weight, but it didn’t quite make sense. He hadn’t even known he had a brother. And yet… something about Amenadiel’s presence felt like home, even if the details didn’t quite match up.

Maze stepped up beside him, her voice light but carrying a tone of reassurance. “Yeah, and I know it’s all a lot to take in, but you’ve got family now, Luci—or, well, Sam.” She reached out, gently squeezing his shoulder. “You’re not alone.”

The mention of family struck something deep in Sam’s chest, and a soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. He didn’t know these people completely, didn’t know how or why they were his family, but it felt… safe.

And then, Amenadiel, sensing the vulnerability in the room, let out a quiet sigh. “Maybe it’s for the best, Maze. Let him stay like this. Innocent. Free.”

Sam looked between them, not entirely sure what they meant. Free. Innocent. All he knew was that for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t feel like a creature burdened with his own shame.

He gave a small nod, looking up at Maze, his eyes soft and trusting. “I guess… I’m glad you’re here.”

Maze smiled softly, her hand resting on his arm, the connection between them undeniable despite the gaps in his memories. “We’re not going anywhere, Luci. We’re your family.”

And somewhere, deep within the newly-forged version of Lucifer, there was a faint spark of something long forgotten—something he could hold onto, even if the rest of the world was still a blur.

---

It was September 26, 2016, and the penthouse had taken on an almost peaceful quiet, the kind that seemed far too serene for everything that had just occurred. Maze was standing by the kitchen, arms crossed, watching Sam—no, Luci—as he wandered around in his usual barefoot manner, seemingly lost in thought, while Amenadiel leaned against the doorframe, looking pensive. The air between them was thick with uncertainty.

Maze, who had been Sam’s protector and wife in their previous life, could sense the difference in him. There was no malice in his eyes, no bitterness, no anger toward the world. He was, for all intents and purposes, a child in a body that had lived a thousand lifetimes. His memories were scattered like broken glass, and though they would’ve done anything to help him find his past, neither of them were sure how to start.

"What do we do now?" Maze muttered, leaning back against the counter, her gaze flicking from Amenadiel to Sam, who was now sitting by the window, staring out into the city like he was seeing it for the first time.

Amenadiel’s wings twitched ever so slightly. He wasn’t used to this. The Lucifer he knew, the one who had fallen from Heaven, was sharp, quick-witted, proud. The Sam sitting in front of them was none of those things. He was a blank slate, a tiny star in a vast and dark universe, burning bright with potential but without any map to guide him. And Amenadiel couldn’t help but feel responsible, like he had somehow failed his brother by not preventing this... this catastrophe.

"We figure it out," Amenadiel said, his voice soft but filled with the weight of responsibility. "The problem is... we’re still looking for her. Mother’s escaped Hell, and we need to find her before she does anything more reckless. But now Luci—Sam—he's..." He trailed off, the words feeling like lead in his chest.

Maze shook her head, her sharp eyes focused on Sam. "He doesn't remember anything. Hell, he barely remembers himself. But that's... that's the good part." Her smile was bittersweet. "He’s not burdened by the hate, the self-loathing. Maybe this is the reset we never got. Maybe... maybe he's just a person now."

"But how long will that last?" Amenadiel asked. "How long until the real Lucifer comes back, until he remembers who he was?"

Maze didn’t have an answer for that. Instead, she glanced back at Sam, who had been absent-mindedly tracing patterns on the windowsill. She could tell that he wasn’t fully there, as if his body was present, but his mind was still somewhere far off, trying to piece everything together.

Sam's voice broke the silence, soft and filled with wonder. "I didn’t... I didn’t like shoes, did I?" His tone was casual, but there was an underlying vulnerability. "I remember... the feel of the floor, the softness. It’s like shoes... don’t belong on me."

Maze gave a small, knowing smile. "You hated them. But you wore them when you had to." She took a step toward him, her voice gentle. "You were always particular about the things you did and didn’t like. Shoes were one of those things."

Sam frowned thoughtfully, his bare feet pressed against the cool marble floor. "Shoes," he muttered, shaking his head as though the very idea was somehow foreign. He stood up, then looked at his reflection in the large glass of the windows. "I’ve got... three pairs of wings," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly as he spoke, his voice tinged with confusion. "I don’t remember... but I know I never had three. I only had one... one beautiful pair. Why do I have three now?"

Amenadiel’s gaze hardened slightly at the mention of the wings. He was used to Lucifer’s wings, used to the way they symbolized his fall from grace, but this? This was... different. The wings Sam now had weren’t the same as the dark and tattered pair Lucifer had discarded. These were something else entirely—pure, pristine. White. Gold. A cross designed into the feathers.

"They’re... a new gift," Amenadiel murmured, though even he didn’t fully understand why this had happened. It wasn’t just a matter of memory; something had changed in his brother, something that transcended anything he’d ever experienced before. The wings were beautiful, but they were wrong. They weren’t Lucifer’s. And yet, they were his now.

Maze, who was more attuned to the shifts in her husband’s demeanor, watched him carefully. Sam didn’t look angry or disgusted by the wings, as Lucifer would have been. No, he looked fascinated. Almost... happy.

"I think... they’re part of you now," Maze said, her voice steady. "Maybe... maybe this is a second chance. A new beginning. A better beginning."

But Amenadiel could tell that she was only half-sure of her words. What would this mean for Sam? For Lucifer? Would the memories return? Would the same hatred, the same pain, creep back into the spaces where innocence now reigned?

"Who will we tell about this?" Maze muttered, almost to herself. "Linda... Chloe... How will they react? What will they think?"

Sam looked over at her, his expression soft. "Who... who are they? Linda? Chloe?" He hadn’t forgotten them, but he didn’t know them. His confusion only deepened, but there was no distress in his voice—only an unspoken longing for understanding. For a connection that still felt so far out of reach.

Maze shook her head slightly. "They’re people who care about you... about us. We’ll figure it out, Sam. Together."

Amenadiel sighed, his eyes lingering on Sam's wings. They were beautiful, but he wasn’t sure what they signified. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

"One step at a time," Amenadiel murmured. "One step at a time."

---

The penthouse was warm with a strange kind of glow—half from the afternoon sun bleeding through the massive windows, and half from something less explainable. Maze was lounging back on the couch, one leg over the other, her sharp eyes half-focused on the chaotic sitcom playing on the flat screen. The Detour blasted its absurdity across the room, and beside her—sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet like a curious child in a temple—was Sam.

Lucifer. Samael. Sam. Whoever he was now.

He held Maze’s hand gently, fingers laced with a sort of reverence that hadn’t been seen in him before. Not in this way. He wasn’t smirking, he wasn’t teasing. He just... was. Present. Calm. Like holding her hand grounded him somehow. Maze didn’t say a word about it. She didn’t need to. Her thumb rubbed the back of his knuckles now and then, wordlessly telling him: I’m here. You’re okay.

Then came the knock.

Three precise, no-nonsense taps at the door.

Maze didn’t move. Sam looked up.

"Are we expecting someone?" he asked, tilting his head toward her, the sun catching in the gold-streaked white of his wings. They weren’t hidden. They never were now. Maze had given up asking him to tuck them away.

Maze clicked her tongue. "No."

The door opened before she could get up.

Detective Chloe Decker stepped in, eyebrows slightly furrowed, folder in hand. “Lucifer—”

She stopped mid-word, like the air had been stolen from her lungs. Her eyes locked not on Maze—who, admittedly, looked as unfazed as ever—but on the figure on the floor. Lucifer Morningstar, barefoot, wings out like a cathedral of impossible beauty, was holding Maze’s hand and staring at the television with childlike amusement.

"Is that—The Detour?" he asked, glancing back at Chloe with wide, sincere eyes. "This man has entirely too many bad ideas. But I like the daughter. She has chaos in her soul."

Maze, still lounging, shot Chloe a look. “Hey, Decker.”

Chloe blinked. “What the hell is going on?”

Sam blinked. “Hell?”

Maze gave an audible, annoyed exhale. “It’s a long story.”

Chloe took a cautious step forward, eyes flicking between them. “Lucifer, we have a case. You said you’d help me. I’ve been calling you for two days.”

Sam tilted his head. "I don’t... remember that."

The detective's lips parted as though to speak, then closed again. Her eyes dropped to the wings—so very present, so very real—and her breath hitched. “Okay. Great effects, whatever this is. Halloween’s early?”

"No," Maze said, flat.

Chloe looked back at Sam, who now stood up, graceful but barefoot, wings half-furled behind him like they were listening. "You... really don’t remember me?"

He stepped closer. “You seem kind. Familiar, maybe? Are we friends?”

Chloe’s throat tightened. That voice. It was Lucifer's voice—but stripped of the ego, the mischief, the bite. And something in her believed him. But that was ridiculous. Angels didn’t exist. Wings weren’t real. There had to be an explanation.

"I’m Chloe," she said carefully. "You’re Lucifer Morningstar. You help me with cases. You annoy me a lot. You flirt constantly and you lie almost all the time. And those..." She gestured vaguely toward his wings. “...are probably animatronics, or a nervous breakdown.”

Maze stood then, folding her arms. “He’s not lying. This is real.”

Sam gently released Maze’s hand. He stepped toward Chloe, stopping just out of her reach, wings rustling faintly. “Do you need help with something? You said there’s a case?”

Chloe stared at him.

He smiled. Soft. Not smug. Not charming. Just... kind.

And for the first time, Chloe Decker didn’t know what to say to Lucifer Morningstar.

Because this man wasn’t him.

Not entirely.

Not anymore.

---

Chloe stood in the middle of the penthouse like someone had unplugged her brain.

She was crouched—yes, crouched—beside Lucifer’s wings, eyes narrowed and fingers twitching just above the gold-touched feathers like she was trying to CSI her way through divine plumage. Every now and then, she muttered something under her breath like “this has to be a trick” or “aviary prosthetics my ass.”

Lucifer—no, Sam, as he had started to quietly call himself—sat back down on the carpet, cross-legged again, nibbling on a dried mango slice like it was the greatest discovery of 2016.

Maze was sprawled back on the couch, flipping a dagger between her fingers like a cat watching a goldfish.

“I’m just saying,” Chloe murmured, inching her fingers closer to the feathers, “these should not move when I breathe near them. That’s not normal. That’s illegal in seven states.”

“Please don’t pluck me,” Sam said cheerfully. “Maze says the last person who tried got kicked through a window.”

“I was gentle,” Maze muttered.

The elevator dinged.

“Lucifer, I—” Amenadiel stepped into the penthouse and stopped immediately. His eyes flicked from Maze’s exasperated expression to Chloe kneeling like she was at a religious relic expo, then to Lucifer—Sam—sitting barefoot, looking very pleased with his mango.

“...Oh no,” Amenadiel said flatly. “She found the wings.”

Chloe stood up so fast she nearly tripped. “Wings. Real wings. Your brother has wings. You’re his brother. You’re also an angel?”

Amenadiel took one long, loud breath through his nose. “Yes. Welcome to Thursday.”

“No,” Chloe snapped. “No, don’t Thursday me, I just watched Lucifer snort over sitcoms and talk about how he hates shoes now—”

“Shoes are suspiciously restrictive,” Sam added helpfully.

“—and now you're telling me this is just casual?”

Maze snorted from the couch. “It’s not even the weirdest part of the week.”

Sam reached over and poked one of his own wings gently, watching it flutter with open fascination. “Did I always have three pairs? This feels a little excessive.”

Amenadiel blinked. “Three pairs?”

Maze looked smug. “Sun-kissed. Moon-woven. Cross-marked. They shimmer in low lighting.”

Sam perked up. “Really?”

“Can I please pass out now?” Chloe asked, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Amenadiel exhaled again, walked over, and placed a gentle hand on Chloe’s shoulder like she was a particularly shocked sheep. “Deep breaths, Detective. You’ll get used to it.”

“I won’t. This is—This is—”

“God’s craftwork?” Sam offered brightly.

“STOP HELPING,” Chloe groaned into her hands.

Maze finally burst out laughing.

---

Chapter Text

Uriel landed in Los Angeles like a malfunctioning prophecy.

He stood on a rooftop, overlooking the city that shouldn't be glowing the way it was. His wings barely flickered, stiff with calculation, with rage. This wasn’t a ripple in the Design. This was a full-scale rewrite—lines smudged, ink spilled, plot thrown to the wolves.

"Impossible," he muttered, scanning celestial coordinates that shouldn't even exist now. "Lucifer Morningstar does not deviate. He rebels, but he doesn't bend."

And yet... here he was. Or rather, wasn't. The devil, the rebel, the cornerstone of Hell’s punishment structure—was now barefoot and emotionally intact. That shouldn't be allowed.

Uriel’s eyes glinted coldly. “The Presence must be informed.”

The air shifted, as if Heaven itself leaned in to listen.

---

Meanwhile, inside the penthouse...

Amenadiel held the scroll weapon like it was a loaded serpent. Divine script shimmered faintly across its surface—written in a language only angels dared speak, one that changed if you looked too closely. He was reading it again, hoping this time it wouldn’t whisper truths he wasn’t ready for.

He sighed, deep and tired, the way only an older brother could.

“This thing didn’t just wipe his memory,” he muttered. “It peeled him. Like the layers of Lucifer just... fell away. What’s left is—”
He looked toward the balcony, where laughter echoed faintly. “—Sam.”

Lucifer—Sam, as he now answered to—was currently trying to feed a pigeon with dried mango slices. He’d named it Harold. It did not seem to mind.

Inside, Maze spun a knife in her hand while watching him through the glass doors.

“He talks to the moon now,” she said. “Like. Actually talks to it.”

“I heard,” Amenadiel replied without looking up. “He asked it if it needed a hug.”

Maze grinned. “I’m not stopping him. It’s kinda sweet.”

“Uriel is going to descend any second now,” Amenadiel said.

“He better not touch him,” Maze growled, eyes gleaming.

And far above, as the skies shimmered faintly gold—

Uriel stepped off the rooftop.

---

Uriel didn’t knock.

He manifested—right in the middle of the penthouse living room—like a judgmental spreadsheet in human form. The air shifted. The temperature dropped by two degrees. The sound of sitcom reruns paused on their own.

Samael—barefoot, wearing an oversized hoodie Maze probably bullied someone for—looked up from where he sat cross-legged on the carpet. He was building a structure out of forks and tea candles. Maze had just complimented the craftsmanship.

He blinked.

“Hi,” Samael said politely. “You must be another brother. Cool. Do I have three? Or is this, like, a surprise brother situation?”

Uriel’s face was pure existential horror.

Maze didn’t move from the couch. She casually filed her nails, glancing up. “You’re about five minutes late to the memory-loss apocalypse, URI.”

“You let this happen?” Uriel demanded, eyes flaring with celestial fury.

Maze smiled like a cat who’d already eaten the canary and the canary’s credit score. “He’s happier. I vote yes.”

“His Design—his role—is no longer aligned. This will destroy the trajectory of everything.”

Samael tilted his head. “That’s not very welcoming, is it?”
Then, as if genuinely trying to help: “You seem really tense. Have you tried mango slices?”

Uriel actually twitched.

Amenadiel stepped in from the hallway, scroll weapon in his hands, and gave Uriel a look that said don’t you dare.

“Don’t say a word to him about who he used to be,” Amenadiel warned. “He doesn’t need that right now.”

“He doesn’t need—? He’s a foundational constant in the multiversal balance, brother. We are not meant to have him soft-spoken, shoeless, and making pigeon friends!”

Harold the pigeon cooed from the balcony. Samael waved at him.

“Harold says hi.”

Uriel looked like he needed to lay down in a holy salt circle.

Samael frowned softly, picking at a golden thread on his sleeve. “So... you’re my brother too?”

“Yes,” Uriel ground out.

Samael beamed. “Nice. Three siblings. That’s a lot! Or... is it? Wait—are there more of us?”

Uriel blinked.

Samael tilted his head again. “What’s your name again? Sorry. My memory’s still all, uh, whirly.”

