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Sam is sitting in the living room of Bobby's house, an array of books spread out on the table before him. He's fiddling with a little string he pulled off of his shirt earlier, because he's found that lately keeping his hands busy helps with his anxiety, at least a little bit. He's trying to focus on his research, glaring down at the pages with determination, but it's hard to concentrate when in the corner of his eye is Lucifer.
For once, the guy (the hallucination, Dean said it's a hallucination, it has to be a hallucination—) isn't yammering on, just reclining back in a chair with his feet up on another. He's perusing one of the books he snagged off the table earlier, which Sam knows must still be on the table since a hallucination can't actually pick something up, but he can't see it on there and it's in Lucifer's hands, so.
So he's just trying to pretend it doesn't exist.
Not that Lucifer makes it easy. His very presence is a gigantic distraction—how could Sam not be hyper aware of the man who spent nearly two centuries torturing him in Hell? But he also goes out of his way to make himself an annoyance, even in just a subtle way. Like right now, where he's turning the pages of the book with exaggerated movements, making what would normally be a quiet noise actually loud in the otherwise dead silent room. He's also making little fake sounds of interest, as if he actually gives a shit about whatever the topic is.
It's all meant to get under Sam's skin and, well, it's not like it's not working. Of course it's working. It wouldn't be the newest torture Lucifer is throwing at him if it wasn't a true problem—
But, no. No. It's not a torture thought up by Lucifer. Because Lucifer is in the Cage, and Sam is not. This is a hallucination. This is his brain trying to cope with one hundred and eighty years of agony and fear and hopelessness. This is the price for his soul coming out of that torturous place. It isn't real, and this Lucifer can't actually hurt him. Dean said so. And this isn't something Dean would lie about.
Sam clears his throat, shifts uncomfortably, tries to refocus on what he's doing. The string tangles around his fingers, and he frowns at himself as he works to fix it, ignoring that way Lucifer snorts derisively at him in the background.
Apparently deciding he's done being ignored, Lucifer leans forward, dropping his legs from the chair and letting his feet hit the ground with a loud thud that makes Sam jump. He instinctively looks around to see if the noise would bring anyone running, and then chastises himself for the thought; of course no one is going to come—only Sam's crazy brain can hear Lucifer's attempts at getting under his skin.
"Come on, Sammy," Lucifer says, sounding both disappointed and amused. "A string? Really? You think you can fix that ever-present panic in your chest just by keeping your fingers moving? It's...it's pathetic, man, truly. You can do better than that."
Even knowing better than to engage, Sam snaps back, "'Better' would be you going away."
"No," Lucifer responds, dragging the word out. Sam finally untangles the string, holding it tightly. "'Better' would be you taking care of this little problem permanently."
Sam breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth, doing it a few times to try to calm himself down. It's just words. The Devil trying to convince him to kill himself is honestly nothing new, and it's just words. He doesn't have to pay any attention to this garbage.
Lucifer sighs, put upon, and gets to his feet, casually strolling over to where Sam sits. Sam gets more and more tense the closer Lucifer gets, completely rigid by the time the angel leans against the back of the couch and begins sliding his fingers through Sam's hair.
Sam jerks forward, trying to escape the touch, but Lucifer's grip tightens and he yanks Sam right back into position.
Not real not real not real, Sam manages to tell himself in the middle of his panic, but it does absolutely nothing to make him feel any better, any less terrified, as Lucifer leans down slowly, sliding his lips over Sam's temple and then down to the shell of his ear.
"It's not nice to ignore people, Sam," Lucifer murmurs, intimate and threatening. Sam is frozen, staring at the doorway opposite him with wide eyes. He's so desperate for Dean to walk in, to make this whole thing end, but he's alone, he's all alone dealing with Lucifer, and god he wishes he wasn't so fucking familiar with exactly that.
"Let go of me," Sam manages to say, voice strangled.
