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Lucifer hates her. Never bothers to hide that fact from her. She thinks he would at least try to put up a front after revealing why he intended to keep her alive, and would have looked at her with something more than disdain. She had barely heard the stories from her boys about who he was and what he did to them before she ended up here but she knew that he at least pretended on more than one occasion that he at least cared (about Sam, only Sam, always Sam).
“He said it had to be me,” Sam said as he put a hand on hers. When they were still working to find Kelly, she watched as Sam flinched every time Dean said the Devil’s name. “No matter what you did, Mom, it was always going to be me. Please, don’t blame yourself.”
And it’s so sweet and kind of him to say that, but Mary blames herself for making that deal with the yellow-eyed demon, blames John for dying in her arms, blames herself for dying. Had been near tears as Sam said “it’s okay, I’m okay, I promise,” as she thought I’m so sorry baby repeatedly and mourned a life that her boys could never have, mourned a baby she never got to raise.
Knowing that Lucifer would have hurt him anyway, knowing they were all doomed from the start, doesn’t make her feel better, not at all.
So the more time she spends with Satan trailing after him in these wastelands, the more she expects to see that monster, that master manipulator. But for the most part, the devil just sneers at her and frowns when she stumbles behind him. His blonde hair turns gray in the light and his brown leather jacket gets caked with sand. He grumbles every time they have to stop to find food and water for her, and every time she falls asleep because the human body can only go so far, she expects to wake up to find him gone, but he’s always there. He kills anyone that dares to come close to her, angel or human and keeps insisting that the moment they get back to their world he would just take his son and go.
She’s terrified of him and he hates her.
They’re in a cave the first time he offers.
The Devil makes himself busy by sketching symbols in the sand of a language she doesn’t know. They look like wards, far more complex than anything she’s ever seen. Enochian. Lucifer says when he catches her looking.
“You know,” he says (and she doesn’t), “Sam should understand all of this,” and she flinches and Lucifer leaps onto the exposed weakness.
“Sammy and I had a real special relationship, did he tell you that?” and despite the hatred, the grumbling, the sneers, the devil has not crossed this line before, hasn’t even mentioned her sons by name. She can feel her hands shaking anyway as she steels her shoulders and tilts her head down to look at the angel playing in the sand.
“No,” she says. “He hardly mentioned you at all,” and Lucifer scowls before the expression vanishes. Instead, he looks away from her, down at his work in the sand.
“Doubt that.” He says, confident and flat. “Especially considering how connected we are.” he draws a heart into the sand and then wipes it away, childish. “We are two parts of the same whole.” she doesn’t think the present tense is a mistake. “his soul was wrapped around me, and in the cage,” she thinks that there is supposed to be more heat in his voice and not this bitter emptiness. “I knew everything there was to know about him, every little memory and all of his little hopes and dreams. He prayed to me,” his eyes flash red, and she jumps despite herself. “I walked forward and backward through his life a thousand times,” and then he cuts himself off, looks at her, and tilts his head.
“You don’t have any of that,” he laughs like the thought amuses him. “You have no idea what he’s like.”
She wants to disagree immediately, wants to say she knows what hand Sam favors when he shoots, or that she’s seen the scar on his palm that he itches at. Dean made his favorite food and said “he loves this,” so she knows that, and she's read John’s journal a thousand times to try to make sense of his head and what he thought of their son.
She wants to say, ‘if I don’t know Sam, then whose fault is that?’
But she doesn’t say any of that at all because Lucifer stands and she backs up, instinctively, and hits her back against the cave wall.
“You really missed out, Mama Mary. Sammy’s soul used to shine like a star,” and buried deep beneath the hatred in Satan’s voice, she swore she could hear faint fondness or maybe pride. Respect. “I bet you tried real hard to make sense of him, couldn’t understand how he turned out that way,”
He narrowed his eyes at her, looking for something, and she was not sure if he found it when he spoke. “I could show you,” he said, like he was doing her a favor. “Still got his memories tucked away in here. I keep them safe,” he tapped at his temple. “Don’t you want to see how your boy grew up?”
