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Sam's always had a knack for languages.
Latin, Spanish, a bit of French, some Hebrew, he picked all of them up as a hobby—with the exception of Latin, or course; that's a necessity for any hunter. He’s never really had the chance to explore this passion, what with hunting monsters ever since he could walk, but he finds a certain thrill in learning the words. Learning new ways of communicating feels like he’s being someone else, just for a minute; he can see and experience the world as someone other than Sam Winchester.
A bit bleak, maybe. It’s not like he grew up with the Brady Bunch.
Anyway, when he finally managed to get out of the family business at eighteen and enrol at Stanford, it was like a dream come true. Suddenly, all the knowledge he’s hungered for his entire life was at his fingertips, begging to be studied, to be learnt. Law was his primary passion, of course, so he mostly studied that.
He did allow himself a few electives studying languages, though. Latin he took just so he could ace it, but he also took an etymology course in ancient languages. Everything seemed perfect.
Which, as Sam knows all too well now, isn’t a word in the Winchester’s vocabulary.
Language took on a new meaning after Sam threw himself and Lucifer into the Pit to save the world. He hadn’t allowed himself to truly think about what came after the heroic sacrifice, after the dizzying wrestle for control and the leap.
And the fall. The gut-swooping fall that seemed to go on for a thousand years, until Sam didn’t think he’d ever land.
But the rush of adrenaline and desperation quickly mellowed out to a terrible knowledge, bathed in the kind of oppressive silence that weighed down on the Cage: it was just him and Lucifer.
Forever.
And Lucifer gets bored.
Sam became his primary source of entertainment, unable to escape the archangel’s vicious streak in their confinement. Sam soon came to learn an important rule; he belonged to Lucifer, in every possible sense.
And Lucifer is territorial.
The archangel’s pride demanded that he distance his vessel as much as possible from the humanity that disgusted him so. Chief among these infractions was his human tongue.
Sam’s vocal cords were torn out and knitted together anew, built and bred to speak the language of the angels, the purest form of communication. Lucifer took great pleasure in stamping out all the remaining dregs of humanity left in Sam, until he was nothing more than a plaything with legs, a mere echo of a person that existed to sate Lucifer’s every whim and desire. He lived, breathed, and bled the way Lucifer wanted him to; the unfamiliar syllables of Enochian contorted his tongue until they were all he could comprehend. They fell out of his lips in a torrent of thick blood, useless begging of please don't, please stop, no more.
When Sam wakes up in his body, his mind is quiet. Not the peaceful sort, the humming of the Impala underscoring a comfortable silence between him and his brother, but a stone-cold, heavy sense of dread. The quiet before a storm; the silence that sweeps across the forest when a predator is lurking.
It takes him a moment to remember to breathe; he doesn’t fully realise that he’s alive until the burning inside his lungs starts to become unbearable. His first breaths, his first true breaths back in his body as his whole, damaged self are desperate and gasping, a drowning man coming up to breathe after forgetting how.
His body feels wrong. That’s the first thing he thinks after he manages to get his breathing under control, a deafening bell of disquiet tolling. He’s not used to feeling this corporeal, having a solid body of sinew and muscle wrapped snugly around aching bones, one that doesn’t bend and break at the whims of the archangels.
Experimentally, he makes a small sound, jumping slightly in surprise in the unfamiliar resonation deep in his throat. His voice doesn’t sound like his own; in the Ca—down there, Sam’s voice was a symphony of wailing screams and pleas, with the guttural overtones of the ancient language forced upon him by his tormentors.
He doesn’t know much, right now. He can’t remember where he is, what’s going on, or even really who he is. Everything is a swirling vortex of remembered pain and fear and dread and shame, and nothing more than a fraying rope is what’s keeping his head above the water. He can feel it coming, a complete loss of himself—destruction lingers at the fringes of his tattered consciousness, whispering honey-sweet promises of oblivion and an end to his pain.
Dean.
Sam needs his big brother.
He tries to whisper his name, but his tongue can’t remember the shapes required to form the word and nothing comes out but a choked gasp. It strikes a chord deep within him, a discordant hum of unease sweeping through him at his inability.
It’s only a vague burning sensation, one that pales in comparison to his years under Lucifer’s sadistic thumb, that alerts him to the fact that he’s scratching at the skin of his arms. It’s a terrible, animal desperation that seizes him, to rip off this unfamiliar skin that binds him, forcing a broken and eroded soul into a shape it can barely remember taking.
“De—” he tries again, but his lips hurt and he can’t remember how he’s supposed to move them, how can he not remember—? How can he—?
