Trigger Warning for Implied SA/Non-Con* Several implications to SA are made in this chapter. There is no overt or direct actions, however this chapter does deal with Sam being in the cage, and being around a very possessive, aggressive Lucifer, so there is an overarching theme of non-con between Lucifer and Sam that is referenced. It is more obvious towards the end of the chapter, for anyone who would prefer to skim over that section, however there may also be subtle references throughout as well. For anyone who prefers to skim, or skip this chapter, the next one will have a short summary detailing the major plot points mentioned here
Trigger Warning for Graphic Violence* This chapter contains some graphic torture scenes. Memories of Sam's time in Hell are involved. Read at your own discretion.
Language Advisory* Sammy is not happy in this chapter. He channels his inner Dean and lets out a few bad words, though I think after reading this, we can all agree to give Sammy a pass on this one.
Chapter Text
Sam's feet have barely touched the new ground he is standing on, the rough gravel of the hill being replaced with smooth, expensive looking marble, before the angels holding him tightly between them are moving, dragging him forwards. Sam stumbles, trying to keep up, his head still pounding furiously. At the very least, the horrible memories are no longer slipping through. The vivid sensations of vivisection, of being flayed and burned alive, of each bone in his body being meticulously broken one by one, have retreated, as has the encroaching darkness and the burning heat and the utter coldness that had tried to overwhelm him at Castiel's warehouse. With his sight returned to normal, non-Hell inspired vison, Sam focuses on letting his hunting instincts take over, absorbing every detail of his new environment as quickly as he can, and committing it to memory. The marble floor he is being dragged over continues uninterrupted into what Sam can only describe as a study. Looking like it belongs in Billionaire's Quarterly, the room is furnished with heavy, dark wood, luxurious furniture. A massive oak desk, the length of Sam easily, and as wide as three of him side by side, rests in front of huge glass windows that run floor to ceiling. Deep red, heavy looking curtains hang off to each side, bound with golden threat to keep the windows exposed. A large, leather, wing-backed chair sits behind the desk, which is covered in neatly organized stacks of paper, and what looks like an entire antique calligraphy set. Two other beautiful leather chairs, though slightly smaller and maybe less imposing than the one behind the desk, sit opposite of it, each at an angle. A massive stone hearth rests on the other side of the room, a brilliant white fire crackling ominously from behind the golden grate. The other wall, the one opposite Sam, is covered nearly entirely in massive bookshelves, not only carrying what seems to be hundreds of heavy, old looking books, but also beautiful, unique looking antiques that must have taken a lifetime to collect, looking indigenous to at least a couple dozen different countries. Sam is pulled roughly into the room, being led to one of the smaller chairs, one of the angels letting go of his arm so that the other one can push him easily into the seat. Sam lets the momentum carry him for the moment, not fighting back or trying to run just yet. For one, he knows the angels will catch him instantly. For another, the agony of his headache is starting to make his vision swim, and even if he somehow avoided the angels, he doubts he will make it too far without falling over. And, if he tries to escape, and fails, God only knows what they would be willing to do to him in retaliation. So, Sam lets himself sink into the chair, shifting his wrists awkwardly as the two male angels stand on either side of him. Not even a full minute after Sam is seated, he hears soft footsteps, followed by the click-clack of heels, and he turns, watching warily as Naomi and Raphael enter. Naomi moves over, taking the seat next to Sam, crossing one ankle behind the other as she puts her hands in her lap. Raphael takes the seat behind the desk, sitting as though it were a throne made of solid gold, fixing his eyes on the youngest Winchester. Sam shifts again, unconsciously tugging on his cuffs, uneasy with all the angels surrounding him, let alone being the focus of their attention. Still, Sam lifts his head proudly, meeting Raphael's stare head on, refusing to back down an inch. He might be terrified, and he might not have any idea what is going on, but he is still a Winchester. And these are just monsters with wings. He won't let them get the best of him. Raphael seems to find something amusing in Sam's expression, because they chuckle, relaxing their posture
"Tell me Sam, what did Castiel tell you about his plans?" Raphael asks. Sam raises his eyebrows.