She shook her head. No, no, thought she said it out loud a couple of times. She expected him to ignore her. He was the devil, so why would a no stop him?
But he did stop, leaned back fully, the smirk vanishing from his face.
“Well, offer’s on the table,” turned on his heel and dismissed her out of his mind. “Who knows how long we’ll be here?”
It’s later that night. She’s supposed to be sleeping because they’ll have to move in the morning, can’t stay still for too long, not while the war rages outside and they try to find another way back to their world but she keeps thinking about it, just like her sons, just can’t let it go.
“When he was younger,” she asks into the quiet, not a question but a statement. “Smaller, what—” stops herself. She’s looking up at the ceiling, and can’t look at him, doesn’t want to see the expression on his face. (she knows he’ll be smug, and will say I knew you couldn’t resist)
He stills beside her, doesn’t speak, doesn’t say a word and she tenses, anxiety crawling up her throat. She shouldn’t have said anything, shouldn’t have let him get under her skin. He’s the devil and crawling inside of people and corrupting them was what he does.
He leans over her, and his eyes are pale blue and his face is smooth of any emotion, his finger is outstretched.
“I could show you,” He reiterates. “I’ll start small.”
He gives her no time to backtrack, no time to go, ‘no, this is a terrible idea. Don’t do this,’ because then he touches her temple.
The first thing that she sees is light shining brightly before it clears, and even then it’s blurry. She blinks hard and tries to focus on what’s right in front of her.
It’s Dean.
He’s younger, has no wrinkles or stubble on his face, his hair is lighter, hasn’t darkened with age, there’s a smile on his face, cool and slick, no teeth except when he laughs and there is a girl in his arms.
He’s beautiful with his freckled skin. And she can so clearly remember looking up at him, seeing the sun haloed around his head.
She blinks and looks down. Her hands are small, her arms covered in flannel, flips them over and they’re unscarred. She’s in the Impala. It looks exactly like it always has, except there are school books on the seat beside her, and an open spilling backpack onto the floor. She looks up at the rearview mirror and starts because a boy is staring back at her.
It’s Sam. Her baby. His hair is short but his bangs almost hang over his eyes, and his eyes are already so old, like he’s seen a thousand lifetimes. He’s thin, and small in the backseat. And he’s watching his brother make out with a girl on the hood of the Impala.
And blushing.
Her son is blushing, but he isn’t looking away from his brother and Dean has to know that he’s in here, doesn’t turn his gaze once to look at him, all his focus on the girl in front of him.
The girl is unimportant to Sam, at least. There’s no name recognition in his head, and she’s slightly blurry, like he didn’t bother to remember any details. Just a plain girl with brown hair that might glint red in the light, and Dean’s hand is low on her back. every sound the two of them make is muffled through the windows.
Sam’s chest is burning. He’s angry? It’s so strong, confusing, with so many other conflicting emotions running through his head.
He’s young, that’s just what youth is.
So she digs a little deeper and then starts to drown in the overwhelming love that he has for his brother. It’s like a tidal wave dragging her down. It consumes everything else and defines him.
Sammy is Dean’s little brother, and he loves him so much.
it takes her a minute to get past that, and then Dean kisses the girl and heat erupts in his chest.
He’s jealous and it burns. Sam is glaring through the front window at his brother, hates the girl that is pressing her lips against him, needs his attention, wants, and it makes her head pound. The words are repeating themselves over and over, the feelings are multiplying. He’s furious, he wants Dean, he’s jealous, he loves his brother, has this consuming, burning love for his brother, and he’s so young, too young to be this entrenched, to be this possessive of his brother.
And then she’s surging up, reaching for the car door, acid rising through her throat. She’s going to be sick.
But then she can feel Lucifer’s hand rubbing small circles on her back as she throws up into the sand. The dark cave is back around her, the sounds of the apocalypse world back in her ears. a small part of her thinks, damn she’ll need to eat again soon, and nausea rises with the thought.
