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Some people in the business insist that any day you make it out of alive is a good day. Sam would be willing to argue against that if he ever met any of those people. Because those fabled people clearly hadn't ever come out of a hunt feeling like they'd left half of themself behind. Some days, some days are so much worse than others.
The shower wall is ice cold under his fingers. Sam's resisting the urge to lean his face against it. The water isn't even warm but he doesn't care. He's sore all over, he's sore in places he didn't even know he owned. Every muscle resists when he turns into the spray. He's fairly sure he's fractured something, broken something, because there's no way in hell something isn't rattling around loose inside him. He'd gone out a window and down a flight of stairs today and that was before they'd even managed to put down the giant homunculus that'd broken out of the church basement and gone on a murder spree.
As if the feeling that he's been trampled by elephants wasn't bad enough, he also has a tooth loose at the back. He can feel the unpleasant rock of it in his mouth. It leaves him spitting blood and water, trying to leave it the hell alone. But, he's only human, mostly, and his tongue keeps finding its way back there and poking at it. It hurts, hell, it hurts to open his mouth anyway. There's a fine slice running through his lips and chin, where a piece of wire had caught him. It's not deep enough to stitch, but it's going to be there for a while. Maybe a long while. It's one long red line that had bled like hell all the way back. Badly enough that Dean had shoved his coat in Sam's lap and bitched about the upholstery for ten miles. It's still bleeding now. The faint pink swirl of the water running down his chest tells him that much.
Dean's next door, no doubt being fussed over by Castiel. Where 'fussed over' consists of Castiel staring at him in a sort of furiously protective and 'disappointed in his recklessness' kind of way. Until Dean has sex with him just to make him stop. So, yeah, that's not a weird relationship or anything.
Not that Sam can throw stones, what with the glass house he's currently living in. So much with the glass house it's not even funny.
He does press his forehead against the tiles then, feels the chill of it sink into his skin. He'd kind of like to turn his head and see if it feels as good on his cheek, but he's wrenched his neck so hard he's afraid he'll get stuck like that. He's holding on to the faint hope that he'll be able to turn his head tomorrow and he's not letting go of it easy. It's tough to even straighten up, tougher to reach down among the various bottles and find the shampoo. Getting his arms up over his head leaves him groaning out a breath and wondering if it's worth it. But he knows he'll get shit for it if Dean thinks he can't even wash his hair. So he does a crappy job, ends up with hair in his face and bottles scattered round the bottom of the shower. Because there's no way in hell he has the flexibility to reach down and pick any of them up again. He figures that's good enough.
It's all going to be worse tomorrow anyway. He's done this so many times. Knows exactly what it will feel like when he wakes up tomorrow. The heavy, solid, wrenching ache of muscles repairing themselves, and if he really has fucked something in his spine then he's going to be looking at pain for a lot longer than that. Because he decided at the beginning that he wouldn't ask, he wouldn’t ever ask, to be healed. He wouldn't take advantage, wouldn't give in like that. The power imbalance is a fucking joke and all it takes is a tip in either direction. God, he knows it was just a matter of time before either him or Dean did some sort of permanent damage to themselves. Their ability to get themselves killed and come back notwithstanding.
Sam lets his fingers slide off the tiles, and he's carefully turning on wet feet when he realises he's being watched. He turns too fast and the world's composed entirely of water and pain for seconds that go on far too long. He's left blinking through the spray at Lucifer, one hand curled round his neck until the stabbing pain eases off.
"Fuck - can you not do that?"
Lucifer's close enough to be half under the spray and the water flattens his hair to his head, running forward over the dark blonde curve of it. He looks furious in a way Sam's never seen him before. Sam inhales and holds it, tenses for...something. Lucifer lifts a hand and finds the bright line of pain on Sam's mouth. There's a brief moment of pressure before his hand drops away.
"Why should I be considerate of your feelings when you insist on breaking yourself into pieces on mediocre creatures - scavengers and half breeds."
"It's what I do." Sam's still rubbing his neck, trying to ease the sharpness where it still feels wrong. "You know it's what I do."
Lucifer's catches his arm and pulls it down and Sam hisses irritation. But doesn’t try and pull it back. Lucifer's still learning where the lines are. Still learning how this is supposed to work.
"Perhaps you enjoy your ability to flaunt how breakable you are," Lucifer's grip tightens on his wrist.
"I didn't exactly do it on purpose," Sam says tightly. He's really not in the fucking mood for this. Conversations with Lucifer are difficult at the best of times. This thing they have is furious and impossible and addictive. But it's never pretty and it's never calm. It's never anything close to easy. Sam still doesn’t know how to deal with it. Doesn't know how to deal with it when it's real. Because Lucifer is fucked up in so many ways. Dealing with it when it happens doesn't seem sensible but it's the only way that seems to work.
