adorablebastard: (Default)
Title: He is just away.
Pairing: Gabriel\Sam
Rating: General Audience
Words: 2,436
Warnings\Content: Major Character Death, AU, placed in the 19th century, POV first person. 

Summary:  None of them want to acknowledge it. But both know deep down that they can't fight it off.

A\N: Another old-ish fic of mine. This is the result of listening to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata while doing the dishes.  Title comes from J. W. Riley's poem "He is not dead". 

Also found on AO3.

I hear his wet cough as soon as I step inside, the snowflakes following me in as if attracted by the lukewarm air in the house.
I shed my winter coat and take the gaslamp from the table near the door. I take the stairs two at a time, finding it bittersweet how not a month ago I used to do it with anticipation and not trepidation.
“Sam,” I say, pain, relief, warmth and love all mixed together, when I step into our chamber. “Sam,” I say again, lower, whispering, letting my hand caress his fevered forehead.
Letting myself remember his smiles and laughs, the voice that always called me to him, now just a ghost of what once was. He opens his eyes, slowly, as if he doesn’t want to greet the dim lit chamber, the grim reality of his condition. I wish that I could see again that vivid green, brimming with life and curiosity; I wish that the dark color which greets me now isn’t so unfocused, so lost and helpless as it is.  
I lean over - I can’t help myself, I just can’t -  lean closer to him, a pathetic smile surely adorning my lips. I wait for him to recognize me, to remember he’s not alone in this; to remember I’m still here, still beside him, still loving him with the same devotion and passion as the first day we met.
He smiles weakly when he does. I feel my heart swelling and breaking at the same time. My fingers, entwined with his, squeeze in reassurance and Sam tries to do the same, but he’s too weak to do it properly.
So I let myself lean over some more, looking at him as my lips touch the corner of his mouth, soft and lingering. I close my eyes, savouring the moment, the feeling, and Sam’s hand squeezes mine with more force now. Before I have time to process it, his head turns, just an inch and my peck transforms into a close-mouthed kiss.
My eyes snap open and I get sucked into the warm green, now clear of any fog or uncertainty which made me feel so much pain and loneliness. But not now. Now I freely let myself get lost into his eyes, enveloped in familiar warmth and love. Things I crave so much, now handed to me for the first time in a long while.
It’s more than I could’ve hoped for. Our lips touching, even if it’s an echo of how we used to devour one another, sometimes fighting for dominance. Sometimes evolving into more.
I don’t choke on my greed, every inch of me fighting against me to taketaketake, because Sam breaks the kiss suddenly, turning his head in the opposite direction, the coughs that he probably suppressed becoming unbearable.
I try to lighten the pain, when the fit ebbs away and Sam’s face is full of remorse and apologies. I try to bring warmth again.
“How’re you feelin’ today, gorgeous?” I ask, and I miserably pat myself on the shoulder for the perfect act of cheerfulness I managed to put on. “Ready to take your sexy instrument in your hands and make me hot for you again?”
He smiles, a touch brighter, a touch more lively, and he sucks the humid air in, prepared to answer, but the words get lost in another violent fit of coughing that overwhelms him. I have to help him sit so he won’t choke on his cough.
I see the signs of what’s to follow fast enough and I quickly bring the bowl from under his bed to let him empty the contents of his stomach.
I cringe and lock my knees so they won’t give out on me when all Sam spits is blood. I’m breaking inside seeing him suffer like this and I simultaneously curse myself and the world for being so helpless, for not finding anything to alleviate the pain of what doctors have no clue Sam has.
It’s eating me alive.
I keep going on.
“Sam, you need to eat something,” I say half an hour later, hands full of a bowl with soup.
It’s made from scraps, from what I could still find in our empty cupboards. Not even spiders live there. The situation is that drastic.
Sam shakes his head again. Of course he does. Of course he knows. I haven’t managed to sell another song in a week now.
“Sam,” I say more forcefully, hoping he’ll listen to reason and eat.
Sam just looks at me, eyes half lidded, and I can’t gauge what he’s feeling, I can’t see beneath the sick filled mask. It pains me to not be able to read him like I used to.
He purses his lips and I know. Somehow.
“Sam, don’t do this to me!” I say, sucking in air and fighting with every remains of energy I have against the tears that are welling up behind my eyelids. “Please eat,” I plead, hoping against hope that my last resort will move him, make him give in.
He sighs, a long, suffering sigh, as if it pains him to eat more than it pains me to see him not eating, and I want to laugh. I want to let out a long, pathetic, broken laugh, because he’s being so damn ridiculous. And stubborn and brave and… and… selfless, caring, loving, even when he’s fighting the disease that’s eating him from the inside.
Even when he sleeps fretfully, never enough to give his body a break, to leave space for recovery.
He opens and closes his mouth, repeating the motion a couple of times, before he coughs a little more and finally, finally gives in and takes the bowl.
I smile. Not the usual pain-sustained one, not even the tired, pathetic one. No. It’s that smile that’s become so rare for the past months, the one full of relief and warmth and joy and love. I watch as he slowly lifts the spoon to his lips, sipping almost reluctantly. My smile grows when he repeats the motion, and soon the bowl is half empty.
More than he ate this week. God, I’m so relieved.
I don’t even feel the hole in my stomach as I take the soup from his hands, but I do stop when Sam’s long, slim fingers latch onto my wrist. They’re cold, but sweaty.
I look at him, a question in my eyes and he keeps his gaze locked onto mine, no sign that he wants to say something nor that he’d let go of my hand. Truth is, I don’t want him to. It’s been so long since I touched him for any other purpose but to check his temperature or help him sit or use the toilet.
It’s been so long since I touched him just because I could, just because that was another way of saying ‘I love you’ when my mind was too busy creating music, but my body remembered the need of affection we both craved. I miss him like that.
I miss him horribly.
