Lucifer is never going to be used to this, no matter what Sam says.
Their nightly routine is supposed to calm him down. Tell his body it's time to sleep. It never gets the message. It clings to wakefulness with a stubbornness he'd be proud of if he wasn't the one who had to suffer through it. He'd never felt how long a night was before he had to lie beside Sam, still and silent, and hope that his eyes would finally shut and let him escape. Some motels they stay at have little electric clocks on the bedside tables, flashing in the room with more regularity than the headlights of passing cars. There's one in their room tonight, green numbers divided across a simplistic screen, a button on top to stop the whine of the alarm in the morning. Lucifer listens to the buzz of the socket it's plugged into. He hates how quiet his existence can get now.
He rolls over. The pillow under his head is lumpy. Sam had looked at him apologetically and said something about how the money for a better place to stay the night went to gas instead, as though that meant anything to Lucifer. They pass around plastic cards and sheets of paper like they're worth bartering, and Lucifer's just supposed to accept that those things have value. (Among the things Sam has placed up on the high shelf of 'off-limits discussions because they only end in arguments', basic economics lies somewhere between biblical literalism and whether or not Lucifer should be allowed to drive the Impala.) The outcome of all of that is that Lucifer discovers he enjoys the taste of cheap fried rice from the place down the street and hates pillows that make his neck hurt.
Sam can sleep anywhere, it seems. He's dead to the world, flat on his back with one hand curled on his stomach like he fell asleep mid-scratch and the other sprawled across the mattress closer to Lucifer. Lucifer takes that hand in his. Sam's palm is warm, and Lucifer maneuvers it around slowly so as not to wake him in order to press it against his own cold cheek. Sam's fingers flex in his sleep, rubbing Lucifer's cheekbone. Lucifer sighs.
He scoots closer. He's spent long enough watching Sam that he knows what every stage of his sleep looks like. He knows that Sam snores when he sleeps on his right side but not on his left and only quietly on his back. He can hear it every few breaths, like the hum of an engine, nowhere near as noisy as the first time Lucifer heard him snoring and jolted up so fast that he hit his head against the wall. Now, the sound is soothing. It makes it easier for Lucifer to match his own breathing to Sam's.
This works sometimes. Focusing on Sam. Listening to him. Wondering if his heart is beating in the same rhythm as Lucifer's. Lucifer shuts his eyes and waits.
A dozen minutes later, he opens them. It was worth a try.
He's ridding them of the already small distance between their bodies, inch by inch. He doesn't want to wake Sam up, and he knows how easily he might.
He also doesn't want to be alone. His chest clenches uncomfortably. It does that a lot, and he can never control it. It's why he can't be relied on to go into small, enclosed spaces when he's allowed to join them on hunts. Something in him makes him freeze. He hates it. He was never subject to his body's whims as an angel. His own mind never tried to lie to him about where those dark spaces led, what bars would close in on him if he entered... His breathing has fallen out of sync with Sam's, and he forces it back.
The inches become centimeters. Lucifer squirms to where their pillows meet.
Sam is dreaming. It's hard to see in the dark, but Lucifer has sat there long enough squinting at shadows that his eyes have adjusted. Sam's skin and hair seem a dismal gray, varying shades dividing where strands fall across his face, occasionally disturbed by his breaths. Lucifer traces the slope of his neck up from the thin shirt he wore to bed, pausing on the bandage Lucifer applied earlier under Dean's instructions. (He'd earned himself a slap on the back that made him turn on Dean with a scowl until Sam placed a restraining hand on his arm and explained that Dean congratulating him, not trying to hurt him. Lucifer hadn't relaxed, but he also hadn't followed through on his first instinct to hit Dean back. As Sam would put it: progress.) It wasn't a deep wound. The bandage hasn't bled through in the hours since Sam laid down, and seeing that gives Lucifer some comfort.
He finally gets to be with Sam, and still, every other week, he has to risk losing him.
But he would never try to take this life from Sam before he's ready to leave it. He's seen the peace it brings him to save people. If the cost of that is Lucifer anxiously waiting back at the motel room to hear the Impala roll back up, already having cleaned their weapons thrice over, reorganized their research, checked their back-up phones, laid out the contents of the first aid kits in order of what they use the most often, then that's a price he can pay. He raises a hand and gently brushes the bandage with his fingertips. Sam grimaces in his sleep.