Dean was his first word, the word he’s said the most, screamed in fear into the night, whispered fondly in motel rooms, sighed in exasperation whenever his brother made a fool of himself. He even used to say it in the Cage, screaming himself hoarse begging for Dean, Dean, Dean, to come and save him like he always does.
It didn’t take long for Lucifer to burn that word out of him.
“De—eaa,” he forces out, his tongue burning at the unfamiliar word, a horrible fear setting deep within him like ice—Lucifer doesn’t like it when he speaks English. Lucifer doesn’t like it when he calls for Dean. He’s going to be mad he’s going to hurt him hurt him hurt him—
Sam just doesn’t want to hurt anymore.
A clamouring sound to his right shocks him out of his spiralling, and he recoils against a hard wall, opening his eyes—he didn’t realise he closed them, the Cage was always so dark, so thick and suffocating and cold—to see a face he’s dreamed of. One he thought he’d never see again.
“Dean,” he finally manages to whisper, tears of relief and just a bit of fear pricking at his too-clear eyes.
Dean says something back, the words garbled to Sam’s ears as if they’re coming from underwater, and then he’s coming closer, hands twitching by his sides and steps uncharacteristically hesitant. He never breaks eye contact with Sam, and he’s so grateful; if he loses himself in those familiar, impossibly gentle green eyes, maybe he can erase the memory of Lucifer’s ice blue ones, that burned with frigid flames and pooled with hatred.
Dean’s suddenly in front of him, crouched down to be at his eye level—and isn’t that a strange feeling, since Lucifer looms, always needing to be higher than Sam to remind him of his place in the dirt, a squirming insect beneath the archangel’s feet. His mouth moves, and words come out, but they’re no more decipherable than the first time.
The silence drags, and Dean’s eyebrows furrow, barely concealed worry lurking behind the bright green of his eyes and in the creases of his face. He says something again, slowly this time, but it's no clearer.
‘I don’t understand,’ Sam says in a small voice, sickly sweet guilt clogging his veins.
Dean’s expression tightens further, and he sends a helpless glance towards a figure at the door. The man is scruffy, bearded face set in a severe frown under a tattered old cap. He looks familiar, and he radiates a sense of safety, albeit less than Dean.
Bobby, Sam’s mind supplies. His name is Bobby.
“Booo—bby,” Sam manages to say, and both of their gazes snap to him, hesitant hope and fear swirling together in an uneasy symphony beneath their expressions. Bobby comes closer, standing beside Dean and setting a hand on his shoulder. A gentle smile breaks the earlier harshness on his face, and he nods, saying something.
Sam doesn’t understand.
“Dean,” he repeats, voice curling upwards and betraying his fear, as he reaches towards his brother. Although he hesitates, Dean accepts Sam’s hand in his, squeezing it tightly and rubbing calm circles on the back of it.
God, how long has it been since Sam felt this warmth? Human touch, chasing away the frost that clings to his insides, the messy remnants from all the times Lucifer’s reached inside him and torn him into pieces. Every muscle, every bone, every organ is intimately familiar with Lucifer's touch, has his name carved deep into them in a display of indisputable ownership. Sam is Lucifer's vessel, his ‘bunk buddy,’ his bitch. It's been so long since he's been anything other than that.
He can't dare hope to be Dean's Sammy again. He won't.
But, looking into his eyes, it's so hard to not let that sickly sweet hope consume him.
Time passes.
Sam can't be sure of how much; time is a fickle thing to him now, a terrible beast he's grappled with far more than most. It's smoke between his fingers and a heavy cross fixed to his back, drowning him and starving him in equal measure. He counts two sunsets and sunrises; the first sunrise was almost enough to soothe the raw wounds left on his soul when he first saw it. He forgot about the sun, about the way it danced over the horizon and played fitfully on his skin like a candle. Warm, loving, gentle—not the ice cold fire of Lucifer, that eats at his flesh and burrows into bone.
So, two days have passed. Probably. Sam can't be sure. The sun does mark the coming and going of days, he thinks; it's been so long since he even considered things like that.
Still, the words that used to come to Sam so readily in quick-witted insults and passionate tangents, the words that he needs to communicate with anyone, remain locked away. Somewhere deep inside him, encased in impenetrable steel.
Sometimes, he wonders if they're still there at all. The brain can only store so much information, after all.
The door opens, and Sam turns to look, not quite managing to stop the minute flinch at the sound. Two faces stand in the doorway, Dean and an unfamiliar man—
No, not unfamiliar. That's Castiel, Lucifer’s younger brother.
They stand still for a second as if afraid to enter, which Sam finds absurdly funny for some reason; Sam's about as pitiful as a 6’4” man can get, jumping at shadows in every corner and curled up into a ball. He's certainly nothing to be scared of.