“Gabriel,” he rasps, and I can’t feel bad for what does my own name spoken by him do to me; for the leap my heart did, encouraging it to beat faster, harder, with renewed power.
I’m weak against the surge of hope that fills every inch of me, making me believe in tomorrow, into another day beside Sam.
“I love you, Sam.” I need to say it; I just need to say it again to him like I just need to breath to keep me going. I don’t care if I voice out those words every day, if I did it this morning, before going out to hunt down doctors, information and potential clients for my songs.
I want to say it again. I will say it as many times as I want; as many times as he needs me to. I’ll say it until my lungs catch fire, until my voice gives up on me. Then I’ll write it in as many forms as I know of, I’ll give my piano the voice I lost, make it continue intoning those three words.
Sam smiles, and his eyes fill with warmth and love. I find myself mirroring it and we look at each other for what seems like hours. Of course, it’s no more than a minute, probably.
“Will you play for me?” he manages to say without being interrupted by the coughs.
“Moonlight?” I ask, voice breaking a bit over the last syllable.
Sam smiles. “You know me so well.”
I wish I didn’t.
I wish I didn’t have to smear that song with our grim reality.
I want to remember it as the song that made you unable to take your eyes off me when you first heard me playing it. I want to remember this song as the thread that linked our fates together.
But Sam likes to hear it when he’s well enough to be delighted by it.
Disheartened, I stand up from the chair and make my way to the adjacent room, where the piano waits beside the fire. Sam can easily see me playing from his bed.
Before I can touch the keys of the piano, I hear Sam saying, “Don’t stop,” in a weak voice, and when I turn around to look at him, I see something in his eyes, something that tips me off. I ignore it. Sam seldom asks for something, so if he wants to hear Beethoven’s sonata, then so be it.
But that’s not it and I know it. It’s easier to follow that thought, though.
The first note slides reluctantly in the air, and I find myself sucked into a familiar world. A dimension parallel to the one I’m living in. I always feel welcomed here, close to the warmth I so much miss, close to that memory I treasure.
Like this, I’m closer to Sam than I’ve been for the past few weeks.
I know he’s watching me through dark, long eyelashes, watching how my hands dance around the keys, black and white, high and low, nimble, gracious. I’m sure he remembers, now halfway through the sonata. That day we met at the party; a beautiful, warm day, spring in full bloom, friends and strangers mingling together, and then there was the piano.
And Moonlight tingling the pads of my fingers, of course.
I felt his eyes on me across the room and as soon as I lifted them, I knew I wouldn’t be able to will them to return on the keys.
We never exchanged any words until that day. But we did pass each other in the Academy’s halls or catch glimpses of one another at different concerts.
I laugh at my own inability to make the first move. Me, charismatic, socialite Gabriel Milton unable to charm my way into Sam Winchester’s pants. But I knew deep down that there was more to it than mere physical attraction.
He knew it too. We slowly gravitated towards each other. A slow waltz of casual glances, small smiles and awkward conversations. We were still learning how to navigate this unknown feeling that brought us together.
Sam coughs again and I frown, eyes still closed, but I don’t stop. He asked me not to, and I’ll respect his wish, even if I’m fighting against the instinct that tells me I should stop fooling around with the piano and go stay at his side.
Go be the faithful man I transformed into.
Go be the loving man Sam brought to light.
His lover, boyfriend, partner… I don’t care. Love is fluid and endless. The love I feel for him is protective, fierce and passionate.
I’ll never give up on Sam, on what we have between us. I’ll never hate my heart for beating so loudly when I’m near him. I’ll never--
“Gabriel.” An almost imperceptible pause in the song.
No. No, please. Stop. Don’t.
I squeeze my eyes shut tightly.
“I love you, too,” he says, voice quiet, tired, and I stop myself from clenching my hands into fists.
I fight my heart, stubbornly refusing to let my pulse rise, but I’m helpless against my body’s reactions. Feelings, oh so many feelings. They’re too much, too many, too… intense, fierce, they ruthlessly rip me apart.
I let them. I’m only human.
I don’t stop. The song is nearing it’s end, but I keep repeating the last notes, I keep imagining that Sam is still watching me, still smiling, still breathing… heart still beating.
It’s not enough. It’s never enough. Not the time, not the love, not…
Feelings can’t be stopped. I know. So I let them overwhelm me, let them break the adagio sostenuto of the sonata, let them spill forth. Tears evade my tightly shut eyes, warm and wet, sliding down my cheeks and then falling into oblivion, crashing onto the cold floorboards.
Now I give up. I do. I’m sorry. I’ve been strong for so long…
I can’t take this anymore, I can’t lie to myself that tomorrow I’ll be doing the same things that I did today. I just can’t bring myself to believe that tomorrow I’ll tell him again those three words.
It’s shattered and wet, salty because of the tears. It’s not a shout, but an ugly sob, a desperate plea of a broken man who loved so much… so little. It never felt enough when I was at his side. Sam deserved better than me, I knew it, but he still chose me. Still told me with fierce conviction that I was all he needed, all he searched for. The same as me. And I believed him. God, did I believe him.
I needed him, needed his love. All he would give me. And just like that I fell in love with him, and then continued to do it each day, falling in love over and over again. A vicious cycle. One that I delighted being a part of.
I lean over the piano, hiding my face into my hands.
I don’t want to look back, look at him. No. Not now. Not ever. He didn’t deserve this. I didn’t deserve this. He was all that I cared for in the world for the past three years. Every last crumb of love I had in me was dedicated to him, to his smiles, to his words, to that smart, working mind behind the warm green of his eyes.
How am I supposed to go on now, broken, barely functional?
Tell me…  
… wherever you are now.
adorablebastard: (pic#9723133)
Title: The gravity of love
Pairing: Sam/Lucifer
Rating: Teen
Word count: 4,950
Warnings/Spoilers: Lucifer as Sam, Sam's soul, settled somewhere after Sam says yes.

