When Sam stirred, everything ached. His head, especially, pounded like it had been flattened beneath a steam roller. He groaned, reaching a hand to his forehead as he pushed himself upward, though his body protested every inch of movement.
"Hey, Sammy."
He blinked until his vision cleared enough to see Dean's hazy outline sitting on the edge of the bed beside him, watching him with folded hands.
"Hey," he replied tightly, wiping his hand over his face, then raking it through his damp hair. His mind was hazy. Given the way Dean was watching him—not to mention his throbbing brain—something had happened. He squinted against the yellowed light, realizing they weren't alone. It took a moment to recognize the figure as Castiel, standing in the middle of the room and staring at Sam with narrowed, evaluating eyes. Something had definitely happened. He wondered how long the two had been watching him sleep.
"How are you feeling?" Castiel prompted, his gravelly voice guarding his concern.
"Fine," he answered out of impulse, but even as he spoke, his throat defied the word. It felt like he had swallowed glass. "Not great," he corrected.
"That's… probably to be expected." The angel acquiesced, "I healed most of your physical wounds, but… there are some things outside of my power to heal."
Sam frowned at that, glancing at Dean. "What… what happened?"
Dean leaned forward, expression wary. "You don't remember?"
His brow furrowed as he tried. He closed his eyes. "I… I remember taking a shower, but… the hot water wasn't working." He heard Dean exhale through his nose, but Sam didn't open his eyes, struggling to trace the memory, "I… I figured it wouldn't be a problem; I'd be quick. But…" he shivered reflexively, "It was so cold…"
Cold. Cold like the Cage. Like Lucifer. The memory, or hallucination, or whatever it was had snuck up on him in seconds. He'd wanted Sam to sing for him, again.
Bile rose in his throat. It had felt real. No, it was real… wasn't it? He gripped his head; he couldn't remember which reality he was supposed to be clinging to.
"Hey, hey, no, we're not doing that again." Dean was beside the bed instantly, grabbing Sam's wrists and pulling them downward, demanding Sam's attention as he speared his thumbs into Sam's left palm. He wasn't gentle by any means, either—Sam gasped and jerked his hand away, wringing his wrist and cursing.
Dean's mask faltered, tinged with guilt, but he recovered almost immediately, stepping back.
"Sorry," Sam muttered, raising his hand as he massaged it, "Thanks."
Dean nodded in response, but he still eyed Sam like he might fall apart at any second.
"And thanks… for stopping it, earlier." He smiled awkwardly. Given Dean's reaction, it must have been a bad episode. It would take a while to rebuild Dean's trust and confidence. He'd have to be careful. One wrong flinch or sightless stare, and Sam knew they were off the case. If they weren't already.
Dean glanced back, "I didn't stop it. I tried the hand thing, I tried pouring water on your head, I tried screaming in your ear. You wouldn't stop until Cas knocked you out."
Wouldn't stop? Wouldn't stop what? Instead of asking—not sure he wanted to know—he turned to Castiel, "Thanks, Cas."
The angel remained silent for a moment, then tilted his head faintly and spoke, "Sam… do you remember what you were singing?"
Sam went utterly still, though not at the question. He barely heard the words themselves at all. No, he froze because Castiel had asked it in Enochian. His gaze slowly skated to Dean, who didn't look surprised, only somewhat annoyed. He looked between Sam and Castiel expectantly.
Dean knew? I must've been speaking in Enochian, Sam realized. Was that why they were so freaked? He knew what they wanted—for him to respond in Enochian, affirming what they apparently already knew. Not seeing another way out—he'd certainly make it worse by pretending he didn't understand—with a slow, shaky exhale, he adopted the angels' tongue and spoke quietly, "I was… singing?"
Though he was sure Dean had known—or at the very least, had a compelling suspicion—his brother still looked like someone had punched him in the gut. Dean ran a hand over his chin, shaking his head. Maybe it was that he couldn't deny it anymore. Couldn't pretend otherwise. One more thing Hell had done, distancing Sam from who he used to be.
Castiel, on the other hand, looked only faintly troubled—which, he supposed, might be the angel's equivalent to Dean's reaction, given Castiel's normally impassive expression.
"Look, Dean, I'm sorry." Dean hated secrets. Even if Sam was just trying to spare him more pain—after all, Dean was barely staying afloat as it was.
"You said you were fine!" Dean shouted suddenly, jerking a finger toward the bathroom, "And then I come back and find you kneeling on the floor, singing some creepy, incoherent mumbo jumbo that turns out to be angel speak, with cuts all over your body and a knife in your hand. Does that sound 'fine' to you?"
"No, I know, I'm sorry. I should've been more careful." Should've known the cold would bring him back.
"Y'think?" Dean wrung his head, then pointed at Sam's chest, "Next time you feel even the hint of a trigger, you tell me, and we go the other direction. I don't care if it's the A/C blowing the wrong way or someone's Hell-scented perfume. And if I'm not there, you run. None of this 'thinking you can handle it' crap. You can't." Sam winced, faintly, but Dean wasn't finished. "Call me, call Cas—I don't care. I am not losing you to him again."
