Chapter Text
Cas, Dean needs our help. I trust you.
—Sam to Lucifer, "The Vessel"
=== 1.1 - Vessel ===
There's no singularly correct place to shelve a hunter's journal in a library. They are, in part, auto-biographial accounts, reference texts of lore and legend, and travel guides for those endeavoring to crisscross the continental United States on pool-winnings and gumption.
A lot of what you run into as a hunter is like that. Researching demons, monsters, witches, angels... that information is scattered across every genre and periodization of history. Take for instance, ghosts. Many myths, folklore traditions, and religions mention ghosts, referring to them by names including gods, demi-gods, ancestral spirits, and souls of the dead who have unfinished business. Sleepy Hollow is a ghost story, but technically so is A Christmas Carol, Hamlet, and the Epic of Gilgamesh.
Not that there's anything wrong for something to not cleanly fit into a system of categorization, but spend enough of your life in libraries, and inevitably that becomes one of your many recurrent intrusive thoughts.
Here's where this one starts, too. In a library of all places, at the moment Lucifer's hand (well, Cas's hand) sinks into Sam's chest, groping at the fluttering mess of his soul.
Through the haze of obliterating pain, Sam realizes this means... this means... He's going to die. And when he dies, Dean will be stranded in the past and Cas trapped as Lucifer's meatsuit.
Suddenly, Lucifer's expression changes to something almost endearing, like looking down at a beloved pet. Then Lucifer wrenches down his fingers on a segment of Sam's soul and jerks it free of his body. And Sam—
=== 1.2 - Reboot ===
Darkness.
Darkness.
Darkness.
A stutter, like a tape struggling to get up to speed. It arrives with a primitive and overwhelming urge to wakeup wakeup WAKEUP WAKEUP.
(...five more minutes?)
(Absolutely not, Sam. I need you to get your ass up. Sam? SAM!)
With that, Sam (or what's left of him) finds himself plunging upward into consciousness.
=== 1.3 - Church ===
When the world snaps into focus, Sam sees his beautiful brother standing in a doorway of a church, about to step outside. Dean is a painting by an old master, lines and curvatures done in pigment, oil, aid light. He's framed by the dark wood of the door and the stained glass windows above.
Nothing makes sense. Sam thought he was a dead man. He thought Dean was too, trapped decades and oceans away from him.
Sam has no clue what miracle or monster conspired to give him this, but whether this is heaven, hell, or something stranger, Dean is here and the floor beneath Sam finally feels solid again.
Sam moves go to him, but he... doesn't? Can't. He can't move. There's pain in his chest and a wicked looking gold knife protruding from it. But it's not only that. His body isn't right. Oh god. This isn't his—
That thought is interrupted by someone—a teenager: white, male, blond hair, average build, t-shirt, jeans, sneakers.
"Michael! Give Dean back!" the teen yells.
Wait. Michael???? As in...
Sam turns back and sees hatchlines of grace glimmering beneath Dean's skin.
No. Noooo. NO.
A violent wave of notrightnotrightnotright slams into Sam. That's an archangel wearing his brother, alright. But definitely not the Michael that he knows from—
But (Michael?) has Dean turning to the church doors and taking two strides past the threshold.
Sam has to move. He has to MOVE.
It's a parlor trick discovered first out of necessity and refined through experience. Lucid dreaming is a passable approximation of it. Sam thinks about it as lurching for the steering wheel.
MOVE, DAMMIT.
"Do something! Please!" the teen begs Sam. "Don't let Michael take him!"
Finally, something gives way. Sam's hands fly to the knife in his chest and yanks it free. His vision starts to gray out. Desperately, he throws himself forward to his brother on half-numb, bambi-legs.
Everything around him slips away into darkness, like a projection being sucked into a blackhole.
=== 1.4 - Identification ===
Darkness.
Darkness.
A mellow sounding ding.
"Hello?"
Another ding, more hesitant.
"I can't understand that."
A static-filled voice erupts, modulating through the entire spectrum of sound frequency.
DSGEHGMAPSAMAOLDSGGEHQOLTRIANULSG—
"Stop! That's too loud!"
That soft ding again, apologetic.
DSGEHG?
Okay, that's Enochian, but a different version than the one Sam is familiar with.
"Uh... ol gnay ge... camilax enochian balit."
DS GEH G? the voice asks again, switching to more classical pronunciation.
"Oh! Sam. Sam Winchester."