“Breathe,” The Devil tells her, faint amusement tickling his tone. “I know that can be a little overwhelming for some people,”
She’s shaking, her hands, her heart is beating out of her chest, the memory still glistens in her head, she can still see the way the sun hits Dean’s cheek, and can still feel the jealousy burning in her chest.
She scrambles away from the devil’s hand, puts her head against the cold cave wall, and tries to get herself to calm down. He’s looking at her, watching her, waiting to see what she’ll do.
“You,” she starts, her voice still shaky. “You did something to the memory,” a smirk starts to slide its way across his face. “or you made it up, that’s not,” she takes a deep breath. “I know that’s not him.” that wasn’t her baby.
“That’s what Sammy said too,” Lucifer says. “We took several trips down memory lane and he always thought that I had done something, changed something.” He tilts his head and looks down at her. “I never lied to him, Mary.” She doesn’t believe him, she can’t believe him. Father of Lies. He’s the father of lies. “He didn’t like what I had to say, but it was always the truth.”
“So let me make you a deal,” he says, and it’s not the yellow-eyed demon. His eyes don’t glow. “I won’t lie to you like I didn’t lie to him and you’ll let me show you more. That way, when we get back,” and he says that with certainty. “I’ll get my son and you’ll finally know yours.”
She closes her eyes.
“I know Sam,” she says and the Devil laughs.
“Do you?”
The second time comes after Lucifer saves her life. There’s a demon with his teeth on her throat and she can’t move fast enough. This world exhausts her, and the air is so thick with sand that it chokes her and in the face of this twisted demon, she falters.
And then Lucifer’s there. Palm against the demon’s head, bright screaming light, and then a body is dropping to the ground. He snarls at her as she scrambles backward through the sand, and stalks towards her with a predator’s gait.
“I guess Sammy got Mommy’s death wish too,” he grips the collar of her shirt and drags her along after him like she’s a misbehaving child. “What part of I need you to stay safe, don’t you understand?”
He wants to use her as a bargaining chip. If she dies, he’ll just find a way to bring her back. She can’t escape him, she knows this.
He deposits her inside an abandoned house, sand in all the cracks in the floorboards, piling up in the corners.
“Don’t move,” each word clipped as he turned on his heel and headed back out.
She waits for him, has nothing else to do but hold on and wait for him and he does come back, blood caked up to his elbows, his flat smile twisted.
“They won’t be a problem anymore,” He says, and she gets a shiver down her spine from the matter of factual tone in his delivery. He sits beside her on the sandy floor and wipes his hands off with scraps he finds inside.
She finds herself drawn to his face, so placid and unassuming, with perpetual stubble that will never grow, but he never shaves. There’s a ring on his finger, the only thing that’s gold in the gray light.
(She wears her own ring on a chain around her neck, tried to wear it on her finger, and just couldn’t. Apparently, she’s been a widow for over five years now, but time means nothing to her when she can still remember kissing John good night)
Lucifer is the father of everything evil, prince of darkness, the king of hell, “The Morning Star,” Sam had said quietly to her once, all matter of fact. The brightest star in the sky. They were all titles that meant something to a lot of different people, titles meant to scare and awe. But right now Lucifer just sits beside her, cleaning himself off like a cat. She’s terrified of him because of what she’s seen him do, and the little bit that she’s heard from her boys but if she’d met this guy just out on the street with no knowledge of who he is and what he’s done, she doesn’t think she would be terrified at all.
He looks up and meets her eyes, smirking as easily as breathing. “Like what you see?”
She scoffs and rolls her eyes. There is nothing slippery or slimy about the way Lucifer speaks, he has a mid-western accent. Sounds like one of her cousins from a long time ago, one of the older teenage boys who would come in and tease her right under her father’s harsh watchful eyes.
Honestly, Lucifer’s body even looks like he could have been a Campbell in another life, a fellow hunter, a wayward cousin.