"Not a thing." Sam says coolly. Though not lying, Sam does everything he can to make it sound like he is, as if he has something he is hiding and refusing to share. Whatever problems Sam might have with Cas right now, they were none of this asshats business. He won't betray Cas by informing on him to his arch enemy. Especially with Sam now understanding at least some of what Cas had been trying to do. Maybe not all the details, but there isn't a doubt in his mind that Cas was fighting for him, and Dean and Bobby. He won't turn on the angel now, no matter what Raphael does. So if that means lying about the truth, so be it. Raphael still smirks, regarding Sam with intrigue.
"Sam, there is no need for dishonesty here. I am going to find out anyways." Raphael says confidently. "I am giving you a chance to spare yourself some pain. I truly don't want you to suffer more than necessary." Sam snorts.
"Sorry, I find that hard to believe." Sam says scathingly. Raphael raises their eyebrows.
"I see Castiel has filled your head with lies about me. Let me clarify something for you. I bear you no ill will, Sam. In fact, I have great respect for you." Raphael says calmly. Now it's Sam's turn to raise his eyebrows.
"You respect me?" Sam asks doubtfully. Raphael inclines their head once.
"You did your duty. Everything that was required of you, as hard as it was. You had a difficult fate assigned to you, Sam, but you fulfilled it. You released my brother from his cage, and when it was time, you allowed him to assume his true form. You did your duty as a vessel, and your sacrifice is appreciated. Even if you did try to resist Lucifer, even if you and Michael did fall into that pit, you still accomplished the job you were given from your conception, a feat that can't be said for every vessel." Raphael explains. Sam scowls deeply at the archangel. "And you might think I am angry about you defeating my brother. Maybe I am, a little, but I am also impressed. I know how difficult it is for a human to host a being such as an archangel, how confusing it can be, how scared it can make you. I have felt it in both my previous vessel, and this current one."
"Look, I uh, appreciate what you are trying to get at, but you don't have a damn clue what you are talking about." Sam says angrily, trying hard to resist the urge to strangle the angel in front of him. "You are an angel. Just because you share a body with someone, doesn't mean you have a single fucking clue about what that person is going through. What I went through. So you can take your fake sympathy and cram it. You want to talk? Fine, but let's talk about something useful. What do you want from me?" Sam's fear, and his pain, and his anger at the audacity of the archangel to try and pretend like they had any idea of the things he gave up, the things he endured, drive him past all common sense and training he has received on how to handle situations like this. He knows he is playing with fire, that Raphael can end him in a second if he says the wrong thing, but at the moment he doesn't care, to infuriated to try and control what he is saying. Raphael sits calmly through Sam's tirade, before sighing softly.
"You are so much like Lucifer. I see him so clearly in you Sam. Like a mirror, you are his human equivalent." Raphael says softly. Sam bristles indignantly.
"Fuck you." He spits furiously, as his head seems to grow even more painful with Raphael's words. And then, Sam can hear Lucifer's voice, crystal clear in his head. M.F.E.O. Literally. Sam shakes his head, trying to clear it. Made for each other, absolutely not. Sam wasn't made for Lucifer, and he definitely is not his human equivalent. Raphael's face tightens as Sam refocuses on the current archangel he is in the process of pissing off.
"I understand you are a bit upset. Castiel betrayed you, he lied to you. And the incident at his little hide out must have been frightening, so I will allow you that one and only insult." Raphael says, their voice slightly colder. "And, because I am so generous, I will give you one last chance to answer me, before we do this the hard way. I suggest you take it, Sam Winchester. I may not always agree with my brother, but I love him all the same, and you are his true vessel. You are a human set above and away from the rest of your kind, worthy of every respect, so believe me when I say that the prospect of hurting you brings me no joy, or pleasure. Unlike your disrespectful, ungrateful brother who denied his destiny again and again, at the expense of the entire world, you deserve to be sheltered, protected. Honored, even. Allow me to do that, please. All I need is your cooperation. You asked what I want from you? I want you to tell me what Castiel told you about his plans." Sam leans forward in his chair, clasping his hands in his lap tightly, fighting back the rising anxiety he feels. The two male angels each place a hand on his shoulders, ready to pull him back, but Raphael holds up a hand and they freeze, not releasing Sam, but not moving him back either. Sam takes a deep breath, looking straight into Raphael's eyes.