Sam's eyes flicked back up at that. He stared at his brother, who now couldn't seem to meet his gaze.
Dean paced several steps, then stopped, "You had blood coming out of your eyes, Sam. Coming out of your ears. The whole frickin' room was shaking. And nothing I could do did anything. If Cas wasn't here…"
"You probably would've died." The angel supplemented darkly, interpreting Dean's pause as a question. "Human bodies aren't meant to hear, much less sing a soul's song—especially not from a soul flayed by Hell. It will take time for your body to recover even now."
Sam frowned. My soul's song?
Dean pointed a finger toward Castiel, as though to highlight the severity of his words, "You see? You could've died." Dean shook his head, "What am I supposed to do, put 'Monster hunter: died by singing' on your gravestone?"
Sam paused, looking up at his brother, "…you mean my obit?"
"What?"
A disbelieving smile tweaked his lips, "You're going to put my cause of death on my gravestone?"
"You die before me, I'll put whatever I want on your gravestone."
Sam's gaze dropped in an attempt to hide his faint smile.
"I don't understand how that's funny." Castiel noted, his brow furrowed.
Dean glanced back, "It's not." Though his face instead said: maybe a little.
Castiel, however, still stared at Sam with that same troubled expression and piercing, narrowed eyes. It made Sam shift subconsciously, itching to escape the intense focus.
Finally, Castiel's gaze shifted, "Dean, may we speak privately?"
Dean cast a glance towards Sam, then nodded and tilted his head toward the motel door. The two exited, but in synch with the click of the closing door, a clap echoed in the room.
Sam flinched, his eyes snapping to the table, where Lucifer sat cross-legged.
"Finally; I thought they'd never leave." The archangel stood, stretching, then approached the bed. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder toward the door, "What d'you think that's about?"
Sam tried to steady his breathing. He's not real.
"You're right; it's definitely about you, Bunk Buddy." Lucifer plopped onto the bed, merely a foot away from Sam, who pushed himself back to increase the distance. "Maybe Cas is telling Dean that you're dying."
Sam's gaze shot up, and he scowled.
"What, you saw how he was looking at you. Heard what he said—'there are some things outside my power to heal.'" Lucifer affected Castiel's gruff voice. "You know it's only a matter of time. And then you'll come right back home—to me." Lucifer spread his arms, as though inviting a hug.
Enough. Sam reached for the scar, but Lucifer snagged his wrist, eyes flaring.
"Now, Sammy, that's not very nice. I let you talk to your two favorite illusions without interrupting once, and now you're going to try to kick me out? Without even a thank you?"
Sam struggled against the archangel's grip, but it was like iron. It felt so real. How could it not be?
"You can think of your little free time with them," Lucifer gestured toward the door with his free hand, "As your reward for doing so well."
With one hand still clasped in Lucifer's unshakable grip, Sam tried digging his nails into his palm, but Lucifer only chuckled, apparently unperturbed. It wasn't enough.
Gently, he traced a hand along Sam's cheek, though Sam vainly tried to twist away. "You sang for me so beautifully."
Lucifer's smile revealed teeth, "You know what? I'll give you a standing offer. You sing for me like that, and I promise to leave you alone for a bit." He leaned closer to Sam's ear, the archangel's breath like ice on his neck, "Or, maybe it'd be more tempting if I promised to never go away."
"Sam?"
His gaze snapped to the door, where Castiel stood, frowning.
"Look who's back," Lucifer noted, glancing over his shoulder. "God's little angel."
"Are you alright?" Castiel approached, his eyes narrowed.
Sam cleared his throat—it took a force of will to fix his gaze on the angel, instead of monitoring the archangel sitting mere inches away, "Yeah—fine. Just still a little tired, I guess."
Lucifer finally stood, mocking, "Yeah, that was real convincing. Sure he'll buy that."
Castiel's expression twisted in sympathy, and he approached the bed, sitting where Lucifer had been mere seconds ago. Sam couldn't help but inch away from the angel, hoping he wouldn't notice. Lucifer took to leaning against the wall, crossing his arms.
"So what was that about?" Sam asked, nodding toward the door.
"Sam… we need to talk." Castiel's voice dropped into Enochian, sending a shudder through Sam's veins. Why? Does he think Dean's listening? Sam wondered faintly. "You weren't just singing, in there. Your very soul was crying out."
Sam scowled in wary confusion. "My soul?"
Castiel tilted his head, "What do you remember?"
Sam swallowed hard, unsure if he even wanted to speak. He didn't want to remember. Didn't want to say these things aloud because that made them undeniable. But Cas was his friend; he wanted to help. And maybe he could. So Sam exhaled shakily and tried to explain, "Lucifer… he used to make me sing for him. They weren't… 'song,' songs, they were more like…"
"Prayers."