“It was the bloodlines,” Dean had said. “The Winchesters, men of letters, and the Campbells, hunters.” That had been a shock at first, that they knew all about her and she knew nothing about them. “That’s all the angels gave a damn about.” He was angry, livid even years later. “That’s why they didn’t get involved, went no contact. It’s why you had to make your deal, why we all did,”
Their little family is cursed to make deals to save those they love. She dealt for John, John for Dean, and Dean for Sam. She wonders if Sam will ever get a chance. Wonders if there is a deal she doesn’t know about, doesn’t know what her youngest has sacrificed.
“Come here,” Lucifer says now, reaching his hands out toward her. They’re clean now, well, as clean as you can get over here, even with the flecks of blood he’s missed. “You’re bleeding,” he says when she tries to back away from him, casual and easy. “Let me,”
He touches her and it burns and she’s abruptly reminded that Lucifer isn’t just some guy, some dad trying to get back to his son, but an archangel who glows iridescent white as he heals her and it burns. “Feel better?” he asks like he didn’t just liquefy her insides, that flat little smirk dancing on his face.
She’s hit with a sudden wave of hatred for him, heat flaring in her chest. This is the monster who took her away from her boys, who she’s tied to until they can find a way back to them. And he saved her life today, and she hates him so much.
Her mouth opens, and she expects all of those words to roll out, has scathing furious retorts waiting for his response but instead what falls out of her mouth is, “you won’t lie to me?” and he perks up like a dog, elated, knowing immediately what she’s talking about.
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he says. She takes a deep breath, well more of a shudder really, and closes her eyes so she isn’t staring into his blue ones.
“Give me another,” she says like she’s asking for another round at the bar and the devil is delighted.
“All you had to do was ask,” he grips her hand this time, but she falls into light, regardless.
“This is how me and Sammy used to watch.” Lucifer can’t quite kill the bitter fondness he has in his voice when he talks about Sam.
“Time is different down there, moves faster,” Sam had said. “Dean was down there for 40 years.”
“How long were you down there?”
Sam didn’t answer her.
Lucifer is standing beside her now. They’re standing together. She looks down, and she’s all herself, no Sam. Both of them are cleaner. Lucifer’s hair looks combed, and he’s in a white shirt that hasn’t turned brown and gray from dirt. His hands are in his pockets and he rocks on his feet like a child.
She’s hoping her clothes come from her own mental state, and doesn’t like the thought of Lucifer coming up with an outfit for her to wander through her son’s memories. He waves his arm out, directing her attention forward.
They’re in a motel room. She’s not like Sam and Dean, didn’t grow up in these types of places. At the end of a hunting trip, her dad always brought her back home no matter how far away they were, and when she started hunting on her own, well she always had a place to go back too. That being said, there’s nothing about this room that feels special. It could be anywhere with its drab walls and carpet floor.
Her heart stops though when she looks at her boys. Because it is them.
Sam sits on the ground in just a diaper and a t-shirt, a few toy cars surrounding him (and her first thought is the ground has to be unsanitary, who lets a baby walk around barefoot, those toys are too small what if Sammy chokes). But Dean is watching him with sharp eyes, has a toy himself in his hand but is too focused on his little brother to really play with it.
They’re both so small. Sam can’t be more than one or two and Dean’s clothing drowns him. She can hear John’s voice saying, “he’ll grow into it.”
Mary takes a step towards them, needs to hold them in her hands, and Lucifer puts a hand on her arm. He’s shockingly cold.
“Focus,” he tells her, not ungently. “We’re not here for that.” the devil she thinks foolishly is not mean, but he is cruel.
It feels different from the dream the Men of Letter stuck her in. For one, there is a distance here that Lucifer forces her to maintain. She was Sam the first time he did this to her, so she knows they could be closer. He’s forcing the distance now to hurt her.
And it does hurt. Her breath catches in her throat as she watches Sam pull himself into a standing position. He’s turned towards his brother. Even as he struggles, he makes sure he can see Dean. And Dean doesn’t move, is still as he watches Sammy stand, puts his toy down on the table. His feet dangle in the air. He’s so small. It makes something inside of her wail.
