Fic: The World Ends With You [Supernatural, PG-13, Gen, Sam & Lucifer, Dean, Castiel]
Title: The World Ends With You
Rating/Warnings: Gen, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Lucifer, Dean, Castiel
Spoilers: 5x04+
Summary: Sam comes back to life with a gasp, choking on a mouthful of blood.
Word Count: 6000 words
Sam comes back to life with a gasp, choking on a mouthful of blood. Agony in his chest and he turns onto his side, spitting blood and bile.
"Shh," Lucifer says behind him. He has one hand on Sam's shoulder, the other rubbing Sam's back. "It's okay."
Sam lays his forehead against the floor and tries to breathe around the pressure on his chest. It's his heart reforming, his lungs filling with air. His breath is hot against the cold concrete. "Why won't you just let me die?"
Lucifer squeezes his shoulder. "You know I can't do that," he says sadly.
*
He has scars from all the different times he's died, the newest one a neat line over his heart from where the hunters who captured him buried a consecrated dagger in it. A slash across his wrist where a demon had drained his blood and drank it. A neat cut across his throat where emergency room doctors inserted a trach to try and save his life.
There are other scars, other wounds, but he doesn't notice them anymore. He just counts the big ones, the ones he can number and say, This is how many times I've died.
It should be a miracle. An archangel reaching out and bringing the dead back to life. If this were the Bible, there would be weeping women and celebrations and the fattest calf being slaughtered in celebration. And eventually there will be. There will be screaming and death and demons celebrating in the streets.
Because every time Sam dies, Lucifer is there to bring him back.
*
"Your brother and his friend have been very busy," the demon says, leaning close. He's shorter than Sam, but tied hand and foot to the chair, the demon looms over him. The rest of the demons are there, lurking in the shadows, seething like a storm cloud. "It's really annoying," he says. "Trying to get a good apocalypse started, only to run into him at every turn." He leans forward, putting his hands over Sam's wrists, digging his fingers in. "I wonder, how loud do you have to scream before he comes to find you?"
"He won't," Sam says. "Not anymore."
The demon stands up and walks away. "Come on, Sam, you don't expect us to believe that, do you?" He disappears into the shadows and Sam wipes the blood dripping down his cheek against his shoulder. "Let's make this a learning experience, shall we?" the demon says, coming into the light of the bare bulb once again. He has a bottle in his hands. "We've heard all sorts of thing about you, Sam Winchester," the demon says. "That the night you opened that door, you were truly one of us. But we just can't seem to shake all the killing you've done, the body count you've racked up, sending so many of us back to the Pit after we worked so hard to escape. And when you killed our mother, that was the final straw."
Sam's eyebrows furrow and he thinks, Mother?, but then he remembers 'Because Lilith would not lie with Adam, she laid down with the demons instead and bore many of their children, becoming an abomination'.
The demon unscrews the cap to the bottle and brings it down at a hard angle, splashing Sam across the chest. There's no sizzle of flesh, no pain. It's almost comical. Sam looks down at his chest and back at the demon.
The demon curses. A flash of silver and the sudden appearance of a knife. He buries it into Sam's shoulder and Sam can't bite back the scream that echoes in the abandoned warehouse. The demon pulls the knife out and it scrapes against his collarbone. The demon raises it again and slashes across Sam's chest.
"One for every one of my brothers and sisters you've killed," the demon hisses. He lifts the knife again and buries it in Sam's thigh. He smiles and leans close.
"We're going to be here for awhile," he whispers into his ear.
They're only at wound number seventeen when the crowd falls silent. The demon in front of him pauses in his work, leaving the thumb and index finger of Sam's right hand unbroken.
The rows of lights that run up and down the warehouse flicker and then pop, one at a time, popcorn explosions of light and glass.
Suddenly, the crowd of demons parts down the middle, hard enough that some of them hit the wall and crumple to the floor, dead.
Sam lifts his head wearily and watches the remaining demons turn as one, black eyes oily in the reflecting light. Lucifer walks between them and they fall back, whispering among themselves. One of them darts forward and grabs the hem of Lucifer's shirt.
"Lord," she says. "Master."
Lucifer throws her against the wall. She breaks through the concrete, and Lucifer doesn't break stride. He stops in front of Sam.
"Hello, Sam," he says with a gentle smile. He reaches down and pulls the knife out of his side. Sam groans at the pain and the hot rush of blood that follows. Lucifer puts his hand on his shoulder and Sam arches his back in agony as all of his wounds heal.
"My Lord," the demon who tortured him says. "We didn't know you were coming." Children caught unawares, burning ants with a magnifying glass. Lucifer ignores him.
"Close your eyes, Sam," he says instead. "Don't open them, no matter what."
Sam tries to feel guilty as he listens to dozens of innocent people scream in agony.
He can't.
*
He's searching for an answer. Searching for an end.
He spends more and more time in libraries, churches, arcane bookstores. He's picked up another demonic language without actually meaning to, but the words come to him and fall into order. He finds himself drawing sigils and strange symbols in the margins of his notebook, on fast food napkins. He hasn't tasted demon blood in months but he losing parts of himself, he knows. Becoming something less and less human.
There has to be a way he can die and stay dead. But he's sure no demon will tell him and no angel can find him.
There's no way to unwork whatever it is that Castiel's done to him. But maybe there's a way he can find Castiel. Castiel, who thinks only of Dean. Castiel, who's been itching to kill Sam since he first laid eyes on him.
Impossibly, he finds the answer lies in a church in a tiny town in Indiana. He's halfway there when Lucifer suddenly appears in the seat next to him.
"Jesus," Sam says, startled.
"Blasphemy," Lucifer says.
Sam starts to laugh so hard that he's crying. He manages to stop eventually, trying hard to catch his breath.
"Sam-"
"I'm not going to change my mind," Sam says. "Ever."
"You will eventually. No one can hold out forever," Lucifer says. "I know you're tired, Sam. Tell me you'll let me in. Tell me you'll let me in and this can all be over with." When Sam doesn't answer him, Lucifer asks, "Are you going to ride this road forever? There's no one but you and me."
Sam's breath clouds the glass of the windshield but he rolls down the window anyway, letting the cold morning air in. He breathes deep.
Without looking away from the open road, Sam reaches down and unbuckles his seatbelt. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and pushes the pedal all the way to the floor. The engine roars, the old car slow to pick up before racing forward.
"Sam," Lucifer says, exasperated. "You're being unreasonable."
Sam turns the wheel and angles the car onto the shoulder and down into the brush, ignoring the blaring of the car horn behind him. He aims for the guard rail at the cliff's edge.
The breeze catches his hair and he's reminded of a thousand other car rides, a thousand other trips. He remembers falling asleep hunched down against the door with the summer breeze on his face, waking up when Dean threw a tape cassette at his head. He remembers stretching out in the back and reading All Quiet on the Western Front. He remembers Dad's deep baritone singing along to "House of the Rising Sun".
The engine roars when the car takes flight, the tires spinning free.
He closes his eyes.
Dying used to mean so much.
*
Sam wakes in a morgue, laid out on a cold metal table. He's freezing, arms and legs gone too long without blood. His jaw shifts, broken pieces fusing back together. Lucifer smiles down at him, that same sad smile, his fingertips over Sam's heart.