“...Uriel.”

“Cool name.” He gave him a thumbs-up. “Do you like mango?”

Uriel opened his mouth. Closed it. Turned slowly toward Amenadiel and Maze. “He called me cool.”

“Yup,” Maze said smugly. “And he meant it.”

Uriel looked toward the ceiling. “I am informing Father.”

“Tell Him Sam’s vibing,” Maze said. “Also, no shoes in the house.”

---

Uriel did not leave.

He stayed for hours.

At first, it was because he planned to “observe.” Then it was to assess the long-term effects of celestial amnesia. Then, without anyone saying it aloud, it was because he couldn’t figure out what to do with this barefoot, sparkly-eyed version of his brother.

He watched Samael name every knife Maze owned. (His favorite was a cleaver named “Cuddles.”)

He watched Samael stare in absolute wonder at a lava lamp. (“It’s like a jellyfish rave in there,” he whispered reverently.)

He watched as Samael wandered to the grand piano, sat down, and played a sonata no one recognized—a soft, aching thing with little flourishes like raindrops in dusk. His fingers knew. His eyes didn’t.

Uriel was spiraling.

“Do you not see how dangerous this is?” he hissed to Amenadiel, dragging him into the kitchen like some kind of intervention committee. “He is Lucifer. He is the Devil. He tempts fate by breathing. And now he is making pasta in bare feet and humming. What if he accidentally redeems himself?!”

Amenadiel blinked. “...That would be bad?”

“It would rewrite several spiritual constants! The Butterfly Effect! The entire construct of Choice!” Uriel snapped. “And he just gave Maze a mug that says ‘#1 Wife.’ She looked genuinely touched. That’s not normal!”

From the living room, they heard Samael laugh as Maze made him try hot sauce that could legally be considered a weapon.

Uriel pinched the bridge of his nose. “And he keeps calling me ‘Riri.’”

Amenadiel tried very, very hard not to laugh. “It’s a term of affection.”

“I am the Angel of Wisdom, not a Pokémon!”

In the background, Samael’s voice floated in, cheerful and oblivious:

“Riri! Did you want mango? Maze says I can microwave it and I believe her.”

Uriel stared blankly ahead.

Then, in a small voice, he said, “I don’t know what to do. He’s... sweet.”

Amenadiel softened. “I know. I think that’s the part that’s messing us all up.”

Uriel leaned on the counter, sighed, and looked like the Design itself had handed him a kitten and said, “It’s yours now.”

---

Chloe tried really hard to act like everything was normal.

She knocked on the penthouse door—no dramatic entrance, no scolding. She had rehearsed this moment in the elevator like a full-blown monologue: "Just ask if he’s feeling better. Don’t look at the wings. Don’t look at Maze’s knives. Don’t look at the lava lamp."

Lucifer—Samael—opened the door barefoot, wearing pajama pants with stars on them and a shirt that read “World’s Okayest Husband.”

He beamed. “Chloe! Are you here to watch the pigeons with me?”

“…What?”

“They were doing… formations. One looked like a mushroom cloud! But happy.”

Maze, behind him on the couch, waved lazily and mouthed help her to Amenadiel, who had started stress-eating chips again.

Chloe blinked. “So… no crime scenes today?”

Samael looked confused, then looked at his own hands, like they might offer answers. “Do I usually go to crime scenes? Was I… good at it?”

Chloe opened her mouth. Closed it.

Linda chose that moment to walk in, holding a folder and what looked suspiciously like a prayer candle.

She paused. “Okay. So we’re still in the Everything Is Shattered And This Is Fine Phase.”

Samael waved at her enthusiastically. “Doctor Lady! Riri’s trying to understand microwave mangoes. I think we should let him figure it out.”

Linda stared. “Who is Riri—”

“Uriel,” Amenadiel muttered with a sigh.

“Oh. Ohhh. I see. That’s deeply unsettling.” She sat on the armrest of the couch and opened her folder with the resignation of someone preparing to therapize the entire celestial family. “So, Lucifer—”

“Samael,” he corrected, smiling. “I like that name. It feels like it fits.”

Linda’s face went a little soft. “Alright. Samael… how are you feeling?”

“I dreamed of fish on a unicycle last night. Also, I think I can hear music when Maze walks. Is that normal?”

Maze, smug: “I walk to my own soundtrack.”

Linda looked at Chloe, who had completely stopped pretending things were normal. Her eyes were fixed on the three glowing pairs of wings resting lazily across the piano bench, golden-white and immaculately wrong.

“…That’s new,” she said.

Amenadiel sighed. “Everything is new now.”

“And you’re not panicking because…?”

“I am panicking,” he replied with a strained smile. “I’m just doing it quietly.”

Uriel peeked in from the hallway, clearly eavesdropping and holding a clipboard now labeled “Existential Threat or Not?”

Samael suddenly turned to Chloe. “Were we friends?”

She hesitated. Then, nodding gently: “Yeah. We were… something like that.”

He smiled. “Cool. I like being friends.”

Linda scribbled notes like a storm.

Maze tossed a knife into a wall with a grin.

And Chloe… finally, finally smiled.

---
Uriel did not fly—he blinked through creation. One step from Los Angeles rooftops, the next on the golden edge of the Silver City, scroll sealed in light and time magic cradled in his arms like a baby bird with broken bones.

He didn’t go to the Presence directly. Not yet. There were steps. Rules. Protocols that angels like him still followed, even when the whole design did a cartwheel.

First, he told Remiel.

Remiel stared at the scroll, then at Uriel, then at the soft glow of something leaking out of the wax seal.

“...So Lucifer’s gone?”

“No,” Uriel said, eyes sharp. “He’s… altered. Like a concept rewritten mid-sentence. The craftsmanship—Yahweh’s first—cracked. And what’s left is…”

“Functional?”

“Soft.”

Remiel made a face like she just bit into a philosophical lemon.

Then came Saraqael, who actually poked the scroll and said, “Did someone drop him?”

“Something hit him,” Uriel corrected. “Something older than us. Possibly older than the Name.”

By the time he got to Michael, word had already reached the outer courts. Whispers traveled faster than wings.

Michael stood at the edge of a mirrored cliff that overlooked the raw swirl of unrealized thought—creation still in blueprint form. He didn’t turn when Uriel approached.

Uriel waited.

Michael finally said, “You ever see a line of dominoes fall… but then watch one just refuse to tip over?”

Uriel blinked. “What?”

“That’s what this feels like.” Michael turned, eyes calm, scar absent. He looked too tired to be surprised. “I didn’t believe it. Still don’t, not really. Lucifer? Becoming soft? Kind? A barefoot dove in pajama pants?”

Uriel handed him the scroll.

Michael looked down at it. Then… he saw the burn left in the script. The silence in the divine ink. The void where celestial truth should be.

He exhaled, slow and long.

“Well,” he said simply, “shit.”

That was all.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t smite. He didn’t even scowl.

He just… stood there, watching a sun that didn’t exist set across a sky that hadn’t been written yet.

Uriel asked, cautiously, “What do we do?”

Michael didn’t answer for a long time.

Then:

“We don’t tell Father until we understand what this means.”

“Why?”

“Because Lucifer… Samael… whatever he is now… has never been undefended. He always had walls. Sarcasm. Anger. Guilt. Pride.”

Uriel frowned. “And now?”

Michael looked up. “Now he’s barefoot. And the universe loves a vulnerable thing.”

---

Chapter Text

LUX throbbed with base notes and flashing lights, packed shoulder to shoulder with souls trying to forget things they’d never admit remembering. The music pulsed, the bar hummed, and upstairs—Samael was trying to fold his wings without stabbing a ceiling fan.

“Why do they do that?!” he muttered, arms flailing behind his back like a drunk flamingo. Maze, curled up on the penthouse couch with a bowl of popcorn and zero sympathy, snorted.

“They're new, dumbass.”

“Three pairs of new! I feel like a celestial chandelier!”

“And you’re still barefoot,” she added, lazily pointing with a knife. “You wore Dior with no shoes today. Rich people think it's a statement.”

“I hate shoes,” he muttered, dragging his socks across the marble as if offended by the very concept of soles. “They feel like foot prisons.”

He paused in front of the mirrored wall, tilting his head like an owl at the wings in reflection—large, gold-edged, white-feathered with burning cross-marks etched in shadow-light. The third pair—the smallest—fluttered quietly behind his ears like whispers. He hadn’t even known wings could do that.

“I don’t remember any of this,” he whispered, awed and a little unnerved. “But it’s… kind of pretty?”

Maze, halfway through stabbing a throw pillow just to see how many stabs it would take to make it explode in fluff, looked up. “You’re prettier without the trauma. Don’t jinx it.”

That’s when the elevator dinged.

And another him stepped out.

Hair longer, neater. Body coiled in celestial armor that shimmered like faith forged into metal. Wings calm, controlled, retracted like they belonged exactly where they were.

Samael turned.

And stared.

Then blinked.

“Oh wow,” he said. “Okay. I get it now. You’re me. Just...more serious and less pajama-friendly.”

Michael tilted his head. “So you’re the cinnamon roll version. Interesting.”

“Cinnamon…?”

“You have no idea who I am.”

“Nope!” Samael smiled brightly. “But twin, right?”

Michael paused.

“…Yeah. Twin.”

He did not say older. He did not say warrior of Heaven, right hand of God, twin who was built to hold the sword while you held the light.

He just stared at the three pairs of wings, the new softness in his brother’s face, the bare feet… and the very clear, gentle amnesia.

Samael scratched his head.

“Are you staying for dinner or are we doing the whole dramatic-angels-duel-in-the-sky thing later? Because Maze is making tacos.”

Michael blinked. “I… tacos sound fine.”

Michael had seen war.

He had seen Heaven unravel and Hell twist itself into knots and time fold in on itself like paper with teeth. He had watched Lucifer fall and rise and fall again—and had never once, not once, been truly confused.

Until today.

The celestial who used to be Lucifer Morningstar—Prince of Hell, bearer of rebellion, once the literal Devil—was currently barefoot in the courtyard feeding sixty-seven pigeons he had adopted off Craigslist.

“Look at them,” Samael cooed, sprinkling seed like it was holy dust. “They’re like—sky rats with dreams.”

Michael stood there, armor and all, trying to process the moment.

“I named them,” Samael added, with genuine pride. “This one’s Steven. That’s Feather McGee. That one’s Susan B. Peck-thony.”

“You named sixty-seven pigeons?”

“Of course not,” Samael scoffed. “Forty-three have names. The rest are still deciding.”

Michael looked at Maze, who was sharpening her machete while drinking coffee through a black straw. She looked relaxed, borderline smug.

“He does this now,” she said flatly. “Yesterday he read five self-help books on 'rebuilding sibling trust' and then tried to hug me for a full five minutes. I’m still recovering.”

“I also bought a book on ‘Fixing Broken Relationships with Passive-Aggressive Letters’!” Samael called. “Page 6 says I should leave a note in your fridge!”

Maze gave Michael a deadpan stare. “Do it, and I will put you in the fridge.”

But Michael wasn’t listening. He was watching his brother try to teach a parrot to swear.

The parrot, perched on the balcony, squawked, “Get bent, feather bag!”

Samael clapped. “He’s improving!”

Meanwhile, his wings—their three golden-white, cross-marked pairs—refused to retract, shimmering against the light like they belonged to something more. Michael had never seen anything like them, not even in the Presence's archives.

“I can’t fold them,” Samael said, flapping a little. “I think they’re stuck. Maze says I’m just emotionally constipated.”

“She’s not wrong,” Michael muttered.

To top it off, Samael walked around wearing fluffy moon-patterned slippers now. He claimed it was because shoes were “toxic energy foot prisons.”

Also, he loved star fruit. Bought a whole crate from a shady produce truck and called it “divine in mouth shape.”

Michael finally sat down. Quietly. Hands folded.

“I don’t think this is a phase,” he said.

Maze nodded. “Nope. This is him now.”

“…Huh.”
There was a moment, just past 3:42 p.m., where the entire world seemed to slow.

It wasn’t the end of the world. That would’ve been loud and fiery and involved screaming and trumpets. No, this was something quieter—more unsettling. Something no angel had prepared for.

Lucifer Morningstar was trying to play poker with Amenediel.

He had no idea how. He kept grinning too wide, waving his cards around like they were butterflies, and declaring “Royal banana!” every time he got a pair.

“You mean a royal flush,” Amenediel corrected gently. Again.

“Flush? That sounds gross. Why are card games so violent?”

Eventually, Lucifer—or Samael, as he now preferred to be called when not distracted by pigeons, parrot parenting, or his favorite moon slippers—got up, left the table, and flopped onto the carpet in front of the couch. With the dramatic flair of someone discovering gravity for the first time, he pointed at the TV.

“Ooooh, sitcom reruns!”

And just like that, he was absorbed. Cross-legged. Wings spread haphazardly across the floor like an angelic blanket. A bowl of dried star fruit beside him. Maze, true to form, was leaning against the doorway sharpening a knife with a calm hum, eyes half-lidded as she watched her husband giggle at The Detour.

Michael joined her, leaning against the opposite frame. His armor faintly glinted under the sunlight that streamed in, catching on the edges of Samael’s golden-white feathers.

Amenediel sighed and came to stand beside them both, folding his arms.

“Poker’s not going to happen,” he admitted. “He tried to trade me a pigeon for my chips.”

Maze grinned. “Was it Susan B. Peck-thony?”

“…Yes.”

They all went quiet for a long moment. The only sounds were laughter from the TV and the faint whir of Lucifer’s wings rustling every time he shifted his weight.

“He’s not the same,” Michael said, tone unreadable.

“No,” Amenediel agreed. “But maybe that’s a good thing.”

Maze exhaled softly. “He doesn’t hate himself anymore.”

“He doesn’t even know himself,” Michael replied. But his voice didn’t have bite—just awe.

Samael let out a sudden snort of laughter and shouted at the screen, “You tell her, Detour Dad!”

Then he hugged a pillow like it was sacred.

Amenediel smiled. “He doesn’t know himself. But… maybe we’re meeting the version of him we were supposed to.”

Michael looked at Maze. “You agree?”

She watched her barefoot, sitcom-watching chaos-god of a husband lift a spoonful of star fruit to his mouth with childlike wonder.

“I do,” she whispered. “This is better.”

They didn’t say anything else. Just stood there quietly, a demon, a warrior, and a brother—watching a fallen star glow softly in the late afternoon light.

---

When Michael returned to the Silver City, the silence was thunderous.

He didn’t bring war. He didn’t bring rebellion. He brought words. Three words, to be exact:

“He’s still him.”

It echoed in marble halls and rippled through the golden clouds like a celestial punchline no one was ready for. The angels froze, stunned—not by violence, not by prophecy—but by the idea that Lucifer Morningstar was back… barefoot, poetry-writing, sitcom-watching, and soft.

Even the Presence paused. That alone was enough to send a few Thrones collapsing into their prayer stances.

“…That wasn’t supposed to happen,” It murmured, quietly, contemplative. As if the universe had dropped a jellybean into the gears of destiny.

Meanwhile, in the angelic archives, Zadkiel was not having it.

“That’s not possible,” he muttered, pulling on his armored boots like they were battle declarations. “Three wings? A poem? He barely read grocery lists in Heaven.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He took flight. A comet of silver and sharp grace, trailing divine frustration.

---

Back on Earth, Samael was lounging on the glass balcony of Lux, his wings spread open like living curtains catching the breeze. A stack of old clay tablets and translation guides sat beside him, and he was scrawling something with a sharp bit of charcoal on old parchment.

Maze leaned against the doorway, chewing gum, sunglasses on.

“Writing your autobiography?” she teased.

“No,” Samael said, licking the tip of the charcoal and squinting at his work. “It’s a poem. I think. In… Sumerian?” He held it up proudly. “Does ‘the stars bled like figs under God’s silence’ sound edgy or romantic?”

“…Both.”