After a second, Castiel steps forward, a troubled furrow between his brows and wide blue eyes glistening. It's a strange enough sight to shock Sam out of his musings; although his memories of before are spotty and indistinct like TV static, he recalls Castiel as a grave man, whose emotions he rarely allowed to show.
‘Sam, can you hear me?’ he asks, in those beautiful, terrible, familiar words, and the oxygen turns to stone in Sam’s lungs.
His vision blurs with his desperation to reply, and he chokes out, ‘Yes, I can—I can hear you!’
‘Those primitive words aren't worthy of a tongue as pretty as yours, don't you think? I want you to say it in my tongue. “Hello, my name is Sam.”’
The face of Castiel blurs, warps, superimposed with a grinning Lucifer.
Sam’s vaguely aware that he’s panicking, his breaths speeding up in an unsteady melody, his heart beating a staccato rhythm against his aching ribcage.
Casti—no, Lucifer’s mouth is moving, but Sam realises with a growing horror that he can’t make out the words over the incessant ringing in his ears—Lucifer gets mad when Sam ignores him. Lucifer's going to be mad.
‘C’mon, Sammy. I can tell you’re not listening to me. Don’t tell me I’m boring you. I thought we were having so much fun!’ A frigid touch, unrelenting hands settling over his eyes and turning his world black. ‘Maybe if I take your eyes you’ll get your head back in the game.’
‘I—I’m sorry,’ he tries desperately, the words little more than a strangled breath.
Lucifer’s head cocks to the side, a gesture so out of character for the archangel it shocks Sam. ‘Why are you sorry?’
This is a test, Sam knows. He knows it as well as he knows the feeling of his bones snapping, the pain of skin being peeled slowly from the splintered limbs. ‘I—I didn’t listen. I need to listen. I’m sorry.’
‘You do not need to apologise,’ Lucifer says, and his voice is wrong, rough and gravelly rather than his normally smooth and gentle tone. Somehow, though, it feels infinitely softer than normal, like gentle arms wrapped around him with the intention to help, rather than to hurt. ‘Sam, can you tell me where you are?’
‘I—’ Confusion filters through him, almost drowning out the fear that is a permanent fixture. ‘What?’
‘Answer the question,’ Lucifer orders, his face lacking its usual malicious leer. ‘Please.’
Sam wets his lips, wanting to observe his surroundings but too afraid to look away from Lucifer. That would only make him more mad.
‘I gave you your eyes back, Sammy, so the least you could do is look at me.’
‘The—we’re in the Cage.’
Lucifer’s face… softens. The thought is so absurd Sam’s convinced he must be seeing things, but there’s no mistaking the gentle curve to his eyebrows, the twitching of his mouth, the concern in his eyes. It’s so confusing, and Sam wants him to get on with the usual torture just so he doesn’t have to endure this agonising sense of dread.
‘Sam,’ Lucifer says lowly, still in that strangely gravelly voice that resembles Sam’s after decades of screaming, ‘you are no longer in Hell. I got you out, and then Death restored your soul to your body. Do you remember?’
The words are nonsensical. He doesn’t understand, and that’s dangerous, because Lucifer’s temper is short and his methods of torture creative. Of all the absurd parts of that sentence to focus on, for some reason Sam’s mind decides to fixate on one part. ‘I—I don’t… How could you have gotten me out? You’re here with me.’
Sam hears a sharp intake of breath, and Lucifer takes a half-step back. And the strange voice, the concern, Sam could maybe pass off as Lucifer trying to fuck with his head, but this? Stepping back?
Lucifer never backs away. From anyone, least of all Sam.
‘Sam, I need you to tell me what you see,’ the creature wearing Lucifer’s face orders, the words decidedly unsteady.
Although Sam would never consider ignoring Lucifer, he knows this isn’t him. It can’t be. Sam knows Lucifer intimately, better than he knows his brother, better than he knows himself. The two of them have been one more times than he likes to recollect, and after so many years the lines between them have started to blur.
Sam presses himself back against what feels like a wall, somehow feeling more afraid after realising that it isn’t Lucifer who stands before him. Better the devil you know. ‘Who are you?’
As Sam stares at his face, the illusion starts to ebb away like water down a drain; dirty blonde hair darkens to an unforgiving black, face rounding out slightly, deep-set eyes softening into a gentler blue.
The man’s mouth works, eyes boring into Sam’s in a desperate search for something Sam can’t name, and then he says, ‘I am Castiel, angel of the Lord, and your friend. Do you not recognise me?’
