Chapter 7

-o0o-

Wrap me in a bolt of lightning

Send me on my way still smiling

Maybe that's the way I should go,

Straight into the mouth of the unknown

"Call Me," Shinedown

He's 13 years old and he's had another fight with Dad. Dean wasn't around to referee this time and instead of stomping off to his bedroom in the ratty little two bedroom they're squatting in, Sam stomps outside and away, into the late summer evening, the humid air rising up behind him like a wall.

Three blocks down the road, he realizes he doesn't have a plan, doesn't even have his wallet with the few bucks he's managed to save doing odd jobs in the last town they were in. He stands, for a moment, wondering if he should turn back, wondering whether Dad had invited over Jim and Beam to ease his mind from his fuck up of a son, wondering how long he'll need to wait until he can pick the lock and slip through to his room, undetectable through the sweet, alcohol haze.

A drop of rain hits the sidewalk, turns to steam almost before it can leave a mark, followed by another. The sky splits open, a peal of white light arcing through the clouds, followed by thunder so loud it makes his teeth rattle and Sam's off and running through the first monsoon of the season, toward the only other place he can think to go.

The public library is open. An old woman pushes a mop across the wet floor just inside the doors, gives Sam the stink-eye as he stands there, dripping puddles.

A trip to the bathroom, too many paper towels and improper use of the hand dryer and Sam's more than damp but not wet enough to be a risk to the books.

He's spent a lot of time in libraries over the last few years. He can hide his sudden height among the stacks, lose himself in histories and fictions and the lore he loves to read even when there's no mission, no need for research.

Tonight, he finds a table that seems meant for him, stacked with leftover fantasy novels, thin spiritual guidance books, thick occult tomes, and a mishmash of other genres, and combs through them. He likes to see what other people have been reading. One of the books is on the Evolution of Erotic Art. He tucks away the title for later. Another is on the geological features of the Sonoran desert. Then he finds the one on angels.

It's the kind of thick tome one expects to find in a dusty attic or locked away in some eccentric's trunk. Some of the images are familiar, from the artists he's come to recognize and know just as well as the things they hunt.

He pages through the celestial hierarchy, cherubim, seraphim and thrones; glosses over a chapter on guardians and finds himself at the early days of human time. There is Michael with his fiery sword, dark haired and cherub cheeked and locked in battle with an angel who looks part human, part serpent. Lucifer.

Another page and he's reading Lucifer's story. God's beloved son, who couldn't stand being replaced by humans, who refused to bend to his father's will and was kicked out of Heaven for it.

The pages after show various artists' take on Lucifer, from the twining green and black serpent in Eden to the androgynous young man with cheekbones sharper than a hunter's blade and lips that look like they may have kissed, may have whispered sinful things into the ear of a pretty, young human.

"Beautiful" isn't a word 13 year old Sam would use to describe this rendition of Lucifer. But there's something magnetic about him, something that draws Sam in, makes him turn the pages, wanting to see more, know more.

"Our first moment, Sam." Lucifer's voice is loud in his head. "Our first real connection. I'm so glad you remember it."

Sam opens his eyes, closes them as bile pushes hot and sour at the back of his throat. Or is that the idea of bile, the memory? Because he doesn't have a body, under his control, to produce bile. He's locked inside his own head and when he opens his eyes, it's like looking down a cascade of funhouse mirrors. A Lovecraftian funhouse of strange geometry where the reflective surfaces give him shards of the full picture. A hundred Sam faces, a million too-hazel eyes, the sharp, repeating curves of a smile that is not Sam's, spread across the face that was once his.

Then the not-Sam blinks and everything goes black. When the light creeps back in there is one mirror and one Sam reflected in that mirror.

"Sorry," Lucifer says. "I've heard that can be quite disconcerting."

And he is sorry. About that, at least. Sam can taste the truth on his tongue, sharp and bittersweet.

Sam looks out through the windows of his body's eyes. The room stretches beyond his vision, lit dimly red from a nearby lamp, black at the edges. He can make out the hulking, amorphous shapes of chairs, a table, perhaps a bed.