The first time Sam came back to life, Lucifer had worked his own magic on him. He'd laid his hand on Sam's chest and cast his own spell on top of Castiel's, making it so only Lucifer, out of all the angels, could find Sam.
He thinks the old Sam would be fascinated it. Instead he turns over and grabs the edge of the table with numb fingers. Lucifer's hand lingers, sliding off Sam's chest as he pulls himself away.
"You must be so tired," Lucifer says. "Let me in and you'll never have to feel pain again."
"No," Sam whispers.
"Are you going to keep doing this?" he asks. "Kill yourself over and over?"
"If that's what it takes," Sam says. He manages to swing his legs over the side of the table. The world spins and stars dot his vision. He stumbles to the door on unsteady legs, a wounded animal trying to get away.
"You need time," Lucifer says. "I understand this pain, Sam. You don't have to shoulder it alone."
When Sam turns around, Lucifer is gone.
*
It's snowing when he gets to Indiana, a white blanket of silence that muffles all sound. St. Theresa's is an old crumbling building with a small library. It's the only place in the United States that has St. Bede's Treatise on the Form and Being of the Archangels and the Lesser Angels in the original Latin. The book is nearly five centuries old. Sam steals it by climbing out the church window. He has a half-uttered prayer on his lips, promising he'll return it, but then he remembers no one's listening.
Three hours later he's painting a devil's trap on the floor of a mausoleum. He doesn't need the book for this part; summoning a demon is as easy as breathing.
The demon appears, wearing a middle-aged man. He looks around the mausoleum and back at Sam.
"Little human," he begins, singsong.
Sam pulls his blade.
"You-" the demon says, eyes widening.
Sam buries his blade in the demon's heart and hopes he was fast enough, that the demon hadn't had time to trip the demonic silent alarm and let Lucifer know what he's doing. The demon drops like a rock, the host's arms falling outside of the circle now that the demon's gone. He has to hurry. He rummages around in his bag, taking out the book and the coffee cup he stole from the church. Sam ignores the dying man's eyes staring at him and pulls his knife free. The man's breathing grows shallower and shallower until Sam isn't really sure if he's breathing at all. Sam grips the man's arm and slits his wrist, filling up the coffee cup with blood.
It takes him longer to make the new circle, he keeps having to check the symbols and make sure the lines are straight. When he stands up, bones stiff with cold, he feels a thousand years old. Reverently, he wraps the book up in one of his T-shirts and puts it back into the bag.
Sam steps inside of his newly made circle and picks up the coffee cup. The blood has congealed, but once he passes through the outer curve of the circle, it begins boiling in the cup. He starts the ritual and when he gets to the end, he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. The blood is just the right temperature and it reminds him of all the terrible things he promises himself he isn't. The taste of it makes that terrible part of him rise, triggers something deep inside him. It rushes through him, turns his blood on fire, and power floods into him.
The cup shatters on the ground and Sam knows his eyes are black when he commands, "Castiel, answer my call."
The concrete underneath him begins to glow and then white light explodes upwards, surrounding him. When his vision clears, he's in two places at once, the inside of the mausoleum overlaid by the inside of a motel room. His breath catches in his throat when Castiel is suddenly there in front of him and they're not in the mausoleum or the motel, but somewhere else entirely.
"Sam," Castiel says.
Sam wants to cry with relief. Instead, he laughs.
"It actually worked," he says.
"I do not know why you have done this," Castiel says. "This is dark magic and there are much more important things that require my attention." He frowns. "Has your phone run out of minutes?"
"What?" Sam asks.
"Why do you not use your phone and call Dean?"
"Actually," Sam says, "I don't want Dean to know about this." He pauses. "I need you to do something for me, Cas."
"I am not-"
"I know, I know," Sam interrupts. "Trust me, you want to do this. I know you can find almost anything, so I need you to find the Colt and then I need you to come here and-"
Suddenly, Sam's vision dims and then flares bright, a power surge. Dean appears, one hand on Castiel's arm.
"-happening, Cas?" Dean asks, eyes on Castiel's face, eyebrows furrowed in concern.
"Hello, Dean," Sam says softly.
"Sam," Dean says, surprised. He looks around, taking in the cold mausoleum. "What's going on?" He starts forward and stops short when Castiel puts a hand over his, holding Dean's hand against his arm.
"Don't let go," Castiel says without looking away from Sam.
"Jesus, Sam," Dean says, brow furrowing, "What the hell's happened to you?"
Sam reaches up to touch the jagged scar on the side of his face, follows it down to the one that cuts across his bottom lip.
"I don't have time to explain," Sam says. God knew what kind of alarms he was setting off now, pulling all this power. "I need you to find the Colt. I'll tell you where I am and I'll let him in. And then I need you to shoot me. Okay, Dean? You shoot me."
"I'm not going to shoot you, Sam," Dean says, dismissively.
"Fine," he says. He turns away from him. "Do whatever it takes," he tells Castiel. "We're going to end this," he says. "I need to end this."
"I understand," Castiel says.
"Wait, what?" Dean protests. "We can't just kill him."
Sam feels something start to pull at the edge of his consciousness. The spell is starting to lose its power.
"Make him understand," Sam says abruptly. Dean turns to look at him, utterly lost. Sam's vision dims and goes black. He's unconscious before he even hits the floor.
*
The next time Lucifer finds him, Sam puts his head in his hands and says, "I'm ready."
"I knew you would come around, Sam," he says.
"You told me you would give me anything I wanted," Sam says, looking up. "I want to say goodbye to my brother."
"Sam-"
"If he kills me, you can bring me back, right?"
Lucifer sighs. "I told you I would never lie to you, Sam. But if he tries to stop us, tries to stop me, I will be forced to kill him. Knowing that, will you still let me in, if I let you tell him goodbye?"
"Yes," Sam whispers. They're not going to get that far. Lucifer will walk the earth for minutes, seconds, however long it takes for Dean to pull the trigger. "You don't have to be there, you know."
"Sam," he says. "You know I can't do that."
"Fine. But you have to promise me you'll let me say goodbye, that you won't kill him while he's here, and I'll do whatever you want. But if you kill him now, I'll say no to you until the end of time."
"Sam-"
"Promise me."
Lucifer sighs. "As long as he does nothing but say his goodbyes. If he tries to attack me, I will be forced to respond in kind, you understand that, right?"
Sam nods.
"Good. I promise to give him fair passage. But only your brother. I don't want that minion of his tagging along."
"Fine," Sam says.
"Tell me where he is," Lucifer says, crossing the room.
"New Mexico-"
Lucifer wraps one cold hand around Sam's arm and the ground drops out underneath them.
The world slides back into focus, a darkened room of an abandoned house, the agreed upon meeting place. Lucifer must have taken the information from his mind and Sam desperately hopes he didn't see anything else.
Dean is crouching on the floor. He rises when they appear, letting his hands fall to his sides. "Sam," he says.
Lucifer's fingers have left their imprint on his arm. "Say your goodbyes, Samuel."
"Dean," he says, breathless. His brother's hands are empty and Sam can't see the telltale weight of the Colt pulling at his jacket. His heart sinks.
Lucifer sits down on a rickety chair, brushing off the dust before lowering himself into it. Moving slowly and purposefully, a king sitting on his throne. There are empty bottles and crumpled newspapers littered everywhere. The smell is awful.