Sam takes a wobbly step towards his brother.
“Are those,” and she swallows the hurt in her chest. “his first steps?”
Lucifer scoffs. “Please,” he says. “I’m not that nice,”
Sam walks towards his brother, arms outstretched. “Dee,” he says and his baby smile has so many shining white teeth (Sam has several now that are cracked or missing. “You can only get hit in the mouth so many times, ma,” he said with a sheepish smile on his face.) Dean waits for his brother to make it over to him and she wonders who told him to do that, who told him that he had to give Sammy time so he could learn.
His smile is proud and Sam stumbles the last of the way but never hits the floor. Dean’s there to pick him up and tucks him against his hip like he’s 45 instead of 5. He bounces Sam as Sam giggles and Mary finds herself blinking hard, tears dripping down her cheeks.
“Sammy doesn’t really talk,” Lucifer supplies helpfully. “He mostly only says Dean and maybe Dad when John’s there. He started walking late because he spent the majority of his time since you died strapped into his car seat,” he nudges her shoulders. “John doesn’t even always buckle him in because if he needs to get out in a hurry he doesn’t want to be fumbling with the straps,”
Mary is going to be sick.
“I got you, Sammy,” Dean says, pressing his lips against his brother’s temple, holding him close. “I’ll take care of you,”
Mary sobs.
She wishes Lucifer would laugh at her, instead she blinks tears into the sand as his hand sits on her shoulder.
Patronizing pats like that will make it better.
In the daylight, that Lucifer disappears. He’s focused on his goals, and still manages those slight comments towards her and her family, but he wants out of this fucked up world by any means. He cuts her, bleeds her wrist into his spells, and when nothing happens, he frowns. Sometimes he glows, and she has to turn away, but in those instances, she sees those brief glances of huge wings that stretch out. She imagines them surrounding them at night, keeping the wind at bay. He talks to demons sometimes, captures them and ties them up, and tries to make sense of the words they say even as they’ve been mutated beyond recognition.
“I gotta figure out how Micheal killed me here,” He tells her once, offhandedly, like she didn’t just watch him torture a demon into submission. “So I know what not to do.”
“Maybe he was just better than you,” she says back, smirking.
And he chokes her, cuts her breathing off with a flick of his hand; she shivers and shakes in the sand until he lets her breathe in the poisonous air of this land.
“Remember why I’m keeping you alive,” he says quietly, bent over her frame. “Watch yourself,”
But then that night he says, “Let me show you,” after she asks and drags his fingers across her cheek.
He gives her a memory of John and Sam arguing. It’s in another motel room. Sam is in John’s face, face red with fury and John is barely taller than him, is looking down at his son with such a mixture of emotions she can’t even translate them. They look so alike, sure Sam’s slender where John isn’t, but they have the same eyes, and the same cut to their jaw.
John’s older than she’s ever seen him, his hair the same curly brown as Sam’s, but there are deep bags under his eyes. He looks exhausted. Sam doesn’t seem to care about that, keeps trying to make his point, and jabs his finger into his father’s chest until John threatens to break it. But he doesn’t push back, just stares down his youngest son like he’s a problem he can’t solve.
“You don’t care,” Sam’s saying, eyes tearing up the way they do whenever he gets emotional. “And you never listen,”
“I don’t have time for this,” John says, trying to turn his back, and Sam's grabbing at his leather coat (which she knows hangs from a hanger in Dean’s closet. “Couldn’t really wear it after Sam died,” He told her. “You know how it is,”)
“You never have time,” Sam says and there’s pleading deep in the back of his throat. “That’s why you couldn’t even give Dean a break this one time and now he’s hurt because of you and you don’t even care,” John turns back to his son, fire in his eyes,
“Don’t you say that,” He starts,
“Why? It’s true,” Sam snaps back just as fast. They’re so alike. She thinks about the fact that her father had hated John for his softness. There’s nothing soft here, in either of them.