There's a tickling sensation, ghostly faint, along his arm, like the memory of insect legs marching through the hairs. Lucifer's running his fingertips along the length of Sam's forearm. He repeats the move on the other arm, pressing more firmly. And again on the tops of Sam's thighs, his belly and chest, the curve of his jaw. He makes soft noises of discovery at each new part and Sam thinks that might be awe written across his features.

"You are one of my Father's most beautiful creations, Sam." Lucifer traces a long finger across the seam of Sam's lips, shudders at the sensation. Sam shudders too, more from the memory of the sensation that comes to him strangely muted now. "And made for me. You fit perfectly. The sensations of this world with Nick weren't half as sharp, as strong."

Lucifer licks his lips, meets his eyes in the mirror. "It's a completion. A culmination of the momentous choices of your life, Sam. From that rebellious moment at 13, staring down at my image and empathizing with me, to the breaking away from your dad, to the moment you allowed yourself to follow Ruby's lead.

"Oh, Sam. Your intentions have always been good," Lucifer says, cupping his hand beneath his jaw. "You care. So much. So passionately. And you follow where it leads. How could you not be for me? How could I not love you? So unlike your father, your brother."

Sam jolts at the memory of his family, of Dean. Shame, hot and bitter flooding his mouth. Another loss, another failure.

Of course, Lucifer feels this.

"No, Sam. I want you to be happy. I can make you happy. I can spare Dean. He doesn't have to die with the rest. He can be saved."

His words are true. Sam can feel it, wrapping around him like a soft blanket. Lucifer does love him. But it's a strange, twisted affection. Not the love one has for a friend or lover. More possessive, darker. A prized possession it took years to steal.

"He'll never," Sam says, "never stop trying to kill you. He won't submit."

"If it means killing you too, Sam, there are many things he'd do. But that's a later discussion. Right now, I have a gift for you."

Lucifer rises, turns from the mirror and Sam is off balance again, stumbling inside his own head, his body in motion but him unable to control it, unable to predict what his muscles do next.

The next room is not as dimly lit. Sam can easily make out the figures, people, perched in the chairs. There are two guards, on at the far door and one at the door they entered through. Lucifer dismisses them with a regal wave of his hand.

Then they're alone and Lucifer stills in the center of the room, says, "Do you recognize them, Sam?"

And Sam looks and forgets how to breathe.

They haven't changed. None of them. They look exactly as they did when Sam knew them, a decade ago.

Mr. Calhoun, his 9th grade counselor, for a time. Sam had spent several long, early autumn afternoons in his office, talking about his plans for after high school, back before Sam really considered there was much out there for him besides following in Dad's footsteps. Mr. Calhoun had thought otherwise.

There's Mindy Parker, his prom date. She'd been a junior, he a sophomore. She'd walked right up to him in the cafeteria and asked him to the dance. She'd stayed at his side the whole evening and come midnight, had led him through the hotel lobby and upstairs. It hadn't taken much persuasion to get his tux off and his hands under her dress, his mouth on her breasts. When they lay together after, tired and sticky and feeling strangely close, she'd shared her dreams, asked his and didn't scoff.

Mrs. Gardner was his senior criminal justice teacher. She'd encouraged him to take the SAT, to apply to Stanford.

And Gregory Maguire. A nondescript student Sam had met and befriended, looking for an SAT study guide. He'd driven Sam to the bus station the night Sam had left for Stanford.

All people from his past. All people he'd liked and trusted. All people who'd encouraged him to follow his desires to California. All—

"Demons," Lucifer says, the word no more than a whisper. He turns and they are looking into another mirror. "Sent to keep an eye on you, Sam. To make sure you did right. That you followed the path you were meant to. That you—"

"Disobeyed," Sam says.

An elegant shrug that looks strange on Sam's frame. "Yes. But what's done is done, Sam. Now. My gift to you. A little revenge. On those you trusted, who you thought cared but were only there to ensure your path." Lucifer turns back to the room. The lights are brighter now and Sam can make out the glassy eyed looks on the frozen faces. He's seen demons in terror before, when they didn't know what was coming for them. This is a new level. "Are you ready, Sam?"

"But…" Sam blinks. "They're yours."