Before she could comment further, a crack of light erupted nearby. Zadkiel landed with the force of someone who desperately needed an answer and a stress nap.

Samael blinked at him. “Hi?”

Zadkiel didn’t respond immediately. His eyes went wide, fixed on the wings—those impossible wings.

Three pairs. The outermost ones large, brilliant gold laced with white like marble kissed by the sun. The inner set, elegant and strong, held that distinct shimmer of moonlight on snow. And the third—small, sleek, almost hidden behind his ears—shifted and fluttered, able to cover his face like a veil.

And there, etched in holy geometry, was the Cross—not on the wings, but within them, formed by the feather patterns themselves.

Zadkiel's mouth opened. Closed. Then he said the most rational thing he could think of.

“Are you possessed?”

“Nope!” Samael chirped. “I just hate shoes and apparently like poetry now.”

Zadkiel turned to Maze, eyes darting for context.

Maze blew a bubble, let it pop, and said, “He adopted pigeons. Also named them.”

“And a parrot,” Samael added. “It swears in French now.”

Zadkiel stared at him like a broken mirror. “But… why?”

Samael looked genuinely thoughtful. “I don’t know. But I like me better this way.”

For once, the angel of mercy had no mercy left for logic.

---
Zadkiel gave himself exactly one hour.

He had promised, one hour only, and already thirty-five minutes had been spent watching the former King of Hell try to tape a sticky note labeled “ZADKIEL (kind eyes, sword probs?)” onto his own forehead for “easier remembering.”

Samael was seated cross-legged on the floor, his wings lazily flicking behind him, like drapes made of heaven’s daydreams. Around him were a dozen open books, a confused pigeon wearing a sock as a cape, and a half-eaten star fruit that looked like it had been part of a science experiment.

“Let me get this straight,” Zadkiel said slowly, resisting the urge to sit down and surrender to the absurdity. “You don’t drink anymore. You adopted pigeons. And you hate shoes.”

Samael nodded. “Also—” He held up a notepad. “I’ve been writing down everyone I meet.”

The list read:

Maze (wife. terrifying. soft hands.)

Amenediel (big. wing guy. older bro??)

Uriel (math? vibes?)

Michael (same face. might be twin? armor is cool)

Zadkiel (sword. soft eyes. likes dramatic landings?)

Pigeon 4 (bit me. fair.)

Zadkiel blinked. “You put me next to a pigeon.”

“Pigeon 4 has very chaotic energy,” Samael said earnestly. “You’re balanced.”

Zadkiel sighed, rubbing his temples as Maze came over with a bowl of popcorn and took her seat beside her barefoot chaos husband.

“Tell me again why you’re not freaking out?”

Maze shrugged. “Because this version of him? He’s not angry. He’s not full of self-loathing or guilt or drama. He’s just… happy. Confused, sure. But sweet.”

Zadkiel glanced back at Samael, who was now whispering “bad words only in French, little parrot” to the bird on his shoulder.

And the wings—those impossible wings—rested peacefully behind him, soft gold and white, the Cross shimmering subtly as if divinely threaded into every feather.

Zadkiel’s breath left in a slow, stunned exhale.

“I’ll tell the others what I saw,” he said at last.

“You’ll tell them he’s okay?” Maze asked.

Zadkiel looked at Samael again, now trying to use glitter glue to attach googly eyes to his slippers.

“...I’ll tell them he’s better.”

And with that, he vanished in a blink of light—just as Samael triumphantly yelled, “Behold! The Eyed Slippers of Memory!”

---

Chapter Text

Linda had seen a lot. She had seen celestial trauma, divine therapy breakthroughs, and one particularly memorable session where Lucifer tried to psychoanalyze her halfway through crying about being misunderstood.

But this?

This was new.

“I adopted four kittens,” Samael said proudly, placing one fuzzy black-and-white baby into Linda’s hands. “This one’s name is Charles. He bites people who lie. We get along fabulously.”

Linda blinked, trying to find a response while Charles gnawed gently on her thumb.

Samael’s wings fluffed behind him in soft satisfaction—two large pairs curled gently over the back of the couch like a feathered cape, the third (smaller, oddly placed near the nape of his neck and behind his ears) twitching occasionally like they had minds of their own.

He was barefoot, of course. The glittery slippers had been flung off somewhere mid-morning because “they disrespected my toes.”

Maze didn’t even flinch at the comment, flicking a dagger between her fingers as she watched the sitcom playing on the TV. “He renamed the others, by the way. We now have Murder Mittens, Tiny God, and Tater Tot.”

“I let them vote,” Samael added. “Except Murder Mittens. She voted with claws.”

Linda pressed a hand to her forehead. “Okay. Okay, I’m… processing.”

Then the elevator dinged, and in skipped Trixie, all sunshine and energy and wearing light-up sneakers that Samael had already stared at earlier like they were alien tech.

“Hi Maze! Hi Doctor!” she beamed. Then her eyes landed on Samael—and more importantly, his wings.

Trixie’s jaw dropped. “Are you an angel?”

Samael blinked, tilting his head. “That depends. Do you believe in those?”

“Only the ones who don’t lie,” she said seriously.

“Oh. Then yes. Definitely.” He scooted over on the floor, patting the carpet beside him.

She plopped down without hesitation, gently poking one of the smaller wings.

“You’re soft,” she whispered.

“You’re tiny,” Samael replied.

Trixie grinned. “Can I name your wings?”

“Yes, but don’t name them Bob.”

“Why not?”

“Because I already did and they ignored it.”

Maze just chuckled. Linda was crying internally.

“Okay,” Linda muttered, scribbling in her notepad. “So we’re at childlike celestial innocence, brutal honesty, feline diplomacy, and… wing-naming privileges.”

Samael peeked up from the floor, wide-eyed and smiling. “Would you like some star fruit, Doctor? I peeled it myself. It didn’t go well.”

And Linda knew then: this wasn’t regression. This wasn’t a mental break.

It was rebirth.

He was different. Softer. Stranger. Unfiltered. Beautifully broken and still piecing himself together with kittens, sitcoms, and sincerity.

God help them all.

---
Maze lounged against the kitchen island like a queen at ease, sipping coffee from a mug that read “World’s Okayest Murderer.” Trixie was braiding one of Samael’s feathers—he was sitting cross-legged, perfectly still, eyes dreamy and focused as if the simple act of letting a child twist his wing into a spiral was the most sacred ritual on Earth.

Linda took a slow sip of her drink and quietly whispered to Maze, “He’s… peaceful.”

Maze shrugged. “He’s trying. And somehow not trying at all.”

“How are you holding up with all this?”

Maze’s eyes flicked to Samael. Her husband. Her chaos. Her weirdly perfect ball of feathers, kittens, and emotional honesty. “He’s softer now. Talks about feelings. Hates shoes. Gets excited when we make soup together. I think I love him more than I did before.”

Trixie gasped, holding up the wing braid like it was a masterpiece. “Look! I made it into a loop!”

Samael blinked and gasped in return, clapping softly. “Now it’s a loop of truth! If anyone lies near it, it flutters.”

Linda raised an eyebrow. “That’s not scientifically—”

flutter flutter flutter

Maze coughed. “I told Dan I’d return his sword. I didn’t.”

Samael gave her a long, slow look of betrayal.

Across the cosmos, in the shimmering heights of the Silver City, a golden-feathered scribe angel nervously poked their head into a grand hall.

“Um. Archangel Remiel? We’ve received… updates. From Earth.”

Remiel looked up from a book titled How to Maintain Authority When No One Respects You.

“What kind of updates?”

“Well. Samael has apparently adopted—hold on—six adult cats and three kittens. They have names. Tater Tot. Murder Mittens. Charles. I… I think one of them is called Knife.”

Remiel closed the book. “This cannot be real.”

“Oh. And there’s a parrot now. It speaks fluent profanity.”

A long silence.

Michael, leaning against the balcony nearby, sighed. “You forgot the part where he tried to teach the cats Latin. Using interpretive dance.”

Remiel turned slowly. “You’re not joking.”

Michael tilted his head. “He also made them all tiny cloaks. The kittens have sparkles.”

There was another beat of stunned silence before Zadkiel, passing by, muttered, “I heard he wrote a poem about a spoon that changed his life.”

Uriel walked in sipping tea. “You’re all late. I’ve seen the star fruit shrine. There’s a chart.”

The Silver City collectively paused.

Then Remiel growled, “Someone call the Presence. We’ve got a celestial cinnamon roll situation.”

—

Back on Earth, Samael was holding a tiny black kitten in both hands. “I’m naming this one Jellybean.”

Maze blinked. “You said no food names.”

“I lied. She didn't flutter the braid. It’s fine.”

Trixie gave him a thumbs-up.

Linda just whispered, “Therapy’s not ready for this.”

And somewhere in Heaven, God sneezed.

---

Linda sat on the penthouse couch, legs tucked under her, holding a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. She hadn’t had any other appointments today—her only patient at the moment was currently arguing with a child about the ethics of turning to the Dark Side.

Samael—formerly known as Lucifer Morningstar, Lightbringer, First Son of the Dawn, now self-declared Darth Jellybean—swished his toy lightsaber dramatically.

“You underestimate my power, Master Trixie,” he said, robes swirling (they were actually just his expensive Dior coat and a fuzzy blanket Maze had thrown on him earlier). “But the Dark Side has biscuits.”

Trixie, decked out in a Jedi robe and holding her blue lightsaber like a true youngling, rolled her eyes. “You just want snacks.”

“That’s what they all said.”

Linda leaned toward Maze, whispering, “He really committed to the theme, huh?”

Maze, sitting beside her polishing one of her many knives, smirked. “He learned the lightsaber choreography from a YouTube rabbit hole. It was either this or baking bread with too much yeast again.”

Across the room, Amenadiel was perched at the dining table with a notepad the size of a legal textbook, scribbling as fast as his hand would allow.

3:47 PM: Samael has named a kitten Count Snugglepaws.

3:48 PM: Declared war on the Jedi for not appreciating naps.

3:49 PM: Told Maze he thinks Trixie may be a “baby archangel.” Maze agreed.

As Trixie lunged with a Jedi battle cry, Samael leapt over the couch (poorly) and declared, “THE SITH ARE TIRED AND WOULD LIKE A NAP.”

That’s when the temperature shifted.

A sudden hush blanketed the room as a soft hum filled the air. Light flickered unnaturally. The door opened—not with a knock, but with a ghost of wind—and standing there was Azrael.

The Angel of Death. Hood up, coat like shadows stitched together, eyes ancient and sharp.

Linda dropped her mug. It clattered onto the rug.

Amenadiel stood. “Azrael.”

Samael blinked from his crumpled blanket pile on the floor. “Oh… a new sibling?”

Trixie waved her lightsaber at Azrael. “Hi!”

Azrael stood there. In perfect, stunned silence. Her eyes moved from the sparkly robed being on the floor—to the wings poking out behind his back like a halo of feathers—and then to the kitten currently chewing on the hem of his coat.

“…You have three pairs of wings,” she said flatly.

“Apparently,” Samael said cheerfully. “One of them wiggles when I lie.”

Azrael looked at Amenadiel. “Is he… broken?”

“Rewritten,” Amenadiel replied, holding up his notepad. “And he likes slippers now.”

Samael raised a hand. “Do you like Star Wars? I’m evil now. But cutely evil.”

Azrael blinked. Once. Twice.

“…I need a moment.”

And then, like a haunted gust of wind, the Angel of Death sat on the floor next to Trixie, took a lightsaber from the toy bin, and joined the duel.

Linda whispered to Maze, “Was that a bonding moment?”

Maze grinned. “Nah. That was surrender.”

—
The lightsaber battle had turned into a team game of "Defend the Couch Fort from the Invisible Demons" and for some reason, Trixie was convinced that the couch cushions were powered by "pigeon force fields." Samael believed her without hesitation. Maze declared herself Queen of the Demon Realm and was now sharpening glow sticks “just in case.”

Azrael didn’t participate.

Not physically, at least.

She sat on the balcony now, her black boots propped on the railing, back straight, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the sky—but not really looking at anything.

Behind her, there was a quiet shuffling.

And then, a soft squeak as slippers dragged across tile.

Samael joined her, carrying two mugs of tea and the whiteboard he'd insisted on using earlier. He settled beside her, cross-legged, wearing pajama pants with cartoon pigs on them and a Gucci hoodie Maze had attacked with a bedazzler.

The tea was warm. The mood was weirdly gentle.

He turned the whiteboard so she could see.

“Look,” he said proudly, “siblings roll call!”

In messy permanent marker, it read:

---

The Ones I’ve Met So Far (!!!)

Amenediel (Tall, dramatic)

Michael (Surprisingly normal???)

Uriel (Hates detours. Bit judgy.)

Zadkiel (Eyebrow connoisseur)

Azrael (You!)

More???

---

Azrael stared at the board. “You put parentheses around my name.”

“You’re important,” he said simply, sipping his tea.

She turned to look at him fully. The golden glow of evening sunlight reflected off the feathered edge of his wings—three pairs, all visible, all real. The small pair behind his ears fluttered like curious birds.

“…Lucifer,” she said quietly.

He looked at her, brows furrowing. “You keep calling me that.”

“That’s your name.”

“I… don’t remember it.” His voice was small. “I know I did. Once. I just… I like Samael better now. It feels lighter.”

Azrael nodded. Slowly.

“You’re different,” she said. “The Samael I knew wouldn’t have tea with me unless it was poisoned.”

He chuckled. “Guess I forgot the poisoning part.”

“You’re still you,” she added, softly. “Just… like someone smoothed out the rage and self-loathing and left the core.”

Samael blinked. “That sounds poetic. Should I write it on the board?”

“No,” she said, lips twitching with the ghost of a smile. “But you should write this down: You’re allowed to stay like this.”

He paused.

Then, as if pondering her words, he slowly reached out and scribbled a new line beneath all the names:

---

Note: I am allowed to stay like this. (Azrael said so.)

---

They sat in silence a little longer, the city breathing around them, the sun slipping lower into the clouds.

Inside, a kitten knocked over the couch fort. Trixie screamed. Maze cackled. Amenadiel sighed so hard it rattled the kitchen drawer.

Azrael looked at Samael one more time.

“…By the way,” she said. “Heaven’s noticed the cats.”

Samael groaned.

“Tell them I’m building a holy army of floof.”

Azrael stood. “I’ll try. But Remiel is going to have questions.”

Samael just smiled. “Add her to the list.”

—Remiel arrived like most angels did—dramatic.

One second, the apartment was filled with the scent of cinnamon tea and the background theme song from Phineas and Ferb; the next, the windows trembled, a wind rushed through the penthouse, and the lamp by the kitchen exploded for no reason whatsoever.

Trixie cheered. “THAT WAS AWESOME!”

Maze: “You owe me a lamp.”

Sam, who had just finished sewing a tiny cape for a kitten named Jellybean, looked up. “Visitor?”

Azrael sipped her tea calmly from the balcony. “Yup. You’re about to meet the sister who never believed anything unless she saw it, measured it, and poked it with a very sharp blade.”

Sure enough, Remiel stepped forward in full celestial armor, boots thudding against the marble, her wings unfurled and expression unreadable.

She looked around.

Saw Trixie in Jedi robes.

Saw Maze building what looked like a napalm launcher out of air fresheners.

Saw Azrael sipping tea like this was a spa.

Saw Samael holding a kitten in one arm and a whiteboard in the other.

"..."

Samael beamed.

“Hi! You must be Remiel! You’re my sister, right?” He flipped the whiteboard to her.

---

SIBLING COUNT (Still updating)

Amenediel

Michael

Uriel

Zadkiel

Azrael

?? = Remiel?

Cats: 6

Kittens: 3

Total Floofs: 9

---

Remiel did not speak.

She looked down.

A tabby was biting her boot.

Another kitten had curled up in the folds of her trench coat.

One cat (named Tofu) was sitting on the couch like he paid rent.

