Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sam dragged himself through the night. He held on to walls, fences, and trees, staggering, stumbling, and forcing his legs to keep going. He clutched the piece of paper with the address in his fist, soaked with sweat and crumpled, but he didn't let go. In his other hand, he held his gun.

In the moonlight, he saw the Impala. The car was upside down, the windows shattered, the bodywork dented.

Images of the Cage kept flashing through his mind. Every breath tasted like ash, even here in the cold night air. He grimaced, gritted his teeth, fighting back the waves of memory.

His legs wanted to give out, but he dragged himself on. One step. Then another. The note. Dean. That was all that mattered.

He had found the old, abandoned building.

It was huge and looked like a hospital that no one had entered for ages. The stale air smelled of old death mixed with mold, damp masonry, and the disinfectant of past decades. Doors hung crookedly on their hinges, and broken glass and dirt crunched under his shoes.

One door stood half open. Sam’s eyes fell on a table, a narrow, cold surface, and for a heartbeat he felt only the straps around his wrists and ankles tighten, the way Lucifer had always pinned him down. His own screams echoed in his ears. He staggered back, his fingers clenching his weapon.

He stumbled onward. The hallway blurred before his eyes, sometimes seeming to narrow, sometimes stretching longer. Sam squinted and stopped abruptly as the floor beneath him seemed to be moving. He staggered, catching himself at the last moment with one hand on a doorframe.

His gaze swept across the room. Metallic hooks dangled from the ceiling, chains clanging against each other. Sam heard them as if they were right above him. The floor was smeared with blood. His blood. His stomach cramped up.

He felt the metal in his body, the hardness of Lucifer's grip as he tugged at him and forced his body into impossible positions. He felt every overstretched joint, every torn muscle, every broken bone. How his ribs were crushed under the pressure, how his heart stumbled, how every breath fought against the suffocating weight.

He couldn't breathe, the note slipped from his fingers. His knees buckled. He bumped his shoulder against the tiled wall, slid down it, until he sat on the cold floor. His body trembled, his pulse was racing, every breath was choppy and not enough. He pressed his forehead against the crumbling tiles.

The smell of blood was everywhere, heavy, sweet, metallic, and nauseating. Sam tasted it on his tongue and pressed his lips together to keep from gagging.

For a minute he stayed like that, then his gaze fell on the note.

Sam stretched, his arm trembling, his fingers groping forward until they finally touched the note. He pulled it close, pressed it to his chest, and forced himself to stand up.

He no longer dared to look directly into any of the rooms, letting his eyes drift just slightly to the side, searching for Dean.

Sam staggered through the corridors, groping for support on the stained walls. A staircase led down to the basement and back into a long hallway.

Sam reached for the wall. The damp bricks under his hands began to flicker before his eyes, merging with rough rock walls, dark and wet. Illuminated only by the flickering glow of a fire. For a few seconds, he no longer saw the basement, but Lucifer's dark dungeon.

Everything flickered. The basement. The dungeon. The basement again.

His head pounded. Reflexively, he pressed his hand against his throbbing temple, the weapon still gripped tightly.

“Keep going!” commanded his voice right next to his ear.

Sam flinched. The shiver still ran down his spine, but his feet had long since obeyed. His legs threatened to buckle, but he remained upright. Somehow.

At the end of the hallway he heard voices. He lifted his head, moving forward, blinking. In front of him, in the artificial light, stood Bobby, Dean, and Castiel.

Lucifer had only raised his fingers and had blown Castiel apart in a wave of blood and flesh, like a child crushing a fly.

How could he be standing here, unharmed, as if nothing had happened? Perhaps it was all just a trick, an illusion meant to drive him even further into madness.

Castiel acted like a god, moved like Lucifer, spoke like Lucifer.

Sam dropped the note and picked up the angel blade.

The decision was clear. If it was Castiel, he had to act. Dean had said so. A threat that had to be eliminated. If it was Lucifer, it didn't matter. He had nothing to lose.

With a trembling breath, Sam stabbed. Pain and disgust shot through him as the blade sank into the back, and it felt like he was cutting into his own flesh.

Sam froze, waiting for a sign to tell him whether he was still in the Cage or not.

Then he heard Castiel speak. It wouldn’t matter. He was no longer the angel they knew. He was their god now, their ruler.

Everything he had just done... maybe it was completely meaningless. Sam's eyes searched for Dean. For support, confirmation, anything that would give him certainty.

Dean shouted at Castiel, throwing it in his face that he had promised to heal Sam.

Sam frowned, not understanding. Heal? Why? From what? His gaze drifted to Castiel, searching for an answer.

Castiel just smiled coldly. There was no spark of the angel they knew in his eyes. Only arrogance. Like Lucifer.

The same tone, the same logic. Healing and mercy only if he submitted.

His heart skipped a beat. His stomach clenched, his legs nearly gave way. Everything inside him screamed that something was wrong here.

It had to be Lucifer.
It was always Lucifer.
Who else would come up with something like this?

Sam’s eyes shifted to Dean, then to Bobby. He stared back and forth between them. Dean. Bobby. Dean.

Bobby, who had been dead for so long. He had felt Lucifer snap his neck. He had seen the lifeless body. The crack of the vertebrae echoed in his head now, so real that he had to hold his breath.

He saw the cold gaze of the angel who had once been an ally, the one who had asked him how he felt. Sam’s breath came shallow, the air suddenly far too thin.

“How does it feel?”
The sound, the cadence. Cold and mocking. The cruel curiosity in Lucifer’s voice. Sam had heard that sentence countless times. He could feel reality being torn out of him.

Sam heard himself say he was “fine.” A lie so thin even he could barely believe it. An answer like a shield, a last attempt to hold this reality together.

“Be thankful for my mercy. I could have cast you back into the pit.”

Sam froze. Back into the pit. The angel he knew would never have said that. He had sacrificed himself just to give Dean five minutes. The pounding in Sam’s ears swallowed everything else.

It wasn’t mercy. It was power, control. A twisted promise that he could remain in this place as long as Lucifer allowed and did not grow bored. As if that were a gift and not torture.

His thoughts spun out of control, and when he looked up again Castiel – Lucifer – was gone.

Sam stood there, barely able to keep upright. His face slick with sweat. The hall floor seemed to vanish beneath his feet. The walls, the voices, everything dissolved.

He heard Lucifer laugh.
“Did you enjoy it?”

Fragments of memories ripped through his perception like blinding flashes. Fire behind his eyes, dislocated joints, shattered bones. Lucifer’s hands, almost tender, everywhere on his skin, tracing his wounds, then ripping through him, clawing at his insides. His own fingers grasped at Lucifer’s arm, uselessly, until his efforts weakened, leaving him helpless in the Devil’s grip.

He saw himself kneeling on the ground, forehead pressed to cold stone, begging for mercy just to escape a moment of pain. Shame, panic, despair, and pain fused into a single, all-consuming sensation.

The pressure spread through his skull. Blood trickled from his nose, dripping to the floor without him noticing.

“Sam?” Dean called.

He still saw him standing, blurrily next to Bobby, but heard his name only as if through thick glass. He wanted to go to him, but the room was tilting and his legs wouldn't obey. He lost his balance and collapsed to his knees, his upper body tipping forward.

Dean ran, tried to catch him, but it was too late.

Reflexively Sam threw his hands out, searching for support, right into the shards of glass. The glass splintered as he pressed down on it.

For a heartbeat he remained on all fours. He lifted his injured hand, the shards buried deep in his skin, but he felt nothing. His panicked gaze fixed on the bleeding palm. The shards were gone, the fingers broken. Flames crawled over his skin. He shook the injured hand, but the fire didn’t fade.

Relentlessly, the memories flooded his consciousness, shaking his body, stealing his breath. He heard his own screams, his pleas, distorted by pain, hammering through his skull and chest.

Then he felt Lucifer's body against his back, an arm holding him tight, a hand pressing against his chest. The raw, naked need to be held. And the Devil fulfilled it.

“I promised you. I will never leave you.” Lucifer’s breath hovered close to his ear.

The images exploded. He could no longer separate anything, could draw no line between present and memory. Everything crashed down on him at once.

Within seconds he was back there, trapped in the reality of the Cage.

The arm he leaned on gave out and Sam dropped onto his side, rolling halfway onto his stomach.

Dean was at his side now, crouching, his hands already on Sam’s shoulder. Carefully he turned him onto his back.

“Sam. Hey. Sam!”

Sam didn’t answer.
Then he jerked.
Dean felt it under his hands.

Sam’s eyes widened, his breath cut off. Lucifer’s blade drove into his stomach.

“You’re not going anywhere without me!”

Shaking, Sam pulled a hand to his abdomen, clutching it, gasping, trying to curl in on himself. Then the flames swallowed him.

Dean held him, cursing under his breath.
“Damn it, Sam…”

Sam’s chest rose in ragged bursts. He twisted and writhed as if trying to shake something off.

Bobby was already at Sam’s side. “Dean, hold him! Now!” Together they tried to restrain him as best they could.

Sam rasped, forcing out a strangled “Nngh…” between clenched teeth. His body arched, rolling across the floor, his arms jerking helplessly, and then Sam screamed, raw and loud, straight from his throat, until blackness blotted everything out.

Dean’s heart stopped at the sound.

“Sam?”

Sam collapsed back, barely moving.
Everything was gone. Everything.

Lucifer had thrown him back to the only place the Devil considered secure. Nothing came in. Nothing went out. A dark place of absolute isolation.

The moment Sam landed there he felt it again. That crushing, all-encompassing emptiness pressing against him like a shadow weighing tons.

Unconsciously, almost automatically, he shifted into Enochian.
“No,” Sam whispered softly, beaten down.

It wasn’t just silence.
It was the absence of everything.

No light. No orientation.
No ground beneath him. No hold.
No direction. No up, no down.
No echo, no sound.
Not even his own breath returned to him.

“No,” he pushed out louder. But the words dissolved before they even formed.
No one answered.