"I'm here," Sam says, voice catching in his throat. "I'm here to say goodbye."
"You're just going to give up?" Dean asks, voice odd.
"I'm not giving up," Sam says. He tries to signal with this eyes, tries to ask a question without speaking. Dean just stares back. "It has to be this way," he pleads, trying to get Dean to understand, trying to say it in a way that Lucifer won't understand until it's too late.
"I'm not surprised you've fallen," Dean says. "Joining with Lucifer is only an excuse. You have been consumed by your lust for power. "
And Sam had expected anger, maybe even tears, but not this cold cataloging of his sins. He looks around, trying to find a trap, something that explains everything.
"This is only an attempt to gain more power," Dean says, drawing his attention back.
Dean's face is peaceful and Dean hasn't been peaceful since he came back from Hell. "You would probably let any angel in, would you not?" Dean asks calmly and Sam realizes, Castiel. He fights to keep his face blank and he thinks everyone can hear his heart hammering in his chest. Castiel and Dean have written a play and Sam is supposed to know his lines without even having looked at the script.
"Any angel," Castiel is saying. "Any angel who can give you the power you crave."
Sam fights to keep from looking over at Lucifer, wanting to gauge his reaction. "But that's not how it works, is it?" he asks. "I don't get to pick. I don't get Michael or Gabriel, I get Lucifer and he's treated me a lot better than you have."
"Well, after all," Castiel says. "Like calls to like."
Sam huffs a laugh. "I think I'll enjoy it. It's about time someone accepts me for who I am. And you know what? If I did get to pick? I'd pick Castiel, just so that sanctimonious bastard had to spend every minute of every day trapped in this less than human body." It isn't going to work, Sam thinks. There was only one vessel Castiel could command.
Castiel moves close, leaning forward menacingly. "You would do that," he says. "You think only of yourself and you punish others for your sins. I should've listened to our father and killed you when I had the chance. The next time we meet, I won't hesitate."
Sam steps forward, closing the distance between them. "I can't wait to see you try."
The anger smooths away from Dean's face. Castiel lifts a hand, fingers extended. "This is going to hurt," he whispers.
Lucifer stands, alarmed, and Sam can feel it too, something coming, growing, building. A bright white light, like the sun cresting over the horizon.
Castiel's fingers are warm on the side of his face. Sam meets his eyes and tries not to scream when that white hot light burns him from the inside out.
*
Sam doesn't remember much of the time that he'd been possessed. He doesn't remember the demon slipping into him with its sharp claws, doesn't remember hurting Jo, or even shooting Dean. He remembers flashes of blood and screaming, mundane things like driving down a road and pushing open a door.
Having an angel in his body is completely different.
Everything is amplified; it's too loud, too bright. He feels himself slipping away, falling into that nothingness, that horrible feeling of being pushed aside to let someone else take over. He fights and the world resolves itself in broken pieces; a water stain on the ceiling of the abandoned house, a cobweb in a dusty corner, a crooked chandelier.
"Sam!" Dean shouts in his ear. "God, just-" Fingers dig into his arms, holding him down. "Stop," Dean shouts. "Sam, relax. Let Cas do his thing so we can get the hell out of here. Relax!"
He's barely said two words to Dean, but listening, reacting, it's second nature, written into his soul.
Sam lets go and Castiel rises up.
*
He's talking when he wakes up. It's his voice, Castiel's words.
"-Lucifer's spell. I have untangled most of it, most of what I can understand. We should be safe." It's eerie hearing his own voice speaking and not having anything to do with it.
He can't see and he's struck with a sudden feeling of claustrophobia.
"Can you fix him?" Dean asks.
Sam feels the corners of his mouth turn down. "There is nothing physically wrong with this body," Castiel says.
"No," Dean says. "I mean, can't you do anything about the scars?"
Castiel is silent. "I'm ill-suited to your brother's form and so I am limited to the things I can do while I'm in it."
"Fine," Dean says impatiently. "Then get the hell out of there so I can talk to Sam."
"James," Castiel says in Sam's voice, and it sounds heavy and regal and so foreign.
He hears the rustle of clothing, the shifting scuffle of feet across carpet.
"Right here," Jimmy says.
There's nothing for a moment and then light flares, blindingly bright, and he can see again. His eyes are watering and Jimmy's face swims in front of him. Slowly, he's aware of other things; his hands on either side of Jimmy's face, Dean's hand on his shoulder.
Jimmy's eyes flare gold and Sam feels dizzy and nauseous all at once. He groans and feels a fine tremor shake his hands and move its way up his arms. He tries to take a step back and brace himself, but his foot won't respond and he sways. Dean slips a hand behind his back.
"Easy," he says. "I've got you," and Sam wants to shake and cry and lose himself.
Sam's hands slip from Castiel's face and the angel reaches out and grabs Sam by the shoulders, fingers digging in tight. He starts to fall, a boneless slump, but Dean catches him from behind and Castiel won't let go. They half-carry, half-drag him over to the bed and Sam tries not to throw up. They manhandle him on top of the covers and he rests his head gratefully on the thin pillow. Dean sits down next to him, the mattress dipping under his weight.
"Why didn't you call me?" Dean asks.
"I did," Sam says. He puts his hands over his face. He doesn't want to argue with Dean, not right now, but there is no way that any of this is his fault.
"Yeah," Dean says softly. "I guess you did."
The heater turns on, a complicated affair that shakes the wall and rattles the window. Sam takes his hands off his face and puts them on his stomach.
"How did you do it?" he asks, barely managing a whisper.
"Our suicidal rescue mission?" Dean asks with a wry grin. "It was fucking disgusting, man," he says. "Had to drink Jimmy's blood so Castiel could jump into me before jumping into you."
Castiel's shadow falls across them. "I needed to know your blood before I could take command of your brother's body," he says. He sounds hurt.
Dean rolls his eyes, but only so Sam can see it. "Listen, Cas," Dean says. "I'm not complaining about the end result, I'm just saying that having to drink blood was something I could have gone my whole life without doing."
Castiel meets Sam's eyes. For a moment, Sam thinks he can see the real Castiel, a thing of light and wings. He looks away.
"I've found Man can be driven to do the most remarkable things if he is desperate enough," Castiel says. Sam can feel his eyes on him still.
"What are we going to do now?" he asks.
Dean pats his leg. "Well," he says brightly, too brightly. "Cas and I are trying to stop the world from going to hell. I figure we've got room for one more."
"Dean, I-"
"Not now, Sam. You need your rest. Sleep tight 'cause we're leaving bright and early." Dean stands up. "C'mon Cas, let's hit the bricks."
"Dean," Sam says, and he thinks he can hear the echo of what Castiel's voice had sounded like.
Dean stops. Sighs.
"He's going to find us," Sam says. "He's going to find me."
"Sam, he's not-"
"Stop lying to me," Sam hisses.
Dean sits back down. Castiel is staring at them both in that ageless way he observes the passing of everything.
"What do you want me to do?" Dean asks. "Run screaming in the opposite direction? Run screaming towards Lucifer with no plan, no idea about where to even start?"
Sam manages to push himself up onto his elbows. His heart is hammering in his chest, and he doesn't know if it's the after effects of the demon blood or having an angel ride his bones. "I want you to do what I asked you to do in the first place."