: This is actually my first Samifer fic from back in 2014.

: "You're ready to destroy the entire human race, but you wouldn't dare touch your vessel's soul. I wonder what that says about your true intentions, brother."

Found also on AO3.


“What a happy place your head is.”

It startles Sam and he loses the grasp of Milton's Paradise Regained. The Devil’s smooth voice is not a thing he hears everyday.

“Thoughts running free, never denied a position in your mind, never kept on a leash just because the outside world has very instilled, very black and white notions about what’s bad and what’s not. Here, good and evil smolder together like they were never meant to be apart. Here, you didn’t let the outside poison your inside. Yet, I don’t understand why you are so harsh with me. Why do you keep labeling me?”

“Maybe because you’re the Devil, trying to wear me like a Halloween costume party?”

A smile plays at the corners of Lucifer’s lips.

“You’re so eager to please your brother, so willing to take on your shoulders the weight of saving humanity from destruction, that you’re pointedly ignoring what you really want; what you truly desire.”

“You’re speaking nonsense again.”

“See? You readily disregard yourself just because you know it’s for everybody’s good; it’s what you’re supposed to do and in doing so you are slowly deteriorating yourself.”

“Is this another of your sick games to make me say yes? If so, you can stop right there, because I won’t say it.”

Lucifer’s smile, a touch wider than the previous one, sends chills down his spine, a bad feeling creeping at the back of his mind. Immediately after, though, a strange noise breaks the silence of the motel room and the sound of flapping wings catches Sam’s attention.

An impossibly white dove settles on the edge of the desk, not two feet away from where Lucifer stands. It has a certain glow to it and Sam can’t make the uncomfortable feeling from underneath his skin stop. He doesn’t know if he should flee the room and never turn back or get up and touch the dove. The intensity of these two feelings is making him jittery and he glances at Lucifer, who, in turn, is looking at him intently, hungry even.

It’s like he’s curious to see what kind of reaction Sam will have at the sight of the small bird.