With those words, it all comes flooding back: the past few days, his return to his body, Dean. The relief is overwhelming, and he heaves out a breathy laugh, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes until he sees stars. ‘Cas,’ he finally breathes out.
Castiel smiles, the expression containing a fondness usually reserved for Dean. His head tips to the side just slightly as he takes in the human in front of him. ‘It is good to see you, Sam.’
‘So…’ Sam’s lip trembles as his vision blurs with the promise of tears, and his eyes flick down, towards his trembling hands. ‘This is… real?’ His voice cracks on the last word, pitching up as he contemplates what that actually means. Freedom. It’s cruel in its tantalising nature, a sickly-sweet mirage in the desert that will dissipate as soon as he dares to reach out and touch it.
Castiel takes a step closer, leaning down slightly as if to not tower over him, and he nods. ‘Yes, Sam. This is real.’ He offers his hand to Sam, palm up, steady as a rock. His eyebrows raise in a silent invitation.
Scarcely daring to breathe, Sam allows his hand to creep towards Castiel’s. Slowly at first, then with increasing desperation, until he’s clutching Castiel’s warm, strong hand.
He’s real. This is real.
‘Why… why are you here?’ Sam asks. Castiel’s expression darkens slightly, his mouth tightening at the edges, and Sam backpedals in a panic. ‘No, I’m—I’m sorry, I didn’t—didn’t mean to upset you, I just…’
The angel’s hand tightens around Sam’s. It isn’t constricting, isn’t forceful, but rather is firm. Grounding. ‘Do not worry, Sam. You have not upset me. But I do wonder why you believe I wouldn’t come.’
Sam looks at Cas, whose wide blue eyes are softly expectant, mouth set neutrally in his face. ‘I, uh… I didn't think you would…’
‘Care?’ Cas ventures, his carefully neutral tone betraying nothing.
Sam winces, but nods, averting his gaze.
‘Well, you are mistaken,’ Cas says bluntly, his gruff words straddling the line between chiding and fond in a way only he can. ‘You are my friend, Sam, and I find myself invested in your wellbeing, despite my better judgement.’
Sam’s lip raises in the corner in a wonky attempt at a smile. ‘Was that… a joke?’
Castiel beams, suddenly resembling a proud kid showing their parents a drawing rather than the ancient divine being that he is. ‘Yes. Was it successful?’
‘Yeah, Cas.’ Sam’s crude impression of a smile smoothens out slightly until it feels less unnatural, and he lets his body deflate, feeling the lingering remnants of cold fear leak out of him. ‘God, Cas, I don’t…’ Sam trails off, unsure of how he intended to finish that sentence. Everything is just too much, a blaring tumult overwhelming raw, flayed nerves and shorting out his overworked brain.
Cas, painfully slowly, rests a hand on Sam’s shoulder. It’s obvious from the uncomfortable tension lining his shoulders that he’s at a loss for what to do. ‘It is… regretful that I am the only one capable of communicating with you at this time,’ Cas says with a hint of self-deprecation. ‘I would endeavour to say that Dean is much more experienced in this regard.’
‘Why?’ Sam asks, then at Cas’s confused expression clarifies, ‘Why can’t I understand Dean?’
Castiel sighs, rubbing a hand over his drawn face in a very human gesture. ‘I cannot say. As you surely already know, time moves differently in Hell; while a year and a half passed here, your soul was trapped in the Pit for just short of two hundred years.’
Two hundred years.
It feels so flippant, so insubstantial. Sam isn’t sure whether the true number of his time in Hell is higher or lower than expected; all he knows is what he experienced down there was unquantifiable, nonlinear. For it to be classified so easily in units of time, filed neatly away under a simple number…
Sam shakes his head, forcing back the memories that creep and curl around his thoughts like lengthening shadows at sunset. No time to dwell.
‘So, what?’ Sam tries a smile that ends up as a painful grimace, his eyes becoming watery again as he struggles to maintain his shaky composure. ‘I forgot how to speak English? Is that even possible?’
Castiel’s cold eyes bore into his, something thick lurking behind them. ‘It is hard to say. I would guess that you have not lost your ability to comprehend English; rather, I believe it is locked away somewhere inside you.’
‘Okay.’ Sam blows out a breath, wrapping his arms around him in a loose self-hug. It doesn’t do much to chase away the lingering chill of Lucifer’s touch. ‘So, can you fix me?’
Castiel’s head cocks to the side. ‘Fix you?’
‘Y’know, use your—your angel mojo or whatever.’ Sam tries to flash him a casual smile, but at the thought of angelic Grace his heart has begun to pound. He tightens his arm around him.