Sam nodded, and his eyes flicked up to Lucifer, then toward the bathroom door, "He was there, Cas. I felt him there. And he made me… he made me… I had to…" He couldn't get the words out. His vision was blurry; he found himself trembling. Faintly, he realized he had mirrored Castiel's switch to Enochian, and he hated how easily it came. The holy language made him feel unclean.
"Sam… he wasn't there. He's still trapped in the Cage. And you're not—you're here, with us."
Biting his lip to resummon his resolve, he nodded, "Yeah—yeah, I know." His voice was almost flippant, as though he believed Castiel's words were obvious facts and didn't need to be said.
Castiel rested a hand on Sam's—probably a gesture he had seen one of the Winchesters perform and was trying to mirror—but Sam wanted nothing more than to pull away. Right now, he hated the clinging, oily feeling of a hand against his skin, especially an angel's. But Castiel didn't know, and he was valiantly trying to comfort a friend in pain. So Sam only gritted his teeth, trying not to let the angel notice.
"I heard your song, Sam." Castiel spoke quietly, his eyes creased in pity.
My song? Sam scrambled to remember what Lucifer had had him sing. But it was all too hazy. The question was ready on his lips, but he paused. He didn't want to know. "It doesn't matter; it doesn't mean anything. They were just… things Lucifer made me say."
Lucifer laughed—loudly—at that. Sam tried to conceal his wince in turning his head, staring at the hand beneath Castiel's, where the scar waited just out of reach. He hadn't wanted Castiel to see, but he should've taken his opportunity as soon as Lucifer released him. If it would even work.
"Sam…" Castiel repeated, clearly ignoring his dismissal. "I need you to hear me. What happened to you… the Cage, Lucifer. It wasn't justice."
Caught off guard, his face twisted, and Sam pushed himself back subconsciously, finally slipping his hand away from the angel's. What did I say? What did they hear?
"That knife," Castiel tilted his head toward the bathroom, "That wasn't justice. Do you understand that?" His eyes begged Sam to agree, filled with more emotion than Sam had seen from the angel in a long time. Maybe ever.
Sam found himself shaking his head—not truly in answer, but in an effort to escape the question.
"Sam, you didn't deserve those things."
I deserved worse. He pushed the thought away; it wouldn't help anything.
"Why do you think that you do?" Castiel pressed, "You and your brother are among the most amazing humans that I've ever met. You both constantly exceed my expectations. Sam, you defeated Lucifer and stopped the Apocalypse, even though you knew it meant you'd be trapped with him in Hell. You defied your destiny, even when all of Heaven and Hell thought you were beyond salvation, nothing more than Lucifer's weapon."
Sam's eyes slowly trailed upward to find Lucifer sitting on his other side, cocking an eyebrow in prompt for Sam's rebuttal.
"Cas, I started the Apocalypse. I let Lucifer out. I'm the reason—" he cut himself off, taking a breath, "Look, I know what I've done. And if the Cage, if seeing Lucifer and Hell, and whatever else, is the price I have to pay, I'm okay with that. I know what I deserve."
Castiel stared at Sam, then dropped his head and cursed. It made Sam blink and Lucifer giggle.
"Sam," he switched to English, "Do you trust me?"
Hesitant, trying to determine what Castiel intended, Sam nodded.
"Then listen to me. Everyone makes mistakes. And yes, admittedly, yours had catastrophic consequences. But Sam… you are a good man. And you don't deserve Hell."
"I think he's got you mixed up with your brother," Lucifer noted, "He's the good, the… what was it? The Righteous Man? Heaven's chosen. You? You're the abomination. My b—"
Sam jerked reflexively, eyes darting to Castiel's thumb crushing his palm.
Castiel noticed his attention, "Is he gone?" At Sam's nod, the angel released his hand, seeming slightly abashed. "Sorry. I hope that wasn't too presumptuous."
"No, it was—" he flashed a weak smile that fell away as quickly as it came, "Thanks."
"Of course, Sam." He looked over the Winchester sadly, "I know you've been living with Lucifer for over a century, and now you've got him—or your conception of him, at least—whispering in your ear, telling you lies…"
Except, Lucifer didn't lie. Not to Sam. The real Lucifer, at least—if there was a distinction. He wasn't sure the principle applied to the hallucination.
"…so I understand it will take time. But, for now, I want you to at least know that… neither your brother nor I believe that you deserve Hell."
But they don't know everything, do they, Bunk Buddy? Lucifer's voice echoed inside Sam's skull. Rubbing the scar, he tried to shove it away.
Castiel tilted his head faintly, as though waiting for a response.
Sam only managed a nod, trying another feeble smile.
Mirroring the attempt, Castiel clasped a hand on Sam's shoulder, lingering just a moment too long to be normal, before starting for the door.
"It's too bad he didn't get here earlier," Lucifer sighed, resting his crossed arms on Sam's shoulder, and his head on his wrists, "He missed all the good stuff. If only he heard what you were singing about me."
A/N: Thanks for reading, and thank you for the lovely reviews! I'm going to be a little slower updating in the next couple weeks (life has gotten a little hectic), but I'll try to keep up :)