Dean laughs a sarcastic little half-laugh. "I didn't even bother to look for the Colt. I told you then and I'm telling you now: I'm not going to kill you, Sam. Now get some fucking sleep or I'll have Cas work some serious mojo on you."
That brings Castiel back. "Dean, I am not some sort of-"
"Sleep," Dean says, ignoring him. "We'll figure this out tomorrow." He stands over him until Sam closes his eyes. He won't sleep. There's no way he can sleep ever again.
He thinks maybe Castiel does work some of his magic on him because he does fall to sleep eventually. He dreams about fire and blood, but its not enough to wake him.
*
He wakes to the smell of coffee, and Dean poking him in the shoulder with one finger. Sam cracks open one eye and then the other.
"Rise and shine," Dean says. He moves a cup of coffee back and forth in front of Sam's eyes, steam rising from the top. Sam manages to sit up and Dean sits down in the chair next to the bed. He hands Sam the cup.
"They didn't have any creamer but I convinced the crone behind the counter at the diner to put some whipped cream in it. So, um, there you go, I guess."
"Thanks," Sam says. He puts the cup to his lips, feels the hard line of scar tissue push against his teeth. The coffee tastes awful and the whipped cream hasn't done anything except leave a oil slick sheen on the surface. "It's great."
Dean snorts into his own coffee. "You're so full of shit. I think this is the worst stuff I've tasted in awhile, including that coffee machine back in Tulsa."
"Or that Dunkin' Donuts outside Charlotte."
"That place brought shame to the noble name of Dunkin' Donuts. Seriously, I'm surprised that place wasn't cursed or something."
After months of having no one else to talk to, Sam's conversational skills have lost their luster. He clears his throat.
"How long was I asleep?"
Dean makes a production of setting down his coffee, lifting his arm, pushing back his sleeve, and looking at his watch.
"Twelve hours."
Twelve hours and it feels like he's hardly slept at all. He swallows another mouthful of coffee and fights a grimace before setting it down on the stained table next to him.
"I'm going to take a shower," he announces.
"Make it quick," Dean says. "Cas thinks it best if we keep moving."
He waits for Dean to leave before making his way to the bathroom. His leg aches and he limps along like an old man.
He spends too much time in the shower, but Dean doesn't knock until he's pulling his shirt back on.
"I'm coming," he says through the door.
Dean laughs. "But I'm not even breathing hard!"
"You are so disgusting," Sam says without looking away from the mirror. But that cold coil of fear and anger and sorrow that's been in his gut since they split up all those months ago is slowly starting to unwind. Dean's putting on a show of normalcy because it's easier to pretend things aren't as awful as they really are. Sam never understood it, put most of his faith in communication and facing problems head on. He's starting to understand what Dean sees in ignoring things and hoping they will fix themselves.
He opens the door, Dean standing in front of him with his hand raised, getting ready to knock again.
"Dude, you look awful," Dean says.
"Gee, thanks."
"But that's okay," he says, patting Sam's cheek. "You can sleep in the car."
They leave the hotel room and Sam half chokes on a laugh at the sight of Castiel sitting patiently waiting in the passenger seat of Dean's car. Dean shakes his keys in one hand, reaching for the door handle with the other. Sam slides into the back seat, muscle memory of doing the same thing a thousand times before calming his nerves. One of the hotel quilts is wadded up on the floorboard. Dean puts the key in the ignition and the Impala rumbles to life. It's music to Sam's ears. He pulls the quilt up from the floor and wads it up against the door. Dean pulls out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
"Take a nap, princess," Dean says over his shoulder.
"Nah," Sam says, leaning against the door. "I think I'll watch the scenery for awhile."
He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he must, because suddenly Lucifer is there next to him and there is no one driving the car. Outside, the landscape is a monochrome of black silhouettes and an endless white sky.
"Sam," Lucifer says. Sam spins and fumbles for the door handle. Lucifer arches an eyebrow. "Do you think that's safe?"
Sam's died a half dozen times (he can number the scars), but a bone deep survival instinct stops him.
"I have to say I'm disappointed," Lucifer says. It's amazing, how he can look hurt and it touches something deep inside of Sam. "After all we've been through together, I thought we could trust one another." He smiles. "But I'm not worried, Sam. Do you know why?" he asks. "Because I know your brother."
"Leave him out of this!" Sam hisses.
"Oh, he might not remember me," he continues. "But I remember him. It took him decades before he said yes to Alastair. Untold hours of endless suffering, every day. And that's how I know: He'll never say yes to Michael. So you see, Sam, I think it's safe to say I have nothing but time."
"Sam!" he hears Dean shout, voice echoing from far away.
"Speak of the devil," Lucifer says.
The Impala starts to fall apart around them, stretching like melting plastic. Outside the skies are turning red, trees bursting into flames.
"Remember what I said, Sam," Lucifer says, putting his hands together in the mockery of prayer. "You will say yes to me."
"Sam!" Dean shouts again, voice closer this time. "Damnit, Sam, start breathing!"
Lucifer fades and the world explodes in a flash of light.
He comes up gasping, a great rush of air filling his lungs. Dean rocks back on his heels and Sam realizes they're outside, the trees (green, normal trees) are waving their branches overhead. He's lying on his back, confused.
"Why am I on the ground?" he asks, though it mostly comes out mumbled. "Is there something wrong with the car?"
Dean reaches down to grab his jaw, holding Sam in place while he looks into his eyes. "There's something wrong with you, idiot! You started thrashing and then you stopped breathing and then I almost had a heart attack!" The words come out in quick succession, running into one another.
"He found you faster than I'd hoped," Castiel says calmly next to him. He's still standing, looking down at Sam, and the sun makes a halo of light around his head.
"My chest hurts," Sam says, head still swimming.
"Yeah!" Dean says with a note of hysteria in his voice. "That's where I was banging on your ribcage, trying to get your heart to start again!" He runs the back of one shaking hand across his mouth. "Jesus, I'm too old for this shit."
Sam puts an arm over his eyes. "I'm never going to escape him, am I?" Sam asks.
"Sure you are," Dean says at the same time Castiel says, "No, you're not."
Dean glares up at Castiel.
"The only thing we can do is hope to stay ahead of him," Castiel says. He hesitates. "It means that I cannot leave you."
"I'm sorry, Cas," Sam says. The angel had an apocalypse to help fight and instead he was going to have to spend valuable time babysitting a human corrupted by demon blood and an unlucky twist of fate.
"What the hell for?" Dean asks.
But Castiel understands.
"It's a burden I willingly bear," he says. "We must keep you out of Lucifer's hands at all costs." He reaches down and helps pull Sam to his feet.
They get back in the car, their breath misting in the cold morning air.
"Here," Dean says, throwing the box of cassettes into the backseat and into Sam's lap. "Pick one." Sam picks one at random, Led Zeppelin, because it'll make Dean happy. He passes it ahead and sinks back into the seat.
They speed down the road, Robert Plant singing, "I had a dream. Crazy dream. Anything I wanted to know, any place I needed to go." Sam catches Dean looking back at him through the rear view mirror, something unrecognizable on his face. He looks away, back out the window to the endless landscape beyond.