“What’s that?” Sam finds his voice again. Dread is seeping uncontrolled through every letter his mouth forms.

“You know very well what it is.” Lucifer’s levelled tone carries out to Sam.

He gulps, his eyes fixing the dove with horror.

“Make it go away!” He whispers, the irrational fear having bested him.

“Why? Why are you so afraid of your true self?” The Devil asks, rocking slightly on his feet, the ghost of a smile adorning his chiselled face. “Because in my opinion, this is the most spectacular and beautiful think I’ve ever seen since the beginning of time. And trust me, I’ve seen a lot.”

Yeah, trust the Devil to find beauty in the oddest things ever. Maybe he’s an oddity himself -- most definitely, given the changes he went through while Falling.

“Change is not always a bad thing, Sam,” he says, because of course he heard Sam’s thoughts.

Nevermind one’s privacy, it’s not important.

Sam snorts. “Speaking from your personal experience or is it a line you heard during your stay on Earth?”

He’s being bitter on purpose. Actually, he can’t quite help it, his tongue seeming to have a mind of its own. A flash of hurt crosses Lucifer’s features. It is just that, though - just a flash, gone before his next blink.

Lucifer’s eyes grow distant for a moment and his mouth turns into a displeased frown.

“Think about what you truly want, Sam. Only when you’ll come to terms with it, you’ll finally be free.”

Sam blinks, taken aback, and Lucifer’s gone.




There’s nothing left of Dean in there.

There’s nothing left of the angel that dared disobey his orders.

There’s only chaos until the fight will be over. Whichever side wins, that will be the ruling one. That side will decide the faith of the Earth.

Lucifer looks at Michael’s vessel--at his brother now, because Dean has been completely overwhelmed by the archangel’s Grace. He looks at him and sees only desire to win this battle, only hatred and betrayal (most probably on behalf of their Father).

As broken and changed as Lucifer is, he can’t not feel a faint stir of sadness somewhere within his chest. This is his brother that he’s fighting. The archangel that always looked up to their Father with reverence and love. The archangel that so readily shared his love with the humans. The archangel who never once stepped wrong, who never once disobeyed any word of his Father.

The same archangel is blaming Lucifer for all that went wrong with Heaven and Earth, because both of them know that that’s actually the root of the current battle.

The fight that both sides have long since been awaiting is finally in full development.

Half of the planet is destroyed, flattened to the ground, burned. All of this has happened in a week and nobody stopped them from doing it. Nobody interfered with their wrath-like outbursts of energy. Pure, thick waves of energy creating devastating repercussions for every clash of wings or swords.

Once again, where is God in all this mayhem?

Does He like the suffering His beloved seraphim brought into the world of His favourite toys?

Except for Michael, all the other archangels are dead. The rest of the Garrison is fighting Lucifer’s demons. The bets are even between the two sides. What will determine the winner is their fight. Only their fight.

Somehow, Lucifer wants God to interfere. Somehow, he wants to see Him again. To look at him and feel even a faint echo of His Love.

He smiles bitterly when nothing happens.

Of course He won’t show up and stop His sons from fighting. Of course He won’t grant his wish to see Him again. After all, Lucifer is the root of all evil. Maybe the world was too perfect back then, at the beginning. Maybe God needed something to balance things, to make them even. Too much good was becoming insufferable. That’s why he created the humans. To have an excuse for creating the evil.

An evil borne from good, that is.

Lucifer is long past the stage of feeling the victim here. He is well past wanting the things to go back to the way they were before--before everything.

He misses the warm feeling of love His Father always sent to him, he misses his brothers and sisters dearly. It’s true. But he chose a path, even if he was somewhat induced to do it. He discovered he has a will of his own and he is free to be and do whatever he wants. So, what he’s doing right now is trying to exploit the ‘destiny’ his Father wrote for him. As best as he can.

Lucifer realized that not just the humans have free will and the liberty to choose. Angels, too, have it. If Castiel and Gabriel and Anna weren’t enough proof of it, then the others are too caught up in the system to avert their eyes slightly to one side and see things from another perspective.

He knows that starting to think, to really think, doesn’t truly mean that they disobey orders, but the lot of them were specifically created for this purpose. To obey orders; to be soldiers.

The only comfort Lucifer allows his brothers and sisters is that they are needed.

“You’re not focused, brother,” Michael says through Dean’s voice, using his wings to create a gush of wind and send Lucifer flying--

-- two states over, because there are no obstacles slowing him down.

Lucifer was distracted. The first in a very long while. Must have been because of his conflicted vessel’s soul that his train of thought went further and further back in time and in so many different directions.