Lucifer's hand catches his jaw and turns his head to the side and a flare of knife-sharp pain twists its way through Sam's neck and jaw at the motion.
"Fuck?"
"Do you have any idea how badly you've injured yourself?" Lucifer's fingers dig in, sharp points of discomfort on his face.
Sam grits his teeth and says nothing. Because he does, Christ, he really does.
"Why do you do this?" Lucifer demands. Voice strangely fierce, like he doesn't understand. Like the world isn't right until he understands why. He's always looking for a reason.
Sam hisses quietly through his teeth and Lucifer's hand relaxes. Until his fingers just rest coldly against the sore edge of Sam's jaw.
"I will not watch you destroy yourself," Lucifer says flatly, with stiff finality, and then he's gone.
Sam's left gasping against the wall, half-twisted, trying to breathe through the spray of water
Nothing hurts anymore.
~~~~~~~~
Sam doesn't bother to turn on the lights. He drags his sweatpants on and stretches out on the bed. His body feels perfectly fine, it's humming with energy like he's just finished a good workout. There isn't even a hint of the wrenching pain he'd managed to hold onto during the drive back. It's been a while since he felt this good. He knows he's been reckless since the world didn't end. He knows he's been less careful. Fighting in his own corner to prove he can still do it himself. To prove he was still himself, even after everything. Dean's noticed, Castiel's been watching him, even Bobby's made a not so subtle point of telling him to keep his damn eyes open.
Sam's still fighting like it's the end of the world. He's still fighting like he has nothing left to lose and everything to prove.
Like he doesn't deserve it.
Lucifer has given up far more than him. He probably has a right to be angry at the shit Sam pulls, he has a right to be more than angry. But Sam doesn't know how to fix it. He doesn't know how to make this work. He doesn't know if it can. He's already more than sure that they were both insane to even try, after everything that happened.
Dean's still absolutely certain that it's going to end messy. That sooner or later Lucifer will give in to the temptation to use his power, to make Sam do something he doesn't want to do. Sam's more afraid it will happen the other way. That Lucifer will burn something to ash trying to be what he thinks Sam wants. But Sam doesn't even know why, doesn't know what they are. Doesn't know how it even happened.
Sam doesn't know where the middle ground is. Dean and Castiel make everything so fucking easy. They've orbited each other since the beginning, a mess of loyalty and sacrifice and devotion. They trusted each other before they even knew why. Sam honestly hadn't known which one he wanted to be jealous of at the beginning. But they'd all been in a bad place then and he begrudges them nothing. God, of all the people that deserve to have each other.
Sam doesn't know how to do that with Lucifer, who's just as broken as him, only in more complicated ways. Lucifer is not Castiel and it's hard, God, it's hard. He's seen Lucifer from the inside and he's cold and angry and fucking terrifying. He has that angelic capacity for unwavering righteous destruction and no moral compass at all. But he's also tired and desperate and completely and utterly alone. Which was why Sam had done it. Too many fake motel rooms, too many dreams. Sam had held on when he shouldn't have done. He'd pushed, or pulled or maybe jumped, without thinking. He'd never said yes, but he'd never said no either.
He'd never once said no. And by the time the world didn't end it wasn't desperation anymore. It was something else. Sam needs him to come back.
The night drags on, slow and endless. Sam ends up at the end of the bed, wiping hands down his face and listening the faraway rush of traffic outside. Wondering whether to try and sleep or throw on a t-shirt and head out, find something to eat. Let the world grind him down to exhaustion. He doesn't want to wake Dean, he knows Castiel doesn't sleep, knows angels don't ever sleep, but Castiel will be wherever Dean is. Always.
"Sam."
Sam doesn't jump. He's too used to angels turning up. His reflexes have either learned to cope with it or they'd burnt out already.
Lucifer is close enough to touch. Weight pressing the mattress down on the other side, though Sam never felt him sit.
"I didn't know if you were coming back." Sam knows he sounds relieved, he knows that's a weakness but can't bring himself to care.
"Where else would I go?" Lucifer asks. It's quietly chastising, like this thing, at least, is Sam's fault.
"Thank you," Sam says quietly. "For fixing me." He's fairly sure he'd been way more messed up than he'd thought. A fracture in his spine at least. He takes too much crap for granted, and he's stubborn, almost as stubborn as the devil himself. He should be amazed they haven't killed each other yet.
"Your persistent need to stray close to utter destruction is...difficult to watch." There's a strange tightness in Lucifer's jaw. As if he's admitting to something he doesn't want to. Or restraining a quiet fury that he doesn't know what to do with. For Sam, always for Sam. He knows one of these times he's not going to deserve it. But it's hard not to be human. He's had a lot of practice.
He's lived a long time being something Lucifer hates.