ARIGEAVAOAN! SAMUELWINCHESTERIGTELOC
"Whoa, that's too fast again. Wait, did you say I'm dead? I'm right here."
BAGLE TRIAN G GOHOL AR?
The gears in spin in Sam's head. He's unsure of the right way to respond. A gut feeling has him guessing the identity of the voice. "Because it's the truth, Cas."
He hears what could be a gasp. The void around them warps in a blur of color.
When the world—or at least a construct of it—reasserts itself, Sam finds himself seated at the kitchen table of Bobby's Singer's house. Everything from the greasy wall paper to the lingering smell of cigarettes and sage was authentic to his memory.
Cas stands across the table from him, scrutinizing him like he is trying to inspect him from all angles.
"Sam," Cas finally says, relieved, like he's gathered enough evidence to make that determination beyond a reasonable doubt.
"Good to see you, Cas."
"Dean and Jack are both okay." The teenager, Sam assumes, "By the time I got to the church, you were already unconscious. This conversation is taking place in your mind."
"I figured," Sam laughs.
"I apologize for the intrusion."
"Don't worry about it, man. Just tell me, you know, what's going on? Why didn't you recognize me? And where's Lucifer?"
"Lucifer is dead, killed by an archangel blade. By design, archangel blades are lethal to angels. Only angels."
Cas stares at Sam expectantly, like he's waiting for Sam to deliver the punchline.
"...Okay? But you're an angel."
Cas frowns. "What are you talking about?"
"Dude, he was possessing you just a few moments ago. Hand of God, Dean trapped on the submarine, ring any bells?"
Cas is quiet for far too long. "Oh. I was afraid this might have been the case."
"Cas?" Sam prompts.
"What?"
"You..." Cas hesitates. "I should go. This should be explained to you in-person. I'll wake you once we're back at the Bunker," he says, backing away. "I'm sorry," and to his credit, he does look genuinely remorseful.
"Wait!"
But Sam is already alone in his mind.
=== 1.5 - Homecoming ===
Hands poke and prod his skin. He feels like there is something profoundly wrong with his body, but he can't put a finger on it. There's distant, unintelligible noise fighting to be clearer, like he's trying to hone into a radio station.
"He's coming back!" Sam hears as he opens his eyes to the retina-seer of overhead lighting glancing off the tiled surface of the Bunker medbay's floor and walls.
"Hey, hey, man! Don't freak out on me," Dean says, swinging into his field of vision.
There's something wrong with his body, but with some effort, Sam manages to sit up. There are too many people here. Dean by his side, but also Rowena and that teen boy (Jack?) from the church. Cas hangs back with well-built man Sam doesn't know and a blonde woman who feels oddly familiar.
Sam jerks away from the witch's grasp. "Whoa, whoa. What's she doing here?"
The room goes oddly quiet. Dean does thing he does to hide a grimace, but Sam know all his brother's poker tells.
"Relax, Samuel. I'm on your side now," Rowena says with what Sam can only describe as a forced laugh.
"Sam! Do you know who I am?" asks the teen.
"You're Jack," Sam guesses, looking to Cas for support. "Right?"
Finally, someone clears their throat. It's the man Sam doesn't know. "Arthur Ketch," Arthur introduces himself, and Sam notes his accent. "Former British Man of Letters."
Arthur turns to the woman beside him. "Hi, I'm Mary," she says. She glances nervously to the others, before softly adding, "Winchester."
Sam looks from Mary to Dean, his mind reeling. "Mom?"
"...Long story," Dean says.
"Guys, what is going on? Dean? Cas? Talk to me. Did I time travel? I don't get... wait," the wrongness of his body and voice snap into focus. "Why do I sound like..."
NO.
This isn't Sam's body. He knows whose body this is. He knows this voice and these hands. It's the last body on Earth, Heaven, or Hell Sam should be in. Sam lunges off of cot, and all of the sudden there's pandemonium. People are shouting, an IV stand and stool get knocked over, but it's all underwater and far away to him.
"Sammy!"
But nothing Dean can say can make this right. This must be a dream, or a sick new form of psychological torment someone has trapped him in. This can't be happening. He can't breathe.
"Hey, hey, Sam. It's okay—"
"I'm him, Dean. I'm Lucifer," Sam says desperate for him to understand that it absolutely is NOT okay. He's speaking with Lucifer's voice and tongue and lips. Lucifer's heart is thudding rapidly in his chest. There is no delineation of where Lucifer ends and where Sam begins.
Dean's face falls.
"You're not, Sammy. I know it's you in there. This is temporary."