The healing is almost the worst part. Lucifer’s grace burns through him like a trail of lava, knitting flesh and muscle back together with a careful touch. The faux impression of kindness and love makes nausea churn along his scattered entrails.
‘Sam…’ Cas sighs, an uncharacteristic hesitance strangling his words. ‘I worry that tampering any further with your already fragile mind will shatter it completely.’
Sam flinches, his eyes drifting sightlessly down to his lap. Strangely, he can’t seem to muster up much emotion about that eventuality. ‘Oh.’
The bed shifts as Castiel sits next to him, and the urge to lean closer into the angel’s warmth wars with the fear-driven instinct to get away. He stays completely still, his every muscle tensed and poised to flee.
‘You will be okay, Sam,’ he says, the gentleness of his voice rendering it almost unrecognisable. The comforting syllables sound awkward in his mouth, but no less honest. ‘Your words will come back. And in the meantime, I am here to translate.’
Mouth going dry, Sam presses his lips together to suppress their trembling. ‘Thanks, Cas,’ he whispers shakily.
There’s a rustle of movement from Castiel’s side of the bed, and a flinch escapes before Sam can stop it. ‘Dean asked me to give you this.’
An inexplicable dread soaking through him, Sam raises his eyes to see the angel, who’s holding out a folded piece of paper. Tentatively, Sam reaches out a hand, not able to mask the tremor that racks his frame when it brushes Castiel’s—so warm, so soft—then snatches the piece of paper and retreats into his corner. Keeping the angel in the corner of his eye, Sam turns his attention to the object between his hands, crinkling softly.
Sam’s brows furrow, and he loosens his grip, lovingly smoothing out the slight crease. He can imagine this in his brother’s hands, carefully folding it so that the two halves don’t overlap. It’s so unlike Dean, this extra care—Dean’s idea of origami is scrunching up balls to shoot trash baskets, after all—and it makes something ache deep inside of Sam. It’s a ball of warmth, but it hurts, melting the walls of the hollow, icy cave that Sam’s insides have become.
Flicking his eyes back up to the angel once more, he unfolds the letter.
A pang of disappointment curls in his chest, gripping his heart and squeezing.
The letters are unrecognisable.
‘Cas, I can’t…’ Sam chokes out, voice thick with unshed tears.
‘It is okay.’ A hand grips Sam’s where he’s holding the letter, squeezing with enough gentle force to stop its shaking. Then, Castiel peers at the words, and starts to translate.
‘Dear Sammy,
‘I don’t even know if you’ll be able to read this, since it seems like Hell messed with your noggin well enough to… man, I don’t even know how to describe it. I just wanna tell you that I’m sorry. For everything. I’m sorry I couldn’t get you out, I’m sorry you had to suffer for so long, I’m sorry I wasn’t there. And more importantly, I want to tell you that I will do anything to get you back.
‘Man, that was one hell of a chick flick moment. I must be going soft.
‘Dean.’
Sam’s thumb traces the name at the bottom of the page, one of the only comprehensible words, four letters so familiar Sam isn’t sure he could ever forget them. Sam spells out the letters soundlessly with his tongue, allowing himself to taste the word.
Dean.
A single tear spills over his eye, and he gently cradles the piece of paper to his chest, careful to avoid creasing it. ‘Thank you, Cas.’
English.
Should be a piece of cake, right? He’s spoken it for… twenty five years, give or take. It’s the first and last language he ever heard on Earth, the one that shaped his torrential rivers of thought and influenced the way he interpreted the world around him. He knows he can understand it.
But for some reason, he just can’t.
Since Castiel’s departure, he’s pored over the letter until his eyes blurred, desperately trying to reconcile these unfamiliar lines with the language that used to shape his whole world. It feels so close, like he’s teetering on the edge of a precipice, but an invisible force is pulling him back every time he gets close.
Now, in the gentle light of midmorning, Sam is sitting on the edge of his bed and staring out the window. He hasn’t left the house yet, despite Bobby and Dean’s constant prodding, content to observe the natural world from afar. It looks to Sam like a painting; smears of yellow paint hover over the ridged horizon of pine trees, and a gentle wind blows through the scrapyard, rustling the leaves in a fond display. It’s picturesque. A fairy tale.
Sam lets a single finger trail over the glass, cutting a clear streak through the fog caused by his breath, and he imagines walking out there. He imagines the warm embrace of the sun on his back, the wind tousling his hair, the slightly sharp tang to the fresh air. He imagines running through the trees until Lucifer, the Cage, all of it is firmly behind him, and all that’s in front is the sun in the sky.
