A quick coda written the same night as The End aired. Hardcore suicide attempts in here, though none are described in loving detail. One way Sam said yes to Lucifer in the future (I used this as my "We're all going to Die!" cliche bingo square.)

He says no, and no, and no, and no, in a thousand different ways. Pills don't work; he wakes up clean and well-rested in bed even if he remembers throwing up in the bathtub. Slitting his wrists nets the same results and blowing his brains out just makes Lucifer tut.

"Sam," he says, "Try not to use a bullet next time, alright?"

There'd been a reaper here earlier, he's pretty sure, but she hadn't been fast enough to get him on his way before Lucifer slammed him back into his body. Also, she was dead now, and Sam wonders if breaking more seals is going to do anything to the world.

"Are you listening to me?" Lucifer asks. He drops a hand to Sam's head, prodding at the exit would before rolling him onto his back.

Sam doesn't have the energy to tilt his head away from Lucifer's fingers. They card through his bangs and then press against his forehead, right where he put the bullet. "It's extremely messy. I would prefer if you didn't do it again."

"If I had the Colt, it wouldn't just be messy," Sam whispers. His throat is dry; probably had something to do with the blood loss.

The Devil laughs softly. "Why would I let you have your namesake's gun, Samuel?" he asks. "I want you alive and consenting."

"We're both out of luck, then," Sam says. He closes his eyes, doesn't even twitch when Lucifer's hand smoothes down to mockingly press on his ribcage. The sigils under his skin burn at the touch and Lucifer traces his with one fingernail while Sam tries to get up the energy to roll away.

"Your brother hasn't said yes either," he says. "Stubborn, stubborn Winchester boys. It's why you've always been my favorite."

"Don't talk about Dean," Sam says up at the ceiling.

"Why?" Lucifer asks, "He's obviously not talking to you. Do you know he's here, in Detroit? Sans his pet angel, of course."

Sam wants to open his eyes, but he's tired. "Are you threatening him again?"

"Only a little," Lucifer says. He lifts his hand away and Sam's tattoos and carved up ribs finally stop flaring with heat; Lucifer claims it tickles, when he's in a talkative mood. "What would you do to keep your brother safe, Sam?"

"Make a deal with the Devil?" Sam asks. "At this point, I think I'm the only one in my family who hasn't."

"You're a smart boy, Sammy."

"Don't call me Sammy."

The bed dips under Lucifer's weight. "It's only a matter of time," he says. His fingers return to Sam's hair, scraping absently like someone scratching a favored dog; Sam thinks about biting his fingers but can't be bothered to move. His head's pounding. "One of you will say yes. I would prefer it was you; I'm much more pleasant than Michael is. Your brother will live through my rule."

"Nobody lives through an apocalypse," Sam says.

"He'll live longer than anyone else."

"Why do I get the feeling you're lying?"

Lucifer peaceably ruffles his hair and says, "I don't lie, Sam. I believe I've told you this before." The bed creaks as he stands up again. "You should get something to eat. You're beginning to lose weight."

Sam opens his eyes when the presence leaves the room. It's cold and dark without Satan, which he thinks is hilarious, in a dark sort of way. He's tired. Dean's in town, and he makes himself roll over and pick up his phone to scroll through his contacts.

He hasn't changed his phone number in years. He can't say the same for Dean. The last time Sam tried to call his brother, the phone had been disconnected.

He's spent two years alone with only a fallen angel for company and he's going insane, slowly but surely. The last time he woke up from a nightmare, he almost called out for the Devil to keep him company.

He dials the number, just in case, and puts it on speaker so he can listen to the monotone voice explain that his call cannot be completed. He can't do this anymore. He can't. Dean hates him, the world's still ending, no matter what he does, and he just wants to stop.

There's no heaven for him and hell doesn't want to let him die, and he doesn't know what to do except the obvious.

"Lucifer," Sam says, rolling back into the center of the bed and squeezing his eyes shut.

"Sam?"

"I don't want to know."

He can hear the smile in Lucifer's voice as his hand settles on his hand again, ruffling. Sam can all but hear the good dooooog as he says, "You don't have to be awake, Sam. I'll make sure you have good dreams."

"I don't want to dream either."

"That's fine too."

"Don't hurt Dean." That one comes out more like a plea than a demand.

"There won't be a need. Your brother won't try to hurt me while I'm in you."

"Alright."

The road to hell is paved in good intentions, the way already blazed by a brother willing to die for you but not live with the monster you've become. Sam says yes, and yes, and yes, and whispers thank you when Lucifer gently presses his soul into black sleep.