“You,” she finally said, pointing at Samael, “have been reduced to a—”

“Don’t say cat dad,” Maze warned.

“...cat wrangler,” Remiel finished, slightly deflated.

Azrael took another sip. “He feeds them boiled fish with starfruit. Plays harp music for nap time.”

Remiel stared at her, then looked at Samael again.

“Is this a celestial crisis or... a spiritual rebirth?” she muttered.

“Both?” Sam offered.

Then he turned and whispered to Jellybean, “I think she’s processing. We should show her the cuddle blanket.”

The cuddle blanket was, unfortunately, real. Sam had made it. It had embroidered stars, angel sigils, and enough static cling to power a small lamp (if Maze hadn’t blown it up earlier).

Remiel sat. She didn’t mean to. She was just too stunned not to.

She looked at Azrael again. “He wrote a poem in Sumerian, didn't he?”

Azrael: “Yes.”

“And taught a parrot to swear.”

“Yep.”

Remiel rubbed her temples. “I’m gonna need... a lot more tea.”

Sam passed her a cup. “I got chamomile and peppermint. Do you want a biscuit? We also have angel-shaped cookies, but I accidentally ate Zadkiel's head.”

Trixie piped up, “They’re sugar-free! Aunt Linda said sugar makes you deranged.”

Remiel blinked. “I have so many questions.”

Maze: “Get in line.”

—

Chapter Text

Dan Espinoza did not expect to walk into this.

He had come to Lux on Chloe’s request—something about checking in on Lucifer, who had apparently been “a bit different lately.” He expected ego. He expected dramatics. He even expected an impromptu jazz solo.

What he did not expect was to walk into:

1. A kitten parade.

2. A very confused Lucifer wearing fuzzy slippers and a “Star Wars” robe.

3. A tiny warrior named Trixie swinging a foam lightsaber at said Lucifer.

4. An ancient whiteboard with sibling names and cat statistics.

Dan stood there, absolutely still, watching the chaos.

Trixie shouted, “YOU’LL NEVER TAKE THE GALACTIC FLUFF EMPIRE ALIVE!” and charged. Lucifer/Samael blocked with a mop.

“NO TRUCE UNTIL THE WOBBLY CAT TOWER IS FIXED!” Sam yelled back.

Dan blinked.

Lucifer looked over mid-duel. “Oh! Who are you again?”

Dan: “...What?”

Maze, lounging nearby sharpening a blade on a copy of The Joy of Cooking, didn’t even look up. “That’s Dan.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “Dan the Detective! You were in the binder!” He dropped the mop and ran over to shake Dan’s hand enthusiastically, kitten still on his shoulder.

Dan glanced at Maze. “Is he high?”

“On what?” Maze smirked. “Happiness?”

Dan: “So yes.”

Trixie handed Sam a juice box like it was a trophy. He accepted it with a bow.

Maze: “We ran out of whiskey. Juice is what you get now.”

Sam took a loud sip through the straw and nodded like this was divine nectar.

Dan turned to Chloe, who was just walking in with Linda and a 10-pack of allergy pills (for Azrael, who absolutely refused to leave even though cats kept sneezing on her armor).

Dan muttered, “Okay. Someone explain what’s happening. Is he possessed? Is this, like, Season One Lucifer pretending to be twelve again for a bet?”

Chloe just sighed.

“Dan... meet Samael.”

Dan blinked again. “Is that, like, his LARP name or something?”

Maze: “Nope. It's his God-given one.”

Linda: “Also, he remembers nothing. He's basically emotionally six and cosmically ancient.”

Dan, deadpan: “...Of course.”

Sam poked his head out from behind the couch, holding a Star Wars sticker book and a cat named Ravioli. “Hi, Dan. Want to help me alphabetize my emotional spirals?”

Dan stared.

And then, for the first time in two weeks, he laughed.

“Yeah, alright. Why not. This is probably the sanest thing I’ve seen all week.”

—

It happened just after Trixie declared herself Empress of the Galaxy and Sam tried to crown her with a cat.

There was a shift.

A cold, soft pull. Like the room suddenly knew the weight of stars. Shadows lengthened for no reason. The fur on one of the kittens stood up. Maze looked up from buttering toast with a dagger. Azrael blinked and straightened, posture suddenly militant.

Linda glanced around. “Anyone else feel…like someone turned the thermostat to ‘melancholy and doom’?”

Trixie whispered, “Is it Darth Vader?”

The elevator doors slid open—slow, deliberate.

Out stepped a man in black. Tall. Pale. Hair darker than regret. Robes like ink flowing through gravity. His expression: resting soul-crushing sadness.

Lucifer—Samael—looked up from gluing googly eyes to a scroll.

“Oh. Hello, Dream.”

Dream of the Endless paused. Looked around the room. Took in:

A Star Wars battle scene mid-reset.

An archangel scribbling sibling names on a whiteboard.

A parrot swearing profusely in Latin.

Six cats playing cards.

His ex-boyfriend/battle-spouse looking… cuddly.

He blinked.

“…What in the name of Death’s quiet fury is going on?”

Dan whispered to Linda: “Who is that guy?”

Linda, squinting: “...Tall. Gothic. British. I’d say Lucifer’s type, but he’s also... him. And terrifying.”

Chloe: “Did he materialize out of sadness?”

Maze: “That’s Dream. Of the Endless. You don’t talk to him unless he talks to you first.”

Trixie: “He looks like he needs a blanket and a nap.”

Dream turned to Sam, brows slightly drawn. “Something is broken. I felt it from the Dreaming.”

Sam blinked innocently. “I don’t feel broken. Do I look broken? I got glue on my nose earlier.”

Dream’s eyes flickered to the wings.

Three pairs. Gold. White. Cross-burns. The little pair twitching near the ears.

He tilted his head. “You’re… unbound.”

Sam offered him a half-finished friendship bracelet. “Want one?”

Dream took it.

Silence.

Then the Lord of Dreams smiled, just a little. The weight in the room lessened. Barely. Like a sigh.

Maze muttered under her breath, “Oh hell, it’s worse than I thought. He’s smiling.”

Dream nodded to himself, speaking as if to something older. “He is not what he was. But he is still who he is. The story has turned.”

Dan: “...Was that poetry? Is he a poet? I feel like I should be emotionally moved but I’m just confused.”

Dream turned toward Dan, nodded politely.

Dan: “Sir.”

Dream to Sam: “We will speak later.”

Sam: “Cool! Do you like grilled cheese?”

Dream vanished.

Azrael finally exhaled. “I thought he was going to monologue the concept of ‘hope’ into pieces.”

Sam turned to Maze, proudly holding up a glitter-covered page. “He liked my bracelet.”

Maze: “You’re a menace.”

Chloe: “He’s adorable.”

Dan: “He scares me more now than he did when he was just a smug nightclub owner.”

Linda: “...I think that’s personal growth?”

—

Dream of the Endless stood in a corner, motionless as a Greek statue, arms folded, face like a mourning dove made of granite. He’d been there for an hour. No one had dared ask him if he wanted a chair.

In front of him: chaos incarnate.

Sam (Lucifer? Samael?) was sitting cross-legged on the penthouse floor, completely focused. His wings twitched every so often, brushing against a box of LEGOs. Trixie was next to him, sorting bricks by color and occasionally by “vibes.”

They had constructed:

A lopsided but enthusiastic Death Star,

A stick-figure version of Amenadiel with an exaggerated halo,

Michael, built twice by accident (Sam claimed he forgot which side of the face had the smug),

A glittery Azrael, whose wings kept falling off.

A rejected “Uriel” that Trixie turned into a unicorn because “he was mean in season two.”

A suspiciously buff Ibriel minifig holding a scroll.

Dream observed, wordlessly judging the Death Star’s architecture.

Nearby, two new arrivals stood absolutely stunned.

Saraqael and Ibriel.

Saraqael whispered to Ibriel, “He’s building the celestial family… out of mortal children’s toys.”

Ibriel, clutching his arms, replied, “Is that a goldfish cracker crown on Zadkiel?!”

Sam looked up, eyes wide and cheerful, glue on his cheek. “Hi! I know you! I definitely don’t know you!”

Saraqael: “We’re your siblings.”

Sam, nodding seriously: “...One moment.” He turned and dramatically added two more Lego minifigs to his whiteboard roster. “Saraqael. Ibriel. Done.”

Dream, who hadn’t blinked in ten minutes, finally spoke: “He has adopted the mortal method of cataloguing through art. Lego is… an unusual medium.”

Ibriel: “He put a sticker on me that says ‘Mildly Judgy Vibes.’”

Saraqael, staring in horror: “That cat has glitter glued to its fur. WHY does that cat have glitter—”

One of the kittens meowed and flopped over with a plastic lightsaber in its mouth.

Sam: “That’s Darth Whiskers. He’s the villain in Act 3.”

Saraqael: “ACT THREE?!”

Trixie, unfazed, handed Dream a small Lego version of himself: impossibly pale, broody, with a cape made from part of a Kleenex. “Here. You can be part of the story.”

Dream stared. Quiet. Took the Lego.

“…I shall cherish it.”

Ibriel blinked. “What is happening. What is this. Who—how—is this Samael?”

Saraqael muttered, “This is a fever dream.”

Dan walked by with two coffee mugs. “Nope. Just Tuesday.”

Sam beamed. “I’m building you guys next! But I ran out of ‘eternal angst blue.’ Gonna substitute it with ‘suspicious teal.’”

Ibriel quietly prayed for patience.

Dream whispered to the kitten, “You and I may be the only sane ones here.”

The kitten farted.

Dream nodded solemnly. “Agreed.”

—

Saraqael was pacing in front of the elevator, rubbing their temples so hard it was a miracle the celestial skin hadn’t worn thin. Ibriel just stood silently, staring at the penthouse door as though it had personally insulted him.

“Did you see him?” Saraqael hissed. “He was—he was knitting. While explaining ‘The Fast and the Furious’ to a kitten named Dominic Purrretto.”

Ibriel didn’t move. “He gave me a juice box. Said I looked dehydrated from being ‘so celestial.’ What does that mean?”

Meanwhile, inside the penthouse, Dream still stood in the corner like a brooding houseplant, arms folded, gaze soft but intense. He was watching as Sam held up two cats, introduced them as "Despair" and "Snuggles," and gave them ceremonial knitted cloaks for their roles in an upcoming interpretive play titled ‘Siblinghood, Betrayal, and Tuna.’

Trixie clapped. Maze recorded.

Dream, with surprising solemnity, offered a note: “The narrative lacks structural cohesion. Perhaps an intermission between betrayal and the tuna sacrifice.”

Sam nodded seriously. “Duly noted.”

Back at the elevator:

Saraqael grabbed Ibriel’s arm. “We have to report this.”

Ibriel didn’t resist. “We will. But I’m not writing the part where he cried because his sweater didn’t match the cat beds.”

They shimmered into celestial transit, the doors closing behind them. Neither of them noticed the tiny Lego Michael glued to the elevator button.

---

Cut to: Silver City Council Chambers

Uriel sat at a polished table, organized scrolls in hand. Zadkiel was quietly sipping angelic tea that glowed. Remiel was side-eyeing everyone, and Michael was sitting backwards in his chair like a tired gym coach, wings half out.

Then—

Saraqael and Ibriel burst in.

Saraqael: “We have seen it. It is worse than you imagined.”

Ibriel, looking dazed: “He has a Lego board of us. There’s glitter. There’s… cookies.”

Remiel: “What kind of cookies?”

Ibriel, monotone: “Frosted. Shaped like wings.”

Uriel: “Is he broken?”

Saraqael: “He’s… not.”

Michael: “He has cats. He teaches parrots to swear. He wears Dior and slippers.”

Remiel, baffled: “So he’s living in domestic sin?”

Saraqael: “He’s living in domestic something. Also Dream is there.”

Zadkiel blinked. “Dream of the Endless?!”

Uriel nearly dropped his quill. “He hasn’t left?”

Ibriel: “He’s been watching everything like it's Shakespeare meets Paw Patrol. I think he’s emotionally compromised.”

Michael, after a long pause: “Yeah. That’s definitely our brother.”

Saraqael looked at the assembled angels. “So what do we tell the Presence?”

Michael shrugged. “That he’s found peace. That he glows when he’s holding kittens. That maybe… maybe this isn’t wrong.”

Uriel, whispering: “He built a Death Star…”

Michael: “Exactly. He built a Death Star and named it Hope.”

Silence.

Remiel sighed. “I hate this timeline.”

Uriel nodded. “Same.”

Michael smirked. “I’m starting to love it.”

—

Chapter Text

Ella Lopez was used to strange things. She worked in a morgue, casually referenced Star Wars in murder reports, and believed in the divine even before anyone handed her proof.

But this—this was something else.

She had come to the penthouse to ask Lucifer for help identifying strange sigils found at a new crime scene. Simple, right?

Wrong.

Because instead of the sharply dressed, innuendo-loving devil with too much cologne and an ego bigger than LA, she was greeted by...

“Hi! You must be Ella!” Samael chirped. “Do you want banana bread? I made some. There’s also cinnamon tea and cats. Lots of cats.”

She blinked. “Lucifer?”

He tilted his head. “That name sounds familiar.”

Cue record scratch.

---

In the penthouse, chaos had achieved new heights of domestic horror.

Michael was lounging on the couch, flipping through a Beginner’s Guide to Earth Humor book with a mildly distressed face. Trixie was currently putting googly eyes on Amenadiel’s back while he meditated. Azrael had adopted a cat and named it Bones. Sam—Lucifer? Samael?—was seated cross-legged on the floor, in front of a massive sketchpad.

The blanket draped around his shoulders was baby pink and red, suspiciously cozy. His sequin pillow bore the sparkling, reversible face of Nicholas Cage, depending on which way you brushed the sequins.

Ella’s brain froze at the pillow.

But then it short-circuited at the drawings.

All around Sam were hyper-detailed, accurate sketches of angels. Dozens. Every face unique. Each wing formation correct. Each robe, armor, hair curl perfectly captured. Even wing scars and halo fractures—how would he know those?

He looked up at her with a smile so pure it nearly rebooted her.

“These are my siblings,” Sam explained proudly. “I’ve met a few already, but I think there’s more. So I’m keeping track.”

Ella whispered, “What in the name of holy sparkles is going on?”

Michael looked up from his book. “Long story. Short version? He’s not who you remember. He’s softer, honest, and now obsessed with matching pajamas and celestial symmetry.”

Sam nodded. “Also slippers. I hate shoes.”

Ella opened her mouth. Closed it. Then turned to the Nicholas Cage pillow. “Is that—”

Sam: “Yes. He guards the room.”

Michael, flatly: “Don’t ask. It’s easier that way.”

And then Sam, as if this was the most normal thing in the world, asked:
“Ella, can you bring me glitter pens next time? I want to color in Zadkiel’s eyes.”

---

Ella stood there, staring at Samael—formerly Lucifer, now celestial cinnamon roll—and all she could think was:

“Those are real.
Those wings are real.
I’m not crazy. I was right. I KNEW IT.”

And yet… somehow, it still broke her.

Because there weren’t just two wings. Or even four.

No. There were three entire pairs.
One pair so massive it almost shimmered gold, curled protectively around his back.
A smaller, sleeker pair nestled at the nape of his neck, twitching like nervous butterflies.
And then—because reality had completely packed its bags and left—there was a tiny pair just behind his ears, white and downy, like celestial earmuffs with built-in judgment.

Ella tried to breathe. “So you’re not just an angel. You’re like… a seraph or something?”

Samael, blinking innocently: “Maybe? I don’t know. Michael said it’s new. He thinks my soul reshuffled or something.”

Michael, from the couch without looking up: “I said soul architecture spontaneously restructured. Don’t oversimplify.”

“Right.” Sam nodded and went back to drawing Ibriel’s extremely elaborate braid.

Ella just stood there, blinking. “So, uh. Linda. I need Linda. Like. Right now.”

