A/N: Cross-posted on AO3. Let me give you pretty much the same warnings: there might have some insinuations of Lucifer/Sam in this story (it was intended, in the first place, as the first chapter of a multi-chaptered Samifer, after all), and, yeah, maybe some non-graphic torture since this story is situated on The Cage.

(Namesake of the fic come from the music of the same name, from... well, don't know the original singer, I first heard the one from Disturbed?)

Disclaimer: Supernatural and the characters present in this story do not belong to me. The story was written by me, yeah, for no other reason than to entertain myself.

Sound of Silence

Lucifer's problem was that he was broken. Sam wasn't that arrogant — he knew he would never be able to be stronger than a full-fledged archangel in their right mind: his only hope was that Lucifer wasn't in his right mind. Lucifer had been broken eons ago, when he rebelled. He was thrown out of Heaven; exiled from his family, deaf to the Host. That was the worst punishment ever for an angel, especially an archangel like Lucifer, for Lucifer knew of solitude and silence.

Sam could see Lucifer's memories, even while locked down into himself. He could see how to God it had been such a short time, but to Lucifer had been so long before their brother's came along. He and Michael had been the first ones, and Lucifer knew only of Michael: his older brother, the one who raised him. They were once so close that, whenever they would argue, Lucifer felt as if he would be alone forever — and forever it felt like, for centuries would pass before they could apologize to each other and come back together, and eons had passed before Raphael was added to their little family. And even then, Lucifer still felt so alone.

Sam would never be able to relate to the third archangel. Raphael was everything Sam never knew. He was no fighter like Michael, who would always be the strongest, the first blade to eliminate their Father's enemies; nothing like Lucifer, that was all bright lights, sharp mind, and a sense of himself that no brother of his would ever get; and nothing like the younger archangel, Gabriel, would come to be, all trickery and fun-time. No, Raphael was a Healer. He had no interest in battles, nor did he care if there were beings put in danger because of his distance (and, even if Sam could relate to the first half, he knew he would never be able to do the second: he would always feel guilty of not doing whatever he could to save people). Therefore, Lucifer was never able to be too close to Raphael, his smart, caring (if cold) brother.

Then Gabriel came along: Gabriel was the youngest, and just like Michael once raised him, Lucifer raised Gabriel. His youngest brother. Lucifer felt like it was a gift. He took Gabriel under his wings (in the most literal sense), and he taught him everything he knew. From how to fly, soaring through clouds and feeling the sharp wind in their feathers, to how to think for himself, to be curious. He taught him how to fight, and both of them were so different from Michael, all righteousness and straightforwardness, in their gracious evasion, quick jabs, and dirty tricks. They had no qualms about using whatever weakness they could find, whatever gifts they had — and Gabriel had so much to use. Gabriel was even more curious than Lucifer, and he was sharp-witted, and loved fun. He fancied to use his Grace as more than any of them had thought about, and he added a finesse to every trick Lucifer ever taught him, creating something so magical even to them archangels. Michael could be the first one Lucifer ever had, but Gabriel would always be his favorite.

They were so happy together. Sam could feel the memories of laughter, of diving into waterfalls, of making bloom so many flowers. Of playing games of fight, of struggling together along their missions. Of fighting side by side against Leviathans and so many other threats they had to eliminate in their eons of life. Of taking Gabriel by Grace, of guiding him to the hidden sanctuaries of peace Lucifer found around their Father's creations; of not going straight to their mission, or not going straight back home, but taking his time to get to know everything there was to know about everything that existed. Even the bad memories back then weren't that bad — yes, he argued with Michael, and had to scold Gabriel once or twice, or even fought with Raphael, but they were never really alone then, because Lucifer could feel them, hear them in the air, hear them in his Grace. They were together.

Even when Father added new siblings, fledglings they would have to raise, Lucifer knew they would always be together, and knew that, what he and Gabriel had, or what he and Michael (as difficult it was, sometimes) had, would never be recreated among the younger ones. He also knew they were different kind: back then, they had no specific name, but they were the oldest, and they were something everyone else would look up to. When questioned, Father told him two names in Enochian, that Lucifer never managed to translate to other languages, and said that, yes, they were different beings.

Lucifer felt excited back then. He didn't when new additions were made.