He flung his arms upward, or tried to. The movements were sluggish, distorted. As if he were struggling through cold, thick tar.

It was a sweat-soaked fight against an invisible weight. His fingers clawed into nothing, forcing against it. His body shook, muscles burning, arms trembling. His heart raced, breath too fast and shallow. His chest barely rose, as if crushed under concrete.

“Lucifer,” he tried, louder, angrier. But the void swallowed even that.

Sam fought. Two minutes. Maybe three. But it made no difference. There was no exit here, no target.

Dean could see it in Sam’s wide, glassy eyes. He was fighting. His brother straining with everything he had against something Dean couldn’t see. Fingers cramping in the air, clenching as if to grip something. His whole body trembling from the effort. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. Then the tension slowly drained.

“Lucifer,” Sam called. At first angry, then broken.

Dean felt his stomach twist.
He knew nightmares.
His own from Hell.
He knew Sam’s withdrawal, the relapses.

But this was different.
These were flashbacks.
Ugly and cruel.
Lucifer’s handwriting carved straight into Sam’s mind. With full force.

“Goddamn it…”

Dean gripped him firmly by the shoulder.
Shook him once.
The body under his hand still jerked uncontrollably, but there was no strength left in it.

Sam knew this place and feared it. He knew what it would do to him if he stayed too long. First panic. Then numbing apathy. Finally collapse and madness.

He would start hallucinating. Hearing voices that weren’t there. Seeing light where none existed. Images, sounds, everything conjured by his own brain just to have something to process. And eventually he wouldn’t recognize himself anymore. His self would dissolve, piece by piece.

And he couldn’t stop it.
“Please… not this…” It was only a faint, resigned whimper.

All he could do was wait. Wait until the Devil grew bored or merciful enough to pull him back. Or cruel enough not to.

“Hey Sammy. Wake up. Come back,” Dean said, worried.

Then Sam’s breathing changed, shallower, tighter, as if a weight pressed against his chest. Dean heard him whisper something. “Please… not this…”

He couldn’t understand a word.
But he recognized the sound.
Desperation. Begging.

Dean looked helplessly at Bobby, but he couldn’t decipher Sam’s murmurs either.

“Sam. Wake up. Wake up, damn it.”

But Sam no longer responded. He stopped moving. The tension drained completely from his body. His head dropped, lips closing, eyes too. No resistance. No struggle. Only the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Dean knelt beside him. Frozen. Helpless. His hand still tight on Sam’s shoulder. Hoping Sam was still there. Somewhere. Maybe conscious. Maybe not.

“Sammy?”

No reaction. Only silence.

⛦

They brought Sam back to the panic room. The space was bigger than their small upstairs bedroom and by now far more comfortable than it had been back when Sam was going through withdrawal.

It was also reinforced against anything supernatural and could be locked from the outside. If necessary, even to protect Sam from himself.

Bobby returned with a small bowl of water and a towel.

“Let’s clean the wound before it gets infected.”

Dean gave a short nod. In his hand, he was already holding the small metal box with needle, thread, and bandages.

He sat down in a chair and took Sam’s bloody hand into his own. The blood had dried, sticking to the skin, tiny shards still lodged deep in the palm. With tweezers, he picked out the last remnants.

Dean pulled the bowl of water closer, now tinged reddish.

“Sam was always the one who believed in angels.” He dipped the cloth into the water and carefully wiped over the torn skin.

“But every angel we’ve ever met just broke him.”

He positioned the needle, pausing briefly, almost as if waiting for a reaction.

Forty years of Hell had taught him how a hand was constructed, how skin, tendons, and bones layered together. He knew exactly where to place the needle and where not to. Yet never had that knowledge felt so wrong as it did now, piercing Sam’s flesh with it.

He held the warm hand steady as he made the next stitch. He had sewn countless wounds, on himself, on Sam, but this time it was different.

Normally, Sam would tense at the first stitches. He’d grit his teeth, sometimes grimace, but he was there, alive, responsive. Today, nothing. Not a single muscle twitched, no finger moved, no reflex, no sharp intake of breath, not the slightest reaction. Just lifeless weight in Dean’s palm.

Even as a child, Sam had stayed still whenever Dean had to patch him up. No tears, no whimpering, even though he had been far too small for it. He had never screamed, because he wanted to be brave, just like his big brother. Back then, Dean had been proud, almost celebrated it. Today, he only felt pain.

Dean swallowed it all, took a deep breath, and continued stitching. Stitch by stitch, until the edges of the skin had closed again, wishing he could sew Sam’s broken soul together just like this wound.

“Cas knew exactly what he was doing to him. And he still did it. Like he didn’t give a damn.”

Bobby’s expression grew heavy. He set a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “He’ll make it, Dean. And then we deal with Cas.”

“Damn angels,” Dean muttered under his breath, more to himself than to Bobby. He wrapped the fresh bandage tight, checked it, then placed the hand gently back onto the blanket.

Hours passed. Sam lay motionless on the old metal bed. Dean sat at the edge, leaned over, and carefully lifted one of Sam’s eyelids. The gaze was empty, unfocused.

He shone a small flashlight directly into it. The pupil contracted. Dean repeated the test on the other eye. Same reaction. Sam was still in there somewhere.

For a moment Dean stared into Sam’s eyes, searching for a spark, any sign that Sam could see him. But there was nothing. Only that deep, glassy stare fixed on somewhere else.

Dean remembered every time Sam had been in danger. Covered in blood. Unconscious. But never this far gone. Never this unreachable. It was like losing his brother even though his heart was still beating right in front of him.

Dean lowered the flashlight.

“Come on, Sammy. Fight. Goddamn it, fight!”

The eyes kept staring through him. Then they closed. It felt like watching a door shut.

Dean stayed there, his eyes fixed on Sam.
“I’m here, little brother.”

⛦

Sam was empty, lost, sealed away. He stared into the endless void that refused to let him go.

Had it been real?

It felt like a lie. A disturbing but perfect set built from memories, crafted by Lucifer for some cruel kind of amusement.

But if he was here now, then none of it had been real. His throat tightened.

He had lost himself too deep into Lucifer’s web of lies and truly believed it was over. And now nothing of it remained.

A small part of him was grateful for this moment of clarity. For no fire. No pain. No Lucifer. Just nothing.

But that was only a whisper against a far louder fear. Because this place was not harmless. It would consume him. Names, faces, memories would dissolve like colors bleeding into water.

And eventually, he wouldn’t even remember that there had ever been more. Only Lucifer would remain.

Everything already felt strangely far away.

And then there was the other part of him. The one that knew Lucifer would come back for him.

He hated the archangel. For everything he had done to him. For everything he would keep doing.

And yet, he wished for it. Not Lucifer. Just a way out.

He despised that part of himself, ashamed of the brief moment when he almost welcomed the thought of Lucifer pulling him back.

Sam erased the thought before it could finish. He would rather burn than admit that he didn’t just hate Lucifer, but also needed him.

Not because of the torture or a punishment Sam had long since accepted. But because the angel could remind him of the world he had once lived in.

At first, he had hated them. The illusions in which Dean was no longer Dean. Where he said or did things he never would have. Lucifer had twisted every weakness, exploited every fear, until even the most beautiful memories seemed tainted. Sam had vowed not to let it break him.

But they had broken him, because eventually he no longer knew where Dean ended and Lucifer began.

But at some point, Lucifer had stopped. No more twisted visions, no false Deans, no illusory worlds. Instead, he increasingly threw him into this black hole, where everything began to vanish.

Sam had tried to cling to memories. At first, it was easy. He could hear Dean’s voice, every nuance. Knew exactly how his hands felt, how he moved, how he tilted his head when thinking.

But over time, it grew harder. First small things disappeared. The sound of his laughter. The smell. The way Dean rolled up his sleeve. Then more. Habits, movements. How he drank coffee or beer, how he checked his weapon, how he put a hand under the pillow while sleeping.

The outlines began to blur. Hair color, facial features, how tall he really was, even eye color became a gray, indeterminate blur. Places, conversations, what they had endured together faded until only shadows remained.

In the end, only a feeling remained. Warmth. And that one word, brother. But even that eventually began to erode.

He was alone with Lucifer and a fading he couldn't stop.

And then, after decades of forgetting, he suddenly woke up in the panic room. He had believed Dean, that he was outside, that the nightmare was over. Finally.

But Sam knew better now. It was never good when he woke up in that room. It was always a sign that something was wrong. With him. With the world.

And still, those had been the happiest minutes Lucifer had ever allowed him. He had let himself fall into that embrace and closed his eyes to burn everything into him. The pressure of Dean’s arms holding him. The smell, the warmth, the weight. Nothing about it had felt wrong.

He wondered what it must have been like for Dean. In Hell. No false realities, no illusions, no distractions. Demons couldn’t provide that. Only raw torture, day after day, year after year, until his brother couldn’t take it anymore and was turned into a monster himself.

The Cage gave him only Lucifer. No victims but himself. No choice but to endure or sink into Lucifer’s fabrications.

Sometimes he was glad that Lucifer occasionally allowed him these false refuges, places he could escape to. When Dean was truly Dean, not twisted or distorted.

But that only made it worse, because they gave him what he longed for most, only to snatch it away again.

And every time he saw Dean’s face, heard his voice, he had to ask himself whether it was real this time. And sometimes Dean was within reach. An outstretched hand, a look full of warmth, like an invitation.

Sam wanted nothing more than to respond. But he didn’t. He kept his distance. Called it self-preservation, even though it broke his heart, because in every touch, Lucifer could be lurking, could reveal himself, mock him, tear him apart.

He told himself that he didn’t want to forget who he had been and who he had loved. That it preserved his humanity. That Lucifer’s fabricated existences were the only thing in the daily life of the Cage that had so far kept him from descending fully into madness.

Even though he knew they were slowly driving him there all the same.

He couldn’t help it. He wanted to go back. To Dean. To Bobby. Real or not.