Lucifer hums. "They're demons, Sam. Inside human shells. And those human souls are in there with them. Set them free, Sam. They've been locked away for so long."

Sam thinks of Meg, the girl she kept locked away. Thinks of himself when Meg took his body, coiled tight in his own mind, aware, but not enough to stop anything around him. He thinks of years spent that way. Decades of isolation, watching your life pass by and unable to live it. He thinks of Mr. Calhoun's wife, dead in an unsolved murder, thinks of Mindy's parents killed in that tragic car wreck, of Gregory's father and the shotgun he'd taken to the head. He thinks of Dean dying at his hands, with Sam's name on his lips and Sam unable to wrest back control.

"Finish it," Sam murmurs, voice raw.

"You had only to ask, Sam," Lucifer says.

The world goes black, then red. Lucifer uses his hands, Sam's hands. Sam can feel the tear of flesh, the warm blood, the smooth, slippery weight of viscera between his fingers. There is something primal in this, but Lucifer is never manic. It is, Sam realizes, control and release all at once. A revenge twice over, for Sam's hurts—though those hurts were ultimately committed with this very end in mind—and for Lucifer's, cast down with those things he hated even more than he hated humans. And though Sam gave the okay, this is something, he knows, Lucifer would have done anyway.

Warm blood hits his face and Sam turns away as best he can. Does his best not to think of Dean or Bobby, Cas or Gabriel, even as he tries to find that spark, that light, that sliver of grace that Gabriel left inside him. But all he finds is darkness and he closes his eyes as it creeps over him.

-o0o-

The mood in Bobby's living room is funeral somber. Silent, but for the tick of an analog clock on the bookshelf, the occasional, listless turn of a page in a book. Bobby's not reading; he needs something to do with his hands, Gabriel knows, and reaching for the whiskey would be too easy, would upset the already delicate balance of the nausea Bobby's been riding since they hit the interstate, running from Detroit.

Cas sits in the living room corner, face closed off, thinking of his current humanity and watching Dean—who's sitting on the floor, fixing something from one of Bobby's junked cars—and…thinking that being human might not be so bad. If he gets to stay with Dean.

Interesting.

Gabriel sighs, closes his eyes again, setting deeper into his meditative healing. If he's honest with himself, he doesn't need much more—the reserves he'd wiped out during his grace exchange with Sam have been replenished—but it's easier than watching the long faces in the room, easier than waiting. Gabriel's never been patient. That was always a sore point between him and Dad.

The jingle of a cell phone breaks the mournful quiet. Dean answers.

Gabriel twitches at the voice on the phone, opens his eyes and stares.

"It's Chuck," Dean says to the room. "Stull Cemetery?"

Gabriel sits up. It couldn't possibly… Mom? He reaches out along the connection that buzzes in the back of his mind.

Oh, he's stubborn. It was the best I could do. Him and His "I don't interfere" approach. He's been watching too much Star Trek.

To be fair, Gabriel can somewhat understand the non-interference bit, between the disaster that was the Garden Experiment and then the Jesus Saga. Try to bring humanity together, only for the message to get muddled through the religious version of a game of Telephone. Dad had left not long after that. Or so Gabriel had heard; he'd been gone for years at that point.

Yes, Isis murmurs, spectacular failures, all. I wasn't about to let Him have another one. It's not perfect. But this is a chance. Lucifer and Michael will meet, three days from now, She says. At Stull Cemetery. You need to separate them. They need to be kept apart.

I always was good at getting in the way, Gabriel says.

Just don't get in the way of their swords this time.

Phrasing!

He can feel the look She's giving him over the link before it goes warm and quiet.

Dean hangs up the phone. "Got a time and a place for the end of the world," he says. "Stull Cemetery. 3 p.m. Friday."

"That's not a lot of time to prepare," Cas says.

"Prepare for what?" Bobby straightens at his desk. "This is the Battle of the Titans. Not much to prepare for other than getting stepped on like bugs."

"Then we'll get ready to get stepped on," Dean says. "You coming?" This, to Gabriel.

"Ringside seats to the Apocalypse Showdown? Wouldn't miss it."