He had never hid the fact he wouldn't always agree to his Father or Michael, who always backed Him up. Nor had he hid the fact he wanted nothing to do with those from outside his family. He could look at them, spend some time if needed, but he preferred to be with Michael and Gabriel. He even preferred to be with Raphael than to be with others who weren't family. He liked to explore everywhere there was to explore, but he didn't like to talk. He liked to sing, for he would later be named the Archangel of Music, and he liked to cultivate plants, raising part of the Garden, but he didn't like to do those things with other beings. He liked to do those things by himself — but never alone, always attuned to his brothers, hearing them in his Grace, resonating with himself.

Father hadn't accepted that. He created humans, and Lucifer had no problem with that; what he had problems with was that he was supposed to bow to them. To see them as being above Father Himself, and that meant they would also be above his brothers. Lucifer loved Father, and Lucifer adored his brothers. He couldn't do that. He couldn't put small, ugly things above those that were the only company he had had for so long — so, he said no, no, he would not bow to them.

And so he was punished. He was ripped of so much of his Grace that, when thrown down into Earth, he could no longer hear his brothers. He could not even hear the youngest ones, the little fledglings that were so loud and out of tune that he was never able to block them out completely. He could no longer hear Gabriel's laughter, Raphael's muttering, or Michael's orders. He could no longer feel the world in his Grace, feel the shimmer of wind on his wings, even when flying — and his flying was so ragged now, short distances only, feathers twisted in some places from when Michael grabbed him to stop him.

Michael's betrayal was what hurt the most, to be honest. Lucifer could prefer Gabriel, but Michael would always be his older brother who raised him. The one who taught him music, how to fly, and how to battle. Who taught him how to hold his sword, and who sparred with him to pass time. The one who would soothe him when he felt too cold and too lonely, before they were given their brothers. The one who first showed him the marvelous of the world, when it was created. The one closest to him when there was light. The one who smiled at him and said he was the brightest one, the Morningstar. The one who prompted him to raise Gabriel by himself.

Lucifer never thought Michael would be able to stand against him when it was most necessary.

After his utmost fall — after breaking the first human because of angerhurtbetrayelandhowcouldMichaeldoit?, turning sharp Lilith, the first woman, into the first demon — Lucifer was lost. His hatred, hurt and pain made him lock himself inside his own Grace, and his Grace was so torn by now, cut into pieces to create the Cage that would hold him until it was time for The Battle, that Lucifer was no more than a broken mind when it came to an end. His mind was twisting around itself, a dark place full of holes and gaps, cut and torn, a mere shadow of its former glory. He, that had been so sharp and bright, was so dim and hollow now. Locked down inside a cage of his worst nightmares, a cage, The Cage, created to make him regret his choices, stuck in a world of eternal pain and loneliness and deafening silence.

That brokenness and the regret, the guilty, the newest hollow feeling of losing Gabriel, his bright, fun-loving, so smart and curious Gabriel, made the task of outweighing Lucifer possible to Sam.

When it was over, however, Sam couldn't feel proud of it. He had played dirty — dirtier than Lucifer himself, that had been so honest and eager, trying to please Sam the most to gain his trust and his acceptance. He had to appeal to Lucifer's old memories of a fledgling Gabriel and of dead Gabriel, wings burnt on the floor, to make him so small and weak and guilty that it was possible for Sam to step forwards. Possible to take hold of his own body.

Sam never wanted to feel like that ever again. Sam never wanted to make Lucifer feel like that ever again. Lucifer, who wanted to kill the humans on Earth, to kill the very reason of his fall, because he couldn't bring himself to look at them and have to remember happier times and know it was all over. Lucifer, who wanted it all to end, wanted to look at Michael's eyes and ask why, why did you do this to me, brother?, because Michael had hurt Lucifer more than anyone else, and Lucifer had been exiled to pass eons alone, again, but worse than ever before, unable to hear anything other than himself. Not even the screams of Hell reached him, not really. Lucifer could hear echoes, but they posed as mockery to him, not as voices, and that hurt even more. And Lucifer, who had shown all this to Sam, had let him know why he was doing all he was doing, just because Sam had asked.

Sam knew Lucifer had been happy when asked; had felt it inside himself. Lucifer, that had loved to tell things to Gabriel, to answer any and all questions. Lucifer that had shown memories older than the world to Sam, that had let him know how the wind felt on his wings, how was the "Let there be light", the brightness of the very first sunrise. The beauty of Heaven in its utmost glory, the greatness of the Host's song. Lucifer's song, the most beautiful song in all Host, sang to his brothers in a loving moment. The tumble between dimensions, wings twisted with other wings as they raced and sparred for fun, laughing out loud and playing tricks to win. The proudness of seeing Gabriel fly faster than their brothers, making beautiful maneuvers high on the sky, carrying a message as God's Messenger. The happiness of hearing Raphael's startled laugh.