"Fuck. You." He says slowly. Clearly. Raphael's expression hardens, their eyes turning to ice.
"Naomi." Raphael replies. Sam refuses to look away from Raphael's gaze, refusing to so much as blink, so he only senses Naomi unfolding herself from the chair, before stepping into his periphery vision. The grips on his shoulders tighten, holding him down and still, as Naomi reaches a single hand out, laying it across Sam's forehead. There is nothing, for a second, and then Sam is screaming. Hellfire blazes through Sam's every nerve. His bones snap and crackle, breaking into shards. His muscles shred themselves as his skin slices itself apart. His blood begins to boil, melting away cartilage, evaporating the marrow in his bones. And clear as day, his memories spring to mind. Every moment since he woke up in Stull Cemetery after his swan dive. Every soulless day, spent praying to Cas, every bit of research on what the hell was wrong with him, every hunt for angels or demons or anyone who could explain his resurrection and his absence of… self. Sam's screams intensify as the memories, so vivid and vibrant, as if he is reliving them through the horrible agony destroying his body piece by piece, start to flip by faster and faster, the way someone might ruffle the pages of a book. Meeting his grandfather, his cousins. Hunting with them, collecting monsters for Crowley. The djinn attack and going to save Dean. Reuniting with him again, hunting with him, figuring out what had happened to him. Getting his soul back, Dean's worry, Bobby's forgiveness. Hunting. Praying to Cas, watching Cas grow shadier and shadier, growing more and more suspicious. The confession. Dean's reaction. Cas' kidnapping. Talking with Cas, and then, finally, Raphael appearing at his door. Abruptly, the sheer agony Sam is feeling disappears. Breathing heavily, sweat soaking his forehead and through his layers of shirts, his hair sticking to his forehead, his heart racing and his entire body trembling and shaking violently, his stomach twisting into agonizing knots, Sam slowly comes back to the present. Naomi has stepped away from him, and he is slouched in his chair, unable to hold himself up if he wanted to, even if the angels on guard duty weren't keeping him down. Sam struggles to catch his breath, to even form a coherent thought as the harsh memories force themselves on him, even without Naomi's assistance. He looks down at his body, mildly surprised to find it isn't cut and sliced into a thousand pieces, nor scorched away to nothing but ash, or broken apart, shattered bones breaking through the surface of his skin and floating loosely, disjointedly through his body. It is disorienting, to see a lack of physical evidence for what he had felt so deeply. But then he vaguely hears Naomi's voice as she starts to speak, and needing something, anything, to distract himself, to ground himself, he clings to each word with every ounce of strength he has.
"The boy was being truthful." Naomi reports. "Castiel has not informed either Sam, nor, to his knowledge, Dean, of any of his plans. They are aware Castiel and the demon Crowley are after the souls in Purgatory, but he knows nothing we don't already know."
"How interesting." Raphael says softly. "Was it out of a lack of trust on Castiel's part that he didn't include the Winchester's in his plots?"
"No. The boy believes Castiel was trying to protect him. At least, now. There was some doubt but it seems to have passed." Naomi says matter-of-factly.
"Stay… out… of…my head." Sam whispers, his voice hoarse and ragged from screaming, although he thinks at least a little bit of his fury makes itself known. Both angels ignore him either way.
"And the boy's wall?" Raphael asks, and worry suddenly pounds through Sam. He isn't supposed to remember being soulless. He isn't supposed to have these memories floating around his head. He cringes, waiting for the pain to return, to be knocked unconscious by another seizure maybe, but, to his surprise, nothing seems to happen. Nothing worse, anyways, than the headache he already had.
"Still in place, as we discussed." Naomi says proudly. "It is cracking, and flimsy in places, but I used a little grace to help stabilize it. The memories I rifled through were only from outside of the Cage, his soulless period until our retrieval. But it appears that I can retrieve memories as needed from behind the wall, without destroying it completely."
"Excellent." Raphael sits back, a pleased look crossing his face as he studies Sam, who is still panting heavily, his fingers digging so deeply into his palms that he has drawn blood. "Well then, Sam, I suppose I will have to find another way to discover what Castiel is up to, assuming Bartholomew accomplishes his mission. I don't suppose you wish to apologize now, for your obscene language?" Not wanting to try speaking again, with how damaged and sore his throat feels, Sam simply lifts his cuffed hands, his arms shaking enough that the chain connecting them is rattling, and he extends both his middle fingers. Raphael sighs, a hint of impatience in it.