Then a light tore through this nothingness like an explosion. Too sudden. Too bright. Too brutal.

Lucifer.
That was Sam’s first thought.
Who else could shine like that?

He recoiled inside, eyes squeezing shut, trying to block it out. But the light was not in front of him. It was inside him. Burning through his skull, searing down every nerve.

For seconds he felt himself falling, though there was no space, no up, no down.
Then nausea hit. He curled in on himself. Instinct.

„Stop. Please stop.“

He wanted to scream it. Maybe he did. Or thought he did.
But the void swallowed everything. No voice. No sound.

And then the light fell back, fading, swallowed by the emptiness. It left only an afterglow until nothing remained but the old, familiar darkness.

⛦

Between rows of rusted cars stood the Impala. Her metal dented, windows shattered, glass scattered everywhere. Torn apart by the King of Hell. Just like Sam.

Dean and Bobby stood in front of her.

“So, you know what I’m gonna do?”

Bobby stepped up beside him. “What?”

“I’m gonna fix this car.” Dean’s eyes moved over his Baby. She carried memories of Sam, more than anything else, and she was a part of Sam he could repair.

“Because that’s what I can do. I can work on her till she’s mint. And when Sam wakes up, no matter what shape he’s in… we glue him back together too.”

He climbed through the open passenger side, determined to piece both of them back together by sheer willpower. “We owe him that.”

“I’m with you”, Bobby said.

Dean lay in the wreckage of his Baby, hands tracing the crushed spots. Then he raised the hammer and drove it against the dented roof from the inside with full force.

With every strike, he saw Sam. Digging through the box of old tapes. Laughing when they both sang off-key to one of those old songs.

He saw Sam pulling his gun calmly from the glove box, steady, ready for whatever came next. No hesitation, no doubt. Just Sam.

She was more than a car. She was family. Home. Their shield, their shelter. Just like Sam.

For every memory Dean hit harder. Angry at Lucifer for tearing it all down. Angry at Castiel for breaking it again. Angry at himself for failing to protect Sam both times.

The roof bent back, the metal gave way, just like he did inside. His hands trembled slightly, but he kept striking, silent and determined not to give up.

The old car stood for every road they had taken together. For the life still ahead of them. For the fights they still had to face.

He worked methodically, as he always did. Dent by dent.

All day he straightened panels, replaced screws, removed and reinstalled every part that could still be saved. His hands black with oil, his knuckles torn open. None of it mattered. All that mattered was getting her whole again.

Again and again he hoped it would be like when Death had shoved Sam’s soul back into his body. Back then Sam had woken up after a while.

Every time he heard a sound, Dean lifted his head. Wished it was Sam, just walking out of the house, crossing the yard like nothing had happened. But it was never Sam. Only Bobby, bringing him another beer.

Dean stood next to the Impala, set the hammer aside.

“Here,” Bobby said, holding out the bottle to him.

Dean wiped his hands on a rag and took it. He drank a sip, set it on the workbench. “Thanks.”

Bobby looked the car over. “You’ll get her running again. And Sam’s gonna wake up.”

“I know.”

“In the meantime you need to eat, boy. And sleep.”

“When Sam wakes up, I’ll eat.” Dean reached for the hammer again.

Bobby sighed, took off his hat, rubbed his forehead. “You should lie down. He’ll need you when he wakes.”

Dean froze but didn’t look up. His grip locked on the hammer. “What Sam needs is a damn miracle.” He slammed the dented fender back into shape, harder than he had to. The blow rang sharp across the yard, while every passing hour cut into his chest like a blade.

By evening Sam was still lying there.

Dean sat in the chair beside the bed, elbows braced on his knees. He stared at Sam’s lifeless body.

“Come on, Sammy…”

Dean stood, stepped closer. He laid a hand on Sam’s shoulder, pressed gently.
“Hey. Wake up.”
Nothing.

He shook him, first careful, then harder.
“Sam! Can you hear me?”
No response.

He gave his brother’s cheek a light slap. Sam’s head rolled slightly to the side, eyes still shut.

“Sammy. Please…”

Dean grabbed the flashlight. Slowly, too slowly, Sam’s pupils contracted.

Every time Dean looked at him, he seemed weaker. His cheeks hollowed, skin unhealthy, pale and dry, his lips cracked.

With two fingers Dean felt for a pulse. It took too long to find, faint and unsteady, too fast for comfort.

He listened to Sam’s breathing. Shallow, but at least steady. Sam’s hands, arms, legs all felt colder than they should.

“Damn it, Sammy,” Dean muttered under his breath, more to himself than to his brother. “I don’t know how much longer you can hang on.”

⛦

Lucifer made him wait.
Time slipped by or stood still.
Minutes, hours, maybe days.

Sam couldn’t tell how long it had been. The endless dark swallowed every sense of time.

At first he tried using his own breathing as a clock. But it was uneven. Too slow, then panicked and fast.

‚Fourteen to eighteen breaths a minute for a normal person‘, he remembered.

‚Fifteen breaths a minute, that made seventy-five in five minutes, four hundred fifty in half an hour, nine hundred in an hour.‘

He counted, tried to measure the hours. Hours that stretched into eternity.

Every time he reached a number where Lucifer had pulled him back before, a flicker of hope sparked inside him.

Nothing happened.

The spark died and left a cold that crawled through his chest like ice. He tried to smother the hope to protect himself. He never managed completely.

Right before the next number came his body tensed as if expecting him.

Now.
The next breath.
Now.
Another.
Maybe now.

When nothing happened he sank inside, heavier than before.

In time he no longer knew if he was at two thousand six hundred sixteen or two thousand six hundred sixty. He started over but his mind wore out, counted wrong, lost the thread. In the end he gave up, like always.

All that remained was the steady rush of blood in his ears and the dull pounding in his head that hammered harder in his temples with every movement.

He stayed still, repeated names, memories, sentences in his mind.

Eventually he worked his way back to numbers he knew. Dean. January twenty-fourth.
In his head he shaped the number 2401, divided it by primes. Not two. Not three. Not five. Seven fit. In the end it broke into four sevens in a row.

Then he tried his own date. May second. 205. The five leapt out instantly. Done.

For a while he kept at the numbers until they grew too large, too messy. The factors slipped away, he lost the thread, started over. Again and again.

Each repetition wore down his focus. The constant background noise swelled until it couldn’t be ignored.

At last he let the numbers go. He couldn’t do it anymore.

He was trapped between a mind threatening to break, the dull throbbing in his temples, and above all the shrill piercing screech in his head.

He clung to the pressure of his teeth grinding together, to the weight of his tongue in his mouth. He pushed the tip between his front teeth and bit down, first careful, then harder.

Blood filled his mouth. A small pool he didn’t swallow. Not right away. The taste of iron proved he was still here.

The throbbing in his tongue was almost calming. It wasn’t the faceless crushing weight of nothing pressing on his body. It was local, precise, and it pulled his mind away from the void.

His whole focus stayed on his tongue. It was his marker of time. He returned to it again and again, felt the small ache, tracked the swelling, the slow crawl of healing.

A few minutes until no fresh blood came. A few hours until the ache dulled. More hours until it felt almost closed. A timepiece, nothing more. And the only thing in this nothing that ever changed.

“Remember this, Sam?” Lucifer’s whisper cut sharp and cold. “When I left you here with broken bones? What did you count back then, hm?”

Sam froze.
It couldn’t be real.
But he heard Lucifer as clear as if he were standing right beside him.

“Want to try it with a finger this time?”

Sam clamped his hands over his ears, desperate to block out the hiss, the whisper.
“No, no, no… this isn’t real…”

“Count right, Sam. Break your finger”, Lucifer pressed on. “It’ll hurt, but you’re used to that.”

Sam curled his fingers into fists like he had to protect them.
No. He wouldn’t listen.
“This is just my brain… just imagination. Chemical reactions…”

But the voice bored straight into him.

“The first three days, it’ll swell. Hot and red. You’ll feel your pulse hammering like your heart’s trapped inside your finger. But I know you. You’ll grit your teeth, you’ll endure it no matter how brutal it gets.”

Sam’s breath quickened, his stomach knotted. Old flashes hit him, memories of torment survived. His chest heaved. He told himself it was only his mind, nothing else, clawing for meaning.

“Then after a week it turns blue, purple. Oh. You wouldn't be able to see it”, Lucifer added in a tone almost regretful. “The pain dulls. You’ll almost forget it’s broken… until you try to move it.”

Sam swallowed. His body flinched. He shook his head hard, desperate.

“And you will move it. Again and again. Despite the pain. Maybe because of it. Because you want to feel alive.”

The truth drove into him like ice-cold needles. He tried to push it away, tried not to feel it, but it cut through. Panic clashed with defiance. “Not real… not real… not…”

“And after a month?”

Lucifer didn’t let go. A short mocking laugh echoed in Sam’s head.

“That finger will never heal right. Just like you. Always broken. Never truly whole. That’s your clock, Sammy. Your bloody little timepiece in this endless standstill.”

“Stop! You’re not real! Get out!”
Sam bit his lip raw. The bitter iron taste in his mouth felt like the last thing tethering him.

Lucifer’s icy breath slid over his throat, curled into his ear.
“You’re exactly where I want you, buddy.”

“No,” Sam forced out, almost defiant.

The Devil went quiet a moment, then whispered, “Break your finger. Count the pain. Like you learned.”

He pressed his hands harder over his ears, nails digging into his scalp, and screamed into the silence.
“LUCIFER…”

The name tore out of him like one last desperate plea for rescue before madness could swallow him whole. Because despite everything Lucifer had done, the archangel was the only way out, the only exit from this decay.

Suddenly a searing light split the dark. So inhumanly bright it sank into every fiber and drowned everything in merciless glare.

Sam curled in on himself, tried to turn his head, shield his eyes. He squeezed his lids shut, but the light burned straight through as if they weren’t there.

He writhed, gasped, tried to press them tighter. The light seemed to scorch him from inside, and still in that instant it felt like relief.