Unlike Michael, Lucifer didn’t allow his Grace to consume Sam’s soul. Instead, he created a sort of cocoon inside his own infinite micro-universe where Sam can continue living, unaware of the outside situation. He still thinks he didn’t say ‘yes’ to Lucifer, even though he isn’t suspicious of the fact that none of his family or friends are there. He could always conjure them from his memories, if he wished it hard enough, but until now, Lucifer hadn’t felt the presence of anyone except the two of them.

It became -- and he was aware of this development long before deciding on keeping Sam alive -- his own little paradise. A place where he goes each and every time there’s a break in his fight with Michael.

“I was reminiscing times long past,” Lucifer says, standing up from the ground as if he were a human.

His wings, outstretched at their full width and height, are still and only the breeze of warm air moves the feathers.

“You speak the truth,” Michael concedes, looking at his brother with a calm and assessing look. Something that is so far from the expressions Dean usually wears -- only Sam could tell. “They are times long since past. They will never return and we will never return to them.”

“Time isn’t a foreign and unknown concept to us.”

“It is not, but that doesn’t mean we are free to bend it at our will.”

“Except we are,” Lucifer counters. “As beings far above the others that He created, we are entitled to use our powers.”

“Not how we please,” Michael says and Lucifer’s wings quiver a little. “This is something you stubbornly refused to understand, brother. What our Father did was test our capacity to share our love for something other than our siblings or Him.”

“Things were perfect before He created them.” The Devil’s voice changes tone, turning out more wistful and vexed. “Why did he have to create the humans?”

“You speak with so much anger and wrath about our Father’s last creations, yet, you are reluctant in letting your vessel’s soul perish under the force of what’s left of your Grace,” Michael points out, his green-blue eyes piercing through his brother’s.

Lucifer blinks, his face an expressionless mask containing the multitude of emotions that Michael’s comment riled up. He forces his wings into stillness, not wanting to give away how surprised he is.

How could he know about Sam? He was careful in hiding every trace his soul might have left behind. It’s impossible for him to have discovered Lucifer’s little secret.

Michael smiles a private smile.

“You’re ready to destroy the entire human race, but you wouldn’t dare touch your vessel’s soul. I wonder what that says about your true intentions, brother.”

It amazes Lucifer how easily Michael managed to created a ripple in his otherwise determined reasons.

He refuses to let him win this small argument.

“That maybe I’m keeping him for the last,” Lucifer says indifferently.

Michael smirks before launching himself into another attack.

The entirety of Canada is an unrecognizable patch of dark, scorched vastness.




The dove is still there, even if the room is different.

It goes from here to there, always in as close proximity as Sam lets it be. He’s currently gazing out of the window, lost in thought and unaware of Lucifer’s presence.

The fallen archangel takes more than a couple of moments to look at Sam, because the calm is back again in Lucifer’s mind and he just wants to revel in it. He feels Sam’s wandering thoughts, how they jump from one thing to the other, always ignoring the proverbial elephant in the room (which, apparently, has taken the form of a dove, but that’s a minor detail).

Sam is aware of the bird; Lucifer knows it, because there’s a restlessness at the back of his mind. It also shows in the fingers that keep drumming on the window sill to a foreign tune for Lucifer.

He reasons that starting to talk would spook Sam so he chooses to flutter his wings.

The result is not far from what Lucifer tried to avoid, Sam taking a sharp intake of breath and turning around. Only when the archangel offers a small, apologetic smile, does the hunter visibly relax to his previous state.

“Have you thought about what we’ve talked about?” Lucifer asks in the smooth tone he reserves only for Sam.

It is pleasant to the ear and it seems to coax the hunter into being more open than if he were to speak in his usually toneless voice he uses for when dealing with the others.

Sam throws a quick glance at the dove that has settled itself on the backrest of a chair, three feet away from him.

“No. Why?” he asks, trying for casual and missing by a mile.

“Because I can’t help you, if you don’t help yourself, dear Sam.”

A muscle twitches on Sam’s face at Lucifer’s use of the endearment. The archangel can clearly see how Sam is debating whether to make him take back what he had said or give an answer and shrug off the little incident.

“You don’t mean that.” He settles for ignoring the endearment.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because you have nothing to gain from helping me.”

Lucifer smiles. “Maybe I do have.”

Sam’s eyes narrow. “And what would that be?”

“Your trust.”

The hunter snorts.

“You’re playing for a cheap and unattainable prize.”

“Am I?” Lucifer smirks and silently approaches Sam. “And why would it be cheap? One’s trust, especially yours, is precious and irreplaceable.”