There’s a tentative knock on the door, and Sam startles, removing his hand from the window and turning around. As the door handle slowly turns, Sam situates himself instinctively with his back against the wall, knees up to his chest. Maybe it makes him pathetic, but even after all these days back up here he can’t bring himself to let his guard down.
Dean’s face is revealed in the doorway, and Sam’s muscles relax slightly. His brother’s face is worn and pinched, but despite the apparent exhaustion the smile that overtakes his face as he sees Sam still feels genuine. It’s bright in a similar way to the sun, like splotches of yellow paint lighting up a dull grey slate.
A stream of incomprehensible words leave Dean’s mouth, notable among them a Sammy. Sam can’t help the flinch that results, fingers clenching his arms until they leave red imprints.
‘Aww, what’s wrong, Sammy? Don’t wanna play anymore?’
To Sam’s dismay, Dean absolutely noticed that reaction if the furrow between his eyebrows is any indication. It shouldn’t come as a surprise; Dean’s always been almost supernaturally attuned to his little brother’s every thought and emotion.
Slowly, eyes locked on Sam’s for any signs of discomfort, Dean makes his way to the bed, before settling gently next to Sam. He keeps facing Sam, and gently pries his shaking hands off his arms, frowning at the crescent red marks left in the flesh. “Sammy?”
Sam doesn’t quite flinch this time, but it’s a near thing; the muscles lock up in his body, and his lips start to tremble, carving lines of distress into his face. The memories are closer now, wrapping their icy tendrils around his rapidly flitting thoughts and dragging them down, down, down.
Legs tumbling over his head and stomach twisted in knots, Sam reaches out for something, anything, but the darkness is as empty as it is suffocating. He’s still falling, and he can feel Lucifer inside him, fury travelling through his veins like liquid mercury.
A gentle stroking on the back of his hand tethers Sam to the present, and he blinks hard, the remembered darkness giving way to the small room. “Sam? You tihw me?”
Sam’s mouth drops open, belated excitement soaring through him. Those two words, you and me, soar through his mind, deliciously comprehensible. He nods, a smile growing on his face. Then, swallowing thickly, he attempts a reply. “Dean… I—I…”
A chill settles on his shoulder, the ghost of familiar fingers tightening their grip until it becomes painful. Cold breath tickles Sam’s cheek, and then Lucifer whispers, ‘Uh uh uh, Sammy. You know what happens when you speak English.’
The words are strangled in his throat, and he goes silent save for his hitching breaths. He continues to stare into Dean’s eyes, trying as hard as he can to block out the presence behind him, the delicate hand trailing over his shoulders, the soft puffs of breath kissing the back of his neck.
No no no he can’t be here he can’t be he can’t be
“Sam?”
Dean’s voice rings clear like a bell, slicing through the haze in his mind. Sam releases a shuddering breath, leaning towards Dean but stopping himself at the last minute.
His brother, however, seems to sense what he wants, because with a soft word Sam doesn’t understand he gathers Sam’s long limbs in a gentle embrace. It takes a second for Dean’s warm, strong arms around him to register, chasing away Lucifer’s icy touch, and Sam’s eyes start to burn.
With a trepidant hesitation that the old him probably would’ve scoffed at, Sam slowly wraps his arms around his brother, burying his head in the crook of his neck and just. Breathing. Just letting the clear air fill his lungs, familiar smells of leather and gun oil and sweat settling inside his ribcage and calming the relentless pounding of his heart.
His big brother is here. Lucifer doesn’t seem so scary in the face of his childhood hero..
Dean doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to; the two brothers sit together for a long time, comforted by the easy rise and fall of the other’s breaths. Sam doesn’t know if he’ll ever be okay again, but with Dean’s body slotted perfectly like a puzzle piece next to his, he finds himself a little less scared of what the future may hold.
Sam… gets better.
It isn’t easy, and it isn’t leaps and bounds; it’s two steps forward and one back, progress disguised by frequent breakdowns. Castiel stops by nearly once a day to just talk to Sam, gently easing him back into the use of English. The thought of speaking in his mother tongue with the angel is less scary than with Dean; Castiel’s Grace is the gentle trickle of a river compared to Lucifer’s torrential deluge, but the familiar hum of power in the air almost makes him feel like he’s with him.
And if he’s with Lucifer, it’s easy to fall back into the routine of doing whatever the archangel tells him to. Even if that thing is speaking a forbidden tongue.
The words aren’t as hard to find, now. Whereas before trying to draw them out was like barbed wire tightening around his tongue and lungs, now, it feels more like swimming upstream. It’s still a difficult slog, fighting against the current, but there’s also a certain comfort in it.