As if summoned by the words (and possibly the emotional whiplash in the room), Linda Martin strolled in holding her notepad and a cappuccino that looked like it had been through three appointments already.

She looked at Ella. Then at Sam.

Then at the wings—especially the ear ones.

Then back to Ella, who whispered, “Did you know?”

Linda smiled tiredly. “Ella, I once had to talk Lucifer down from adopting a raccoon because he believed it was the reincarnation of Oscar Wilde. Yes. I knew. I’m still processing.”

Samael looked up cheerfully. “Oscar would’ve been a lovely raccoon. Very witty.”

Ella sat down on the couch like her entire skeleton gave out. “This is fine. Totally fine. My faith is real. Angels are real. And Lucifer is now Samael, a multi-winged seraph who crochets scarves and makes banana bread. Sure. Yeah. No biggie.”

Michael sipped his coffee and muttered, “She’s handling it better than Zadkiel.”

Sam perked up. “Should I go get the Nicholas Cage pillow for her?”

Linda sighed. “Honestly? It might help.”

---
Sam was sprawled on the floor, surrounded by his six cats and three kittens like a fluffy, purring halo of judgment. Two kittens were curled up under one of his golden wings. Another was batting at the tip of his hair. One full-grown tabby was boldly napping on top of his back like it paid rent there.

Ella watched from the couch with wide, sparkly eyes. “You have cats? Plural? Like a mini-neighborhood of cats?”

Sam beamed. “Yes! I named them all after stars. That one’s Vega, that’s Rigel, and the tiny one hiding in the blanket is Polka Dot.”

Ella tilted her head. “Is Polka Dot a star?”

“Nope. She just has a polka dot on her nose.” Sam giggled like it was the funniest thing ever. “I made a chart. Wanna see?”

He scrambled over to grab a glittery hand-drawn chart labeled “Samael’s Celestial Kitty Commune” with little doodles of each cat.

As he showed her the chart, another pair of wings casually folded behind him—Ella still wasn’t used to that—and Sam leaned in, completely sincere.

“Do you like cats, Ella? I think they’re like fuzzy little mysteries. Like people. But smaller and fluffier and you can’t bribe them with gold.”

Ella blinked. “I... yeah. Yeah, I like cats. And that might be the most profound thing I’ve heard all week.”

He smiled like that meant the world to him. “Good. You can help me feed them. They like tuna but not sardines, and Rigel will judge you if you use the wrong bowl.”

---

In the corner, Saraqael had just walked in through a shimmer of light, arms crossed, ready to interrogate her former rebel brother—only to stop and stare at the scene before her.

Samael was sitting cross-legged, trying to crochet matching bowties for all the kittens with a YouTube tutorial playing on mute. Trixie was helping. Michael was napping with one eye open. And Ella was holding a cat like it contained the secrets of the universe.

Saraqael just muttered, “What in the divine...”

Ibriel, behind her, shrugged. “At least he’s not setting anything on fire.”

Saraqael sighed. “Yeah. Honestly? Kinda better this way.”

And without fanfare, she sat down on the floor next to them, accepting a kitten from Samael with hesitant hands.

Samael didn’t say anything. Just smiled and said, “This one’s name is Hope. She’s the bravest.”

---

No one saw it coming. One second, Samael had been halfway through a retelling of how he learned to crochet using only divine instinct and a cat’s encouragement—then mid-sentence, his eyes drooped, and he slumped sideways on the couch with the grace of a sigh.

Michael barely managed to catch him before he slid off entirely. With a grunt of effort and zero ceremony, the Archangel of War eased his twin onto the cushions and—after a few seconds of awkward consideration—pulled the ridiculous baby-pink-and-red star-patterned blanket over him.

Silence fell.

“Did he just… crash?” Ella whispered.

“Yes,” said Amenadiel, blinking slowly. “He short-circuited.”

Linda nodded thoughtfully. “He’s been... very overstimulated. Emotionally. Cosmically. Cat-wise.”

As if on cue, the oldest of the cats—Vega—jumped up onto the couch and settled beside Sam’s hip. One by one, the rest followed. Rigel curled into the crook of his arm. Nebby and Polka Dot nestled near his legs. Even the tiny ones—barely old enough to balance—piled together into a sleepy heap on the carpet right in front of the sofa like divine guardians on standby.

And then… came the hand.

Samael, unconscious, had his fingers loosely laced with Michael’s—like it was the most natural, reflexive act in the world.

Michael looked down at their hands. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t yank away. Just stared at it like it might sprout another wing.

Saraqael, eyebrows nearly at her hairline, gestured vaguely. “Is… is this normal?”

“No,” Amenadiel said, voice flat.

“Do we stop it?” Ibriel asked.

“Do you want to explain to sleeping Samael why his hand is no longer holding his twin’s if he wakes up mid-cuddle?” Amenadiel shot back.

Ibriel wisely backed off.

Meanwhile, Trixie—ever the emotionally fluent chaos gremlin—quietly brought over a plushie and set it on Sam’s chest.

“For protection,” she whispered to Michael.

Michael said nothing. But he adjusted the blanket slightly higher around Samael’s shoulders.

Linda pulled out her notebook. “I’m going to need several hours to process this.”

The world was warm. Too warm.

Something was breathing against his temple.

Samael cracked open one eye and saw fur.

Not cat fur.

No—feathers.

A lot of feathers.

He blinked again and realized he was tangled—no, engulfed—in a mess of limbs, wings, and… oh no. That was definitely Michael’s arm over his waist.

And he was holding it like it was a teddy bear.

“Oh stars,” Sam whispered, trying to extract himself. His wings refused to cooperate—three pairs of them all fluffed and tucked around the both of them like some kind of divine nesting instinct kicked in overnight.

A cat meowed at his feet. Another purred against his spine. One kitten sneezed.

"You're trapped," Maze said with the smugness of someone watching a lion try to figure out a sliding glass door.

Sam froze, looked over the couch edge—and saw Maze standing there, eating a banana, of all things, her expression vaguely entertained and deeply unimpressed.

Amenadiel sat nearby, flipping through a notebook. “You wrapped around him sometime after three a.m. Tried to take his arm. He let you.”

Sam looked at Michael—still completely knocked out, head tilted back, lips parted slightly, one wing draped over both of them like a heavenly weighted blanket.

“I what?” Sam hissed.

“You cuddled,” Maze said. “Hard.”

“And I...?”

“Purred,” Amenadiel added, not looking up.

Sam flushed in every language known to angels.

He tried again to move, but his wings twitched in protest and the cats meowed in warning.

“You’re stuck,” Maze shrugged.

“I’m Samael, an archangel of—”

“Cats and Chaos now,” Maze interrupted, licking the banana.

A beat of silence.

Sam sighed and flopped back into the nest of limbs and feathers, face shoved into Michael’s shoulder. “Stars help me.”

Amenadiel chuckled.

Maze offered, “I’ll get coffee.”

“Please.” Sam paused. “And slippers. Mine disappeared.”

“You threw them out the window,” Amenadiel said without blinking.

Sam groaned.

Outside, the morning sun filtered in like golden laughter, catching on the soft curve of wings, the slow rise and fall of two twin souls finally at peace—at least for now.

Chapter Text

Michael stirred.

Not dramatically. Not with the confusion of someone tangled in a mess of wings, limbs, and cats. No—Michael simply opened his eyes, blinked at the ceiling, and made a quiet sound of acknowledgment.

“Mm,” he said. “You’re warm.”

Sam’s eyes snapped open. “You’re awake?!”

Michael, ever the embodiment of unbothered chaos, hummed again and shifted slightly, adjusting his head like Sam was a memory foam pillow. “You always were the more radiant twin. Makes sense.”

Sam turned into a glowing, pink-cheeked mess of embarrassment.

“I—! You—you could’ve moved—!”

Michael looked him dead in the eye. “Didn’t want to.”

Sam stared at him in horror.

“I like this,” Michael added casually, arms still draped around his twin like this was perfectly standard post-rebellion morning routine. “You’re softer now. Not all brimstone and fire. It’s nice.”

“Did you just compliment me?” Sam hissed like he’d been physically attacked.

Amenadiel peeked over the couch. “It’s documented. I wrote it down. Want me to read it back?”

“No!”

“Yes,” Michael replied at the same time, completely deadpan.

Maze sat on the arm of the couch now, sipping her coffee and enjoying the show. “He was hugging you in his sleep,” she smirked.

Michael didn’t even flinch. “Still am.”

“Why?” Sam asked, part scandalized and part melting into the comfort despite himself.

Michael shrugged, chin now resting atop Sam’s fluffy mess of hair. “You’re not terrifying anymore. You're weirdly soft and clingy and childlike. It’s oddly therapeutic.”

Sam looked like he was about to short-circuit. “I'm not clingy.”

Michael looked down at the six cats and three kittens also pressed around Sam.

Amenadiel raised a brow. Maze sipped.

“…Okay maybe I’m a little clingy,” Sam muttered, defeated.

Michael just smiled faintly and rested again, eyes closing like he had nowhere else to be, and Sam—after a long minute—allowed himself to relax too.

Because for once in eternity, being held wasn’t terrifying.

It was… nice.
Gabriel arrived first.

He didn’t knock—he never knocked. One moment the living room was quiet save for the purring symphony of cats and the gentle scratching of pen to paper, and the next, an archangel stood there in a perfectly pressed coat, holding a clipboard and radiating executive older sibling energy.

He froze.

Remiel landed softly a second later through the balcony, only to pause mid-step like she walked in on something sacred—or confusing. Or both.

“What,” Gabriel said, in a voice that suggested the fabric of the universe had come slightly undone, “in the all-encompassing name of the Presence, am I looking at?”

Michael, still lounging on the couch, didn’t even lift his head. “Siblings.”

Gabriel blinked. “Is that your arm around him?”

“Yes.”

“And he’s writing… about tuna?”

Sam didn’t look up from his notebook, where he had written, “Tuna is the melody of the sea. Salmon is the harmony. I am merely the conductor with crackers.”

Gabriel turned to Remiel.

Remiel stared, slowly blinking like a blue screen error.

“I thought he’d be glowing, dramatic, shirtless, possibly on a throne of fire,” she whispered.

“He is wearing socks with tiny ducks on them,” Gabriel replied.

“And his wings… are cuddling a cat,” Remiel added, pointing.

Indeed, one of the three pairs of wings—particularly the smallest pair behind Sam’s ears—was gently fanned over a purring kitten that had buried itself under a Nicholas Cage sequined pillow.

Michael finally opened one eye. “Are you two staying for tea or just standing there like ghosts?”

Gabriel rubbed his temples. “Michael. That’s Samael.”

“Yes.”

“He’s wearing pastel pink and writing seafood poetry.”

“I know.”

“He’s cuddling you like you’re his emotional support angel.”

Michael’s mouth quirked. “Maybe I am.”

Remiel just collapsed onto a chair like the wind had left her wings. “Okay, I’m gonna say it. I… like this? It’s scary, but I like this.”

Gabriel was still frozen, eyes twitching. “You like this?”

“It’s better than fire and threats. He’s got cats. He likes fruit. And he hasn’t once threatened to smite anyone.”

Sam finally looked up and grinned. “Want a kitten?”

Gabriel sat down.

Because clearly, nothing in Heaven prepared him for this flavor of adorable chaos.

Raphael had seen many things in his existence. Wars, miracles, prophets, pandemics, and even a sentient storm once. But nothing, nothing, prepared him for being lovingly mauled by nine cats while trying to assess his brother’s mental health.

“Please,” Raphael said with a straight face, trying to pry a clinging kitten off his shoulder. “I’m just trying to check his cognitive functions.”

Sam, in the kitchen, didn’t hear. Or maybe he did and just didn’t care. He was too busy humming happily while kneading dough, flour on his face, three wings extended to stir, knead, and guard a baking tray all at once.

Michael was lounging again, sipping tea like this was all perfectly normal.

“You didn’t warn me,” Raphael muttered to him as another cat climbed into his lap with a triumphant meow.

“I did,” Michael replied without looking up from his book. “You just assumed I was exaggerating.”

Raphael gave him a betrayed look.

A kitten crawled up and batted at the archangel’s halo.

Sam called from the kitchen, “Do you like lemon zest in cookies or are you a raisin guy?”

“I—I… zest?” Raphael answered automatically, still blinking in holy dismay as a large ginger cat curled on his notes.

He finally looked at Sam.

There he was. Flour-dusted, sleeves rolled, eyes bright like a newly born star. Wings spread in different directions—still glowing gold on the outside and white within. A halo faintly pulsed above his head, slightly tilted like a crown worn too casually.

This wasn’t Lucifer. Not the cold, calculating Morningstar. Not the proud, towering rebel.

This was Samael, smiling and stirring cookie dough with the joy of someone discovering life for the first time.

Raphael’s diagnosis?

Whatever this was… it wasn’t wrong.

Possibly divine. Definitely confusing.

And yes, he’d take two of the cookies.

_____

Raphael sat, notebook in lap, a pen long forgotten behind his ear as he stared—not at Sam’s behavior now—but his wings.

All six of them.

The three pairs on the back: large, radiant gold on the outside layer with the grace of cathedral glass at sunrise.
The middle inside: snow-white with soft shimmer, impossibly clean despite everything
The inner pair, the strangest—small, delicate, tucked behind his ears like winged veils, each marked with a faint, glowing X that pulsed when Sam got excited about baking.

And then there was the third, barely visible—woven into the nape of his neck, like an ancient sigil or guardian shield.

“This,” Raphael muttered, “defies all known metaphysical structure.”

“You’re talking to a cat again,” Michael pointed out without looking up. “Stop monologuing to Cinnamon.”

Cinnamon, the fluffiest of the kittens, purred louder.

Raphael looked back at Sam, who was currently trying to mold a cookie into the shape of Amenadiel’s chin. “Okay. Okay. Let’s start from the top. Self-actualization. He believes he’s something, so he becomes it. But what does he believe he is?”

Michael raised an eyebrow. “That’s your job to figure out, Doctor Wings.”

Raphael frowned. “He doesn’t remember being Lucifer or Samael in full. He doesn’t hold pride like before. And yet—those wings. That aura. That presence.”

Sam looked over his shoulder. “Are you talking about my back again?”

“...Sort of?”

“Oh, good. I think it tingles when I’m happy. Is that normal?”

Michael: “Nope.”

Raphael sighed, rubbing his temple. “He should be archangel-class. He was the Morningstar. But those are Seraphim markings. The wings, the placement, even the glow patterns. The ‘X’—it’s like the mark of divine resonance. He shouldn’t have that many unless…”

Sam licked batter off his finger. “Unless what?”

Raphael looked up at him, honestly baffled. “Unless you’re evolving.”

Sam blinked, like a cat being told he could read.

Then he just grinned, grabbed a spoonful of dough, and said, “Neat.”

Chapter Text

The air shimmered unnaturally.

Amenadiel stood at the threshold of the penthouse, tense but calm. He had felt her—that presence, ancient and unbearable, like the core of the sun learning empathy. Goddess was back. But she wasn’t screaming. She wasn’t tearing apart dimensions. She was… standing beside him. Wearing Charlotte Richards’ body. Brows slightly furrowed.

> “This is it?” she asked, her voice silk over steel. “This is where he is?”

Amenadiel swallowed. “Yes. Just… go gently. Please.”

She scoffed softly. “I don’t do gently.”

But the moment she stepped inside, she froze.

There was Samael—except not.

The being curled on the couch wore cozy socks, a fluffy pink and red blanket, and had six cats and three kittens stacked around and atop him like furry chaos totems. His golden and white wings fanned gently around his body like a halo made of down. His head rested against Michael’s shoulder—Michael, who looked up from his book and gave the Goddess the flattest look in all of existence.

Dream of the Endless was perched quietly in the corner like a decorative shadow. Raphael was on the floor trying to psychologically evaluate a parrot. Maze was feeding Trixie grapes. Linda was sitting beside a whiteboard titled:
"Siblings I Have Met (So Far)"
…with “AZRAEL” written three times and underlined in glitter pen.