He knew what was coming.
Lucifer was dragging him back to reality.

Sam held his breath, braced every muscle, steeled himself for the crash.

The sudden pull of gravity. The sharp shift. The roar of noise. The violent rush of movement. Air he could barely catch in his lungs. It would all hit at once, too much, too strong. He could almost taste the nausea.

A twisted salvation. Painful and freeing. But finally, an end.

Only Lucifer didn’t come.

The blinding light began to fade.

Then he heard Lucifer’s cold mocking voice again, dimming with the glare. “Doesn’t matter how much you bend, Sam. You’re staying right here.”

Sam’s eyes snapped open. He stretched a hand toward the last dying shimmer, tried to catch it.

“No…” He wanted to shout it, but it was only a fragile whisper between rage and despair.

“Please… don’t leave me here.”
His hand slowly fell back.

“Please…”

Sam kept staring at the point of light long after it had gone out.
No fall. No impact.
Only silence again.

⛦

Chapter Text

Dean had spent the whole night working on getting the Impala running again. He hadn’t slept, only taking breaks to grab a fresh beer.

He had hoped Sam would just wake up in the morning and step outside for a few laps. He didn’t want to miss that moment.

Now, mid-morning, Dean had come inside to check on him.

Everything about Sam looked empty. His skin pale and dry, lips brittle, cracked, and bluish. His chest barely rose. No pulse to be felt at the wrists.

His limbs were unnervingly cold. Dean checked the muscle tone. Everything was noticeably weaker than in the evening.

If Sam didn’t wake soon, he’d have to get him to a hospital.

He hated that thought. And hospitals. Always had. The sterile cold, the endless waiting rooms, visiting hours, doctors who wouldn’t understand his brother, monitors, beeping.

And what if Sam woke up while he wasn’t there? If he hallucinated, panicked, or screamed for the Devil? Surely they’d sedate him. That would only make things worse.

His nerves were shredded.

“Bobby, look at him! He’s not responding. No reflex, no twitch. Damn, he’s so weak, he’s barely breathing! He’s…” Dean broke off, searching for words, running both hands through his hair.

His voice grew quieter, brittle. “I don’t even know if Sam’s still in there anywhere. If there’s even someone left to save.”

Bobby slammed his book shut on the table.

“Pull yourself together, kid,” he snapped, harsh but not without a trace of concern. “Now is not the time to bury your head in the sand. You stay here and do what’s necessary.”

Bobby sighed, letting his shoulders drop slightly, speaking calmer. “We don’t just give up, Dean. Not now. He needs you.”

Dean shook his head, his hands dangling limply at his sides. “What am I supposed to do, Bobby?”

“Keep him warm. Talk to him. Do everything that keeps him alive.” Bobby paused briefly. “He’ll wake up. He’s done it before.”

Dean snorted quietly. “That time he had a damn wall in his head!”

Bobby studied him a moment longer, then let his gaze settle on Sam. He straightened up. “I’ll head into town for a bit, grab some things. Be back in an hour or two.”

Bobby reached for his jacket.

Dean frowned, said nothing.

“Promise me you’re not just going to sit here and overthink everything. Go sleep or do something useful.”

“I’m not tired,” Dean muttered, lying.

Bobby paused, about to reply, then left through the door.

Dean heard the front door click shut. He pulled a chair next to Sam’s bed and sat down. His eyes roamed over Sam’s still features, the pale skin, the silent lips. No twitch. No frown, like he sometimes did in his sleep. Not even a movement beneath closed lids. Without the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, he could have sworn Sam was dead.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

Over all that silence was the monotone hum of the ceiling fan. The wooden beams in the next room creaked softly, while somewhere in the basement old pipes popped irregularly. The wall clock ticked louder with every second until the sound hammered in his temples.

Dean exhaled slowly, leaned forward. His hands rubbed nervously at his thighs.

“Come on, Sammy. Wake up.”

He reached out, laid his hand tentatively on Sam’s arm, then pressed a little harder. “I need you, man.”

He waited for a moment, as if any second could bring a reaction. Nothing.
Just the ticking, that damned ticking. It hammered in Dean’s skull with the constant reminder that everything around him kept moving – except Sam.

With a quiet curse, he shoved the chair back. The wood scraped across the floor. His gaze lingered on Sam a moment longer before he turned and headed for the door. The sounds in the room followed him. The hum, the creaks, the ticking.

Outside, the morning cold hit his face. The Impala stood there as if she had been waiting for him. Her heart open, wounded, a mirror of his own helplessness. Dean stopped abruptly. A bitter lump formed in his throat.

Dean grabbed the tools. He forced himself to keep his hands busy, fiddling with some minor part that no longer really mattered.

He remembered showing Sam years ago how to take apart and rebuild a carburetor.

“If you mess up the carb, Sam, you’ll hear it immediately. She coughs and screams at you. Baby doesn’t forgive that.”

Sam had nodded, listening attentively, sometimes furrowing his brow. Hesitant but focused, he tightened the screws while Dean watched over his shoulder.

“Not so tight, you’ll strip the threads,” he’d said, and Sam had smiled as he got it right.

Dean remembered the feeling of pride and connection they shared in those small moments.

The longer he worked, the more his focus slipped. The wrench slipped from his hand once, twice, clanging metallically to the ground.

Dean stared at the tool as if it had betrayed him. When he reached for it, his gaze caught on a tiny mark on the engine.

It was just a line. Next to it, a tiny arrow pointing the way. Unassuming and long since half-faded, yet precise. A mark Sam had made while Dean was in Hell.

His breathing grew heavier. He tried to ignore it, wiped his mouth, pressed his lips together. He leaned both hands on the frame, head lowered, shoulders tensed.

Four months. Four damn months on Earth. Forty years in Hell. He knew exactly how that felt.

Sam had been gone for a year and a half. One hundred eighty years. With Michael and Lucifer.

Dean closed his eyes briefly. One hundred eighty years, if time ran evenly. But then he remembered Sam’s blackout. Two, three minutes at most, and Sam had said it felt like a week. Maybe it had been worse. Maybe it had been millennia. That was beyond anything he could imagine.

His stomach knotted and he clenched his hands tighter on the metal frame.

Dean remembered the few minutes when he had lost everything. Castiel, at that time still his best friend. Bobby, his surrogate father, the one he could always count on. And Sam. His little brother, the heart of his existence. All gone. At the same time. All because of Lucifer.

Inside, he had already been dead. He might as well have jumped into the Cage with Sam.

He had convinced himself that someone had to stay outside to get Sam back. That it was Sam’s last wish that he would be happy, even without him.

He had tried both. But instead of peace, he had found only emptiness. And every attempt to hold on to Lisa and Ben was laced with guilt, because he always saw that he wasn’t really there. Never fully.

No morning passed without the pain immediately returning. During the day, he desperately searched for distractions, and at night for anything that could drown out the noise in his head.

He had persuaded Lisa and Ben to go on vacation to Salem with him. A pretext to pull Sam from the Cage using the witches’ Necronomicon. Instead, he had put his new family in danger. Once again. They were better off without him. By now, he had ensured their safety.

But the truth was, all of that was just cheap excuses. It was fear. Pure fear. He had known what would happen in the Cage. How easily humanity shatters when pain and time become endless.

And with Lucifer, it would have been unimaginably worse. Sooner or later, he would have given in. He would have tortured Sam himself. The mere thought made him almost gag.

It didn’t matter how he looked at it. Sam had been down there too long. But he couldn’t change that now.

And then there was Cas, who had warned him not to put Sam’s soul back into his body. And it was Cas, of all people, who, in his arrogance, had brought down the fragile wall inside Sam.

Anger inside him boiled, mixing with that gnawing feeling that he was out here tinkering on his car while Sam lay in ruins in the fucking panic room.

His gaze fell on the pile of old parts and tools Bobby had never cleared away. His fingers closed around a rusty crowbar without really thinking. The metal felt heavy in his hand. Then the thin wall of self-control broke.

“You damn son of a bitch!” Dean yelled, raising the bar and swinging it down with full force against the windshield of an old Ford. The glass shattered with a loud crash, splintering into countless sharp pieces that rained to the ground.

“You were family.” Dean swung again, hitting the hood. A hard, metallic clang echoed across the junkyard.

“How could you do this to him?” He struck again, and again, harder, deeper.

“Goddamn angels…” The metal gave way and split.

The crowbar got stuck, jammed in place. Dean tugged hopelessly, then let go, his hands trembling slightly. One hundred eighty years. Maybe an eternity.

He ran them through his hair, his eyes burning. A single tear slid slowly down his cheek. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.

Dean staggerd a few steps back, his shoulders sagging weakly, knees soft. Finally, he leaned against the cold paint of the Impala, slowly letting himself sink to the ground by the driver’s door.

A storm of rage, fear, and hopelessness raged in his mind. He wanted to scream, rage, do something, anything, but everything felt dull. Sam wasn’t waking up. And Dean could do nothing. He couldn’t even fix the damn car.

He stared at his oil-stained hands, feeling useless and bone-tired. He closed his eyes and sat like that for a while, hoping the leaden weight would ease eventually.

“Dean,” Bobby called.

His voice carried across the yard, pulling the older Winchester out of the fog. Slowly, Dean opened his eyes, turned his head toward the house.

“Dean. I need your help. And wash your hands. Thoroughly.”

When they returned to the panic room, nothing had changed. Bobby held out a small bag to Dean.

Frowning, Dean took it and checked the contents and exhaled in relief. “Thanks, Bobby!”

“I got a second bed, too,” Bobby said matter-of-factly. “It’d be better if Sam isn’t alone in here. The bed’s still in the car,” the old hunter continued. “We’ll bring it in after we eat.”

He waited for a reaction from Dean, but Dean just stood there staring at the mattress where his brother lay.

“I’ll be upstairs if you need me,” Bobby grunted and trudged up the stairs.

Dean took the small medical bag Bobby had brought. It was neatly packed. A small print revealed it had been taken from a hospital.