"Lucifer is dead," Jack says.
"And he ain't coming back." Dean asserts, but his brow is furrowed and he's not meeting his eyes.
"Then why do I look like this! Why did you do this to me?"
The words come out Sam mouth, but that's it's the wrong pitch and tone. It puts him on edge. It's like Lucifer is everywhere and he can't escape him.
"Sam, this isn't our doing," Cas explains, "Two and a half years ago, a portion of your soul was harvested by Lucifer," he pauses, considering. "You are that part, and you've seemed to have gained primary control of the vessel that Lucifer once occupied."
Sam turns to face gathered crowd: Dean, Cas, Rowena, Jack, Arthur, Mary fucking Winchester. Deep breath. "So then where's the real Sam?"
=== 1.6 - Skin ===
They don't tell him anything about what's happened in the past two and half years. They make up flimsy excuses about it being late and promise to fill him in the morning. Sam doesn't buy it, he's read out of the same playbook and it's easy to read that they're trying to show a unified front. But even knowing that, there's not much he can do.
He winds up fucking off to the shower room. There's caked blood all over his clothes. Lucifer's blood or his blood, the line of what belongs to who blurs. He runs the shower and peels off the shirt and shoes Lucifer died in—-like a shifter shedding off globs of flesh.
There's a layer of condensation on the mirror. Sam scrubs clean a section, and Lucifer is there, peering back at him: photo negative of circumstance of a lifetime ago. Except he's the one in the driver's seat this time. He catches himself anticipating his reflection getting out of sync. Of Lucifer bursting out from around the corner with a megaphone and bad Ashton Kutcher impression.
It's easier than he would have thought to pilot a different body. There's no latency or differences in perception. With his eyes closed, he doesn't know if he could tell that there's anything wrong with him. It sickens him, how he articulates Lucifer's body like a doll. Uncanny.
He notices his bare chest. There's no protection. He thinks of Meg and Crowley. Anything could crawl inside him at any moment.
He doesn't think, just moves, bolting from the shower room shirtless with the shower head still running.
=== 1.7 - Protection ===
Sam strides into his room with single-minded focus. A marker or pen, anything that writes on skin, a box cutter even, he thinks wildly. He pulls open two desk drawers before finding a black Sharpie.
He sits on the edge of the bed and goes at his left arm with the Sharpie. When the anti-possession symbol is in place, his frantic brain finally settles.
"Nice ink."
Sam looks up and sees Dean in the doorway. An expression filled with longing and pain briefly flirts across Dean's face. Sam doesn't exactly know what to do with that.
"Got something for you." Dean tosses a pair of underwear at him. "It's not like you don't steal my clothes normally." Because it's easier than acknowledging that the clothes in Sam's closets are a size too big. Dean puts the rest of the folded clothes he brought on the bed: sweatpants, t-shirts, a few balled up socks.
"Aren't you scared of me? I saw myself, in the bathroom mirror."
Dean won't meet his eyes. "I trust Cas. He says you're Sam and Rowena does, too."
"But I'm not the real Sam," Sam corrects as he puts on the clothes. "I'm just Sam from two and half years ago."
Dean forces a chuckle. "Sam, what's a different meatsuit and a few less memories gonna change?"
Dean is faking casualness and missing by about a mile. It doesn't add up why Dean is letting him replace the present Sam, unless...
"How long ago did Sam die?" Sam asks. "How long, Dean?"
"Dammit. Give it a rest! Okay?"
Sam shakes his head in disbelief. Dean grumbles about being too sober and leaves.
Once he's sure Dean is gone, Sam flicks all the lights off.
=== 1.8 - Fantasy ===
Sam wakes to sound coming from the kitchen.
The Bunker's emergency lights cut on and off.
Sam goes to the kitchen.
He sees...
Lucifer. The angel smirks. With a snap of his fingers, Sam is back in his normal body.
"Wow, so glad that's over with. Even I was starting to get bored."
"What?"
"You possessing my dear old Nick? Demon Dean, trials to close hell for good? Not to mention that whole 'soulless arc.' Now that was a unironic favorite of mine."
"This isn't—"
"A work of fiction? Buddy, you really let me pull a fast one on you. This was me torturing you this whole time!"
Lucifer strides closer. Sam backs up, scared shitless, until he runs into the sink's edge and there's nowhere else for Sam to go.
"No. You're dead. This is a dream."