"Very well. If you want to act this way, so be it. But there are consequences to disobedience here. Naomi, take Samuel to your lab. Do not break his wall, I need him in one piece, relatively speaking, but… remind him of what happened the last time he rebelled against the rightful authority." Raphael orders. A wicked, pleased smile crosses Naomi's face. "Ishmael, Malachai, you will stand guard. Sam is your ward and is in your care. He is your responsibility, so ensure he does not foolishly attempt escape."
"Yes Sir." The angels, Malachai and Ishmael, apparently, respond together. They pull Sam roughly to his feet and Sam has to fight with everything he has not to vomit all over the floor. As entertaining as it might be to see the angels covered in his bile, Sam also suspects that they won't take it well, especially not Raphael. But when their wings flutter, and he is once again flown to a new location, he can't stop his stomach from rebelling. As they appear in a white, nearly empty room, Sam leans forward, vomiting the little contents of his stomach all over the pristine floors. The angels let out noises of disgust, jerking Sam away from the puddle of sickness, as Naomi appears. She wrinkles her nose at the smell, waving her hand and in a blink the vomit is gone, both from the floor, and from Sam's clothes. Handy trick, Sam thinks slightly hysterically. Especially if she is going to do that awful mind reading thing again. Sam glances around himself, spotting the only piece of furniture in this particular room. It looks like a dentist' chair, if it belonged to the world's most psychotic dentist ever. Like that one guy from Little Shop of Horror, Sam thinks, the slight edge of hysteria starting to grow as the reality of his situation, which he is trying very, very hard to ignore, grows increasingly more present. The chair is set to a semi-reclined position, missing the light that hangs above the patient, but retrofitted instead with glistening silver restraints on each arm rest, and one longer one near the end, where the feet would rest. Panic starts to set in and Sam begins to struggle, trying to pull his way free of the angels as they drag him towards the seat.
"No." He protests. If Naomi and Raphael were being serious in the study, if Naomi was about to do what he thinks she is about to do, he can't let himself be put in that chair. He can't. "No!" He fights harder, kicking and tugging at his arms, but it makes no difference. He is still dragged to the chair. His flannel shirt is ripped from him, leaving only the t-shirt that was under it in place, and he is manhandled into the chair, the wrist restraints snapping tight around his wrists with a single touch from Naomi. As they bind him, holding him down, Sam realizes they are made of the same material as angel blades. This chair was made to hold angels. That makes Sam struggle even more, and it takes both Ishmael and Malachai to contain his legs long enough to get the third restraint around his ankles, effectively tying Sam down and making it impossible for him to do anything more than squirm like a worm on a hook. With both his ankles and wrists locked firmly into place, his legs yanked out as straight as they can, even that squirming is really only his torso and neck twisting anxiously. Ishmael and Malachai move to Sam's feet, taking off his boots and socks, tossing them into a corner of the room. Naomi scowls in distaste.
"I prefer to keep my workspace clean, if you don't mind." She sniffs haughtily. Ishmael mutters an apology, snapping, and the shoes, shocks, and Sam's flannel shirt all disappear, the same way his vomit did. Nodding approvingly, Naomi turns back to her captive, and Sam doubles his efforts to get free, unable to hide the panic or the fear, while his guards move towards the only door in and out of the room, standing on either side of it. Sam glances at them, but the majority of his attention is on the psycho mind reader approaching his right side, an awful smile on her face. "You should consider yourself lucky, Samuel. Normally, I debrief angels. In order to do that, I need to drill past the human psyche of their vessel, into the grace of the angel. But since you being alone in there is sort of why you are here anyways, we don't need to worry about that messy bit."
"Oh yeah, I'm a freaking leprechaun I am so lucky." Sam growls out. "Stay the hell away from me."
"Poor choice of words." Naomi grins. "Now, what to start off with… Raphael just wants to give you a little reminder of the price of disobediance, so nothing too terrible I think…" Sam fights back the whimper that is desperately trying to escape his throat as Naomi places her hand lightly on his forehead once more.