Everything he needed was inside. A sterile IV bag, a compatible infusion set, disinfectant, sterile swabs, and a cannula.

“You don’t look good, little brother,” Dean murmured as he leaned over Sam.

Dean found a spot on Sam’s forearm where a vein was still faintly visible. He disinfected carefully, took a deep breath, and inserted the needle. Then he set up everything, hung the IV bag on an improvised hook and watched the drops disappear steadily into Sam’s arm.

For a while he just stared at the cannula, at the narrow strip of skin beneath it, so pale every vein looked almost translucent. His fingers trembled slightly as he adjusted the line one more time.

Dean lowered his head until his forehead almost touched the mattress.

“Sorry, Sammy,” he muttered softly. “You always believed I was strong enough. But I wasn't. Not down there.”

He lifted his head again, looking at Sam, at the faint rise and fall of his chest.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.”

For an hour he sat beside Sam, listening to the steady rhythm of the drops. In a few hours, a new bag would be needed.

Finally, he rubbed a tired hand over his face, pushed himself up, and headed upstairs to the kitchen.

⛦

Something cold touched his forearm. At first, it was barely more than a small spot on the skin. Sam placed his hand over it. But it stayed. It wrapped tighter around him, growing colder.

Sam pulled his arm closer to his body, but the cold moved with him, clung tightly to him. Silently and patiently, it spread like a living thing across his entire arm.

He rubbed his forearm with the flat of his hand, over and over. But the friction produced no warmth. The skin didn’t just feel cold, it was icy and numb.

‘What is this? What’s happening? Why is it so damn cold?’

The foreign presence moved further along at a steady, agonizingly slow pace that almost drove him mad. It ignored everything he did.

He felt his fingers slowly go numb. Panic flared within him. Desperately, he worked his arm harder, muscles burning. It did no good. The cold crawled like thick glue over his elbow up to his shoulder.

He tried to wrench his arm away again, but it wouldn’t shake off. His breathing quickened without him realizing. Only when his lungs began to burn did he notice the rapid, shallow pull of air. His heart pounded too fast, too hard.

It felt just like back then, when Lucifer had taken hold of him. The same icy hardness. The same inevitability.

And then that bitter cold struck into him. Like liquid ice, it seeped under his skin, probing along his ribs as if searching for something specific. Unstoppable and merciless.

‘Oh God, not him. Not like this… no…’

A sharp, icy blow shot through him as it reached his heart. It wrapped around the muscle like Lucifer’s frozen fingers. The rhythm stumbled, slowed, grew heavier.

‘Please, not again. Please, not this.’

Sam’s fingers dug into his chest, clawing so hard they turned white. He wanted to scream, to flee, to turn away from this spreading presence. But his throat was constricted, and his movements were far too sluggish.

‘No. No, this can’t be real. I didn’t say it... I didn't…’

His chest contracted painfully. His lungs wanted air, but the muscles wouldn’t obey properly.

The clanging presence seeped into every organ, through every fiber, until it flooded his entire body. He began to shiver uncontrollably.

And yet, something was missing.

The power, the superiority, that goddamn feeling of being unbeatable, he felt none of it. For a tiny moment, a faint relief flickered within him. It wasn’t Lucifer.

He knew this cold, but it had never burrowed so deeply under his skin. It was just his mind, desperately seeking some sensation in this endless stillness, making the darkness colder and deadlier than it really was.

His face contorted as the cold slowly, like a harbinger, crept up through his throat into his skull. Panic rose again within him.

“No, no, no, no…” Sam drew his arms up, wrapping them tightly around his head, pressing his elbows against his temples.

He tried to hold on to something. A thought, a memory, a voice. Everything slipped away like water through his fingers.

The pressure grew until it felt as if his skull would shatter. He curled, letting out soft, stifled sounds.

Then the pain behind his forehead exploded, cold and biting, eating through every nerve and shattering every thought, until nothing remained but a blinding, numb white.

His scream stuck in his throat.

The darkness had crept inside him, swallowing every bit of warmth and dragging his body relentlessly deeper into rigid stillness.

⛦

In the evening, Dean sat cross-legged on his mattress. His gaze swept over Sam’s motionless form.

There were the first signs of improvement.

The skin had tightened slightly, less pale. Sam’s pulse was stronger and slower, his breathing deeper and more even. His cheeks no longer sunken, and the lips that had been cracked and dry had recovered a little.

“Come on, Sammy. Give me something. A little friggin’ hint that you haven’t given up yet.”

His eyes drifted to the IV bag. He changed it. Carefully, he covered Sam with the blanket, smoothing it lovingly, as if it could do any good.

Then he lay down next to him. But despite the exhaustion, he couldn’t sleep. Every time he opened his eyes, Sam was still in the exact same position. It was almost eerie.

“Come on, Sam. Don’t leave me sitting here alone with Bobby in the damn library,” Dean murmured with a small, sad smile.

He remembered what Bobby had told him.
“For now, you can only do one thing. Keep his body alive and talk to him. Coma patients often respond to voices they know. Maybe it’ll help Sam find his way out of this. Your voice could bring him back.”

Dean sat up again. “Sam, I hope you can hear me,” he began softly. He carefully took Sam’s cool, limp hand in his, holding it firmly.

“And if you ever pull this crap on me… I swear…” He paused briefly. “I’ll tell Bobby that it was you who sank his old encyclopedia while fishing in the middle of the lake!”

Dean imagined Sam protesting, blaming him, eyes wide, voice indignant.

“Remember that day on the lake? You were ten or eleven, I think, and you brought Bobby’s old book with you.”

“We found that little rowboat at the shore. I wanted to fish and you were reading in your schoolbook. Loud enough that I caught every word.”

He paused briefly, recalling the memory. “I tried to ignore it, really, but after ten minutes your mumbling had lodged in my head. Ruined fishing for me.”

Dean snorted softly. “I joked, dropped dumb comments about you and your book, which you all ignored. After an hour, my patience was gone.”

His voice grew firmer, slightly teasing. “Okay, it was me who rocked the boat. Back and forth a bit, just to get your attention. Maybe I was a little annoyed because you wouldn’t stop talking.”

Dean looked at Sam’s lifeless face. “You were surprised, had to hold on. Your backpack tipped over, Bobby’s herb encyclopedia that you’d sneakily brought along slipped out and fell into the water.”

A faint smile flickered across Dean’s lips.

“We both reached for it and almost capsized the boat. Damn, I just managed to hold it.”

He squeezed Sam’s hand a little tighter.

“You know what? Bobby still looks for that book sometimes and wonders who he lent it to.”

Sam didn’t protest, his eyes remained closed. It almost seemed to Dean like Sam was ignoring him again.

“Sammy?” Dean sighed softly. “Okay, go ahead and blame me for everything… but please, wake up.”

Dean took a deep breath, pulled out the few old photos. For each picture, he told a story or little anecdotes that would have made them both laugh, if only Sam could have reacted.

⛦

The next days passed like this. Dean’s daily routine had become almost mechanical. Changing IV bags, checking Sam’s pulse every single time. Drinking coffee or beer, almost mindlessly, while his eyes kept drifting back to the mattress.

Fixing the Impala, cooking, researching, buying the essentials, or working on the car again. Sleeping, lying awake, tearing Lucifer apart in his mind, feeling every tiny wave of anger, fear, and helplessness all at once.

He brushed Sam’s stray hair aside and made a mental note to wash it tomorrow.

⛦

Sam could barely move. He couldn’t feel his limbs, muscles, or joints. Everything was numb and stiff from the cold. Even breathing was a struggle.

The icy darkness hadn’t just surrounded him, it had invaded him, freezing every fiber, paralyzing every nerve.

He tried to hold on, to cling to everything that kept him upright. Instead came what he could not fight. Memories crashing over him unrelentingly.

His mind replayed everything, jumping from one moment to the next, from pain to pain, from fear to fear, from memory to memory.

He felt every cut in his flesh, every shattered bone, every unwanted touch, every cardiac arrest, every endless moment before death, as if it were happening now. Without any external stimuli, it made him feel everything a hundred times over, without pause.

Sam knew that none of it was real, that there was no order. He tried to grasp individual moments, to organize them, to give them some kind of frame. Over and over he reminded himself that these were just images, that it wasn’t really happening. And yet, it all still hurt. He fought against it, even if only one breath at a time.

But the longer the unrelenting flood of memories lasted, the stronger grew the desperate wish for the Devil to come at last, to pull him out of this lonely meaninglessness. Even if it only meant new torments, every movement, every sound, every tool was at least tangible, predictable, real.

There were pauses, maybe an illusion, brief moments where it was bearable.

He could almost feel Lucifer leaning over him, silent, superior, wearing that merciless, lethal smile Sam so despised. He didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to feel it, and yet desperation, fear and hope surged inside him.

“Please… please…” Sam wanted to cry, to be angry, to regain control, but none of it worked. He begged, pleaded for deliverance, or at least for an end.

The words he hated most formed unwillingly in his mind. He didn’t want to say them, didn’t want to appear so helpless, didn’t want to submit to Lucifer. But the cold and the merciless nothingness had pushed everything else aside.

“Please… please… I want … back…”

He forced the words out.

“Lucifer, please… take me home…”

Every time he spoke these words, he felt utterly despicable and pitiful. But something had always happened. The Devil had brought him back, or…

Sam’s eyes darted through the darkness. It had to be there somewhere. Lucifer’s sign. His way out. That glowing green smiley had to appear somewhere.

He tried to sit up. His muscles wouldn’t obey. Each attempt drained the last reserves of strength from his body. Sweat formed on his brow, yet the cold remained. He trembled all over, tried to curl, to twist, to do something. Nothing.

It had always worked.
This disgusting pleading had always saved him.
But now nothing happened.
No smiley. No Lucifer.

Sam whimpered softly, his voice breaking repeatedly, but he repeated the words, forcing them through his too-tight throat against his will, again and again.