And Sam?

Sam blinked slowly at her and said, “Hi. You’re really pretty. Want a cookie? I made peanut butter ones, but they have raisins. I panicked.”

Goddess blinked. Once. Twice.

She walked in without a word. Picked up a warm cookie from the tray. Bit into it. Sat down slowly beside him.

> “You don’t remember me?” she asked.

He frowned. “Should I?”

> “I’m your mother.”

He blinked again. “Oh. That’s… wild. Want to meet my cats? This one is Tuna Salad.”

Michael didn’t even look up from his book.

> “Tuna Salad is fierce,” he muttered.

The Goddess just sat there, holding a cookie, surrounded by her reborn son, cats, angels, and two mortals—Linda and Dan—who were too stunned to speak.

For the first time in perhaps all of creation, she didn’t speak. She just watched him, this boyish, blank-souled version of her son, and realized something terrifying:

She might actually like him now.

And she had no idea what to do with that.

---
He did not descend. He didn’t need to.

The Presence simply listened—like a cathedral listening to the stories of candles.

He sat in no place and every place, form irrelevant, wrapped in the cosmic hush of Truth, letting the voices of His children wash over Him like starlight on water.

Michael, calm and sharp, spoke of Samael’s transformation. “He clings to me like we were never at war. I don’t know what to do with that. But… I’m not letting go.”

Amenadiel brought reports of kittens, peace, and Star Wars battles with a human child. “He's… happy. He wakes up humming. He apologizes to chairs he bumps into.”

Gabriel had less to say and more to feel. He described Sam’s chaotic baking sessions and the deep confusion at watching him talk to birds and name clouds.

Remiel simply muttered, “He’s soft now. It's alarming.”

Zadkiel only nodded. “He tried to give me a painted rock with glitter glue. It said ‘Hug Tax’. I kept it.”

Then came Azrael, laughing. “He helped me fold my robe and said I look cool. He called my scythe ‘edgy.’ I was going to reap a soul but stayed to help him alphabetize his vinyl records.”

Even Raphael, scientist of mind and soul, confessed: “His wings don’t make sense. His spirit is fragmented. And yet he radiates more serenity than I’ve felt in millennia.”

Then came the Goddess, her voice soft and uncertain. “He offered me a cookie. Said I looked sad and asked if hugs helped. I held him. I didn’t want to let go.”

They all spoke.

And the Presence, the source of All, sat in stillness.

And then, for the first time since Sam’s amnesia began, He stirred.

He smiled.

> “That… was not supposed to happen,” He said.

> “But I think I like it.”

---

It was a quiet hour in the apartment. The cats were curled up in puddles of fur. Morpheus, tall and still as ever, sat beside the bookshelf flipping through a dream journal Sam had accidentally written in ancient Greek, Sumerian, and Quechua—all in one sentence.

Sam was at the kitchen counter, tongue sticking out in concentration, scribbling something on a notepad.

He stared down.

Frowned.

“Why the hell… can I write Aramaic backwards while upside down, but can’t spell ‘restaurant’ right?”

Maze, leaning against the fridge sipping soda through a straw, let out a snort-laugh so loud one of the kittens bolted.

“You spelled it restoorent,” she cackled, walking over and poking the paper. “What are you, five?”

“I feel five,” Sam grumbled, jabbing his pencil at the pad. “This is cruel. I can speak Enochian like it’s a lullaby, but I forgot how to spell Wednesday. I put a ‘g’ in it.”

Morpheus didn’t even look up. “To be fair, the spelling of that word is an abomination.”

Maze crouched beside Sam and grinned. “You, my dear noodle-winged fallen boy, are a chaos gremlin. And I love that for you.”

Then, without warning, she kissed his temple.

“Good luck,” she whispered with a smirk, heading toward the door. “Try not to rewrite a whole linguistic era while you’re at it.”

Sam blinked at Morpheus. “Was that a threat or a blessing?”

Morpheus simply said, “Yes.”

---

Chapter Text

It was a quiet hour in the apartment. The cats were curled up in puddles of fur. Morpheus, tall and still as ever, sat beside the bookshelf flipping through a dream journal Sam had accidentally written in ancient Greek, Sumerian, and Quechua—all in one sentence.

Sam was at the kitchen counter, tongue sticking out in concentration, scribbling something on a notepad.

He stared down.

Frowned.

“Why the hell… can I write Aramaic backwards while upside down, but can’t spell ‘restaurant’ right?”

Maze, leaning against the fridge sipping soda through a straw, let out a snort-laugh so loud one of the kittens bolted.

“You spelled it restoorent,” she cackled, walking over and poking the paper. “What are you, five?”

“I feel five,” Sam grumbled, jabbing his pencil at the pad. “This is cruel. I can speak Enochian like it’s a lullaby, but I forgot how to spell Wednesday. I put a ‘g’ in it.”

Morpheus didn’t even look up. “To be fair, the spelling of that word is an abomination.”

Maze crouched beside Sam and grinned. “You, my dear noodle-winged fallen boy, are a chaos gremlin. And I love that for you.”

Then, without warning, she kissed his temple.

“Good luck,” she whispered with a smirk, heading toward the door. “Try not to rewrite a whole linguistic era while you’re at it.”

Sam blinked at Morpheus. “Was that a threat or a blessing?”

Morpheus simply said, “Yes.”

---

---

The interrogation room was dim. Chloe sat across from the suspect—a slick, overconfident corporate executive accused of embezzlement and accessory to murder.

Sam stood beside her, hands loosely in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

“Let’s begin,” Chloe said, sliding the file forward. “We know the accounts lead back to you.”

The man scoffed. “I want a lawyer.”

Sam stepped forward. “You also want someone to finally ask why you haven’t called your mother since you were twenty-one, and why you feel safer behind glass than in someone’s arms.”

The man blinked.

Chloe blinked harder.

Sam tilted his head gently. “Your father was never proud of you, was he? Always the shadow, never the star. So you made yourself useful, indispensable. You wanted to be loved, so you gave them what they wanted—even when it meant betraying someone else.”

The man’s jaw trembled. “I… I didn’t mean to—he was going to ruin everything. He was going to ruin me.”

Sam’s voice softened. “You’re not ruined. Just tired of fighting alone.”

And then the suspect broke down. Crying. Sobbing into his hands like a child who had finally been allowed to collapse.

Chloe stared at Sam like he’d turned water into emotional breakdowns.

He turned to her. “What?”

“What was that?”

“Empathy,” he said casually. “Also, possibly several therapy books, one meditation app, and… Linda.”

Dan, watching through the glass, muttered, “That’s not an interrogation. That’s a free soul-cleansing session.”

Chloe couldn’t even argue. The suspect was talking, everything was unraveling, and Sam hadn’t raised his voice once.

She leaned toward him. “Is it bad I can’t tell if I’m incredibly impressed or vaguely turned on?”

Sam blinked at her. “Both are valid reactions.”

Behind them, Raphael whispered to Ella through the glass: “See? He disarms criminals emotionally.”

Ella, still clutching her ‘Lucifer is Real’ notebook, whispered back, “He’s like if a therapist and a glitter bomb had a baby.”

------

The warehouse stank of oil and metal. Chloe moved through it like a professional—gun steady, steps silent, eyes scanning every shadow. Sam, dressed absurdly pristine in his white three-piece suit, trailed behind with curious calm.

“We’ve got movement,” she whispered.

They turned a corner—too fast.

The suspect was waiting. Gun raised. Too close.

“Chloe, down!”

The shot rang out. She dropped instinctively.

Sam moved before his thoughts caught up—instinct, something primal and unshakable. Wings burst free in a snap of golden sound and white radiance. The bullet hit the second left wing.

He staggered but stood his ground.

The suspect tried again—two, three, four shots—one grazing his side, two more embedding in his shoulder. Chloe shot back and took him down, but it was done.

“Sam!” she gasped, running to him.

He was still standing, hand pressed over the wound at his ribs. Wings slowly drooping like tired flags.

“You’re hit. You’re hit.”

His voice cracked through clenched teeth, barely above a whisper but infinitely reverent:

“Raphael. Brother. Please—get your pretty ass down here. I’ve got holes in me.”

He wobbled.

“Make it fast. I’m leaking.”

Chloe supported him. “You—you took a bullet for me. Why?!”

He looked at her, eyes glassy but sincere. “Because… you’re my partner. And I protect the people I love. That’s how I know I’m still good.”

A glow shimmered into existence as Raphael descended, hair immaculate, annoyed already.

“What did you do now?”

“I protected someone,” Sam whispered. “Five bullets’ worth.”

Raphael sighed and rolled his sleeves. “You dramatic little winged idiot. Hold still.”

As healing began, Chloe never let go of Sam’s hand. He never let go of her gaze. The others would arrive soon. For now, the white suit was ruined, but the point was made.

This angel bled—but only for someone worth it.

---
---

Back in the penthouse, Sam lay curled under his absurd red and baby pink blanket, bandaged and warm, with all nine cats gently nestled around him like fuzzy living shields.

Maze was sharpening a knife while pretending not to check his breathing every 30 seconds.

And Michael?

Michael was standing by the window, back stiff, jaw clenched. Wings out. Not flared—just hanging there with this calm that was not calm at all. His hand flexed rhythmically, as if itching to wring someone’s neck.

Chloe had been sitting by the couch, quiet, but even she noticed the air crackle.

“Michael?”

The archangel didn’t move his eyes from the skyline.

“No one. No one, shoots him,” he said lowly.

“He’s okay—”

Michael finally turned, and that usual sarcasm in his face had melted into a razor-sharp expression of cold fury.

“They hurt Lucifer. But that was fine back then. Because he hated himself.” His voice cracked a little. “But this? This is Sam. He’s free. Innocent. He calls himself a government pigeon, Chloe.”

Chloe blinked. “A… pigeon?”

“Yeah,” Sam muttered sleepily from the couch. “Free bird. Not majestic. But I can poop on the bad guys.”

Michael turned to him. “Go back to sleep, you fragile muffin.”

Sam blinked. “You sound like a mom.”

Michael scowled. “Say that again and I’ll bury the shooter with a holy shovel.”

Trixie, passing through, whispered to Maze, “Michael’s scary but also kinda cool.”

Maze grinned. “Yeah. But don’t tell him that. It’ll go to his head.”

Chloe shook her head, watching Michael slowly return to the couch and sit beside Sam, arms crossed, wings carefully folding around his twin.

The war was still happening. But Sam?

Sam was safe.

And if anyone tried again, Michael would show them what an angry twin archangel really looked like.

---

---

Gabriel didn’t knock.

He simply blinked into the penthouse, fully armored in celestial light, sword at his side, eyes ablaze with purpose.

“Where is he?”

Maze pointed her dagger at the couch. “Bleeding less. Sleeping more.”

Michael didn’t move from his spot beside Sam, whose wings were twitching in a dream—tiny golden sparks flicking off every so often.

Gabriel walked forward slowly, pausing when he saw his little brother properly. Sam was half-buried under a rainbow of blankets and cats, wings relaxed and draped off the couch like some divine throw rug. His hair was a tangled mess. His face soft.

And one of his hands was loosely holding a small pink plush rabbit.

“What the hell?” Gabriel whispered. “He’s… cute?”

“Yeah,” Michael grunted. “Annoyingly.”

“I thought he was evil incarnate.”

“Not anymore. Now he’s a cinnamon roll with trauma.”

Gabriel knelt down beside the couch. His hand hovered just over Sam’s forehead. His voice lowered.

“Five bullets?”

Michael’s jaw ticked. “In one wing. And he still protected Chloe.”

“… Of course he did,” Gabriel muttered, almost to himself. Then louder: “Who shot him?”

“We’ll get to that.”

Gabriel stared for a long moment, then sat back on his heels with a weird expression. It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t confusion.

It was soft panic.

“Why do I feel like I want to wrap him in clouds and spoon-feed him pudding?”

Maze snorted. “That’s the effect.”

“He’s glowing, Michael.”

“I know.”

“He made a quote about tuna earlier.”

“I know.”

Gabriel turned toward Maze, whispering. “Has he always been like this?”

“No,” Maze said, smiling like the chaos monster she was. “But now that he is? Welcome to the club, Gabe. You’re smitten too.”

Sam, still half-asleep, muttered, “I can hear you and I want cookies.”

Gabriel stood and whispered back, “He’s so powerful but wants cookies and plush bunnies. I’m going to lose my mind.”

Michael sighed. “Get in line.”

---
---

The penthouse was quieter than it had ever been—soft light spilling in through the windows, six cats and three kittens puddled around the sofa like celestial guardians, purring. Sam, or rather Samael, lay curled under a ridiculous baby pink and red blanket. His wings, half-tucked in and twitching, fluttered now and then in sleep.

He had drooled a little on Michael’s sleeve.

Michael didn’t move.

The others sat or leaned nearby: Amenadiel nursing a cup of tea, Raphael with his tablet still trying to map divine wing structure to psychology, Maze sharpening her favorite dagger while low-key watching over everyone like a panther. Gabriel stared at the couch like it might turn into a fever dream any second.

And standing just beside them—elegant, composed, and devastatingly quiet—was the Goddess.

Charlotte Richards’ body had always carried strength, but now there was softness in her features. Something hesitant. Something fragile.

“…That’s my son?” she asked at last, voice nearly breaking.

Amenadiel nodded. “He doesn’t remember anything. No pride, no rage. Just… this.”

“Just this,” she repeated, eyes landing on the drool spot and the way Michael’s hand protectively rested atop Sam’s.

She sank into the nearest armchair. Her expression trembled, then softened.

“I hurt him,” she whispered.

“We all did,” Raphael replied quietly, closing his tablet.

Michael didn’t look up, but his voice was low and steady. “He’s different now. But he’s still him. And for once… he’s happy.”

“I want to try again,” she said, suddenly resolute. “If I have even one chance to fix it… to tell him he was always enough. That he never had to try so hard to be loved.”

Maze raised an eyebrow. “He’ll believe you. He believes everyone.”

“He’s still that trusting?”

“He let me brush his wings yesterday,” Raphael muttered. “He gave me a mango for it.”

Michael’s voice, deadpan: “He made me soup and cried because the carrots were ‘too cute to chop.’”

Gabriel: “He asked if tuna can have existential crises.”

The Goddess blinked, then laughed—a real one. Shaky, but bright.

And from the couch, soft and blurry with sleep, came a voice:

“...Are we talking about me again? Is there food? Mom?”

All eyes turned.

Michael leaned over. “Go back to sleep, Sammy. We’re fixing the universe.”

Sam blinked once. “Fix it with cookies.”

And then—he was out again, one hand curled into his twin’s coat.

The Goddess whispered into the hush:
“I will. I’ll start with cookies.”

---

Chapter Text

The penthouse smelled like chaos. Specifically: burnt toast, Raphael’s half-successful waffles, Maze’s fire-roasted bacon (she stabbed it into the pan like it had insulted her), and Michael’s suspiciously perfect scrambled eggs.

Gabriel had somehow made cloud-shaped pancakes and Amenadiel was arranging them into a tower for artistic effect. The Goddess was sitting with flour on her cheek and a bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough in her lap, looking like she was at peace for the first time in eons.

And Sam?

Sam stood in the bathroom, the light soft and golden, quietly staring into the mirror.

At first, he’d just meant to fix his hair—Michael had ruffled it into oblivion in his sleep again—but the reflection caught something.

Something beneath the collar of his loose pajama shirt. He tilted his head.

A thin mark. Around his throat. Almost like...

Rope?

Or a blade?

His fingers trailed lower. Pulled the sleeve up. There—along his forearms—were faint lines. Barely visible. Pale and faded like old stories that had been whispered and forgotten.

One long scar on the left. Another mirrored on the right. Vertical. Deep, once.

Sam didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

His eyes didn’t even blink as the memory—no, not even a memory, just feeling—slid down his spine like ice water. Grief? Pain? A voice? A scream?