“Sam!” They both freeze, turn together, father and son.
Dean’s sitting on the couch. There are bandages wrapped around his chest. A silly part of Mary cries out for her baby. He looks so banged up.
“Nice of you to finally speak up,” His father says, and she watches Dean flinch a little.
She sees Sam swell up again, mouth already falling open to start yelling again, when Dean speaks again, “That’s enough, Sammy,”
“You always take his side,” and she watches Dean flinch again, his hand clenching down by his side. He doesn’t defend himself though, doesn’t even bother.
“Because he’s not stupid enough to argue.” Sam gives an explosion of frustration from the back of his throat and when he turns to storm away, neither of them stop him.
“I can give you another one of those,” Lucifer says afterward. “I got plenty. Do you want the night John kicked him out? Or the first time he ran away? Maybe you want one of his and Dean’s fights. I can give you one with plenty of blood.” she rolls over then, tries to ignore him, thinks about the way that John’s stubble would have felt against her cheek, how small her boys were. She thinks about the hurt expression on Dean’s face, how even injured he felt the need to play peacekeeper.
“I had to be whatever Dad needed me to be,” Dean had said and she finds herself drifting off with tears in her eyes as she thinks about how he wasn’t lying.
Lucifer gives her a few more here and there, ten-year-old Sam scrambling away from a Black Dog that tears up his leg, fourteen-year-old Sam kissing a Kitsune on the mouth, seventeen-year-old Sam walking across a graduation stage with only Dean in attendance. There’s a small one of John driving as Sam sits in the backseat and asks where Dean is over and over again until John gets frustrated.
She cries again when Lucifer shows her Jess but doesn’t miss the hatred that paints his face as they watch her brush Sam’s hair and laugh about their friends. He gets them out of that memory pretty quickly.
There is mostly always something sad about every single one of the memories, something traumatizing. She can see now why he and Dean are so attached at the hip. “We only have each other, you and me, you come back, promise” finally understands the grand statements that they mean every time. It makes her want to look away because she can’t shake the feeling that it’s her fault, but every time she sees Sam’s curly head, she’s drawn right back in.
And Lucifer treats every single memory like a treasure, something to be proud of. He’s the devil so, of course, he’s prideful, but now it’s about Sam and his life, holding the memories out to her as if to say “look at what our boy survived,”. And then when he sees her noticing how proud he is, he pretends to hate Sam all over again.
So it’s only her masochism that she has to blame when she asks late in the dark after another failed attempt to get them home, “what was he like with you?”
Surprise flickers across his face, real and fleeting, before it’s replaced by a smirk.
“You sure you wanna see that, mama?” he says. “Don’t want you getting overwhelmed again,” lying just to lie.
So this time she’s the one gripping his wrist, digging her nails in and saying, “show me.” and watching as his smirk bleeds away into something more raw.
“If you insist,”
They fall into the light together and when she opens her eyes, she’s out of her body again.
She’s Sam, no she’s Lucifer, no she’s Sam with Lucifer inside of him and he’s staring at himself in the mirror.
“You have to admit, Sammy, baby, your body is like a Ferrari,” Lucifer says. Sam strains to make the words stop. Disgust swirls inside of him but it’s snuffed out by the overwhelming sense of rightness that fills him like a glass filled right to the brim. It doesn’t spill over, but it feels like it should.
“Can’t you feel it, Sammy?” The angel says and his words come out of Sam’s mouth despite Sam Trying to make him stop. “Everything is right where it’s supposed to be,”
They’re two separate beings, but they’re merging into one, their thoughts and feelings bleeding into the other, lines blurring between them. “Made for each other,” Lucifer supplies helpfully, with a roll of their shoulders. He moves their body like it’s always been his and he laughs.
“Come on Sam,” he says and his tone is so gentle, he’s elated to Have Sam here, is elated that they’re both here. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be,”
If he could kiss Sam right now, she thinks he would because all she can feel around her is this warm feeling of love and care, he’s happy to be here with Sam but under those feelings, there is this overwhelming fury, it’s both of theirs. Lucifer’s aimed at the world, at his father and Sam's angry, has been angry for so long that it comes to him so easily, helps him fight against Lucifer’s hold.