“Please… take me home…”

But nothing came.

His heart twisted painfully between hope and disappointment, and the thought of being trapped here forever, without end, without rescue, dug deeper into his mind each time.

The Devil remained silent, invisible, the darkness relentless. Sam remained, frozen, helpless, torn between pure panic and the desperate longing for this nightmare to finally end.

⛦

Dean opened his eyes, blinking away the haze from too little sleep, and immediately looked at Sam, whose hand still lay cold in Dean’s grip. The same pale, motionless form as yesterday. As the day before. As the days before that.

Coffee smelled from the kitchen, but he had no appetite. All he felt was this torn mixture of fear, anger, and a tiny spark of hope that Sam would open his eyes at any moment.

“Come on, Sammy… wake up. Doesn’t matter how, just wake up.”

More than half a week had passed.

He swung himself onto the edge of the bed, rubbed his forehead, and let his thoughts drift.

Normally he would have pulled back the curtain, shot a sharp remark into Sam’s ear, or blasted the radio. Maybe he would have dropped an ice cube in the back of his neck just to hear the outraged cursing.

Dean stared at his sleeping brother. No eye-rolling. No grumbling. No movement.

“I could really use your help installing the hood today.”

He stayed sitting a moment longer before standing to start the day, which would feel exactly like the last one.

For the afternoon, Dean planned to give Sam a thorough bath.

“Okay, Sammy. I’ll give you ten minutes to wake up. Then you’ll save both of us the embarrassment of me seeing you naked,” he muttered with a crooked smile. “Your call.”

No response.

Dean sighed and went to the bathroom. He filled the tub with warm water, tossed towels over a chair, set Sam’s shampoo ready, and returned to the panic room.

“Shit, Sam. You really wanna go through with this, huh?”

Then he took off his shirt and began carefully moving his brother toward the bathroom.

But the plan turned out to be harder than expected.

Dean had no trouble carrying Sam. He felt every missing ounce of him.

And Sam was tall and completely limp. His long legs stretched wide, threatening to snag on the railings. Dean stopped several times, pulled Sam closer, and adjusted him.

At the top, the door was too narrow. Sam’s head hit the frame, his foot the open door.

“Sorry, Sammy”, Dean whispered, gently maneuvering Sam into the bathroom and laying him on the floor.

Undressing had been a torture. Every time an arm slipped or a piece of clothing caught, Dean muttered an apology.

He carefully pulled the shirt over Sam’s head. The sleeves snagged on the joints. The shirt stubbornly caught at his chin and ear.

“How did you even get this on, Sammy?” he muttered, shaking his head.

He would urgently need to get him bigger clothes.

Dean hadn’t expected it to take this long just to get him safely into the tub. The water was still warm, but no longer as he had filled it.

Even in the half-full bath, Sam’s lifeless body was hard to keep in position. Over and over he threatened to slide down, collapse, or hit the tub’s edge. Dean had to lift Sam’s arms and legs while somehow holding the body.

And then there was the embarrassing closeness he could barely endure He kept as much distance as possible, only touching Sam where absolutely necessary. It was humiliating and frustrating. The weight of protection, guilt, worry, and intimacy dug into his chest.

“Don’t splash me, okay?” His grin was crooked and forced, humor only a façade.

Washing his hair wasn’t easier. He had to make sure no water ran over Sam’s mouth or nose. He didn’t want to find out whether the vegetative functions of the body were even capable of clearing water from the airways right now.

Carefully, he turned Sam’s head to the side so the water could drain. Using a sponge, he gently moistened the hair.

“If you don’t wake up soon, I’m just shaving the mane off, Sammy.”

⛦

Sam didn’t know how long he had been here, how many days, weeks, or even months had passed. Everything stretched into a grinding eternity.

He had stopped calling out, stopped hoping. The words “Please… take me home…” left only a bitter taste in his mouth.

Maybe he hadn’t hit the right tone, hadn’t pleaded enough, hadn’t put enough despair into his voice. Or maybe it had been too early, too hasty, as if he were trying to command the Devil instead of begging him.

Maybe that was it. The mere fact that he was still able to think about how he might manipulate the Devil was enough. That alone would be enough for Lucifer to notice. As long as a trace of control remained in him, as long as he thought strategically, calculated, Lucifer would deny him the way out.

What was left was the silent, paralyzing waiting. For Lucifer. For any light to appear in the endless darkness.

But Lucifer didn’t come.
No smiley. No way out.

His attempts to concentrate or find mental footholds kept failing against the waves of seemingly endless memories. Everything collided with the shrill screeching in his head that he could not silence.

He wanted to press his hands to his ears, scream, run, protect himself, but the cold had already burrowed deep into his bones, slowed his heartbeat, and made his blood sluggish. Thoughts dragged endlessly, muscles twitched but no longer obeyed, blocking any resistance against the icy grip.

He longed for an end. He wanted to go. Away from everything. Let go. Into that fleeting state he knew so well, floating, free, without pain, without fear.

But he was trapped in his own body, holding him back.

“Break your finger, Sam.”

Lucifer’s words. He had thought it was just a hallucination. Now, however, he clung to the thought.

He pressed his arms tighter against his chest, forced his hands to move. Laboriously, he bent the stiff fingers, straightened them again. Over and over, until he felt he had regained enough control.

Finally, the little finger rested in his hand. Sam hesitated. That wouldn’t be enough, it wouldn’t convince Lucifer. It would only mock him.

The middle finger. That had to be it. The universal symbol of rebellion. He prayed that Lucifer would see it for what it was. A proof of his shattered resistance.

And a defiant fuck you to his own mind, which tormented him so relentlessly.

It would hurt, but it would be real. Something his body couldn’t simply ignore.

His hand closed around the middle finger. He took a shaky, deep breath. Pressed his lips together hard and forced the finger against its own resistance. The joints held. Every millimeter sent fire through his nerves, which had felt frozen until now. Then it cracked.

The pain exploded, shooting through his hand, sending fire down his arm, forcing his brain to block everything else out. His scream was swallowed by the silent blackness around him. The voices, the memories, the shrill noise in his head. Everything paused for a single heartbeat.

Sam trembled all over. He breathed heavily, clenched his teeth, forcing himself to endure the pain. Cold sweat ran down his forehead and cheeks, his heart pounded wildly.

He curled in on himself, pulling his arms and elbows close to his torso, the injured hand pressed tightly to his chest. His other hand rested over it, holding the pain, feeling it.

For a time, he stayed like that, fully absorbed in the throbbing of his finger. His mind showed him no images. Slowly, he loosened his grip a little, allowing himself to take hold of a thought again.

“Why am I even here?” he croaked hoarsely into the darkness, his voice weaker and more pitiful than he could bear.

“I played your game. What did I do wrong?”

No answer.
Nothing.

Sam heard his own whimpering and hated it.

“Why won’t you take me?”

Again, nothing. Just himself, trapped in a body that felt too loud, with a mind on the brink of madness.

Lucifer loved every scream, every desperate breath, every twitch of his muscles, every humiliating posture, and yet… this absence.

Why? Sam couldn’t understand. It had to be a game. Total disregard as the ultimate display of power.

And the merciless, icy silence. It rolled over him, made him feel thrown away, forgotten, worthless, until he barely dared to breathe.

But then, quite unexpectedly, something changed.

The nothingness around him began to move. At first barely perceptible, then he felt it ripple against his body. Fear flickered, mingling with a strange sense of vulnerability.

‘What is this?’

A faint glimmer of hope dared to surface.

‘Why does it feel so different?’

Sam tried to smother the glimmer, because it wasn’t the usual pulling, not the brutal sensory explosion that nearly shattered him every time the Devil dragged him back from this nothingness into the Cage. Where was the nausea? Or Lucifer’s cruel greeting?

Slowly, almost like sunlight through fog, the waves ignited tiny sparks of awareness and memory, memories of things he had long thought lost.

The feel of water running over his body. His first swimming lessons. Summer days at the lake. Sunlight flickering on the water.

‘Did Lucifer make this for me?’ he wondered. No, that made no sense, unless it was a trick, and he would drown any second. Surely it was only his mind playing with him.

“You’re disappointing me, buddy,” the voice in his head sighed.

The voice he knew like his own heartbeat. Instinctively, he tried to move, to reach for the source of the voice. But his limbs wouldn’t obey.

“We had so much more fun with this element.”

Panic broke through. Memories he had buried deep surged back.

“No, this isn’t real…”

And immediately, it was all back. Lucifer’s hands pressing him under the water until his lungs and head burned. The feeling of drowning as Lucifer pushed into him in his ethereal form. The slippery walls of a chamber full of water. He had thrashed and struggled to stay afloat.

“Ah, you haven’t forgotten,” the voice softened, almost dreamy. “How many times did we practice this, huh?”

“No, no, this isn’t real… just a hallucination.”

His body didn’t wait for proof. His chest constricted under the pressure of the restraints. Arms and shoulders twisted suddenly backward, ankles secured. His fingers tensed as if reaching for the lock.

A jolt shot through the broken middle finger, nearly stealing his breath. He forced the other fingers to take over the grip. Clumsy, weak, but driven by sheer desperation.

“Lucifer…” Sam cried.

“Take me home,” he wanted to add, but the water filled his mouth, seeped into his nose, into his ears.

“My little Houdini… You were so beautiful when the moment came,” Lucifer continued, raving. “When you no longer knew whether you were drowning or flying. That endless fraction of a second when you let go.”

Sam pressed his lips together, holding his breath.

Then he felt it. The glass pressing against his skin. The burning pull in his lungs, mercilessly demanding air. The dull echo of his heartbeat.

“Remember how we refined this trick?” Lucifer’s voice sounded almost proud. “Our little extras.”

A twitch shot through Sam as he could almost feel tiny pieces being torn from his flesh.

Lucifer laughed softly, driving him further into the memory. “Those nasty little fish,” he continued, “they loved you. Your panic, your thrashing, your blood.”