Lucifer tuts at him. "Now, now. No need to get bossy—you know it won't work. I just wanna talk, Sam. You used to be desperate to talk to me, don't you remember? Used to beg to have a conversation."
Yeah, that's because the alternative was indescribable torture. Because if Lucifer was letting him engage in conversation, then he wasn't elbow-deep in Sam's guts. It meant a reprieve from the agony. So yeah, eventually Sam broke enough to beg for Lucifer to talk to him. No one can fucking blame him for that. And it certainly doesn't mean he enjoyed being the center of Lucifer's attention, violent or not.
"Stop," Sam whispers.
Lucifer chuckles. His breath washes over the side of Sam's face. Not real not real not real— "You know how I feel about that word, Sammy. Do you need a refresher?"
A hand starts to slide down Sam's chest, and pure fear flares in him, fear and desperation and he just wants this to stop, he needs this to stop, he has to get this to stop!
A shout erupts out of Sam, and something else surges inside of him along with it. His gut clenches, his hairs stand on end, his blood thrums in his veins—and then everything explodes.
The table covered in books, Bobby's desk, all the chairs—they fly into the air, battering against the walls and then falling to the ground with a loud clatter.
For a moment, Sam can only stare at the mess, sure he has to be hallucinating it. That this is some weird new attempt at screwing with him by Lucifer. But Lucifer's touch has withdrawn somewhat, and then does completely. When he steps around the couch, the look on his face is something like surprise, not malicious glee.
"Well now," he says, glancing at Sam with a sly smile, the shock turning into something pleased. "That's new, ain't it, Sammy? Or rather, should I say something old?"
...No, no it's not possible. There's no way Sam is the one who did this. They're—they're under attack or something. There's a demon, or a ghost, or hell maybe the leviathans have some tricks up their sleeves and this is their doing. There's no way this was Sam's fault.
His powers have been completely gone since he fell into the Cage, and even before that it's not like he had telekinesis anyway. Well, actually, he...he kind of did, didn't he? Way back when, when Max was going to kill Dean. Sam was terrified and desperate, and he moved the dresser to let himself out of the closest where Max stuck him. And then during the Apocalypse, when he was under Famine's effect, he threw that demon across the room with his mind.
He never learned to use that ability the way he learned to exorcise and kill demons, but it was clearly still...there. The potential was still there.
And now, in another moment of terror and desperation, it came out of him.
But—but his powers are supposed to be gone. They were gone, weren't they? They...except, they were gone while he wasn't fully himself. First soulless, then with a wall up in his brain locking part of himself away—this, right now, is the first time he's been one-hundred percent Sam Winchester since saying yes to Lucifer and throwing them both in the Cage.
One-hundred percent Sam Winchester. Demon blood freak.
For a moment, Sam closes his eyes, pulling in a deep, shaky breath. He can't believe this is happening. He can't believe that on top of all the utter shit they're dealing with right now, they have to add this to the pile. As if Dean doesn't have enough to worry about. As if Dean hasn't spent enough time watching him like a hawk.
Sam can't even describe how unfair this feels. He doesn't want this. He wants it to go away. He wants to rewind ten minutes and never (re)learn this about himself.
And then there's pounding footsteps, a frantically called, "Sammy?" and Dean rounding the corner in a rush.
First, Dean scans Sam, not looking at the rest of the room as he first reassures himself that Sam is in one piece, only losing some of the fear in his expression when he sees that Sam is.
"How sweet," Lucifer coos. "He's a keeper, Sam, really."
Sam's status assured, Dean's gaze then flicks around the room, probably searching out potential threats. And then he—freezes, blinking at the destruction. His brow furrows, eyes sliding over the overturned furniture, the sturdy desk upside down and halfway across the room from where it usually sits, the books in complete disarray in a way that neither Sam nor Bobby would ever let them get.