"No, no, no, no." He whispers, before another scream is torn from him, and the white room, and the creepy angel, and his two guards disappear. In their place are dark metal walls, dripping with blood from where pieces of skin and what looks like various organs have been hammered in with bone fragments. And Sam is overwhelmed with the horrifying realization that each and every… decoration, belongs to him. "No!" Sam screams louder, desperately trying to kick and fight free, but he is still heavily restrained. Instead of lying down, however, he is being held in one place, his ankles chained to the dark floor, his wrists held above his head, each wrapped in a heavy manacle that has been melted into his skin, fused almost down to the bones. And he is naked, his entire body, currently whole and unhurt, bare as the day he was born. Clothes weren't needed in the Cage, after all, so they were the first things to go. Desperately, Sam peers around the hauntingly familiar room, finding that nothing has seemed to change. The ceiling is nothing but darkness, heavy chains similar to the ones currently holding him dangling every few feet, and Sam instinctively knows that they are so Lucifer and Michael can hang him in different ways. Tears start to flow down his cheeks as hopelessness washes over him. "No. No. No." The word becomes almost a mantra as Sam tugs uselessly on his bonds, and then a panicked response as he hears dark, cold laughter from behind him. "No! No!" The shadows around him move, and the face he has come to hate appears, red eyes glowing malevolently out of the darkness as he steps closer. Lucifer.
"Now, now Sammy." The archangel purrs, the words loud and piercing despite the soft intention, and Sam knows that the devil is speaking Enochian. He forced Sam to learn it, refusing to speak any form of English, stripping away any of Sam's connection to Earth. The way Sam did to him, by dragging him back here, he had explained finally, when Sam had learned enough Enochian to get by with simple conversations. "You know how much I hate that word." Sam can't fight the sob that bursts out of his chest as Lucifer moves even closer. He has many faces to wear, some plucked from Sam's subconscious, like Dean or Jess or his father. Sometimes he prefers the face of the vessel that didn't fight him, that let him in without any fuss or qualms or scruples. Nick, Sam recalls faintly. Sometimes he even wears his own, true face. Those are the worst. There are no words for how Lucifer looks. Any that come close are only pale shades of the truth, practically lies. He supposes glorious could apply. Maybe even horrifying. Scarred, beautiful, bright, terrifying. Describing him is like trying to describe light. Wounded light. Sam could see the marks of Lucifer's first fall from grace, each as raw as if they were new, and he could understand how much pain Lucifer has to be in. But beyond the pain, Sam could see the harshness of Lucifer's being. He may be the Lightbringer, but it isn't a beautiful, warm, glowing light of a dawning sunrise. His being is cold, and harsh. A reflected light, like a moon beam. Technically light, and beautiful in its own way, but it doesn't illuminate, it only stands to highlight the darkness around it. It is the kind of light that predators live by, but it isn't the sun. Nothing good, nothing beautiful, or innocent, or pure can grow in his light. He isn't a source of life, he is a source of freezing, endless, eternity. And Sam can tell Lucifer isn't cruel, and vindictive, and spiteful because he Fell. He isn't driven by his pain the way wounded animals are. Lucifer Fell, because he is cruel, and vindictive and spiteful. He is in pain because of his choices, his choices are not because of pain. Thankfully, small miracles seem to exist, because it isn't Lucifer's true form that appears in front of him now. No, Lucifer has taken his preferred face to torment Sam with. His own. The Sam that stands in front of him is the one that he had seen in the mirror, after he said yes to Lucifer. He stands tall and proud, a little pale, with gleaming, cool eyes and a wicked smirk, Sam's dark hair framing his face exactly the way it did that day. In a way, actually, while that used to terrify Sam, he finds a little bit of comfort. Because, that isn't how he looks anymore, is it? He's changed… he isn't as thin, or wiry, his hair is different… right? Lucifer tilts his head, raising a hand and gently stroking Sam's face. Sam flinches, and all rational thought flees Sam's mind as soon as the pale, cold fingers touch his skin. Lucifer grins. "You are so pretty when you cry, Sammy. You have the perfect eyes for tears." Sam tries to pull his head free, but Lucifer simply chuckles and grips Sam's chin instead.