For a split moment, the hunter’s eyes flickered. The birth of a thought. The Devil stops a mere step away from Sam.

“Oh, you mean the same trust you failed to cherish when you rebelled against God?” Sam counters, but there’s no trace of pride or victory on his face.

“This isn’t about me,” Lucifer says gently, though he’s sure Sam is able to see the sadness and hurt on his face.

“Why not? It seems to me that we have more in co--” He stops mid-sentence, realizing what he was about to say.

They both watch one another, Sam with sheer terror and Lucifer with an unchangeable expression of calm and patience. He’s waiting for the hunter to accept or most probably get used to the fact that he can’t take back those words and their meaning (and that Lucifer will never forget them no matter what happens).

When Sam seems to still be at a loss of words, Lucifer says, “You were let to know only a part of the story. You were led to believe only one side and I’m not sure you’re prepared to hear the whole story. It goes against all that you have learned.”

The hunter looks at him, assessing his features, even though there’s nothing there to assess and inspect with careful and undivided attention, because right now, Lucifer doesn’t seem keen on repressing his emotions. He has everything right before his eyes. Unhinged honesty.

“Try me,” he challenges after a minute of consideration.

It takes the archangel a couple of seconds more to finally give in and start recounting his side of the story. He explains to Sam how much he loved God and the other angels, how happy they were together until God decided to create the humans. Sam winced at the way Lucifer talked about humanity. There was so much hatred and sadness and all of that was mixed together.

In short time, Sam realized that he opened old wounds and each and every one bled profusely into the room, making the atmosphere heavy with negative emotions until he began feeling like suffocating--or drowning. He wasn’t even sure about which one was more intense, because he has never felt this level of intensity and denseness. He had this vivid scenery of being engulfed in a smoldering black sea of hopelessness.

The most terrifying fact was that he gave up on screaming for help even before he thought about it. There wouldn’t be anyone who would rescue him, anyway. So why bother?

If he payed enough attention (which he was not, being swept away by Lucifer’s words as he was), even the room’s light seemed to dim, to bow before Lucifer’s sorrow, to accept the feeling and make room for it.

Lucifer stopped as soon as he realized the effect his feelings had on Sam. He has always kept those gates sealed--until Sam has dared to poke at them and release what was inside.

“I’m sorry,” Lucifer’s tone is somehow subdued and apologetic, though his eyes remain as piercing as ever. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

Sam’s breath is still uneven. “It’s okay. I forgot your emotions feel real even without needing to empathize.”

A faint smile plays at the corners of Lucifer’s mouth, but it disappears immediately after, replaced by a grim, though determined expression.

“Think about it,” Lucifer says, glancing at the dove that remained in both their peripheral vision.

Before disappearing, though, he leans in and places a delicate kiss on Sam’s forehead, leaving behind the shape and feeling of cool lips.

It goes without saying that Sam remained frozen in place a solid couple of minutes afterwards.




He never would have thought the Devil would be so cold.

Not as in distant, but as in physically cold.

It was a curious difference of body temperatures, but he never asked about it, even though whenever Lucifer caught him staring either at his face or at his hands, a smirk would bloom on his lips. That’s how Sam knew that the fallen archangel was aware of his curiosity, yet never prompted the hunter to act on it.

It was a mindless, wordless game they were playing. No rules, no boundaries. Probably something to gain, but it was unclear as of what that might be.

If Sam ponders about the whole situation, there hasn’t been any returns to the real matter for which Lucifer continued to be present. Not a single word or a mindless, natural or inconspicuous digression. He might have grown suspicious, if it weren’t for the Devil’s deftly constructed deviations. Many topics concerning as many valid points and large spaces left open for consideration.

“You know,” Sam begins after Lucifer settles on the only chair in the room, while he is sitting on the bed, his back against the wall. “you can always go with the simplest solution and just ask for forgiveness?” He says, half-shrugging. “Have you ever thought about it? Pride and all of the others left aside.”

Lucifer’s lips curl up in an amused, yet warm, smile. “Yes, I’ve thought about it. On multiple occasions, actually.”

“Yet, you never acted on it?” Sam quirks up one eyebrow.

The Devil looks at the hunter for a long time, his face unreadable. When Sam starts to fidget under the intense stare, he simply says, “No.”

“Because?” Sam prompts, since Lucifer doesn’t elaborate.

“Sam, don’t try to search for reasons why I acted the way I did. You will lose yourself in the whirl.”

“But you did have a reason--or more, for your actions.”

“Yes, I did,” Lucifer answers promptly, though unhurriedly.

