Interlude

Back over the sill

I bade a "Come in"

To whoever the knock

At the door may have been.

So at a knock

I emptied my cage

to hide in the world

And alter with age.

~ The Lockless Door by Robert Frost

It was funny, in that morbid kind of way that wasn't actually funny, that he had spent a whole year fighting his addiction, with Dean right along side him telling him how fucked it was, and now Sam was back where he'd been before Lilith and the final seal and Hell – drinking demon blood, except with his own cheering squad of Dean, Bobby, and Castiel this turn around. They had changed their tunes quickly enough when they needed Sam to knock back a demon's juice to save the world. Weird how life worked out sometimes.

Just looking at the containers – milk jugs, milk jugs, like this was a supernatural game of Fear Factor – nestled in the Impala's trunk had made him sicker than when he'd contracted the stomach flu from Lacey Carter in third grade.

There was no possibility of not doing this, of giving up, of saying to his brother, "Hey, maybe we could forget this, go hide out in the countryside until this blows over, maybe get a dog." He had no choice. Dean wouldn't agree, anyway. He would only fight that much harder, longer, to see this through. Sam couldn't let that happen. Dean had been taking the hits for him longer than Sam knew how to talk, and he was just supposed to step aside? Let Dean do what he does best? Let him sacrifice it all for Sam again? No, Sam wasn't going to let it happen. Not this time.

The jug's handle was plastic and cold in his grip. The first sip was like falling, or like dying, or something in-between that Sam couldn't name. The second was worse because the wrenching in his stomach began to slowly turn from disgust to craving. Each sip afterwards, thick red sludge sliding down his throat, was hungered for more than the last. Sam felt blood decanting from his lips as he steadily tipped the jug farther, making his chin wet and sticky, soaking his neck, the collar of his shirt.

Dean didn't watch.

By the last drop in the last container, he could feel it thrumming through him, giving him the strength he'd tried for but couldn't reach with Ruby, like a black cloud plugging up his veins and seeping through the pores of his skin. Sam felt powerful. He had never expected that, to feel powerful and be able to stare down the Devil with the same misplaced bravery his brother had shown their whole lives. He had drunk so much blood, more than he ever had before. And it was all for him. All for Lucifer.

But, really, it was all for someone else. Of course, Dean wouldn't believe that. Or he'd call him a girl for the sentiment.

Sam thought, standing in Detroit, that he would have guessed a former angel of the Lord would choose a place more grand, with more panache. Something more impressive. Maybe the summit of a sky-scraper. Maybe the very base of an underground cave, stalactites and oozing black shadows, otherworldly and wild, much like Lucifer himself. Or the ironic quality of a church. He hadn't pictured this – a creepy, rickety apartment building about six million years old, its wood decaying as soon as you'd look at it.

"Let me go in first," Dean told him.

"Dean, come on."

But Dean was already tucking his gun into the back of his belt, flipping his coat to cover up the handle. "I always go in first. You know that. Older brother ruling."

It was unfair, but it wouldn't matter. It wouldn't matter in a couple of minutes who went in first or who was last. It wouldn't matter what foot they put in front of the other, or that Sam's hands shook, or his mouth was full of iron. Because this was it. Nothing but their plan mattered.

Sam glanced quickly around them (old habits die hard) to see if anyone would see, or care, that they were essentially breaking and entering. There were no people in sight, likely hiding from the weather at home. He could see right across the street, could catch a glimpse of a Chinese restaurant. It had a sign in its doorway boasting about a special on lo mein, and in scrawling cherry script under that was written The Deal of the Century! Snow had piled high on the striped awning above the storefront; there was no telling how long it would stand under the weight before it collapsed.

"Fine," Sam said.

Dean went in first.

The door opened easily, not locked or warded. Though, Sam supposed, that would be rather useless in an an entire building wriggling with demons. By the look of it, no one – human or otherwise – had gone near these apartments in a very long time.

They were greeted by six demons when they stepped inside the claustrophobic hallway. They were lined up, three on either side, unaggressive and unblinking , like statues. They were lackeys, ones Sam could kill in a second with no more than a thought.

Dean tensed beside him but didn't react as one of the demons stepped forward. It was a man, tall, shaven, in a business suit so thin the host must've been freezing. It was silent, its eyes flitting to black to brown once, nodding its head at them in a gesture Sam took to mean they were supposed to follow.

The three of them walked up the creaking staircase without speaking, no banter and no snide jokes from Dean to distract Sam. They were led to the second floor, down another hallway smaller than the last, and to a door marked as room 999. The symbolism wasn't lost on him.

The inside was somehow, by some miracle, more disgusting than the outside. Dirty curtains and an ugly carpet, what was left of it, that shed and had worn to thin, stretchy splotches. The sheer dust and dirt was off-putting. It made Sam feel unclean. But with the demon blood flooding into his heart, feeling polluted was hardly a new experience. Sam had been unclean for years.

It took a moment to locate Lucifer in the fading yellow light, but there he was, a dark shadow against the apartment window. He hardly blinked as Sam and Dean were escorted in. The glass of the window was fogged with humidity, Lucifer sketching pitchforks into it, lazy, like he had really nothing better to do.

"Sorry if it's a bit chilly," he intoned, voice sliding, slicking, over them. "Most people think I burn hot. It's actually quite the opposite."

Before Sam could say what he had to – "I'm here to say yes", like he'd rehearsed, like they'd planned, – Lucifer was there beside him, spilling perfect, pretty words as the vessel's face corroded, its skin peeling off in burning red pock marks. He grinned wickedly, looking for a split second very similar to the fork-tongued demon he was supposed to be, whispering to Sam that special word.

A deal.

"A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Sammy," Lucifer murmured, low, for Sam's ears only. "One you can't refuse."

A bargain. Deal of the century.

Just like that, the plan stopped mattering.

In his lifetime, he'd been told that things that looked too good to be true probably were – and not only that, but they were probably cursed or possessed too. But this was an opportunity. If it worked, if Lucifer kept his side of it, then…How could Sam not?

He was a Winchester – they self-sacrifice until there's no breath in their bodies and no ground left to stand on. If he were Dean, he would deny the deal. Laugh in Lucifer's face. Go on with the plan of using the Horsemen's rings to open up the Cage.

Dean had said no to Michael, but, then, he was always the smarter one of them, the one with more sense and intelligence than their father had given him credit for, and Sam was the brother who grew his hair too long and defied their father's rules and ran away to California. Dean had said no simply because he was Dean. Because, when push came to shove, he was there with a smart remark, Metallica in the tape deck, and ready to do what was right.

Sam was not Dean.

Lucifer's hand landed on Sam's shoulder, weight heavy there, and everything buckled and collapsed.

"Yes," Sam choked, feeling the aching quiet, the cold air, smelling the musty walls and dust.

The word hurt, tore up his throat with razors on butterfly wings. But still Sam said it, he said, "Yes," and meant yes, and closed his eyes against the squealing light, Dean's cry of outrage lost in the cacophony. He only wished that the betrayed, anguished look in Dean's eyes wasn't the last thing he saw. He knew, though. He knew that Dean's face would stay with him, a brace between his teeth for the pain, for what was to come.

Lucifer grasped onto him, fingers thin, chilling on his shirt, and suggested, "Get ready for a bumpy ride," and pulled him in.