He and Castiel have just finished one such session, and Sam is exhausted but proud—he managed to hold a whole conversation today—and as the angel opens the door to leave, Dean and Bobby walk in to take his place. “Goodbye, Sam,” Castiel says. “Good work today.”
“Goo—goodbye,” Sam manages to reply, the proud smile Cas gives him setting alight a warm flame inside of him. Cas disappears in a flutter of wings, and Sam turns his attention to the newcomers.
“Heya, Sam,” Bobby says, ruffling his hair with slightly less gusto than he might normally.
“Hi, Bobb—by.” The smile comes to Sam’s face easily, only a few short steps away from genuine. “How are—aare you?”
“Not too bad, boy, how ‘bout yourself?”
“Good.” Sam's gaze turns to the other presence in the room. “Hi, Dean.”
The smile his brother sends him is teeming with softness and warmth, creasing his eyes in the corners and making his green irises twinkle with fondness. “Hey, Sam. Whaddaya say we wolb this sopciepl dsant?”
“Uh…” Sam's shoulders tighten just slightly, an apologetic tilt to his furrowed eyebrows betraying his confusion. “A—again?”
Bobby cuffs Dean lightly on the back of the head. “Smaller words, boy, none o’ that fancy talk!”
Dean winces, flashing Sam an apologetic smile. “Sorry, dude. Wanna go outside?”
“O—outisde?” Despite himself, a frown settles on his face, his eyes taking on a glassy quality as he allows himself to dwell in his daydreams. “I don—don't know.”
“C'mon, Sam.” Dean eases himself onto the bed next to Sam, his raised brows asking silent permission before he rubs a hand on his back. “Dude, you're doing so well. You can dhnela some grass.”
Dean's eyes are so hopeful, so expectant. Sam shifts with discomfort, pulling down his sleeve and scratching absentmindedly at his wrist. His brother has already sacrificed so much for him, only to have to deal with the nutcase that Sam has become. Dean needs this.
‘Aww, how sweet,’ Lucifer whispers in his ear, the words curling languidly against his face like rolling mist. ‘Little Sammy doesn't realise how much Dean resents him.’
“I—I…” Sam trails off, his heartbeat pounding in his ears in a sickening rhythm, the room starting to feel distant.
“You don't have to, Sam,” Bobby pipes up from the door. “We don't wanna rush you.”
Dean nods eagerly, adding, “Yeah, Sam, it’s your call.”
‘Hmm, let's see, shall we?’ Lucifer reclines easily against the wall, mouth pursed in thought as he starts to count on his fingers. ‘You killed his mom, argued with his dad constantly, ran away, got yourself killed and made him sell his soul, fucked a demon, lied about said demon, used your freakish powers, released me—thanks for that, by the way—and now you're still holding him back.’ A cruel grin spreads across the archangel’s face, and he crosses his arms as if daring Sam to disagree. His body looks more corporeal now; if Sam reached out and touched him, he can't be sure he wouldn't feel icy skin under his fingers.
“—am? You listening?”
A shudder works through Sam’s body, and he drags his eyes away from Lucifer’s smug face, settling dazedly on Dean. “Wh—what?”
Dean and Bobby exchange a glance over his head, their new favourite thing to do because they seem to think that just because his brain is broken his eyes are too. A thrill of irritation surges through him. “Everything okay?” Dean asks, eyes focusing back on him.
“Fine.” Sam’s tone is clipped. Immediately, though, guilt sours the irritation, and he glances down, clenching the blanket between his now shaking hands. “‘M so—sorry,” he mumbles.
Dean’s hand moves from his back to his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. Voice carefully even, he asks, “What are you sorry for?”
Sam shrugs the hand off, a pang of regret going through him at the loss of Dean’s warmth. He glances at the wall again, where Lucifer is throwing popcorn in his mouth from a bucket he materialized out of nowhere, a shit-eating grin on his face.
The sight of the archangel loosens the threads of Sam's thoughts until all that remains is a vague, looming sense of dread, like storm clouds rolling ever closer over the horizon. His lungs feel too small, as if they're being slowly crushed by cruel hands until every last drop of oxygen has been wrung out.
A hand touches his shoulder and he flinches back violently, pain blooming in his skull when he hits his head against the wall. “W—wha—?”
“Sam!” a voice shouts, then the owner's face is weaved back into reality, worried green eyes set in a pale, freckled face.
“Dee…?” Sam blinks hard, looking around the room with confusion. Bobby's still standing by the door, face torn and muscles tensed as if preparing to step forward and help, but there's no one else.
Lucifer is gone.
An embarrassed flush creeps up his neck, and Sam hugs his arms around himself. “Sor—rry.”