Several minutes pass and neither of them utters a word. A shadow of a smile plays on Lucifer’s features. He feels the wheels of Sam’s brain working furiously, trying to put the pieces of information together, then searching for the underlying messages, then overlapping the new information with the old one and see what and where the incongruencies are.  

All of this happens in the span of a couple of seconds.

He catches the furtive glance the hunter throws in the direction of the dove and sees the exact moment an idea forms in his head. Then his eyes lock on Lucifer’s, and the fallen archangel can’t deny the thrill of anticipation the look in Sam’s eyes promises.

“How about we make a deal?”

Lucifer’s lips curl into a smile like a pleased cat’s would. “A deal?”

Sam knows he should kick himself for even considering this option, but there’s a gnawing curiosity in him right now that he knows won’t spare any empathy on him.

“I will work on that,” he says, pointing at the dove and leaving an unsure pause hanging in the air. “--thing, if you promise you’ll tell me the whole story, complete with reasons for your actions and all that.”

“Are you sure you want to hear the whole truth of your religion’s very foundation?” Lucifer asks, while approaching Sam. “Because I assure you it is not something that could or would put you to sleep.”

The hunter’s eyes roam on The Devil’s features, considering it for a moment, then nods.

Lucifer smiles. A genuine, open smile that almost makes Sam take a step back in shock and wonder. He doesn’t, and then it happens. Without warning, without time to prepare for it. Sam is frozen for the duration of it.

Lucifer’s lips press gently onto Sam’s, neither of them closing their eyes. Glacial, piercing blue, focused on dissolved green with specks of brown.

All Sam’s thoughts vanish. Just like that. He’s not thinking, not hearing anything. He only feels. Feels the press, the cold, the shiver that travels through his body, dispersing and fragmenting itself in tiny rivulets of unrestrained energy. They settle just beneath his skin, bringing it alive in a way he has never felt before. It’s like there’s not a single inch of skin that’s not vibrating, causing bouts of goosebumps all over his body.

Lucifer’s intense stare doesn’t help one bit. It pins Sam down; it makes him unable to even dare to blink.

How much did it last, Sam doesn’t know. Doesn’t even want to know. It’s not important. Not the way Lucifer’s action is, right now. Why?

“Why did you do that?” Sam whispers, not trusting his voice with a higher volume.

He’s aware of the mixed feelings it triggered in him. He’s not prepared, however, to hear their consequences in the way his voice will come out. Whispering is a safe bet.

Lucifer smiles again. Small, warm--fond. “Because I love you, Sam.”

The hunter’s eyes widen impossibly and he forgets to breathe.

“My actions may trigger hate and distrust, but that doesn’t mean I’m not capable of love.”

“But that goes against--”

“Everything,” Lucifer finishes with a calm smile. “Yes, I know. It goes against everything that you know about me.”

“I…” Sam frowns.

How do you deal with something of this magnitude? How do you even begin to understand it?

“How am I supposed to reply to that?”

Lucifer shrugs. “You don’t have to. I only wanted you to know that I love you.”

It hurts. Whenever he pronounces that word, it makes Sam’s stomach contort into a knot. It’s not because he’s disgusted by it, but because it’s such a simple word, he himself used so many times. Yet, falling from Lucifer’s mouth, it holds so much meaning behind. It feels intense, fierce, protective.

It hits Sam with such force, he’s surprised he’s still standing.

His eyes have not stopped roaming over Lucifer’s face, searching for even the tiniest evidence that he was playing another of his games. He sees only honesty and openness; eagerness, even. As if he’s hanging on the next words that will come out of Sam’s mouth.

“Sam,” Lucifer says gently, as if he’s afraid he’ll spook him if he speaks in his normal tone. “You’re shaking.”

The hunter’s eyes dart down to his hands, and true to Lucifer’s words, they are shaking. Every joint in his body is shaking. He doesn’t know what that means.

Before his knees give out on him, Lucifer’s there, effortlessly supporting Sam’s weight and guiding him to the bed. He settles on a bent knee, right besides Sam.

“Take it easy. You’re in shock right now,” he says, pushing a couple of locks away from Sam’s face.

“Of course I am. It would’ve been ridiculous not to be,” the hunter comments, a shaky smile on his lips.

Lucifer hums noncommittally. He steers Sam’s head to rest in the crook of his shoulder without any protest from the other. It seems he’s too distracted to do anything but let himself be guided.

He falls asleep to Lucifer’s hand, caressing his hair.

At the edge of the bed, a few centimeters away from Sam’s feet, the dove shines.

No deal is made between the two.