His gaze slides up the shape of Sam's chin. He tilts his head slightly to see Sam's parted mouth. Sam says that Lucifer talks in his sleepz Sometimes snippets of conversations that, when they're repeated back to him, bring Lucifer back thousands of years. More often, he says names. Lucifer finds the tip of Sam's nose, smiles, and follows the bridge of it towards Sam's eyes. He yawns. His own eyelids seem heavier than they were a minute ago. Under his, Sam's eyes dart back and forth to search for dreams. (More things Lucifer doesn't understand the purpose of, but at least these were something God had a hand in. That counted for something, even if they still made no sense at best and at worst...)
Sam huffs out a breath. Lucifer's eyes shut. He's crowding Sam's pillow, but it's comfier than the one Lucifer got. Maybe tonight. Maybe he's finally going to-
Sam's body goes rigid. Lucifer's eyes snap open.
Sam twists away from him, and not thinking clearly, Lucifer tries to stop him. His hand closes around Sam's arm. Sam chokes out an awful noise, like he wants to say no and is too scared to, and then, so loudly it makes Lucifer let him go, Sam screams. It's shaped like Lucifer's name, his real name, his true voice's pronunciation, and it tears across Sam's all too human vocal cords without mercy.
Sam curls in on himself. Lucifer reaches for his shoulder, but before he can even touch him, Sam retreats further. He trembles, and worse, goes still like he doesn't want Lucifer to see his fear. Lucifer's chest is clenching up again, worse, like there's something stuck in his throat. He coughs to try and release it, and all that does is make Sam whimper quietly. Lucifer gives him space, sitting up in the bed and massaging his neck. He can't get rid of the obstruction. It feels like it's growing. He sucks in a breath, looking over at Sam again, and blinking twice to stop his eyes from stinging.
Lucifer swings his legs off the side of the bed. Sam twitches when he hears Lucifer's feet touch the floor, and his breathing stutters in panic as Lucifer walks around the bed. Lucifer makes no secret of where he's going. When he rounds the bed, he sees that Sam has squeezed his eyes shut. His hands are both drawn in close to his chest, clasped together. Lucifer approaches his side of the bed slowly, and before he's near enough to loom over Sam, he gets down on the floor. The wooden boards are scuffed. He sits.
"Sam?" He has to force the name out through his blocked-up throat, and it makes it sound scratchy.
"Please, don't," Sam whispers. The tightness in Lucifer's chest becomes painful.
It's a terrible thing, to love someone so much and to be what he fears most.
The headlights of a car perforate the curtains Lucifer drew over the window after he laid the salt line that would keep them safe. The dimmed glow illuminates Sam's terrified expression. His chest surges violently as though he can't get enough air.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Lucifer whispers. He rests a hand on the mattress beside Sam. He wants to touch him, to comfort him, but he won't be able to endure seeing Sam flinch from him again.
"What do you want?" Sam's words escape around the rush of a sob. "I'll do it." Lucifer doesn't have time to say a word before Sam is cringing away. "Not that, not that, anything else. Please, don't make me do that again." Lucifer feels something hot drip down his cheek. He touches his face, and his fingers come away wet. He wipes it away.
"Sam," he tries again, "open your eyes." Sam trembles. He looks too small. If anyone had hurt Sam like this, he would have torn them apart, slowly and painfully. He would redefine cruelty. Instead, there are no hands holding the tools that carved Sam open. There are only wounds, and Lucifer slowly learning to treat them. Sam forces his eyelids apart. His gaze recoils from Lucifer, but Lucifer is patient. "Look at me. Don't be afraid. Look." Sam swallows, and he drags his eyes back to Lucifer's face.
Lucifer's other cheek flares with heat. Sam frowns in confusion.
"What..." he whispers. His hands unclasp, and one reaches out, unsure. Lucifer holds very still for him. Sam's fingers slide up his face through the trail. He follows it up to the corner of Lucifer's eye. Lucifer blinks as his eyelashes are grazed. "Are you crying?" Sam asks. He sounds lost.
Lucifer should be better at recognizing his own body's reactions by now.