Sam felt so guilty for throwing Lucifer back in the Cage, the place that had tortured him so much and made him a broken shell. So angry with himself for feeling guilty. So angry with Lucifer, for having being so beautiful and amazing, and now being a psycho that wished for the end of the world. But that was nothing compared to what he felt about Michael. He hated Michael — hated Michael for having being so adoring to Lucifer, and even so being able to cut so much of his wings and throwing him into literal Hell. Hated Michael for not listening to his brother when he tried to talk, for being so stubborn he decided their only possible outcome was the death of the weakest and the destruction of God's finest creation in the process. Hated Michael for manipulating himself and Dean as pawns for this war to happen. Hated Michael for putting him in this situation, where Sam had to force Lucifer to relive every bad memory he had, to make him relive the pain he was so scared of.

Sam really, really hated Michael.

And really wanted to embrace Lucifer, soothe him as Michael once did, caress his soft feathers while singing lullabies. To let him know he wasn't alone, not anymore.

But he never got around to do it.

The Cage was so worse than he had imagined. Lucifer felt it like loneliness and pain and betrayal and coldness, but Sam felt it like deathhurt and where'sDean and Iwannadiepleasesaveme and things that were impossible to describe. The worst of his memories and much more than he could sense. Much more he could feel. He was so numb it hurt even more, and the only thing he could do was pass out in pain, never resting for a moment.

When he was conscious enough to think, he felt even guiltier now for throwing Lucifer back down here. Most of the time, however, he was too lost in pain and torture to think anything. He couldn't even blame Lucifer for his torture, for most of it came from the Cage as it was. He could, however, blame Michael — sometimes.

Michael was so not happy at being locked inside The Cage it was no fun. He shouted in his True Voice for the first few years, and Sam knew his ears were bleeding (if he still had ears, that is). He could also feel the waves that followed the clashes between brothers, air cutting his skin, the heat of his wings burning Sam's bones. The anger that came when Lucifer wasn't there to battle him, and Michael would turn to Sam, and Sam would feel him and the Cage breaking him down. And then, nothing. Michael had, at some time, forgot about Sam, letting him suffer in peace.

Lucifer — he was strange. After every battle with Michael, Sam would feel Lucifer by his side, aggressive with anything. He would feel torn, ice-cold feathers touching him. Too sharp bones poking him. Hands tightening around his throat, around his heart. An angry, hissed voice on his ears, speaking on long dead languages he could not understand. Lucifer's tears, acid against his body, as wings were opened up above both of them, a silver and white glint in the darkness of nothingness, beautiful even in their worse shape. Lucifer's Enochian pleads, muttered on his shoulder while he trembled and gripped Sam's arms, hurt and lonely. Soft, silvery hair spreading on his chest when he would lay down on Sam, echoing screams of pain from out there in Hell.

Sam didn't like any of these options of Lucifer. He didn't like to know that Lucifer was in such pain. And didn't like that he couldn't move enough to bury his fingers on Lucifer's hair or wings, to wrap his arms around him, to murmur back that it would all be okay.

Even if he could, he wouldn't be able to say that. Lucifer, on their first meeting, had said he would never lie to Sam, and had asked the same courtesy. Sam had agreed. And in truth, no one could know if things would be okay.

That didn't mean Sam hadn't tried anyway. Some days he would be good enough to arch against Lucifer, seeking to warm him up. Some days he was so bad he would whimper and cry, throat too sore to scream properly, and he would shake so hard it made his bones rattle and hurt even more.

Each day was different, and each day was bad enough to make him wish to die. Sam didn't know how long exactly he was there in the Cage, lost count in the beginning, for days would start and end with no difference whatsoever. Even so, Sam would guess he spent around two centuries down there, being broken into pieces and forcedly made back together; two centuries of Lucifer and Michael's fights and no talk, of tears and lost languages full of pain.

Sam was glad when the light reached him. And feeling awful when he realized Lucifer would stay behind.

Then, he felt nothing at all, because he was out and gasping and he could not remember a thing.