Suddenly, the water was full of motion, tiny mouths biting at his skin. Teeth sank into shoulders, thighs, chest, and back. He tried to shake them off, but the more he moved, the greedier they became.

He tried to suppress the panic rising unstoppable within him. He wanted to stay still, he couldn’t touch the glass walls anymore. But the fish and water pulled at him. He couldn’t breathe and lost control.

“I told you, not the glass.”

His elbow brushed the glass. A dark energy shot through his nerves, muscles and tendons.

Air, everything inside him screamed for air.

He wanted to turn away, but the water was everywhere. It pressed him outward, yet he kept struggling, twisting until his entire back slammed against the glass wall. The energy shot through him again, this time stronger.

It clawed into his spine, almost ripping it apart. His muscles turned rigid, his fingers cramped, no longer obeying him.

He reared up.
The confinement squeezed him tight.
Breathing burned, lungs screamed.
The fish tore at him.

All at once. His body reacted, even though his mind still desperately tried to believe it couldn’t be real – and failed.

Sam opened his mouth, bubbles rushing out in torrents. The water greedily surged in.

His heart pounded wildly and irregularly. Then, suddenly, it slowed, each beat feeling like the last.

“There he is,” whispered Lucifer, awed and fascinated behind the glass.

Sam’s chest contracted one last time. Reflex. A desperate twitch.

His muscles gave way. The fish vanished. The water calmed. He stopped struggling. His heart beat once more. A heavy, dull thud that reverberated through his entire body.

For a moment, he felt light, weightless, free from pain.

“Yes,” Lucifer breathed with relish. “Exactly like that, Sammy. This is the moment when you belong entirely to me. No resistance, no excuses, only surrender.”

Everything that had tormented him just moments ago was washed away. No restraints, no burning, no choking. Only silence.

Sam sank deeper, letting himself be carried.

For a moment, it was as if he had found exactly what he had longed for all this time. A place without suffering, without memory, without expectations. Just a state of non-being.

He wanted to stay there, floating, wordless, free.

“And every time you thought it was over, I brought you back.”

Sam struggled for every breath, coughing and choking out the water. He crawled, gasping, through the now ankle-deep water, while Lucifer stood beside him, looking past him into the distance.

“You’ve lasted longer before, Sam,” Lucifer said disappointedly. He looked down at the Winchester. “But that wasn’t water back then, right?”

Sam felt his stomach tighten and nausea rise.
“No… please… not that,” he croaked quietly.

“Hmm, then maybe a little incentive?” Lucifer pressed a finger to his lips, thoughtfully.

“A day free of everything, just peace?” Lucifer pondered. “And you know how hard that is for me,” he added. “Or perhaps a bizarre case with your brother, just the two of you, undisturbed? A heroic end-of-the-world scenario?”

Lucifer paused, waiting for an answer.

“What do you say, Sammy, want to try again?” he whispered. “Just to see if you still know the trick?”

“No…” Sam shook his head so weakly it was barely noticeable. “Stop… just stop…”

“You remember how it worked, don’t you?”

Sam remained silent, averting his gaze.

Lucifer smiled with satisfaction, as if he had expected that pitiful remnant of defiance. He stepped back a few paces.

“You’re like a bored zoo animal, Sam. Without a little variety, you’d wither or spin in meaningless, stereotypical circles.”

As much as he despised Lucifer, Sam couldn’t deny the truth in that. He had felt that stagnation, in that empty, dark loneliness. A grinding standstill, worse than anything else.

Too exhausted to respond, he slumped and closed his eyes.

Only the water remained, cold and indifferent, flowing around his body until it had no direction.
For a long time, there was only silence.
Only nothing.

Maybe he had simply drowned in his own madness.

⛦

Dean knelt on the floor, leaning over the edge. The water sloshed against the rim as Sam’s body suddenly tensed.

It was the first movement in days, but instead of hope, pure panic surged through him.

Sam’s head banged against the tub edge.

“Shit!” Dean shoved his hand between, trying to keep the head still.

He drew a breath to call Bobby, then swallowed it down. No one should see Sam like this. He had to get through it alone.

Dean grabbed an arm, pressing it against Sam’s chest. He could feel the panic underneath, the vibrations of Sam’s muffled “Mmmmm,” but the lips were tightly pressed together, the sounds trapped inside.

Then he froze. Sam’s chest didn’t rise. He had stopped breathing.

“No. No, no, Sammy, breathe! This isn’t real! Breathe!”

The rest of the body jerked violently, uncontrollably. The elbow slammed against the tub edge. The sound made Dean flinch, but he couldn’t hold everything at once. Water splashed across the floor.

“Come on, Sam, wake up! Goddammit!”

Dean held him as tight as he could while the convulsions tore through Sam’s back with raw force. In the next instant, Sam’s chest shot upward explosively, desperate gasps tearing air in jagged bursts.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the tension released. The spasms ebbed, the body sank lifelessly back into the tub.

“Oh God…”
Dean immediately pressed his fingertips to Sam’s neck, searching for a pulse. Weak, but steady. His chest rose and fell lightly.

“You’re breathing…” he exhaled in audible relief, almost as if he had been holding his own breath the entire time. “You’re gonna kill me, you know that?”

A shiver ran over Sam’s unconscious body.

“Shit, Sammy… this is getting too cold,” he murmured.

Though Dean didn’t want to add more water, he turned the tap to warm.

“Okay, I’m doing this quick, alright? Just the hair, then you’re out of the water,” he whispered.

Dean watched every breath, every movement, every heartbeat as the warm water displaced the cold.

⛦

Very slowly, a strange warmth pushed its way through the lightless cold that had numbed him for so long. It crept over Sam and settled like a thin veil across the ice.

It was new and strange, almost surreal, but not unpleasant.

It spread. Turned the endless loneliness into warm waves that rocked him as if he were drifting on a sunny day in water that carried him instead of suffocating him. He felt the cold fade from his skin, the muscles loosen, his heartbeat and breathing ease.

Soon it enveloped him like a soft, warming blanket, inviting him to surrender, even though he knew it was dangerous.

The fear remained, waiting to strike again. But he felt no sign of sinking deeper. The waves around his body stayed gentle, rising and falling, playing with his limbs, teasing his senses, challenging his awareness.

Unable to resist the pull of calm, he let himself drift. Maybe it was another trap, a hallucination, or a memory, but it felt good.

He might still be trapped in this black hole, yet for the first time in forever, he felt free from the crushing darkness.

A slight smile tugged at his lips, unconscious, almost shy.

Dean felt his heart skip a beat when he noticed the tiny smile on his brother’s face. It was small, barely more than a twitch of the mouth corners.

“Sammy?” Dean whispered so softly it seemed a louder sound could shatter it. Sam didn’t respond, but the smile was real. Dean drew a deep breath, steadied himself, and gently worked a small amount of shampoo into his hand.

“Finally,” he murmured. Finally a positive response to something. Somewhere in that body, a part of Sam was still receiving something from his surroundings.

“Feels good, huh?”

It was a peaceful sensation, and Sam didn’t risk losing it. He stayed still, not daring the slightest movement. Instead, he let himself drift. The waves rocked him gently, and he let out a quiet, contented sigh.

The deep rumble from his brother was a spark of hope for Dean. It wasn’t much, but it was better than anything he’d gotten in the past days.

“Come on, Sammy, fight your way out. You can do this,” he murmured, taking a bit more shampoo into his palm. He spoke continuously, hoping the words reached somewhere inside him.

The waves carried the Winchester tenderly through the silence. Their rhythmic rocking released tensions he hadn’t even realized were still there. For the first time in ages, he could breathe deeply again. With the breath came something new: a scent.

A hint of something familiar, delicate and subtle, slipped into the emptiness. It began to wrap around him slowly, like an invisible, protective veil.

“Oh, how touching,” Lucifer hissed immediately.

He paused briefly, pondering.

“You know, I remember that smell. One of the women whose body I carried. She smelled just like that before she crumbled miserably. Now she’s dead. And do you know why? Because you allowed it. Because you refused me.”

The words stabbed into Sam’s chest like a dagger. He saw no images, but the scent twisted into a bitter whirlpool of guilt. Another life added to his endless list.

And yet, despite the bitterness, the warmth and the scent pressed insistently against the voice. Gentle, but unstoppable, they surged into the void and flooded Sam with a force that made him pause.

It wasn’t a scent he could yet name, but it was filled with an overwhelming absence of pain and torment. No monsters, no ripped-out organs, no cruel mutilations, no Lucifer. Nothing that reminded him of the Cage.

For a single breath, it was as if the emptiness itself began to crumble.

“Ridiculous,” Lucifer snarled. “Your little paradise ends the moment I want it.”

For some reason he had never questioned, Sam Winchester had always bought shampoo with a coconut scent, even during the time when he had no soul. Maybe it was the familiarity of the smell, maybe just coincidence. But it had always been coconut.

It was one of those little details that even Lucifer didn’t really care about. In his illusions, he had replaced it with something of blood orange, fire lily, and gooseberry, which he thought was more fitting. Sometimes rosehip or forget-me-not. Lucifer had always considered it a successful joke.

And there was something else the scent brought back. A long-extinguished feeling from another time. Warm and familiar, almost like safety. Like being in the bathroom, under the shower. Naked, defenseless, vulnerable, and yet secure. Almost always, Dean was in the next room.

For a tiny moment, he was himself again. A body, a feeling, a thought that didn’t belong to Lucifer.

“Dean,” Sam murmured softly, without even realizing it.

“Whoa, yeah. I’m here, Sam,” Dean said, suddenly alert. The expectation in his voice was unmistakable. “Come on, Sammy. You’ve got this.” He almost forgot to rinse the shampoo out of Sam’s hair.

“Oh Dean? That’s your big answer?” Lucifer chuckled softly. He repeated the name, loud, warped, almost singing. “Deeeaaan… Deeeaaan…”

The name had slipped from Sam, and Lucifer twisted everything it had meant to him. He wanted to take the name back, to protect it before the archangel took any more, but he couldn’t.