He almost reprimands himself for his lack of control again, but then he sees Sam's eyes widen as more tears wet his fingertips. He uncurls a little. "I don't-" He finally looks around, and recognition of his surroundings shows on his face. Sam lets out a breath and sits up, his hand pulling away from Lucifer. Lucifer misses it immediately. "Shit," Sam says. He covers his face.
Lucifer grips the mattress and pulls himself to his feet. His knees ache in retaliation. He's surprised by Sam's hand on his shoulder helping him up, but he tries not to react beyond a glance, in case he triggers a spiral back into panic. He settles onto the bed next to Sam. Their shoulders are almost close enough to rub together. Sam scrubs his hand down his own face one last time. "I'm sorry," he says. His voice sounds hoarse, carrying the stress caused by his earlier screaming. "I freaked you out. I'm-"
"Don't apologize, Sam." Sam shakes his head, and he opens his mouth to do it anyway. "Don't." Lucifer insists. Sam looks down at his dropped hands in his lap. His thumb slides over his palm, but he doesn't press down.
"I..." He looks at Lucifer. "This is real, right?" Sam doesn't trust his own eyes or his own pain. He looks at Lucifer like he holds the entire world in his hands, and if he so chose, he could shake it to pieces. Lucifer cradles the truth like glass and gives it back to Sam freely.
"This is real," he promises. He lifts a hand, and with the tilt of Sam's head as invitation, strokes the long strands of his hair back behind his ear. "I'm real. We're both free." Sam shuts his eyes, letting out a long, deep breath. He opens them again calmer. When he looks at Lucifer, it's like he's seeing his lover, not a monster lurking in the dark.
"You're still crying," Sam tells him. He reaches down for the sheets and uses the edge of them to wipe off Lucifer's face, gently stroking under his eyes and nose, along his cheeks, until his face is dry and clean.
"I don't know why it's doing that," Lucifer says.
"Why you're doing that," Sam corrects, folding the sheets into his fist so that he can rub his thumb along Lucifer's cheekbone. He smiles weakly. "Do you need me to pull out-"
"I don't need an emotion wheel," Lucifer grumbles. His throat feels clearer than it did earlier. His chest is still tight, but it's relaxing with time and the reassurance of Sam's touches. He looks Sam over twice, making sure he can't find any distress left. When he's satisfied, he leans into Sam, and Sam's arm winds around his back to hold him. He rests his head against Lucifer's, nosing at his hair and breathing in the scent of the shampoo they share.
"Whatever you say," Sam says. When he breathes in, so does Lucifer. They breathe out in unison. Lucifer hears Sam say, softly, "The real you gets scared."
"And tired," Lucifer adds. It makes Sam chuckle. Lucifer feels him look back towards the clock.
"You've been lying there awake for three hours?" Lucifer nods and yawns. Sam hears that because he turns back to Lucifer.
"It's better than nightmares." Lucifer would take one over the other any day.
But if he has to have them, if Sam has to, he's glad they know how to help each other. Sam rubs Lucifer's side. Lucifer lets his eyes droop shut.
"Crying yourself to exhaustion," Sam murmurs over Lucifer's head. Lucifer hums back at him. "Hopefully we can find a better way, but... if it works for tonight." Sam shifts. "Lucifer, you have to lay down."
"No," Lucifer insists, "not without you. I won't let it happen again." Sam presses a kiss to his lips, and Lucifer's eyes open for a moment to catch him pulling away. Sam nudges Lucifer further back onto the mattress despite his protests.
"They're nightmares," Sam says, as if that's all they are. They both know he's lying, but it's easier to pretend sometimes. "You can't stop them."
"I can." This is Sam's pillow. Lucifer can tell because it's comfy. He shuts his eyes again, reaching blindly to pull Sam close.
"No, but you're here when I wake up. That's enough." Lucifer tugs on him again. "I'm coming, don't worry." When Sam lays down beside Lucifer, he rolls over and wraps around him, only content when he's pressed as near to Sam as he can be. Sam chuckles again, a little stronger than the first.
"I'm real," Lucifer mumbles against him, "I'm real. I am. I'm yours."
He doesn't remember saying that last one, but Sam tells him he did in the morning and he believes it.