No.

He shook his head softly. The mirror stayed the same.

His hand covered the mark on his neck.

And then a voice shouted from the kitchen:
“SAMMY IF YOU DON’T GET OUT HERE I’M EATING YOUR CHOCOLATE WAFFLES—”

Maze.

He smiled faintly. Shaky.

“Coming!”

Sam tugged his sleeve back down. Collar adjusted. Mask intact.

And when he walked out into the light, nine cats followed him like shadows, curling around his ankles like they knew everything and forgave him anyway.

---

The second Sam stepped into the kitchen, it felt like walking onto the set of a divine sitcom with zero budget but maximum drama.

Maze was flipping bacon with a butterfly knife. Gabriel was somehow juggling two bottles of syrup and singing a jingle about "holy hotcakes." Amenadiel had organized the mugs by angelic choir rank. Michael was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, completely calm—until someone got too close to Sam, then his eyes narrowed like a guard dog with wings.

Raphael was trying to make pancakes… and getting repeatedly interrupted by kittens climbing his legs. One was latched onto his arm. “I am a healer, not a jungle gym!”

The Goddess—looking like she belonged in a Pinterest brunch board—offered everyone cookies before breakfast. “They’re made with love and guilt,” she said cheerfully. “Mostly guilt.”

Dan walked in, looked at the chaos, saw a kitten wearing sunglasses and perched on Sam’s head, and walked back out without saying a word.

Trixie popped up beside Sam with a chocolate-stained grin. “Uncle Sam, your wing is showing.”

Sam blinked. “Oh—whoops.” He tucked the edge back under his hoodie, which had ‘Empathy is a superpower’ in glitter across the back.

Gabriel noticed and stage-whispered, “So we’re just… casually ignoring the whole ‘seraph with kitchen skills and nine cats’ thing?”

“Casual is the only thing keeping me sane,” Raphael muttered, removing a kitten from his hoodie pocket.

“Wait,” said Michael, watching Sam stack pancakes with surgical precision. “Is that… tuna on the side?”

“It’s for the cats,” Sam said innocently.

“They’re spoiled,” muttered Maze, handing him a plate with bacon shaped like daggers. “Here. Eat your weapons.”

“Thanks, love.”

Everyone froze.

Gabriel: “Love?”
Amenadiel: “Wait what—”
The Goddess: “Oh my stars.”
Raphael: “Are we shipping that now?”
Michael: staring intensely at Sam
Maze: “I mean, it’s true.”

Sam blinked, chewing on waffle. “What’d I say?”

Michael nearly choked on his tea.

Nine cats meowed in harmony.

Gabriel whispered to Amenadiel, “Do you think he knows he’s basically the main character in an emotional redemption arc?”

Amenadiel sipped his coffee. “He will. Soon.”

Maze wrapped an arm around Sam’s waist. “Eat up, sunshine. You’ve got a big day of revelations, possible tears, and existential dread.”

Sam grinned. “So... just a Tuesday?”

Everyone laughed.

The toaster exploded in the background.

Cue theme music: “He’s an angel with amnesia, they’re a divine hot mess... Welcome to: SAM AND THE CELESTIALS!”

---

The kitchen had gone quiet.

Sunlight poured lazily through the penthouse windows, casting soft amber patterns on the floor. The divine sitcom chaos had long faded into background memory. It was just Sam and Maze now—still, warm, and heavy with the kind of silence that says “It’s time.”

He sat on the couch, sleeves rolled up, tracing faint pale lines on his wrists with gentle fingers. He hadn’t told anyone. Not even the mirror that morning had really told him. But Maze had known.

Maze always knew.

She didn’t speak right away. Just sat beside him, not touching, not pushing, just being. Then her voice—low, steady, and full of emotion despite its edge—cut through the quiet like a blade wrapped in silk.

“You saw the marks.”

Sam nodded slowly. His fingers went from his wrists to the base of his neck, where a phantom sting lingered.

“Maze,” he said, “I don’t understand why they’re there. But… I feel them. And not just the skin.”

Her jaw clenched. “I was there, you know. The first time. The second.” She looked at him—at Samael—and for a moment, the Maze who had lived through Hell flickered behind her gaze.

“You told me you were hurting so much,” she said, voice cracking only barely, “and in that hour, that minute, that very second… you didn’t think about those you could hurt.”

Sam’s eyes shimmered. He didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt.

“And I get it,” Maze went on, quieter now. “I really do. Because that pain? That kind of deep, hollow, screaming pain that eats everything? It makes you blind.”

She finally reached over, took his hand—gentle, uncharacteristically so—and held it in both of hers.

“But you’re here now. You’re you. You’ve got nine damn cats and too much glitter and people who love you, Sam.”

A pause.

“Please,” she whispered, “don’t think more into this. Don’t go looking for the pain again. Just stay with us. With me.”

Sam didn’t speak for a long moment. Then, he leaned into her, quiet and trembling and so, so human for an angel.

“…I’m scared.”

“I know,” Maze said, holding him tighter. “So am I.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was full. Of understanding. Of pain. Of healing.

The sun outside shifted slightly, casting light right over the both of them, as if the world knew this moment mattered.

And in that quiet hour, it did.

---

It was later now—almost evening. The golden haze of 5 p.m. filtered through the windows like molasses, painting the penthouse in syrupy warmth.

Linda walked in with her tablet tucked under her arm, expecting a usual check-in. Some light banter. Maybe a snarky remark about psychology from the amnesiac angel currently collecting cats like infinity stones.

Instead, she saw Sam. Sitting still. Elbows on the table, his fingers woven together like they were holding something fragile between them. His face was soft. Sad. Distant.

“Sam?” she asked gently, approaching. “Are you okay?”

He looked up—and it wasn’t a slow, thoughtful look. It was the startled kind, like someone pulled out of a deep, heavy thought.

“Dr. Linda.” He tried to smile. “I… yeah.”

But Linda Martin was many things. One of them was a damn good therapist. She sat beside him, placed her tablet aside.

“No, you’re not,” she said softly. “Talk to me.”

Sam was quiet again for a moment. Then he looked her in the eyes, and there it was: the weight of divinity barely held in human form. The grief, the confusion, the endless empathy. And the truth.

“I saw the marks today,” he whispered. “On my wrists. And on my neck.”

Linda’s eyes widened faintly. “Marks?”

“I didn’t understand at first. But Maze… she knew. She told me.” His voice shook slightly. “Attempt one. Then attempt two.”

Linda sat still. She felt like someone had pulled the air out of the room.

“I… I didn’t know,” she said, her voice small. “Lucifer—he never said a thing.”

“Because he wouldn’t,” Sam said gently. “But I’m him. Even now. I’m still Samael. Just without the walls.”

He let out a quiet, bitter chuckle.

“And it turns out when you take away the pain and the pride and the armor… you get someone who still has all the cracks.”

Linda’s hand moved instinctively to rest over his. “Sam. Samael. You’re not broken.”

He looked at her again.

“I didn’t think it would hurt me to see it. But it does. It hurts because… I feel sorry for the person I used to be. I want to go back and stop him.” His voice caught. “But I can’t.”

Linda blinked fast. “No. But you can do something he never believed in.”

“What’s that?”

“You can heal.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Sam stared down at their joined hands. And then he nodded, very slowly. The pain wouldn’t disappear. But for once… he didn’t have to carry it alone.

---
The penthouse felt full again.

Amenadiel was brewing tea, somehow managing to look holy and judgmental even while boiling water. Michael sat on the couch, long legs crossed, absently scrolling through a file he wasn’t reading. Gabriel was poking through Sam’s vinyl collection with the fascination of a crow encountering glitter, and the Goddess—Mom—stood at the balcony, watching the skies like they might offer answers.

Sam sat on the floor. His back to the coffee table, his cats weaving through his arms, legs, and sometimes hair. One of the kittens was nesting in his lap. He looked at his family… and then down at his own hands.

The silence stretched.

Then Sam whispered, just loud enough to be heard:

“Why would I?”

All eyes turned to him.

“Why would I choose to go through with it?” he murmured, voice distant. “How much pain must I have been in… that dying—unmaking—felt like the only thing I had left?”

His voice trembled. No one interrupted. Not yet.

“I looked in the mirror and I saw the marks. One on the neck. Deep.” He reached up unconsciously, brushing fingers across his throat. “Then the arms. Vertical. Not a cry for help. A plan. Attempt one, like some messed up version of ‘13 Reasons Why.’”

Michael flinched. The Goddess looked away. Gabriel stopped breathing for a moment.

Sam continued, staring down at his lap. “I used a story. A human show. A teenager’s tragedy… for my own pain. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

He laughed once, brittle and light. “An archangel. The Morningstar. Using pop culture to die with narrative style.”

“Sam,” the Goddess whispered, stepping forward, “you were—”

“He was in agony,” Sam said. “Lucifer. He always was. And I know I’m not him, not completely. But I am him. Just stripped bare. No performance. No vanity. Just… raw.”

Gabriel quietly knelt down beside him, resting a hand on his back. Sam didn’t flinch.

“He always deserved better,” Sam whispered. “Not scorn. Not exile. Not being blamed for the fall of everything when he just… asked questions. Wanted more. Needed love.”

A pause. A breath.

“I don’t think he ever hated God. I think he hated being alone.”

Amenadiel's hands trembled on the tea mug.

“You’re not alone anymore,” Michael said quietly, setting his file aside. “Not one bit. And… you’re not going back to that place. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

Sam didn’t smile. But his fingers curled slightly around the kitten, and he leaned into Gabriel’s touch.

“I’m trying,” he said.

And for now… that was enough.

---

Chapter Text

The living room was unusually quiet for having three archangels and a literal Goddess in it.

The Goddess—Charlotte, for now—was sitting with her legs crossed on one end of the couch, one hand gripping the throw pillow like she might tear it. Gabriel sat by the fireplace, silent for once, staring into the embers even though the fire was long out. Michael stood with his arms folded, not facing anyone, his expression unreadable.

Amenadiel was pacing.

And Sam? Sam was asleep upstairs. Resting, healing, after too many revelations, too many memories creeping back like dust through light beams. The silence had weight.

Then Gabriel finally said it, voice low, stunned, like it still hadn’t fully landed in his chest:

“He tried to kill himself.”

Saying it made it real.

Charlotte flinched.

Amenadiel stopped pacing. His mouth worked around something unspeakable.

Michael turned slowly, face unreadable. “Twice.”

It was Gabriel who broke first. “But—he was Lucifer. Prideful. Dramatic. So full of life and flair and—how did none of us see it? How did we—I—not know?”

“Because he never told us,” Amenadiel murmured. “Not the truth. Not fully.”

Charlotte stood, slowly, almost shakily. “Because we failed him.”

They all looked to her.

“I made him feel like he had to be more than he was. All the time,” she admitted. “Even when I loved him, I... I praised his brightness but feared his questions. I punished his defiance instead of listening. I blamed him for the fall and abandoned him in Hell. I was his mother. And I left him alone.”

Silence again.

Then Michael, softly—almost like a confession: “I hated him so much I didn’t realize… how broken he was underneath it all.”

Gabriel slumped forward. “All that time, when he mocked us, teased us… it was a mask.”

“He was in pain,” Amenadiel said through clenched teeth. “And not one of us saw past the performance.”

Charlotte sat again. “But now he’s here. Changed. And it’s not just memory loss—it’s freedom. He’s still himself. But… softer. Honest. He trusts again.”

“Too easily,” Michael muttered, though not cruelly. “He’s vulnerable.”

“Then we protect him,” Charlotte said firmly. “Not because he’s fragile. Because he’s family. And because he never should have thought ending it all was the only way out.”

Amenadiel nodded slowly. “We don’t let him fall again. Not this time.”

They didn’t swear it aloud. But the air shifted, like something old had finally cracked.

Above them, Sam turned in his sleep, as if sensing the vow formed in silence below.

---
Sam had meant to just get a glass of water.

Instead, he stood quietly at the top of the stairs, one hand braced on the banister, staring down into the living room where his family spoke truths they hadn’t dared admit until now.

His throat was tight. Not from their words—though they hit hard—but from the feeling in his chest. A bone-deep ache that curled beneath his ribs and sat where breath should be.
They were talking about Lucifer.
Him. But not him. And yet, still him.

It was strange, hearing about his own pain from the mouths of those who had once missed it. Strange, and heavy.

The blade mark on his neck itched. The scars down his arms felt colder than they should in the house’s warmth.
But what ached the most was the name:
“Lucifer tried to kill himself.”

Sam closed his eyes. The memories weren’t clear. But the grief—that, he felt. Like a ghost echoing in the hollowed-out parts of his soul.

He looked over his shoulder, drawn by an odd sensation.

Two small pairs of wings, no bigger than dove wings, fluttered near the nape of his neck. Another pair, fluffier, softer, were tucked right behind his ears. They felt warm—emotional. Like living, breathing memories.

The full wings on his back stayed retracted, asleep for now. But even they pulsed softly in tune with his heartbeat.
“What... am I?” he whispered to himself.

A Seraph?

An Archangel?

Something else?

“Maybe I’m just... tired,” he murmured, stepping quietly down the stairs.

The conversation had lulled, but the air was thick with sadness, regret. His family’s backs were turned to him. He walked softly—he didn’t want to startle them. Just... see them.

See them grieve him.

They cared.

Even if it came too late.

Michael was gripping the back of a chair tightly. Gabriel’s shoulders were hunched. Amenadiel looked older than he had in years. Charlotte had her eyes closed, breathing deep, steadying her soul.

And Sam—Lucifer—Samael—stood in the doorway.

“…I didn’t remember. Not until now,” he said softly.

They all turned.

“I didn’t remember how much it hurt. Not fully. Just feelings. Shadows.”
He stepped in.
“But I know that pain. I can feel it now. The part of me that wanted it all to stop.”

Michael rose instantly. “Sam—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted gently. “It’s me. I remember enough to know that... he—I—was breaking. And you didn’t see it. But now I do.”

He looked at his hands. “He was... so angry. But under it, he just wanted someone to choose him. To stay. To see past the drama and the divinity. And love him anyway.”

Charlotte’s eyes welled.

Sam looked up, gaze direct, soft, yet steady. “I think I need to love him now. If no one else did in time, then I will. Even if he’s... me.”

He stepped over and gently put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Thank you for trying now.”

Then, quieter, almost brokenly: “It still matters.”

She covered his hand with hers.

Gabriel was already crying, quietly, hiding it badly behind a sleeve.

Sam looked around at all of them, voice warm, raw.
“I’m still here.”

His three tiny head-wings fluttered.

The family had no words left.

Only grief.

And healing.

And the promise of something new.

---
The next morning came with suspiciously golden sunlight, the kind that practically glowed with healing energy—or at least the kind you could convince yourself was holy if you squinted just right.

Sam padded into the kitchen barefoot, wearing an oversized pale-pink hoodie with a glowing cat paw on it (a gift from Trixie, of course). His wings—yes, all of them—were out today. Sleepy. Fluffy. One of the tiny head-wings was drooping lazily over his forehead like a very confused eyebrow.

“Morning,” Maze greeted, holding a spatula like a weapon and glaring at the waffle iron like it had personally offended her. “I’m making… food.”

Sam blinked. “Like—human food? Or your version of ‘I seasoned it with demon fire and rage’ food?”

“…Little of both.”

She flipped a waffle that looked like it might fight back if given legs.

Sam smiled. He wasn’t glowing or radiant or otherworldly. He just looked like a tired man with too many wings and a cat trying to scale his back. (That one was Pickle, the most dramatic of the kittens.)

“Where’s everyone else?” he asked, gently scooping Pickle and placing her on the counter, much to her dramatic dismay.

“Amenadiel’s running errands. Michael’s upstairs dealing with a wing knot—” she made air quotes, “—and Raphael’s outside yelling at birds because apparently they ‘disrespected his healing presence.’”

Sam blinked, “...The birds?”

“Specifically a crow named Dennis.”