He felt exposed, weak, helpless, just like in the Cage.

“See? He’s not listening. He can’t save you. He doesn’t even know where you are.”

And yet the scent remained. Gentle, quiet, unwavering. Warm and familiar, from another world. Sam clung to it, furrowing his brow. How had it gotten here? Lucifer had mocked the name, but hadn’t destroyed the smell. Not the warmth. What did it mean?

“It means nothing, buddy. Nothing. Like everything here,” the voice said, cold and clinical, wanting to extinguish any hope.

Sam clung to this small detail, tiny and unassuming as it was.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he found his way back into his body. First, he moved a finger cautiously, then another. He felt them brushing against something else. Was that his leg?

Dean noticed the tentative movements immediately. “Just like that, Sammy. Good job.” He gently wiped the last traces of foam from Sam’s temple. “See? It’s okay. Just water. Just me. Nobody else.”

There was that other voice again. Different from Lucifer’s. It sounded muffled, as if coming from far away, pressed through thick walls. But it was calling to him. He followed the sound and listened, hoping for more words.

“No one else is here,” Lucifer repeated with false gentleness. “Just me. You know you’re lost here without me.”

“Open your eyes, please,” Dean said. “Come back.” I need you.

“Back where?” Lucifer’s tone was almost pitying. “Into my arms, Sam. That’s what you’ve been waiting for the whole time.”

A wave of panic ran through Sam. No, not back, he thought.

He didn’t want to go back into that empty oblivion or back to the torments Lucifer kept inflicting. He wanted to float in that cozy safety, to feel peace for just a moment, free of pain and control.

“Or do you want me to come to you, buddy?” Lucifer purred. “I can be nice if you let me.”

Lucifer’s words flowed through the lonely dark, seductive, almost intimate. Threatening, like a terrible memory.

“One little word and it’s all over. I’ll hold you, warm you, because no one else will. Just the two of us, so close.”

Sam’s breath caught. The skin on his arms tightened, every hair standing on end.

“Remember? You were the one who sought my closeness. I just didn’t turn you away.”

“No, please,” he forced out, barely audible.

The memory of the Cage wasn’t only images. It told him where a touch could lead, even if it started soft.

The warmth, the safety that had just carried him, suddenly felt uncertain. It threatened to turn into Lucifer’s feigned body heat.

“See?” Lucifer continued softly. “You miss me.”

His throat tightened. A sound escaped him, a small, tortured whimper. He turned his head away from the voice as far as he could.

“No, no, no, Sam, don’t you dare give up now!” Dean said, tense.

The waves continued to lap against his body, but they gradually grew calmer. The familiar scent that had enveloped him only moments ago was still there, though it too began to fade.

The other voice remained, and something about it unsettled him.

“You’re not there anymore. We got you out. You have to believe me!”

Only now did Sam notice. The words weren’t Enochian. Why not? That wasn’t supposed to happen. It didn’t feel right. And they sounded as if they were penetrating this soundless place from the outside. They reminded him of Dean.

“Focus on me, on my voice. You can do this. Come on, Sammy.”

Sam held his breath. It could be another trick.

Dean didn’t wait. He knew this moment was critical. He took Sam’s head in both hands, refusing to let him slip back, not now, not after all the tiny progress.

“Damn it, Sam, come on! Don’t leave me hanging here!” Dean urged.

“Open your eyes. Now!” Dean’s voice was firm, harsher than he intended.

A command, direct and unyielding. Loud and clear. Sam flinched inwardly. For a heartbeat, the sudden tone startled him. But before he could reject it, he recognized it.

It was Dean. Tense. Worried. With that unwavering authority his older brother always showed in critical moments.

For a moment, Sam didn’t know whether to be afraid or to cling to it. His heart stumbled.

He wanted Dean.
He wanted nothing else.
He clung to the strange scent.
And to Dean’s voice.

“Ignoring me now, huh?”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes slightly, regarding Sam as if his behavior were a provocation.

“I get it, Sammy. The big brother…” he murmured. “Hard to tear yourself away from him, huh?”

Lucifer sighed softly.

“Don’t ask me why, but maybe I even enjoy this a little.”

The words left a strange impression in Sam’s mind. Not threatening, more like a shadow that would follow him, just out of reach.

“Sam!” Dean called, his thumb brushing gently across Sam’s cheek.

Sam felt the firm pressure on his skin, felt something glide across his cheek. He followed the movement, focusing all his attention on it. It wasn’t the cold, paralyzing weight he knew from this dark hole.

His head responded, tilting and turning slightly in Dean’s hand, as if leaning into it.

Dean immediately felt Sam’s head settle, almost seeking support.

“Good, just like that, Sammy,” he said firmly, his voice sharp and clear. “Come on. Keep going. You can do this.”

Sam’s fingers twitched weakly in the water. He tried to lift his eyelids, but they felt like lead. He blinked cautiously, almost instinctively. Once, twice, his strength failed until he finally managed to open a slit. Blinding light stabbed into his eyes.

Fragmented pieces of the world returned. Shapes, colors, movements, all too bright, too blurred. His gaze searched for something to hold onto, first finding shadows, then contours, then something familiar.

Slowly, piece by piece, Dean’s face emerged, illuminated by the sunlight streaming through the window.

His heart stumbled, an irregular beat that immediately mingled with a wave of relief.

“Dean?” he murmured softly, barely audible. His eyes stayed locked on Dean, as if he might vanish again any moment.

“Yeah. It’s me…”

“What are you doing here?” Sam asked, disoriented.

Dean furrowed his brow, silent for a brief moment. Then finally he exhaled in relief, as if a heavy stone had been lifted from his chest.

“Welcome back, Sam!” Without thinking further, he pulled his brother, still covered in water and suds, into a hug.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he murmured into Sam’s neck.

Sam let it all happen, trying to make sense of what was happening.

He remembered the basement of the old clinic. A room that looked more like a slaughterhouse, with bloodstained white tiles. Bobby. Dean. Castiel – or Lucifer – and his warning: “Be thankful for my mercy. I could have cast you back into the pit.”

Dean held him tightly, hugged him. He was warm and tangible.

And Sam was grateful. So grateful it hurt. Grateful that Lucifer hadn’t dragged him back into the Cage. That he was allowed to stay here, with Dean by his side. That the world still had a face and wasn’t only an abyss.

“Thank you,” Sam whispered quietly.

It wasn’t really meant for Dean. Not entirely. But he couldn’t deny that he meant it. For this moment, narrow and fleeting as it was, he was grateful to Lucifer.

His arms lay awkwardly in the water. Unable to move fully, he let his head sink deep into Dean’s neck, pressing himself against him as tightly as he could. A tear slid down his cheek, mixing invisibly with the water on his skin. No one would notice. Only he. And Lucifer.

Dean held him tighter. “It’s okay, Sam. I’m glad you’re back.”

“I’m back,” Sam whispered so softly he could barely hear it himself.

“Yeah, Sammy.” Dean nodded and smiled. “Welcome to the world of the living.”

Sam heard the words. Maybe they were true. Maybe he really was back.

There was no acrid stench of burnt flesh, no metallic aftertaste of blood, no dry dust scratching at his throat

Only the comforting scent of Dean.

And the subtle scent of coconut.

Dean eased slightly from the hug, looking Sam over carefully. “Hey… uh… you okay on your own?”

Sam looked around. It wasn’t the panic room. His eyes fell on the chair next to the tub. A stack of fresh clothes, two towels draped over the backrest. Bobby’s bathroom. Only now did he fully register that he was sitting naked in the water.

A brief, uncomfortable shiver of shame passed through him, then he nodded hesitantly. “Yeah, Dean. I'll be fine. Just… go.”

Dean could feel the slight tension in his brother. He stepped back and headed for the door. “I’m in the kitchen.”

He left the room, leaned back against the wall outside. For a moment, he allowed himself to close his eyes and just stand there. Sam was finally back, awake and really here.

He took a deep breath and went downstairs.

Sam remained still, gathering himself, arms still in the water. Slowly he lifted his hand, his finger looking normal. He had felt it crack. Now everything was completely fine. He felt along the bones, testing for pain. Nothing. Uninjured. No break. Carefully he bent the finger and straightened it again.

He noticed the bandage, his fingertips gliding over it, checking the texture, the firmness. He pulled the cloth aside a little. The stitches were clean, neat, just like Dean would have done.

Lucifer had never given him a bandage. Usually, he was left with open flesh or forced to put himself back together.

He let the water flow through his hands, rubbed the suds between his fingers. Doubts flickered inside him. Lucifer had used memories, twisted them, and replayed them in endless variations. What if this was just the continuation of that?

Then he began carefully drying himself and getting dressed. Every movement was slow, almost agonizing.

He swayed, pressed a hand against the wall, feeling his way toward the stairs. He breathed shallowly, paused, hesitated, his fingers clutching the railing. Wood, hard and real. Fear gnawed at him, the fear that he would find only pain, only Lucifer playing with his emotions.

Dean was already waiting in the kitchen. He dried the remaining water from his hands with a small red towel. But he couldn’t quite shake off his tension.

He grabbed a beer from the fridge and listened to the soft steps on the stairs.

Sam slowly descended the steps. His heart beat irregularly and he kept stopping briefly, but everything around him was as it always had been, the rooms, the furniture, the stains on the floor.

When Sam saw Dean, he exhaled in relief. A shy, hopeful smile touched his lips, and with it a cautious, almost tentative trust in reality.

“Hey, Dean…”

⛦

Neither brother suspected that in a remote, almost forgotten shop, a man with short brown hair and a neat beard stood in front of a shelf.

He lifted a bottle of shampoo to his nose, inhaled deeply, and smiled smugly.

“Ah, a masterpiece. People have no idea how much genius is packed into a single molecule of coconut.”

Then he wondered if he could surpass himself yet again.

He laughed at himself and shook his head.

Of course, he could.

⛦