Dean's next "Sammy?" is far more confused, more wary, than the one before it. Sam wishes he wasn't so familiar with that tone. Wishes he wasn't such a fuck up that Dean had to be concerned around him so often.
Honestly, Sam has no idea what to say. The truth is still too unreal, too sickening. How can he tell Dean this? Dean hated his powers when he had them, hated everything involving them. How can Sam disappoint him so thoroughly again?
At Sam's lack of response, Dean steps cautiously closer. "What happened, man?" he asks.
"Uh oh," Lucifer says, plopping down to sit on the arm of the couch. Far too close for comfort, but Sam doesn't let himself react. "Big brother's worried, Sammy. What lie can you come up with to make this all better? The Devil made you do it?"
Sam hates him so fucking much.
Slowly, like approaching a wild animal, Dean comes closer to the couch. He steps over a broken chair leg and then moves to crouch in front of Sam, balancing on the balls of his feet. Sam keeps his gaze on the ground, but Dean softly says, "Hey, Sam, come on, look at me."
And, well, Sam's helpless against such a simple request, especially since soon he's going to completely ruin Dean's night. He lifts his eyes, looking into Dean's own and feeling a stab of guilt at the plain concern in his brother's eyes.
Dean places a hand on Sam's knee, hesitant, wary of Sam flinching away. That happens sometimes these days, Sam going through periods where he can't bear to be touched, even in such a small way. He's thankful that he's not feeling that way right now, even with how recently Lucifer had his hands on him; he wants the comfort of Dean close to him.
"I'm sorry," Sam whispers.
Dean shakes his head immediately. "Hey, no, it's okay. I mean, Bobby might pitch a little bit of a fit but we can always clean it up before he gets home." Dean smiles crookedly, winks at Sam, so clearly trying to make Sam feel better even though his eyes are still filled with worry. That's what Dean always does. Sam wonders if he knows how much Sam appreciates how hard he always tries for him.
"Just...can you tell me what happened, man?" Dean asks, seriousness creeping back into his voice. "Not mad, promise, just want to make sure it's not the devil on your shoulder making you do stuff, you know?"
Lucifer barks out a laugh. Out of the corner of Sam's eye, he can see him grinning. "You think he'll be relieved or disappointed when he realizes it isn't me getting inside your head, but your own fucked up brand of existence that did this little mess?"
Sam turns a glare on him, teeth baring, unable to help it. He regrets it when Dean follows his gaze, expression pinching when he figures out what Sam's looking at. He sighs, but says, "'S'okay, man. Devil's done worse than making people do a little property damage, right?"
Lucifer raises a brow at Sam, gesturing towards Dean with exaggerated motions. Sam swallows and reluctantly looks back at his brother, barely managing to meet his eyes for a second before they lower to the ground again.
"It was me," he says quietly.
"Yeah," Dean says, "I got that. But it's cool, Sam, we—"
"No," Sam interrupts, louder, and Dean falls silent. Sam really can't look at him. "I don't mean—it wasn't like Lucifer wound me up enough that I started bashing shit, or—or he convinced me to do it, or whatever. It was—it..."
When Sam fails to continue, the silence lingering, Dean softly asks, "It was what, Sam?"
"It was me," Sam repeats, voice breaking. "I—Lucifer was—was saying shit, and touching me, and I was just—I just wanted it to stop, and I was so—I was desperate, Dean, I was just...I was afraid, and I needed to do something, and then something inside me was exploding and the room just—" He swallows. "Then everything went flying."
Dean is dead silent. Sam finds himself talking in a rush to fill the quiet.
"It was like—remember how I moved the dresser with Max Miller to save you? I didn't think about it, I just did it because I had to stop him, because I was so fucking desperate to save you, and this—this was just like that. And we thought my powers were gone but, man, I was thinking how I haven't really been completely, wholly myself since entering the Cage until right now, you know? It's—all the pieces are back together. And one of those pieces, it...these powers were always part of me."