"Please." Sam whispers, staring into the merciless, gleeful eyes that were his, and not his at the same time. "Lucifer, please-"
"Ah, ah, ah." Lucifer tsks, letting go of Sam's chin, and moving back ever so slightly. "No talking. You know the rules. When I want that mouth open, you'll know." Sam chokes back the wave of terror as Lucifer starts circling around him, whistling. "You know, when the term perfect vessel was created, it was supposed to refer to the reflection of a soul and an angel's grace." Sam shivers as cold fingers trail down his back. "But I think you managed to redefine it Sammy." Sam closes his eyes tightly, shifting fearfully, biting back the pleas he wants to let out. Lucifer was abundantly clear when he taught Sam the rules, and no speaking during a punishment was one of the first ones that he had conditioned Sam to obey. The only thing is, Sam can't remember which other rule he broke this time to get a punishment. That answer becomes clear though, when Lucifer returns to where Sam can see him, and his face has changed. Eternally grateful that Lucifer doesn't count whimpers as speaking, Sam shifts uneasily in his chains, blinking back more tears as Dean stands in front of him, burning red eyes having replaced the emerald green, but everything else exactly perfect. So he called out for Dean then, that was why he was being punished. "Now, are you ready Sammy?" Shaking violently, his chains rattling, Sam nods reluctantly. Always answer a direct question, that was another rule Lucifer drilled into him, quite literally. Sam still can feel the drills digging into his hands, his feet, every joint in his body, until he had been nailed to the floor in so many different ways he lost count. Even when Sam either wasn't permitted to speak or couldn't do to some other torture happening to him, Sam was expected to respond when Lucifer spoke to him. And it almost always involved forcing Sam to give his consent in some form or another. Ever since the big yes, since they fell into the pit, that was the only constant Sam knew of. Letting out Dean's loud, raucous laughter, Lucifer pulls out a thin filleting knife from his pocket, stepping forwards and tracing the blade along Sam's mouth before making the first slice, from the corner of his mouth and down. Sam screams, as blood fills his mouth, and he throws his head back, but Lucifer's hand reaches out, entangling in his hair and holding his head steady, his other hand continuing to slice expertly through Sam's skin, not damaging the deeper muscle even the slightest but pulling the top level of his skin away inch by inch. Blood pours down Sam's body, and his every nerve is slowly, painstakingly revealed, leaving him in burning, unending agony. Sam screeches and shrieks and howls in pain, twisting and turning as much as he can between his chains and Lucifer's steady hands, but he never lets a single word escape his lips. Lucifer smiles, and starts belting out Ramble On in Dean's awful, out of tune voice that Sam would give just about anything to hear for real again just one more time, as he keeps flaying Sam one piece of skin at a time, until Sam is nothing but raw, bleeding muscle, and exposed nerves. With tears flowing down his cheeks, stinging and burning every inch that they trace against, Sam hangs limply from his chains, all of his weight tugging on his cuffed wrists. Lucifer, covered now in Sam's blood, steps back, a wild, deranged smirk on his face as soft groans and weak sobs escape from Sam. "I think we will leave your hands and feet unskinned for now." Lucifer says, patting Sam's cheek. Sam whimpers at the fiery pain scorching the nerves there, and bows his head, his hair hanging forward to cover his face. "There, there Sammy. You did well, not a single word this time. I am proud of you." Sam looks up tentatively, to see Lucifer has changed faces again, this time taking on the image of his former vessel, Nick. He tilts his head, reaching up and stroking Sam's cheek again. Sam trembles, blinking, but at Lucifer's touch the horrendous, unending pain he has been in suddenly disappears and when Sam looks down again, his body has been healed, though all the skin he has lost has been carefully gathered up and laid on one of the tables.