“Dennis is kind of a jerk,” Sam nodded solemnly.

Maze flipped another waffle. “How’re you holding up?”

He leaned against the counter. “Tired. Emotionally cracked open. Hugged by too many people.”

“Welcome to healing,” she smirked.

He tilted his head. “Did you just quote a Hallmark card?”

“Don’t make me stab your waffle.”

They both burst into soft laughter.

Pickle meowed in protest.

“Hey Maze?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think... I’ll ever feel completely like me? Not Lucifer. Not the Devil. Just... Sam?”

Maze turned around, leaned on the counter beside him, and nudged his arm. “You already are. You’ve got waffle crumbs on your sleeve, three sleeping kittens on the sofa, and your head wings keep twitching when you're lying.”

Sam looked up. “I don’t lie.”

“They’re twitching right now.”

“…traitors.”

She grinned. “But they’re your traitors.”

He smiled into the mug of tea she handed him. The world didn’t feel fixed, but it felt manageable. And that was enough.

Suddenly, the door opened.

Michael poked his head in, hair messy, wearing a sweater that definitely wasn’t his. “Did someone say waffles? Also, Raphael is still yelling at Dennis. I think he’s losing.”

Sam looked over his shoulder, wings fluttering softly.

“You’re late.”

Michael blinked. “I was untangling a head-wing from a ceiling fan.”

Everyone paused.

Maze muttered, “...This house is getting too weird.”

Sam just smiled wider.

“Welcome home.”

---

The mission sounded simple on paper:

Objective: Get Samael outside.
Sub-objective: Touch the grass.
Optional Bonus: Touch the grass without screaming.

But alas, nothing involving Sam ever stayed simple—not when you’re part celestial kitten, part emotional soft boy, and part possibly-Seraph with three billion wings all emotionally synced.

And today?

Today Sam was a defensive unit of floof.

“Brother,” Amenadiel tried gently, peering behind the couch. “It’s just the backyard. There’s fresh air. And possibly cookies.”

A tiny hiss came from behind the cushions.

Gabriel leaned down, whispering, “He’s hissing again.”

Raphael rubbed his temples. “He’s not a cat, Gabe.”

“He’s cat-adjacent,” Michael muttered, arms crossed.

“You try dragging a nine-winged marshmallow with abandonment issues outside without getting emotionally sucker-punched,” Gabriel countered.

From behind the couch, a muffled but very annoyed Sam replied, “I can hear you.”

“We know!” they all chimed back in heavenly unison.

The room was a circus of celestial chaos.

One wing flared up from behind the couch like an exclamation mark. Then another. Then all of them.

Poof.

“Holy hell,” muttered Remiel, staring. “That’s more feather than man.”

Chloe poked her head in the room. “Did you guys make him cry or something?!”

“No,” Maze said, holding a cat like a weapon. “He saw a bee near the door. It spiraled from there.”

“A bee?” Linda blinked.

“A bee,” Gabriel nodded solemnly. “You’d be shocked how fast ‘bee’ turns into ‘existential crisis.’”

Just then, a pair of glowing violet eyes peeked over the armrest.

Sam squinted.

“Are you done?” he asked, voice still soft, still tangled in something too big for words.

Michael knelt beside the couch, not reaching, just being.

“No,” he answered honestly. “Because we love you, and your wings are shedding like a maniac.”

Sam blinked. “They’re nervous.”

“They’re fuzzy,” Raphael added.

Then—without warning—Sam slowly climbed out from behind the couch like a cautious raccoon emerging from emotional hibernation. His wings twitched with every movement.

And then?

He walked right into his siblings and hugged them.

All of them.

There was no angel choir, no beam of light, just a quiet moment with Sam’s wings curling around them in a blanket-like cocoon of divine affection.

They didn’t go outside.

They didn’t need to.

Because today, this was enough.

---

Late Night, Nine Wings, and One Cosmic Visit

The penthouse was quiet.

Not eerily so—just that kind of stillness only found when everyone’s finally asleep, even the cats, curled up in divine puddles of fur.

And Sam?

Sam sat on the floor, blanket still over his shoulders, nine wings loosely sprawled in different directions like sleepy, uncertain thoughts.

He held a pen. Paper sat untouched in his lap. The sentence he’d tried to write three times refused to cooperate.

Why do I have these wings?

It wasn’t self-pity. It was wonder. Exhaustion. A thread of fear.

He looked in the mirror across the room. The faint light reflected off the pairs—

The grand, powerful ones at his back.

The gentler, smaller ones at his nape.

The soft, catlike wings behind his ears, twitching when emotions got too loud.

“Seraph...?” he whispered.

The word barely left his lips when—

Everything shifted.

No flash. No thunder. Just warmth. Pressure. A change in the air, like stepping into sunlight after years in the cold.

Behind him, the shadows adjusted. The cats perked up, blinked... then fell back asleep.

Because He was here.

The Presence.

Not in robes, not glowing, not even overly tall. Just… there. Like someone you’d somehow known forever, yet couldn’t look at without feeling both seen and safe.

“Hello, my boy,” the Presence said softly, sitting beside Sam on the floor. Just like that. Casual. Present. A father.

Sam stiffened. “I... I didn’t summon you.”

“You didn’t need to,” the Presence replied, smiling. “You wondered. That was enough.”

Sam looked down at his hands. “I don’t remember much of him... Lucifer. But I keep finding the pieces. The scars. The pain. Why would I have wings like this? Why would I be allowed to forget if I was just going to remember pain?”

The Presence placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “You didn’t forget to be punished. You forgot so that you could begin again.”

“But why me?” Sam asked, voice cracking. “I’m not—he... I wasn’t worthy. He thought he wasn’t.”

“You are both worthy,” the Presence said, voice low and steady. “You are him, and you are more. He carried pain he never spoke aloud. You carry love he never thought he deserved. Your wings reflect that—both what was and what is.”

“Then what am I?”

The Presence smiled gently.

“You are my child. Still. Always. And sometimes... healing doesn’t look like forgetting. It looks like becoming.”

Sam stared at the carpet for a long time. Then:

“…I think I’m scared.”

The Presence nodded. “Good. That means you care. But you are not alone. Even now, in your uncertainty, your siblings rally. Maze guards. Linda listens. And you, my dear Sam… you love. Even when you’re hurting.”

Sam leaned against Him without thinking, wings curling in.

And for once?

There was no shame.

No divine wrath.

Just quiet, earned peace.

---
The stars above Los Angeles were dimmed by city light—except tonight.
Because Sam fell asleep under the warmth of his father’s presence...
…and woke up somewhere between time and memory.

The air was cool.
Starlit.
The sand beneath his bare feet shimmered faintly like powdered stardust.

The Dreaming.

And standing before him in his dark, silhouetted glory—black robe flowing like smoke—was Dream of the Endless, watching with a faint but unmistakable softness in his eyes.

“You came,” Sam whispered.

“I never left,” Dream replied, voice like velvet night. “I have watched over you. And him. Both. Always.”

Sam looked down. “I don’t even know who ‘him’ really was. I only feel what he felt. It’s like… I’m haunted by myself.”

“You are not haunted,” said another voice—smooth, proud, amused.

Lucifer Morningstar.

The old version.
The Devil with sharp suits and sharper eyes, standing a few paces behind Sam, arms folded, smirk soft, not cruel.

Sam spun around, startled.

Lucifer chuckled. “Don’t be so surprised. You really think I’d let you deal with all this alone?”

“I thought… you were me.”

“I was. I am. But Dream’s realm is weird like that.” He shrugged. “It lets us meet... when we need to.”

Sam blinked. “You… don’t hate me?”

Lucifer stepped forward. “Hate you? You’re the part of me that survived. The part that healed. You’re everything I never thought I deserved.” He paused, then with uncharacteristic gentleness added, “You’re what comes after the fire.”

Sam’s voice trembled. “But why did I hurt so much?”

Lucifer smiled, not unkindly. “Because we cared. We burned for justice, for love, for meaning. And when the world refused to see us for what we were… we turned that fire on ourselves.”
He looked up at Dream. “You tried to warn me once.”

Dream nodded. “You would not listen. But he has.”

Lucifer turned back to Sam, placing a hand over his chest. “You carry me in here. But you are not broken. You’re rebuilding.”

Sam blinked back tears. “I don’t know how to be you.”

“You don’t have to,” Lucifer said simply. “Be Sam. The world needs him more than it ever needed me.”

Then, Lucifer smiled fully—proud, unburdened.

“I’m glad you’re here, little star.”

Dream raised his hand, the sands rising like mist around them.

Lucifer stepped back. “Go. Live. Be soft. Be weird. Be divine. And pet those damn cats for me.”

The Dreaming faded gently, like the last note of a lullaby.

---

Sam awoke with a faint smile on his lips, the memory of firelight, stardust, and a Devil's forgiveness warm in his chest.

Lucifer was proud.

And somehow, for the first time in a long time...
Sam believed it.

The wind didn’t blow.
The stars didn’t shift.
Reality didn’t so much move as it did… pause.

Because he had arrived.

A tall, hooded figure cloaked in celestial threads, chains looping around his wrists like a symphony of inevitability.
His book, bound in infinity, chained to his being—open to a page already written and yet somehow still unfolding.

Destiny of the Endless.

No thunder.
No divine music.
Just the soft turning of a page that echoed across existence.

And Sam—poor fluffed-up, cat-loving Sam—froze. His wings twitched. Even the kittens sensed it. They scrambled into a perfectly symmetrical pile of fur and judgment.

Maze muttered under her breath, “I thought Dream was intense.”

Amenadiel gave a respectful nod.

Raphael whispered, “...Yup, that’s big bro.”

Destiny looked up from his book, eyes unseen yet somehow staring directly through Sam’s soul, spine, past lives, reincarnations, and every time he cried watching a sad animal commercial.

“…You exist.”

Sam blinked. “Y-Yeah? I—I think?”

Destiny nodded slowly. The page in his book shimmered. The ink rearranged. It looked like… someone had added doodles of cats around Sam’s name.

He did not disapprove.

Lucifer—still Sam, still healing—stood quietly, unsure what to say.

Destiny closed the book halfway (which should’ve caused the universe to collapse, but somehow didn’t) and said:

> “You are the path between rebellion and restoration. The stitch in the torn page. The angel who chose to rise not from damnation—but from empathy.”

Sam: “I also make killer tuna bakes?”

Destiny blinked. That… was also true.

A pause.

Destiny extended a hand. Sam hesitated… and then reached out, fingers grazing the hand of one of the most eternal beings in all existence.

And for just a moment?

Destiny smiled.

A single, rare, unknowable curve of meaning written into his features—like a bookmark tucked into the story of a soul that was never supposed to be saved, and yet here he was.

Alive.
Soft.
Weird.
Heavenly.

Destiny turned. A page flipped. He vanished.

---

Everyone stood there, mouths hanging open.

Maze whispered, “What the hell was that?”

Sam: “I think… he’s proud?”

Amenadiel: “You were just acknowledged by Destiny. No one gets that. Ever.”

Lucifer (whispering from inside): “…Mum’s gonna frame that in the divine hallway.”

Sam: “I want a sticker.”

Maze: “You’ll get five.”

—
It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Which in this household meant a crime against cosmic protocol was definitely happening.

Destiny of the Endless stood still, eternal, unmoving, like the unshakable final draft of reality itself. The Book—his Book—was chained to him as always, the scroll of fate never unspooling too far…

Until…

“…Sam,” Dream whispered, voice low, horrified, awed, and somewhere in the middle of an existential nosebleed.

Sam sat cross-legged on the carpet, nine wings fluffed like a holy feather duster exploded around him. He had a pink glitter pen in one hand. A sparkly pink glitter pen.

And what was he doing?

He was very carefully drawing a cat with a little heart nose in Destiny’s open book.

Destiny. Did. Not. Stop. Him.

The book shimmered. It tried—TRIED—to reject the glitter ink. But alas, Sam's self-actualized cuteness was stronger than cosmic ink resistance. The little cat now sat beneath a quote about the rise and fall of stars.

Sam tilted his head.

“Look, look! It’s you if you were a cat!” he said brightly, pointing.

He had drawn Destiny.

As a cat.

A little robe. A mini book. Chains turned into a toy mouse.

“…Why,” Destiny asked, tone absolutely neutral.

Sam blinked up at him with the power of a thousand hopeful kittens. “Because you looked like you needed a hug but don’t do hugs so I drew you a cat instead. That’s like… a comfort-hug with whiskers.”

Dream—THE DREAM—who had survived millennia of trauma, betrayal, imprisonment, and the slow death of relationships—

WHEEZED.

A very unlordly, very undignified, laugh-wheeze.

He had to turn away. “I… I need to sit down—this is—why is this adorable—HE’S DESTINY—”

Maze, sipping coffee and watching like it was a Netflix special: “...You okay, Sandboy?”

Dream: “He defiled the Book.”

Maze: “He drew a kitten. Chill.”

Destiny, whose book now contained a permanent doodle of a cat version of himself, simply closed it. Slowly. Carefully. And, to everyone’s complete shock…

He allowed the glitter to remain.

That’s right.

He didn’t erase it.

The Book now canonically contains:

The fall and rise of civilizations

The death of stars

The fates of all living things

And a cat version of Destiny drawn by Samael, the angel who now owns six cats and three kittens.

—

Sam leaned on Dream’s arm next, proudly showing off a sparkly cat-sticker.

“I put this one on your sleeve. You’re welcome!”

Dream: “…”

He didn’t remove it.

The Endless?

Compromised by Cute.

—
Just as the emotional chaos of Sam’s glitter cat-drawing incident was starting to calm down…

The door exploded open.

“WHO PUT GLITTER IN MY FEATHERS?!”
Michael stomped in, wings half-flared, glitter shimmering like it was part of his damn DNA now.

“I told you not to nap on Sam’s art blanket,” Maze said, not looking up from her nail file.

From the corner, Gabriel—still trying to make sense of the new sticker someone had put on his trumpet—looked like he was fighting the urge to scream.

“It says Blow Me. In sequins.”

“I made it for you,” Sam chirped, sipping strawberry milk and kicking his feet from the sofa. “It’s a pun!”

“I AM THE MESSENGER OF GOD!”

“You’re also my brother. And a bit of a diva. Deal with it.”

“HE PUT GLITTER ON MY CHALICE,” Raphael yelled from the kitchen. “MY SACRED HEALING VESSEL NOW SPARKLES LIKE A DISCO BALL.”

“I think it’s cute,” Azrael said, sipping chamomile. “Very festive.”

“Azzy, it has a sticker that says Holy Juice.”

Destiny, now quietly petting one of Sam’s kittens, muttered, “He put a sticker on my book that says Do Not Touch Without Snacks.”

Dream had passed the Acceptance Stage.

He sat on the arm of the couch with Sam curled beside him, watching the scene unfold like it was his new favorite drama.

“I should be writing this down,” he muttered.

“You are,” Sam whispered, pointing to the black dream-mist notepad hovering by Dream’s ear. “Subconsciously.”

“...You’re horrifyingly observant,” Dream whispered back.

“I have nine wings and glitter pens. What did you expect?”

Chloe walked in. Blinked. Turned around.

Dan walked in. Saw Raphael threatening to strangle Gabriel with a string of glitter stickers. Paused.

“...You know what? I’m gonna go help Trixie with homework. She makes more sense.”

The Goddess reappeared from the kitchen with cookies. “Who wants sugar before the therapy circle?”

All the siblings paused.

Michael looked like he was going to say something edgy, but Sam shoved a pink cookie in his mouth.

“Shhh. Therapy time.”

---

The final image?

One cosmic book with a glitter cat.

One angel with a stickered trumpet.

Glitter in wings, sparkles in hair.

Sam, curled in a pile of his kittens, purring faintly.

Maze filming all of it.

Chaos? Yes.
Wholesome? Surprisingly, also yes.
New family motto?

> "In this house, we support glitter, healing, and sticker-induced therapy."