Sam traces the scar on his cheek and tries not to count the number of times he's died.
End.
Rating/Warnings: Gen, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Lucifer, Dean, Castiel
Spoilers: 5x04+
Summary: Sam comes back to life with a gasp, choking on a mouthful of blood.
Word Count: 6000 words
Sam comes back to life with a gasp, choking on a mouthful of blood. Agony in his chest and he turns onto his side, spitting blood and bile.
"Shh," Lucifer says behind him. He has one hand on Sam's shoulder, the other rubbing Sam's back. "It's okay."
Sam lays his forehead against the floor and tries to breathe around the pressure on his chest. It's his heart reforming, his lungs filling with air. His breath is hot against the cold concrete. "Why won't you just let me die?"
Lucifer squeezes his shoulder. "You know I can't do that," he says sadly.
*
He has scars from all the different times he's died, the newest one a neat line over his heart from where the hunters who captured him buried a consecrated dagger in it. A slash across his wrist where a demon had drained his blood and drank it. A neat cut across his throat where emergency room doctors inserted a trach to try and save his life.
There are other scars, other wounds, but he doesn't notice them anymore. He just counts the big ones, the ones he can number and say, This is how many times I've died.
It should be a miracle. An archangel reaching out and bringing the dead back to life. If this were the Bible, there would be weeping women and celebrations and the fattest calf being slaughtered in celebration. And eventually there will be. There will be screaming and death and demons celebrating in the streets.
Because every time Sam dies, Lucifer is there to bring him back.
*
"Your brother and his friend have been very busy," the demon says, leaning close. He's shorter than Sam, but tied hand and foot to the chair, the demon looms over him. The rest of the demons are there, lurking in the shadows, seething like a storm cloud. "It's really annoying," he says. "Trying to get a good apocalypse started, only to run into him at every turn." He leans forward, putting his hands over Sam's wrists, digging his fingers in. "I wonder, how loud do you have to scream before he comes to find you?"
"He won't," Sam says. "Not anymore."
The demon stands up and walks away. "Come on, Sam, you don't expect us to believe that, do you?" He disappears into the shadows and Sam wipes the blood dripping down his cheek against his shoulder. "Let's make this a learning experience, shall we?" the demon says, coming into the light of the bare bulb once again. He has a bottle in his hands. "We've heard all sorts of thing about you, Sam Winchester," the demon says. "That the night you opened that door, you were truly one of us. But we just can't seem to shake all the killing you've done, the body count you've racked up, sending so many of us back to the Pit after we worked so hard to escape. And when you killed our mother, that was the final straw."
Sam's eyebrows furrow and he thinks, Mother?, but then he remembers 'Because Lilith would not lie with Adam, she laid down with the demons instead and bore many of their children, becoming an abomination'.
The demon unscrews the cap to the bottle and brings it down at a hard angle, splashing Sam across the chest. There's no sizzle of flesh, no pain. It's almost comical. Sam looks down at his chest and back at the demon.
The demon curses. A flash of silver and the sudden appearance of a knife. He buries it into Sam's shoulder and Sam can't bite back the scream that echoes in the abandoned warehouse. The demon pulls the knife out and it scrapes against his collarbone. The demon raises it again and slashes across Sam's chest.
"One for every one of my brothers and sisters you've killed," the demon hisses. He lifts the knife again and buries it in Sam's thigh. He smiles and leans close.
"We're going to be here for awhile," he whispers into his ear.
They're only at wound number seventeen when the crowd falls silent. The demon in front of him pauses in his work, leaving the thumb and index finger of Sam's right hand unbroken.
The rows of lights that run up and down the warehouse flicker and then pop, one at a time, popcorn explosions of light and glass.
Suddenly, the crowd of demons parts down the middle, hard enough that some of them hit the wall and crumple to the floor, dead.
Sam lifts his head wearily and watches the remaining demons turn as one, black eyes oily in the reflecting light. Lucifer walks between them and they fall back, whispering among themselves. One of them darts forward and grabs the hem of Lucifer's shirt.
"Lord," she says. "Master."
Lucifer throws her against the wall. She breaks through the concrete, and Lucifer doesn't break stride. He stops in front of Sam.
"Hello, Sam," he says with a gentle smile. He reaches down and pulls the knife out of his side. Sam groans at the pain and the hot rush of blood that follows. Lucifer puts his hand on his shoulder and Sam arches his back in agony as all of his wounds heal.
"My Lord," the demon who tortured him says. "We didn't know you were coming." Children caught unawares, burning ants with a magnifying glass. Lucifer ignores him.
"Close your eyes, Sam," he says instead. "Don't open them, no matter what."
Sam tries to feel guilty as he listens to dozens of innocent people scream in agony.
He can't.
*
He's searching for an answer. Searching for an end.
He spends more and more time in libraries, churches, arcane bookstores. He's picked up another demonic language without actually meaning to, but the words come to him and fall into order. He finds himself drawing sigils and strange symbols in the margins of his notebook, on fast food napkins. He hasn't tasted demon blood in months but he losing parts of himself, he knows. Becoming something less and less human.
There has to be a way he can die and stay dead. But he's sure no demon will tell him and no angel can find him.
There's no way to unwork whatever it is that Castiel's done to him. But maybe there's a way he can find Castiel. Castiel, who thinks only of Dean. Castiel, who's been itching to kill Sam since he first laid eyes on him.
Impossibly, he finds the answer lies in a church in a tiny town in Indiana. He's halfway there when Lucifer suddenly appears in the seat next to him.
"Jesus," Sam says, startled.
"Blasphemy," Lucifer says.
Sam starts to laugh so hard that he's crying. He manages to stop eventually, trying hard to catch his breath.
"Sam-"
"I'm not going to change my mind," Sam says. "Ever."
"You will eventually. No one can hold out forever," Lucifer says. "I know you're tired, Sam. Tell me you'll let me in. Tell me you'll let me in and this can all be over with." When Sam doesn't answer him, Lucifer asks, "Are you going to ride this road forever? There's no one but you and me."
Sam's breath clouds the glass of the windshield but he rolls down the window anyway, letting the cold morning air in. He breathes deep.
Without looking away from the open road, Sam reaches down and unbuckles his seatbelt. He tightens his grip on the steering wheel and pushes the pedal all the way to the floor. The engine roars, the old car slow to pick up before racing forward.
"Sam," Lucifer says, exasperated. "You're being unreasonable."
Sam turns the wheel and angles the car onto the shoulder and down into the brush, ignoring the blaring of the car horn behind him. He aims for the guard rail at the cliff's edge.
The breeze catches his hair and he's reminded of a thousand other car rides, a thousand other trips. He remembers falling asleep hunched down against the door with the summer breeze on his face, waking up when Dean threw a tape cassette at his head. He remembers stretching out in the back and reading All Quiet on the Western Front. He remembers Dad's deep baritone singing along to "House of the Rising Sun".
The engine roars when the car takes flight, the tires spinning free.
He closes his eyes.
Dying used to mean so much.
*
Sam wakes in a morgue, laid out on a cold metal table. He's freezing, arms and legs gone too long without blood. His jaw shifts, broken pieces fusing back together. Lucifer smiles down at him, that same sad smile, his fingertips over Sam's heart.