"More trophies?" Sam gasps as Michael emerges from the darkness. Unlike Lucifer, Michael almost always keeps the visage of his vessel, Adam. Since Adam said yes to Michael, Sam hasn't heard or seen from him even once. It has always been Michael in control, though both he and Lucifer liked to assure Sam that he was somewhere safe, deep in his own subconscious. After all, it wasn't Adam's fault the four of them were in here. Sam chose this fate for all of them, so it was Sam's Hell to suffer, not his half-brother's. Sam has to believe that that is true, for his own sanity, because even just the idea of Adam being trapped in his own body, watching what the archangels were doing to Sam, the kinds of torture they were putting Sam through, was unbearable. Better he be locked in some happy memories, or even just blissfully in the dark, than aware of being trapped in Hell. Still, being in the Cage, Michael didn't need to have a vessel, and sometimes he chose to reveal his true form, leaving Adam's body as Lucifer did to Sam almost the instant the Cage locked behind them. Today was one of those days, and Sam has to blink hard as he struggles to take in the creature in front of him. No matter how much Enochian he hears, or how often he sees Michael and Lucifer as they truly are, he will never get used to the true appearance of an angel. Like with Lucifer, it is impossible to describe the archangel. Nothing really does it justice, but the closest Sam can come is vast. And… blue. Like the ocean, or maybe the sky. Powerful, boundless, formless. Where Lucifer was light, Michael was more dense, more solid, but just as graceful, intangible. Celestial, to Lucifer's ethereal. Neither angel is paying any attention Sam's wondering thoughts, they are used to his lack of attention after a punishment.
"Do you like them?" Lucifer grins garishly.
"They are morbid, little brother." Michael says distastefully.
"You just have no artistic taste." Lucifer shrugs, gently stroking the skin he peeled off of Sam. "But you do have great timing. I am all out of material to pin these lovely trophies to Sammy's walls. Would you be a dear and get me some more?" Michael turns towards Sam, who tries to move away from the archangel. Though not as sadistic as Lucifer, Michael has plenty of righteous fury, fury he enjoys taking out on Sam. Though they did fight each other often, it was clear that whatever animosity exists between the two brothers, Sam's betrayal of Lucifer and his defeat of Michael trumps it, and they can set aside their personal grudge long enough, often enough, to share in tormenting Sam. Lucifer moves closer to the table holding his flayed skin, picking up another knife, this time a butcher's knife, and offers it to Michael, who takes it slowly.
"Always happy to help with this part, little brother." Michael says coolly, and Sam lets out a terrified moan, squeezing his eyes shut once more.
"Well, I think that was quite enough for now." A female voice from right beside Sam says quietly. Sam nearly jumps out of his skin in surprise. There were no females in the Cage, not unless Lucifer was pretending to be Jess, or his mother, and this woman sounded like neither. Slowly, fearfully, Sam lets his eyes open again, blinking rapidly as light, real light, hits his eyes. It takes almost a minute, but gradually the room he is in comes back to him. It isn't the dark, awful room, one of many, from the Cage, though it wasn't much better either. It was Naomi's white room, and he was still half-lying, half sitting on her evil dentist's chair. Looking around, he sees that nothing has changed while he was lost in the horrible memory. Ishmael and Malachai are still standing by the door, impassive and neutral expressions in place. Naomi is still at his side, her hands now both down by her side, a careful, guarded look in her eyes as she regards him. Sam himself feels sick to his stomach. He feels both way too hot, and like he is freezing cold all at once. His head pounds painfully, and he can feel the cold sweat over every inch of his trembling body, violent shivers coursing down his back, his hands clutched into fists, and tears pouring down his cheeks. "Did we learn our lesson, Samuel?" Sam looks at Naomi, confusion sweeping through him, followed by fear. Lesson? What lesson? Was he supposed to learn something? Was she going to do that again, if he gives her the wrong answer? He can't. He can't, he can't go back there, he can't do that again. He can still feel Lucifer's hands crawling over his skin, his eyes dragging over Sam's body leering. He can feel his flesh being peeled back, over and over again, the filet knife slicing delicately, precisely. And, now that Naomi has brought the memory to mind, he knows, almost instinctively, what happens next, even if the exact memories themselves are still hidden behind his wall. Michael ripped out his bones, for Lucifer to make nails with, and once he had been healed from that as well, Lucifer rewarded him for doing so well during his punishment. More specifically, he did what Lucifer called a reward. What if Naomi shows him that next? No. No! Knowing those memories are in his head and reliving them again… seeing what he lived through once… no. Swallowing back his terror, his skin crawling with the ghost of remembrance, Sam recalls Lucifer's rules. No speaking during punishments. Answer every question. So, shaking, and terrified, and still utterly confused, Sam takes a guess at what he thinks the angel wants to hear, and nods his head slowly, praying as he does so that he picked the right answer.