Some of the alarm leaks out of Dean's tight features, and he smiles, albeit woodenly. “Hey, nothin’ to be sorry for.” He gives Sam a soft pat on the back, then hesitates. “Did… did you see him?”
Sam nods, unable to speak.
“Okay.” Dean sighs, running a hand over his face. He looks tired. It makes Sam feel guilty that it’s taken him so long to notice; behind the bright eyes and kind smiles is days’ worth of scruffy stubble, dark undereye bags, a permanent slump to his shoulders. “Okay, you’re okay. You know where you are?”
Sam nods again, then, realising Dean might want a vocal answer, chokes out, “Bo—Bobby’s.”
“Yeah, that’s good, man. You know who we are?”
“Dean,” Sam says, then, shifting his gaze to the older hunter, “Bobby.”
“Good job.” Dean smiles at him, but it’s heavy, dragging downwards. His eyes are half-lidded with exhaustion, their colour dull. “I’m proud of you, man. And it’s okay. We can try going outside another day.”
Dean nods at Bobby and makes a move to get up, but a feral kind of desperation seizes Sam, and he reaches forward to catch his brother’s sleeve. “Nnh—no.”
“What’s up?” Dean’s eyes are on him again, scanning his face, trying to diagnose the issue. Trying to figure out how to fix Sam.
Sam wonders when that became a full-time job.
“I c—can… go,” he says, stumbling over his words as the dread creeps at the edges of his vision and constricts his throat. He can feel Lucifer behind him, leering over his shoulder, his whispers of don’t speak out of turn and he’s going to leave you picking up in a whirlwind of fear and confusion in his mind.
Throughout all of it, he keeps his eyes on Dean, watching the emotions as they play across his face as if in slow motion. Surprise, then worry, hesitation, and finally pride, all of it drenched in a bone-deep exhaustion. Lowly, he asks, “You sure?”
Sam nods. His grip tightens on Dean’s sleeve.
“Okay then.” Dean’s grip snakes over Sam’s arm, and he nods at Bobby who situates himself on Sam’s other side, and they slowly raise him to his feet. If Sam were slightly more lucid, he’d be mortified at how much help he needs, but as it is all he can focus on is not keeling over.
Even though his body has been on Earth all this time, he feels like a newborn taking its first steps; the legs that shake underneath him feel like someone else’s, as if there’s a delay between his brain’s orders and his body’s jerking movements.
Eventually, the party of three make it to the front door of the house, and Sam can’t help the anxious anticipation creeping through him as they near it. The sunlight is filtering in through the windows, illuminating flecks of dust that hover suspended in the air, making the house look timeless.
Sam’s felt that way for a while, that he’s stepped outside of time. It doesn’t really feel like he’s out of Hell; instead, it feels like he’s been granted the mercy of a small breather, nothing more than a delay of the inevitable.
Dean lets go of his arm and reaches for the door handle, sending him a questioning look as his hand hesitates over it. His meaning is clear.
You sure you’re ready?
Sam sucks in a deep breath, then nods once.
The door is pushed open to reveal a sea of rusted cars, glinting in the warm light spilling from above. Sam’s breath catches in his throat as a gentle breeze snakes through the door and tousles his hair, his lips twitching upwards in what might be an approximation of a smile.
Leaving Bobby and Dean behind, he takes a single step forward, then another, until his feet are pounding against the packed earth and he’s running. His legs are unsteady and he might collapse at any second, but Sam can’t bring himself to care; the sharp freshness of the air, the gentle warmth of the sunlight, all those little details he’s forgotten about are overwhelming his senses and eroding his inhibitions.
Something that might be a laugh hacks its way out of his throat, breathy and weak, as Sam tilts his head back to look up. The sun is directly above him, and he squints against the blinding light, continuing to stare until tears run down his cheeks and he’s forced to look away.
When he was in the Cage, Lucifer’s flames of ice were all he knew, all he could comprehend. His body was torn apart and stitched roughly together by frigid fingers, which explored every inch of him and left ice in their wake. Even since waking up, he hasn’t felt able to shake it off; his body is a statue carved from blood-stained ice, frigid, immovable, owned.
But now, under the loving embrace of the sun, he can feel it melting. Rivulets of Lucifer run down his limbs and pool at his feet, before sinking into the dirt under his feet. Trickling down, down, down, to be reunited with Lucifer, and Michael, and the Cage. That fucking prison that Sam will never have to set foot in again.
That thought springs into his mind, then settles like a leaf drifting to the forest floor; it plants roots and spreads, shining a light on the darkness that churns amidst Sam’s wandering mind. Sam is free.
He’s fucking free.
And finally, finally, Sam actually believes it.