Dean draws in a breath like he's going to say something, but Sam is so damn afraid of his reaction. He wants to push it off as long as possible. So he keeps talking.
"I'm sorry," he says urgently. "I—Jesus, Dean, I didn't want this, I swear. It just happened. I was always a freak, and it was so stupid to think that that would just go away because Lucifer was in a box. It's in my fucking blood, it would never just vanish when I had them before Lucifer was out, anyway. I'll always be fucked up like this."
"Great talk, Sam," Lucifer drawls. "You're doing great, ten out of ten." He scoffs. "Dumbass."
Sam winces, and tries to keep going. "I—"
"Sam," Dean interrupts him roughly, and Sam falls silent, curling in on himself a little. "No, hey, look at me. Sammy, look at me."
Really not wanting to, Sam follows the instruction, dragging his gaze up to meet Dean's. He's waiting for the disgust, the disappointment, the recrimination. The wariness, like Sam is something non-human to be faced. All things Sam has seen before. He doesn't know if he can take it right now, not with the Lucifer thing already weighing on him. Not when he already feels so fucking close to the edge.
But that's...not what he sees. Dean looks—concerned, extremely so. His mouth is tilted in the way it always gets when he's worried for Sam, when he's feeling that urge to protect his little brother from everything in the world, an urge that Sam has both loved and hated at different points throughout his life. He's still holding on to Sam's knee, grip firm, as if refusing to be shaken off if Sam were to try.
All of it, everything that Sam couldn't have possibly expected, makes his throat feel thick, his eyes a little wet.
"Sammy," Dean says, so filled with love and heartbreak and love and concern and love that it steals Sam's breath from his lungs. "God, Sammy, take a breath, man. I'm not—fuck, I'm not mad at you, you hear me? So get that out of your head." He takes a slow breath, and Sam blinks at him, trying to wrap his head around those words. "Okay, so, your powers are back. Or were never really gone. Whatever. We can deal with that."
Sam laughs, a choked little sound. He can barely believe what he's hearing. He stares at Dean desperately, praying this isn't a trick from Lucifer, that his brother is actually, wholly on his side on this topic. Terrified to believe it and yet craving it with everything he is.
"How?" he asks.
Dean grins at him. It's a little bit forced, but it's still so goddamn beautiful, and Sam feels a million times lighter just from getting that look directed at him from this person. That core belief of his comes roaring back to the surface, the belief in his big brother, that Dean can fix anything, that Dean at his side instantly makes everything better no matter what. Stone number one; has been since the start.
Sam doesn't realize a tear has slipped out until Dean's hand is lifting, a thumb rubbing gently over his cheek and catching the water. He draws Sam towards him and presses their foreheads together, allowing them to share the same breath.
They stay like that for a few long moments, and the power of it even has Lucifer silent. Sam melts into the comfort of it, reaching out to grasp Dean's shoulder, assuring himself of how real this is, that he is truly here with his brother. He got out. He's not in the Cage anymore, Dean is at his side. And, miraculously, the resurgence of his powers isn't creating a divide between them again.
They breathe in sync, existing together, and for the first time in ages (in centuries), Sam feels completely and utterly at peace.
"I've got you, Sammy," Dean whispers, and gently pulls Sam off of the couch to sit in his lap instead, wrapping his arms tightly around Sam, pulling him as close as possible. Sam's too big for this now, has been for a long time, but it doesn't feel awkward; it feels right.
They were always made to fit together; Sam growing up was never going to change that. Dying, Hell, powers, Lucifer—not a single thing was ever going to change the fact that he and Dean were always meant to click together like two pieces of a puzzle. And Sam is so fucking relieved that it really hasn't changed. He has Dean in his corner. Everything else, this shitshow that is their life, it's all just set dressing.
"I know," Sam says, voice hoarse, and clings to Dean in turn. Leans into the hard kisses Dean presses to his hair, his temple, his cheek. "I know you do."