He grips Sam by the shoulders, adjusting Sam's shirt. "Come on, bunkie. What's more likely: Dean let the real you died in some bizarro world and you've been walking around in my second-hand duds? Or you never got out." Lucifer cocks his head to the side and sighs. "Cut off your hand."
Sam shakes his head.
Lucifer rolls his eyes. "Sam, playtime is over. Cut off your hand, or I won't heal you for a month." Lucifer says it airly, but Sam can tell he's dead serious. Lucifer's hand slips into the front pocket of Sam's pants. He roots around and then pulls out Sam's cell phone. He swipes across the screen a couple times, before showing it to Sam. There's a timer counting down: 4:56, 4:55, 4:54...
Sam feels like everything is fraying out of control.
"Don't." He can barely breathe. He's trapped.
"Four twenty four, four twenty three..."
"Please don't."
"A month is a long time go without being healed, Sam, and I have big plans for the next thirty one days."
Sam's heart races. He can't do that. He won't survive. He glances at the countdown "Give me a knife," he whispers.
"Nah, you have teeth."
Sam grits his teeth and drops to his knees. "Please, please, can I have a knife? I'm sorry. Please."
Lucifer sighs, but procures a box cutter from thin air and hands it over.
Sam nervously looks to Lucifer, silently hoping that his groveling was enough—that Lucifer wouldn't make him actually go through with this. But the angel stares back, waiting. Sam sucks in a harsh breath as he extends the blade several clicks. He doesn't let himself think: he just slices down on the back of his left wrist. The pain is sharp and bright red blood trickles from the cut. A wave of lightheadedness washes over him. He pokes the tip of the box cutter into the top of the cut again. He doesn't want to be doing thing, but he can't think about that. He has layers of tendon to get through.
Footsteps approaching. Sam has a moment swallow his shame before Dean rounds the corner, with Cas and Jack following closely behind.
They group starts screaming at Lucifer to leave him alone, but it's utterly useless. Sam keeps cutting himself, because what else is he supposed to do?
Dean get to Sam and tries to pull the box cutter from him, but Sam clings on to it for dear life. He doesn't have time to explain to Dean doesn't that failing Lucifer's task is so much worse. Before he can stop Dean, the box cutter is pried away from his bloody fingers.
"No, please!" Sam begs, but Dean holds the box cutter out of his reach. Sam can't fight his brother for it, not with his other hand hanging, still half attached.
"Five. Four. Three..." Lucifer reads off.
Sam panics blindly as the deadline closes in, as they pass the point where there's no way he can physically finish the task in time. He screams in pure animal anguish.
The alarm on his phone blares.
"Hey! Sammy, c'mon. Hey, wake up."
=== 1.9 - Resurrection ===
Sam bolts to sitting from Dean gently shaking his arm. "Hey, you were screaming in your sleep."
It's dark and he's drenched in sweat. The familiar mattress creaks under them. Dean looks at him, worried. "I'm fine. Just a bad dream," Sam says, looking down at his hands. His stomach turns with the reminder that he's still stuck in Lucifer's body. "Well... most of it."
Dean stands to go. Then, at the door, he pauses, griping the door frame for support. "Four days," Dean says hoarsely, without turning to face him. "That's how long it's been, Sam. So getting you with the wrong skin and the wrong memories..."
Sam stands and the space between them shrinks, their lips nearly meeting. It's so dark that it's almost as anonymous as that moment left unwritten between the last and first pages of Chuck Shirley's manuscripts: Ilchester, the blinding light of the devil...
Sam pushes Dean away at the last minute. Sam dry swallows, then manages to say, "You don't want—"
Dean coughs awkwardly, "Sorry, sorry... Maybe if we just—"
Dean opens his arms, projecting his intentions like Sam is a spooked horse. They hug, but... it’s all wrong. Their bodies are strangers and don't know how to fit together. The rules of who goes up and who goes down are out the window. Their muscles are tense like the other is gonna pull a knife any moment.
Sam tries to bail out of the hug first, but Dean stubbornly commits to try to make it work. It's unnerving. Eventually, Dean takes the L and lets Sam step back from him.
"Look, genetically, definitionally, philosophically—I’m not your little brother."
As Dean leaves, he says, "We're gonna get you sorted. Body, soul, whole shebang. Okay?"
Sam nods, but he doesn't believe it. As a child, Azazel cursed him with the gift of prophecy. But it wouldn't take a psychic to know how his story ends. He's pulp fiction; he's an absurdist comedy. His life is the cautionary tale of a boy who tried to hunt monsters, only to ended up trapped in the body of one. He's a horror story.