The first time Sam came back to life, Lucifer had worked his own magic on him. He'd laid his hand on Sam's chest and cast his own spell on top of Castiel's, making it so only Lucifer, out of all the angels, could find Sam.
He thinks the old Sam would be fascinated it. Instead he turns over and grabs the edge of the table with numb fingers. Lucifer's hand lingers, sliding off Sam's chest as he pulls himself away.
"You must be so tired," Lucifer says. "Let me in and you'll never have to feel pain again."
"No," Sam whispers.
"Are you going to keep doing this?" he asks. "Kill yourself over and over?"
"If that's what it takes," Sam says. He manages to swing his legs over the side of the table. The world spins and stars dot his vision. He stumbles to the door on unsteady legs, a wounded animal trying to get away.
"You need time," Lucifer says. "I understand this pain, Sam. You don't have to shoulder it alone."
When Sam turns around, Lucifer is gone.
*
It's snowing when he gets to Indiana, a white blanket of silence that muffles all sound. St. Theresa's is an old crumbling building with a small library. It's the only place in the United States that has St. Bede's Treatise on the Form and Being of the Archangels and the Lesser Angels in the original Latin. The book is nearly five centuries old. Sam steals it by climbing out the church window. He has a half-uttered prayer on his lips, promising he'll return it, but then he remembers no one's listening.
Three hours later he's painting a devil's trap on the floor of a mausoleum. He doesn't need the book for this part; summoning a demon is as easy as breathing.
The demon appears, wearing a middle-aged man. He looks around the mausoleum and back at Sam.
"Little human," he begins, singsong.
Sam pulls his blade.
"You-" the demon says, eyes widening.
Sam buries his blade in the demon's heart and hopes he was fast enough, that the demon hadn't had time to trip the demonic silent alarm and let Lucifer know what he's doing. The demon drops like a rock, the host's arms falling outside of the circle now that the demon's gone. He has to hurry. He rummages around in his bag, taking out the book and the coffee cup he stole from the church. Sam ignores the dying man's eyes staring at him and pulls his knife free. The man's breathing grows shallower and shallower until Sam isn't really sure if he's breathing at all. Sam grips the man's arm and slits his wrist, filling up the coffee cup with blood.
It takes him longer to make the new circle, he keeps having to check the symbols and make sure the lines are straight. When he stands up, bones stiff with cold, he feels a thousand years old. Reverently, he wraps the book up in one of his T-shirts and puts it back into the bag.
Sam steps inside of his newly made circle and picks up the coffee cup. The blood has congealed, but once he passes through the outer curve of the circle, it begins boiling in the cup. He starts the ritual and when he gets to the end, he takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. The blood is just the right temperature and it reminds him of all the terrible things he promises himself he isn't. The taste of it makes that terrible part of him rise, triggers something deep inside him. It rushes through him, turns his blood on fire, and power floods into him.
The cup shatters on the ground and Sam knows his eyes are black when he commands, "Castiel, answer my call."
The concrete underneath him begins to glow and then white light explodes upwards, surrounding him. When his vision clears, he's in two places at once, the inside of the mausoleum overlaid by the inside of a motel room. His breath catches in his throat when Castiel is suddenly there in front of him and they're not in the mausoleum or the motel, but somewhere else entirely.
"Sam," Castiel says.
Sam wants to cry with relief. Instead, he laughs.
"It actually worked," he says.
"I do not know why you have done this," Castiel says. "This is dark magic and there are much more important things that require my attention." He frowns. "Has your phone run out of minutes?"
"What?" Sam asks.
"Why do you not use your phone and call Dean?"
"Actually," Sam says, "I don't want Dean to know about this." He pauses. "I need you to do something for me, Cas."
"I am not-"
"I know, I know," Sam interrupts. "Trust me, you want to do this. I know you can find almost anything, so I need you to find the Colt and then I need you to come here and-"
Suddenly, Sam's vision dims and then flares bright, a power surge. Dean appears, one hand on Castiel's arm.
"-happening, Cas?" Dean asks, eyes on Castiel's face, eyebrows furrowed in concern.
"Hello, Dean," Sam says softly.
"Sam," Dean says, surprised. He looks around, taking in the cold mausoleum. "What's going on?" He starts forward and stops short when Castiel puts a hand over his, holding Dean's hand against his arm.
"Don't let go," Castiel says without looking away from Sam.
"Jesus, Sam," Dean says, brow furrowing, "What the hell's happened to you?"
Sam reaches up to touch the jagged scar on the side of his face, follows it down to the one that cuts across his bottom lip.
"I don't have time to explain," Sam says. God knew what kind of alarms he was setting off now, pulling all this power. "I need you to find the Colt. I'll tell you where I am and I'll let him in. And then I need you to shoot me. Okay, Dean? You shoot me."
"I'm not going to shoot you, Sam," Dean says, dismissively.
"Fine," he says. He turns away from him. "Do whatever it takes," he tells Castiel. "We're going to end this," he says. "I need to end this."
"I understand," Castiel says.
"Wait, what?" Dean protests. "We can't just kill him."
Sam feels something start to pull at the edge of his consciousness. The spell is starting to lose its power.
"Make him understand," Sam says abruptly. Dean turns to look at him, utterly lost. Sam's vision dims and goes black. He's unconscious before he even hits the floor.
*
The next time Lucifer finds him, Sam puts his head in his hands and says, "I'm ready."
"I knew you would come around, Sam," he says.
"You told me you would give me anything I wanted," Sam says, looking up. "I want to say goodbye to my brother."
"Sam-"
"If he kills me, you can bring me back, right?"
Lucifer sighs. "I told you I would never lie to you, Sam. But if he tries to stop us, tries to stop me, I will be forced to kill him. Knowing that, will you still let me in, if I let you tell him goodbye?"
"Yes," Sam whispers. They're not going to get that far. Lucifer will walk the earth for minutes, seconds, however long it takes for Dean to pull the trigger. "You don't have to be there, you know."
"Sam," he says. "You know I can't do that."
"Fine. But you have to promise me you'll let me say goodbye, that you won't kill him while he's here, and I'll do whatever you want. But if you kill him now, I'll say no to you until the end of time."
"Sam-"
"Promise me."
Lucifer sighs. "As long as he does nothing but say his goodbyes. If he tries to attack me, I will be forced to respond in kind, you understand that, right?"
Sam nods.
"Good. I promise to give him fair passage. But only your brother. I don't want that minion of his tagging along."
"Fine," Sam says.
"Tell me where he is," Lucifer says, crossing the room.
"New Mexico-"
Lucifer wraps one cold hand around Sam's arm and the ground drops out underneath them.
The world slides back into focus, a darkened room of an abandoned house, the agreed upon meeting place. Lucifer must have taken the information from his mind and Sam desperately hopes he didn't see anything else.
Dean is crouching on the floor. He rises when they appear, letting his hands fall to his sides. "Sam," he says.
Lucifer's fingers have left their imprint on his arm. "Say your goodbyes, Samuel."
"Dean," he says, breathless. His brother's hands are empty and Sam can't see the telltale weight of the Colt pulling at his jacket. His heart sinks.
Lucifer sits down on a rickety chair, brushing off the dust before lowering himself into it. Moving slowly and purposefully, a king sitting on his throne. There are empty bottles and crumpled newspapers littered everywhere. The smell is awful.