“I’ll never stop fighting,” Sam says and the devil frowns. Sam’s going to tire himself out that way, but if that’s what he wants to do, it’s okay. Lucifer sends him sensations of love, understanding, and acceptance until Sam can’t feel anything else. But Sam tries to shake that off. She shakes Lucifer’s thoughts off as Sam thinks about Dean, thinks about how disappointed his brother is going to be if Sam can’t figure out a way to stop Lucifer from the inside.
‘I have to make Dean proud.’ he thinks, and it shakes Lucifer down to his core.
“You didn’t want him to love anyone else,” Mary says to Lucifer, her words falling out of Sam’s mouth as their entire body shakes. “It had to be just you,”
“It had to be just us,” Lucifer says back, his tone biting. “It was us together. I had a plan. I was going to remake the whole world for him, but he just—”
“Wanted his brother.” and the devastation she feels has to be all Lucifer. It’s drowning her, dragging her down, but she has more to say. “Loved his brother, loved Dean and wanted nothing to do with you,”
She doesn’t know when she ends up on the ground, her knees sinking into the sand.
“Is that why you hurt him?” she asks. She’s looking up at him. His eyes are wide and she sees his chest rise and fall like he’s human. “Because he didn’t do what you thought he would, because he surprised you?”
“He was supposed to be your chosen one and instead he wanted Dean, and you just couldn’t accept that.”
Lucifer moves then, grips her throat with his hand, and presses her against a wall.
“Do you really wanna know why I broke Sammy?” he asks, voice low and menacing. “Because he stuck me back in the cage, because he betrayed me,” his teeth are bared like he’s going to rip her throat out. “because he helped my father walk right back into the sunset after knowing what he did to me, to us, even after I would have given him everything.” He strokes her hair with his other hand. “He was mine, Mary, in every way that mattered,” he says, eyes glowing. “And he knew it.”
He lets her go, and she collapses into the sand, trying to get breath back into her lungs.
“But that’s water under the bridge,” claps his hands. “old news, I’m over him now,” he says like it was a bad breakup. “There is no use crying over spilled milk,”
“You don’t believe that,” she says.
“All I care about now is my son.” He wipes the emotion off his face like it was never there. “And I know that Sam better not get in the way of that,”
He’s lying, sure maybe he hates Sam now, but she felt his feelings, was inside of his head and she knows that they didn’t vanish. (”possession goes both ways,” Sam said to her. “Something is always left behind,”)
“And when your son loves Sam more than you?” she asks. “What are you going to do, then?” his eyes go cold and flinty.
“You better hope he doesn’t.”
He stops talking to her then, turns away from her. Silence treatment, how mature. He doesn’t need to sleep, but she does and the wasteland they’re in is cold and she can’t control her shivers. Lucifer had felt cold inside of Sam, a burning everlasting cold that even now she can’t quite get warm from. Huddles into herself and wishes she was back with them. Her boys, hates the Men of Letters, hates Lucifer, hates herself for taking her away from them.
The day Michael catches them, Lucifer isn’t ready. Tries to reason with his brother but it’s not his brother, it’s someone that has already killed and discarded a version of him and it’s impossible to reason with him. So when words fail, he tries to fight, and he isn’t strong enough, isn’t enough to defeat his brother. She watches them vanish in a flash of bright light, which leaves her surrounded by four hulking angels.
She manages to kill one before they take her down, the bright burning light hurting her eyes. But when they take her down, they crack a few of her ribs, and she chokes on sand when they shove her head into the dirt.
“Micheal says we can’t kill you,” One of the angels says. “But we have plenty of experience with making you cockroaches hurt,”
The next time she sees Lucifer, he’s losing his grace in front of her and leaving her behind.
She doesn’t know why she expected him to take her with him.