“You’re not cold,” Sam tells Lucifer, some time after his confession. “You’re actually burning so hot that to my touch you feel like an ice block.”

They never did talk about what The Devil admitted to him, although Sam could tell, Lucifer hadn’t forgotten. There was always an intent look in his eyes. As if he was prepared for anything Sam might say on that subject.

“Is that so?” Lucifer says in his usual calm tone, but it didn’t escape the hunter the flash of surprise that was smoothly engulfed by his usual mask.

Sam cracks a smile and looks down at the shining, white dove in his hands. It became impossible to separate himself from it after that night. It would feel unnatural to have it in any other place but beside him. Something must have unlocked deep inside Sam to feel this much love and acceptance towards the dove.

“Am I ready?” Sam asks, not taking his eyes off the little bird.

“Are you?”

He takes a couple of seconds to mull it over, then a slow, deliberate smile creeps on his face. “I am,” He whispers.

The dove explodes into a blinding light and everything disappears.




They don’t come back slowly. All his memories, that is. All that has happened until that very moment, which stayed hidden from him. Lucifer’s battle with Michael; his wavering determination.

They all come at once, imploding inside him like a pot kept under pressure for far too long. He’s confused, afraid, but then a soothing voice pierces through the thick veil of memories, calling him and all the chaos quietens.

He turns to look at the source of the voice. He knows he shouldn’t be able to comprehend or even take in the vastness of an archangel. But he does, and he can’t help but look at Lucifer, at his true form, with wonder.

It must say something about Sam, something that he would consider so fucked up, if he were still the old Sam, that he willingly accepts Lucifer’s beckoning embrace.




“Sam,” Lucifer’s true voice creates comfortable ripples in his soul. “We lost,” he tells him, no edge of sadness or anger. Nothing. Just comforting warmth.

“You let him win,” Sam smiles fondly. Or he thinks he is.

Lucifer must have seen it either way, because in the next moment, Sam’s hit by a wave of love and care.

“They must be celebrating by now,” Lucifer says instead, enveloping Sam’s soul in what can be best described as a hug from behind.

“With how uptight your brother is, I doubt it,” Sam replies and Lucifer chuckles. “Why don’t we celebrate our cosmical defeat?” he asks, feeling the way Lucifer’s Grace is playing with every particle of Sam’s soul, making him dance in tandem with the archangel.

“Wonderful idea. I’ll tell you the once and only time Balthazar managed to pull a prank on Gabriel, which then sealed Gabriel’s fate as a Trickster.”

“Now that’s a story I’d very much like to hear,” Sam says, excited. “Is he still in Spain?”

“No. He was in New Mexico, last time I saw him.” Lucifer confesses and Sam hums, the resulting waves teasing the archangel’s Grace. “But that’s a secret. He made me swore I won’t divulge it to any living or celestial being.”

Sam smirks.

“Cas and Dean are getting by,” Lucifer says without preamble, and for a split moment, Sam’s playful waves freeze in place. “They miss you, especially Dean, but they’ve resigned themselves to your presumed death.”

Then, slowly, ever so slowly, they retake their languid dance with Lucifer’s Grace. Shortly after, the archangel feels a warmth so thick it makes him smiles fondly.

“Is Cas back in Heaven?” The thought about how Dean must have felt and still feel is too painful to go and poke it just yet.

“Yes, he is. Michael restored his Grace, but he told my brother he’ll visit Dean periodically and help him if he needs. It seems Castiel’s love for your brother is hard to resist.”

Sam chuckles. “I hope Cas can fill in the hole I left… “ He trails off, his voice wavering dangerously, biting back a sob.

Lucifer soothes him, by guiding his soul into a slow dance, offering comfort. When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper. “You know nobody will be able to replace you in your brother’s heart. That’s how siblings, who care about each other, are made. Castiel can only try to appease the sorrow.”

Sam offers a shaky grin. “He believes in Dean. I can only hope he’ll be stubborn enough to distract him from me.”

Lucifer smiles and hums, the dance never faltering. It calms Sam to a deep level.

They remain in silence for a little while.

“Now, what was I saying about Balthazar?” Lucifer says suddenly, trying to cheer Sam up. “Oh, yeah. Gabriel was patrolling the Eden’s Gates, as he always did out of boredom, when--”

And Sam can’t do anything but let himself be filled by Lucifer’s soothing voice, as memory after memory flows in, giving Sam the most vivid and hilarious picture of a recounting. He’s surrounded by warmth and love, his brother and Cas are okay, Earth is in no Apocalypse-danger anymore--everything’s as fine as it can be.

It feels like coming home.


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