"I'm here," Sam says, voice catching in his throat. "I'm here to say goodbye."
"You're just going to give up?" Dean asks, voice odd.
"I'm not giving up," Sam says. He tries to signal with this eyes, tries to ask a question without speaking. Dean just stares back. "It has to be this way," he pleads, trying to get Dean to understand, trying to say it in a way that Lucifer won't understand until it's too late.
"I'm not surprised you've fallen," Dean says. "Joining with Lucifer is only an excuse. You have been consumed by your lust for power. "
And Sam had expected anger, maybe even tears, but not this cold cataloging of his sins. He looks around, trying to find a trap, something that explains everything.
"This is only an attempt to gain more power," Dean says, drawing his attention back.
Dean's face is peaceful and Dean hasn't been peaceful since he came back from Hell. "You would probably let any angel in, would you not?" Dean asks calmly and Sam realizes, Castiel. He fights to keep his face blank and he thinks everyone can hear his heart hammering in his chest. Castiel and Dean have written a play and Sam is supposed to know his lines without even having looked at the script.
"Any angel," Castiel is saying. "Any angel who can give you the power you crave."
Sam fights to keep from looking over at Lucifer, wanting to gauge his reaction. "But that's not how it works, is it?" he asks. "I don't get to pick. I don't get Michael or Gabriel, I get Lucifer and he's treated me a lot better than you have."
"Well, after all," Castiel says. "Like calls to like."
Sam huffs a laugh. "I think I'll enjoy it. It's about time someone accepts me for who I am. And you know what? If I did get to pick? I'd pick Castiel, just so that sanctimonious bastard had to spend every minute of every day trapped in this less than human body." It isn't going to work, Sam thinks. There was only one vessel Castiel could command.
Castiel moves close, leaning forward menacingly. "You would do that," he says. "You think only of yourself and you punish others for your sins. I should've listened to our father and killed you when I had the chance. The next time we meet, I won't hesitate."
Sam steps forward, closing the distance between them. "I can't wait to see you try."
The anger smooths away from Dean's face. Castiel lifts a hand, fingers extended. "This is going to hurt," he whispers.
Lucifer stands, alarmed, and Sam can feel it too, something coming, growing, building. A bright white light, like the sun cresting over the horizon.
Castiel's fingers are warm on the side of his face. Sam meets his eyes and tries not to scream when that white hot light burns him from the inside out.
*
Sam doesn't remember much of the time that he'd been possessed. He doesn't remember the demon slipping into him with its sharp claws, doesn't remember hurting Jo, or even shooting Dean. He remembers flashes of blood and screaming, mundane things like driving down a road and pushing open a door.
Having an angel in his body is completely different.
Everything is amplified; it's too loud, too bright. He feels himself slipping away, falling into that nothingness, that horrible feeling of being pushed aside to let someone else take over. He fights and the world resolves itself in broken pieces; a water stain on the ceiling of the abandoned house, a cobweb in a dusty corner, a crooked chandelier.
"Sam!" Dean shouts in his ear. "God, just-" Fingers dig into his arms, holding him down. "Stop," Dean shouts. "Sam, relax. Let Cas do his thing so we can get the hell out of here. Relax!"
He's barely said two words to Dean, but listening, reacting, it's second nature, written into his soul.
Sam lets go and Castiel rises up.
*
He's talking when he wakes up. It's his voice, Castiel's words.
"-Lucifer's spell. I have untangled most of it, most of what I can understand. We should be safe." It's eerie hearing his own voice speaking and not having anything to do with it.
He can't see and he's struck with a sudden feeling of claustrophobia.
"Can you fix him?" Dean asks.
Sam feels the corners of his mouth turn down. "There is nothing physically wrong with this body," Castiel says.
"No," Dean says. "I mean, can't you do anything about the scars?"
Castiel is silent. "I'm ill-suited to your brother's form and so I am limited to the things I can do while I'm in it."
"Fine," Dean says impatiently. "Then get the hell out of there so I can talk to Sam."
"James," Castiel says in Sam's voice, and it sounds heavy and regal and so foreign.
He hears the rustle of clothing, the shifting scuffle of feet across carpet.
"Right here," Jimmy says.
There's nothing for a moment and then light flares, blindingly bright, and he can see again. His eyes are watering and Jimmy's face swims in front of him. Slowly, he's aware of other things; his hands on either side of Jimmy's face, Dean's hand on his shoulder.
Jimmy's eyes flare gold and Sam feels dizzy and nauseous all at once. He groans and feels a fine tremor shake his hands and move its way up his arms. He tries to take a step back and brace himself, but his foot won't respond and he sways. Dean slips a hand behind his back.
"Easy," he says. "I've got you," and Sam wants to shake and cry and lose himself.
Sam's hands slip from Castiel's face and the angel reaches out and grabs Sam by the shoulders, fingers digging in tight. He starts to fall, a boneless slump, but Dean catches him from behind and Castiel won't let go. They half-carry, half-drag him over to the bed and Sam tries not to throw up. They manhandle him on top of the covers and he rests his head gratefully on the thin pillow. Dean sits down next to him, the mattress dipping under his weight.
"Why didn't you call me?" Dean asks.
"I did," Sam says. He puts his hands over his face. He doesn't want to argue with Dean, not right now, but there is no way that any of this is his fault.
"Yeah," Dean says softly. "I guess you did."
The heater turns on, a complicated affair that shakes the wall and rattles the window. Sam takes his hands off his face and puts them on his stomach.
"How did you do it?" he asks, barely managing a whisper.
"Our suicidal rescue mission?" Dean asks with a wry grin. "It was fucking disgusting, man," he says. "Had to drink Jimmy's blood so Castiel could jump into me before jumping into you."
Castiel's shadow falls across them. "I needed to know your blood before I could take command of your brother's body," he says. He sounds hurt.
Dean rolls his eyes, but only so Sam can see it. "Listen, Cas," Dean says. "I'm not complaining about the end result, I'm just saying that having to drink blood was something I could have gone my whole life without doing."
Castiel meets Sam's eyes. For a moment, Sam thinks he can see the real Castiel, a thing of light and wings. He looks away.
"I've found Man can be driven to do the most remarkable things if he is desperate enough," Castiel says. Sam can feel his eyes on him still.
"What are we going to do now?" he asks.
Dean pats his leg. "Well," he says brightly, too brightly. "Cas and I are trying to stop the world from going to hell. I figure we've got room for one more."
"Dean, I-"
"Not now, Sam. You need your rest. Sleep tight 'cause we're leaving bright and early." Dean stands up. "C'mon Cas, let's hit the bricks."
"Dean," Sam says, and he thinks he can hear the echo of what Castiel's voice had sounded like.
Dean stops. Sighs.
"He's going to find us," Sam says. "He's going to find me."
"Sam, he's not-"
"Stop lying to me," Sam hisses.
Dean sits back down. Castiel is staring at them both in that ageless way he observes the passing of everything.
"What do you want me to do?" Dean asks. "Run screaming in the opposite direction? Run screaming towards Lucifer with no plan, no idea about where to even start?"
Sam manages to push himself up onto his elbows. His heart is hammering in his chest, and he doesn't know if it's the after effects of the demon blood or having an angel ride his bones. "I want you to do what I asked you to do in the first place."
Dean laughs a sarcastic little half-laugh. "I didn't even bother to look for the Colt. I told you then and I'm telling you now: I'm not going to kill you, Sam. Now get some fucking sleep or I'll have Cas work some serious mojo on you."
That brings Castiel back. "Dean, I am not some sort of-"
"Sleep," Dean says, ignoring him. "We'll figure this out tomorrow." He stands over him until Sam closes his eyes. He won't sleep. There's no way he can sleep ever again.
He thinks maybe Castiel does work some of his magic on him because he does fall to sleep eventually. He dreams about fire and blood, but its not enough to wake him.
*
He wakes to the smell of coffee, and Dean poking him in the shoulder with one finger. Sam cracks open one eye and then the other.
"Rise and shine," Dean says. He moves a cup of coffee back and forth in front of Sam's eyes, steam rising from the top. Sam manages to sit up and Dean sits down in the chair next to the bed. He hands Sam the cup.
"They didn't have any creamer but I convinced the crone behind the counter at the diner to put some whipped cream in it. So, um, there you go, I guess."
"Thanks," Sam says. He puts the cup to his lips, feels the hard line of scar tissue push against his teeth. The coffee tastes awful and the whipped cream hasn't done anything except leave a oil slick sheen on the surface. "It's great."
Dean snorts into his own coffee. "You're so full of shit. I think this is the worst stuff I've tasted in awhile, including that coffee machine back in Tulsa."
"Or that Dunkin' Donuts outside Charlotte."
"That place brought shame to the noble name of Dunkin' Donuts. Seriously, I'm surprised that place wasn't cursed or something."
After months of having no one else to talk to, Sam's conversational skills have lost their luster. He clears his throat.
"How long was I asleep?"
Dean makes a production of setting down his coffee, lifting his arm, pushing back his sleeve, and looking at his watch.
"Twelve hours."
Twelve hours and it feels like he's hardly slept at all. He swallows another mouthful of coffee and fights a grimace before setting it down on the stained table next to him.
"I'm going to take a shower," he announces.
"Make it quick," Dean says. "Cas thinks it best if we keep moving."
He waits for Dean to leave before making his way to the bathroom. His leg aches and he limps along like an old man.
He spends too much time in the shower, but Dean doesn't knock until he's pulling his shirt back on.
"I'm coming," he says through the door.
Dean laughs. "But I'm not even breathing hard!"
"You are so disgusting," Sam says without looking away from the mirror. But that cold coil of fear and anger and sorrow that's been in his gut since they split up all those months ago is slowly starting to unwind. Dean's putting on a show of normalcy because it's easier to pretend things aren't as awful as they really are. Sam never understood it, put most of his faith in communication and facing problems head on. He's starting to understand what Dean sees in ignoring things and hoping they will fix themselves.
He opens the door, Dean standing in front of him with his hand raised, getting ready to knock again.
"Dude, you look awful," Dean says.
"Gee, thanks."
"But that's okay," he says, patting Sam's cheek. "You can sleep in the car."
They leave the hotel room and Sam half chokes on a laugh at the sight of Castiel sitting patiently waiting in the passenger seat of Dean's car. Dean shakes his keys in one hand, reaching for the door handle with the other. Sam slides into the back seat, muscle memory of doing the same thing a thousand times before calming his nerves. One of the hotel quilts is wadded up on the floorboard. Dean puts the key in the ignition and the Impala rumbles to life. It's music to Sam's ears. He pulls the quilt up from the floor and wads it up against the door. Dean pulls out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
"Take a nap, princess," Dean says over his shoulder.
"Nah," Sam says, leaning against the door. "I think I'll watch the scenery for awhile."
He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he must, because suddenly Lucifer is there next to him and there is no one driving the car. Outside, the landscape is a monochrome of black silhouettes and an endless white sky.
"Sam," Lucifer says. Sam spins and fumbles for the door handle. Lucifer arches an eyebrow. "Do you think that's safe?"
Sam's died a half dozen times (he can number the scars), but a bone deep survival instinct stops him.
"I have to say I'm disappointed," Lucifer says. It's amazing, how he can look hurt and it touches something deep inside of Sam. "After all we've been through together, I thought we could trust one another." He smiles. "But I'm not worried, Sam. Do you know why?" he asks. "Because I know your brother."
"Leave him out of this!" Sam hisses.
"Oh, he might not remember me," he continues. "But I remember him. It took him decades before he said yes to Alastair. Untold hours of endless suffering, every day. And that's how I know: He'll never say yes to Michael. So you see, Sam, I think it's safe to say I have nothing but time."
"Sam!" he hears Dean shout, voice echoing from far away.
"Speak of the devil," Lucifer says.
The Impala starts to fall apart around them, stretching like melting plastic. Outside the skies are turning red, trees bursting into flames.
"Remember what I said, Sam," Lucifer says, putting his hands together in the mockery of prayer. "You will say yes to me."
"Sam!" Dean shouts again, voice closer this time. "Damnit, Sam, start breathing!"
Lucifer fades and the world explodes in a flash of light.
He comes up gasping, a great rush of air filling his lungs. Dean rocks back on his heels and Sam realizes they're outside, the trees (green, normal trees) are waving their branches overhead. He's lying on his back, confused.
"Why am I on the ground?" he asks, though it mostly comes out mumbled. "Is there something wrong with the car?"
Dean reaches down to grab his jaw, holding Sam in place while he looks into his eyes. "There's something wrong with you, idiot! You started thrashing and then you stopped breathing and then I almost had a heart attack!" The words come out in quick succession, running into one another.
"He found you faster than I'd hoped," Castiel says calmly next to him. He's still standing, looking down at Sam, and the sun makes a halo of light around his head.
"My chest hurts," Sam says, head still swimming.
"Yeah!" Dean says with a note of hysteria in his voice. "That's where I was banging on your ribcage, trying to get your heart to start again!" He runs the back of one shaking hand across his mouth. "Jesus, I'm too old for this shit."
Sam puts an arm over his eyes. "I'm never going to escape him, am I?" Sam asks.
"Sure you are," Dean says at the same time Castiel says, "No, you're not."
Dean glares up at Castiel.
"The only thing we can do is hope to stay ahead of him," Castiel says. He hesitates. "It means that I cannot leave you."
"I'm sorry, Cas," Sam says. The angel had an apocalypse to help fight and instead he was going to have to spend valuable time babysitting a human corrupted by demon blood and an unlucky twist of fate.
"What the hell for?" Dean asks.
But Castiel understands.
"It's a burden I willingly bear," he says. "We must keep you out of Lucifer's hands at all costs." He reaches down and helps pull Sam to his feet.
They get back in the car, their breath misting in the cold morning air.
"Here," Dean says, throwing the box of cassettes into the backseat and into Sam's lap. "Pick one." Sam picks one at random, Led Zeppelin, because it'll make Dean happy. He passes it ahead and sinks back into the seat.
They speed down the road, Robert Plant singing, "I had a dream. Crazy dream. Anything I wanted to know, any place I needed to go." Sam catches Dean looking back at him through the rear view mirror, something unrecognizable on his face. He looks away, back out the window to the endless landscape beyond.
Sam traces the scar on his cheek and tries not to count the number of times he's died.
End.