"Lucifer -"
"You're important to me," Lucifer says, roughly. He makes it sound like a flaw he's unsure whether he should be fighting, and that more than anything makes something in Sam's chest go tight and hard.
"I'm sorry," Sam says quietly.
"I understand that this is the life you lead. I understand that you're -" he looks up, searches Sam's face, as if he's looking for the right word " - breakable."
He doesn't say 'weak' and that, if nothing else, is progress.
"This is the only way I know how to live," Sam offers. It sounds like an apology, the same apology he's been making his whole life. To everyone he's ever loved. The fact that Lucifer has ended up in that space, he doesn’t even know how that happened. Because it's made a mockery of everything he ever thought he wanted. This is not a traditional happily ever after. This is a fucking mess, an angry mess that always feels like it's teetering on the edge.
But he's hanging on to it with everything he's got.
Sam wraps a hand round Lucifer's arm and his skin is cold even through his shirt.
The moment he touches him Lucifer turns into him, pulling him close with a hand round the back of his neck. Too strong but never too hard and Sam lets himself be pulled, Lucifer's shoulder digging into the bare skin of his chest.
"I do not like to feel weak, and I do not like to feel helpless." Lucifer's voice is hard. It's old in a way Sam thinks he isn't supposed to understand.
"I'm sorry," Sam says again, and he means it. God, he means it
There's a long flare of air against his face and then Lucifer kisses him. He kisses him like he has no intention of letting go, like Sam will have to tear him free one piece at a time. Though Sam's the only one of them breathing hard when he lets him go.
"I will heal you as I see fit," Lucifer says. In a tone that suggests he's made up his mind.
Sam breathes out.
The bed makes a noise, quiet and sharp, when Lucifer presses him back into the sheets, pins him there with weight and tension and the smouldering edges of his anger.
"I will need no justification for my anger should you recklessly endanger yourself."
Lucifer catches the waist of his sweats and draws them all the way down and off. Sam lifts his arms over his head and threads his fingers through the metal of the headboard.
There's a faint but noticeable easing of tension, at the submission. The gesture, which almost leaves him as some sort of offering, is honest. Lucifer just looks at him in that long pause, hands loose on his own knees.
Then his fingers curl over one of Sam's bare feet, lifting it carefully and settling it against his own body. Sam can feel the muscle of Lucifer's thigh under his toes, the way his fingers dig in, strangely curious and then simply attentive. The brush and press of fingertips into the muscle of his foot is strangely reverent. Like Lucifer is memorising his skin, every twitch and moment of tension.
"I have become far too attached to the skin and bones of you," he says quietly, but reverently. "You are made to live and breathe and living is pain."
Lucifer's hand wraps round his ankle, tight and then gentle, sliding a palm up his calf to fold under his knee and carefully push it up, before sliding into the space he's made. He spreads Sam's legs as he goes, and Sam exhales and says nothing. He lets the devil push him open, hands sliding up his thighs, dragging hair the wrong way and leaving a shiver behind.
"You were made for me, Sam. Every atom of you. I knew we were meant to be together. I was simply wrong about how. You were the one, flesh that you are, that dug yourself into me and wouldn't let go."
Lucifer's hands spread on his chest, cold against the heat of him and Sam exhales just to feel the pressure of them. The fingers push in, just a little, to feel his heartbeat, to feel the thud inside his ribcage and the tension in his skin. Lucifer's sighs out a breath, like Sam's answered a question he never asked.
"You are alive in a thousand ways I will never be, a thousand fragile ways. And I know how to break you apart in just as many. How to build you up again, one atom at a time." Lucifer's fingers slide up and catch his jaw, then tip his head down. When Lucifer leans over him he tightens his thighs around him, opens his mouth to the kiss he knows is coming. Lucifer burns inside, a terrible furious calm that's holding back a maelstrom. Sam's willing, he's always willing, to take it.
Lucifer murmurs Sam's name into his mouth, hands sliding up Sam's stretched arms, compelled to feel every inch of him. To remember the way his skin fits to his muscle and bones. Before he ruins him completely, and for a second Sam wants it so much it's hard to breathe.
Then Lucifer's pulling away, sliding back and Sam's groaning loss
"I realise that I will have to fight to keep you, and I accept. Do you understand?"
Sam inhales at that, at what that means. The low curl of fire underneath the words.
"Tell me you understand."
"I understand," Sam says, rough and without hesitation.
The kiss this time is harder, a crush of mouth that leaves his lips sore and wet.
Lucifer doesn't remove his clothes the easy way. Instead, he pulls them free in rough, almost awkward movements. It's vicious and real in-between kisses and Sam's fingers are flexing and gripping the metal over his head, feeling the weight of his own cock fill under nothing but the trail of fabric across his thighs and the drag of cotton over Lucifer's head. The strange show of it makes Lucifer feel like a man, and yet nothing like a man at the same time.
Sam spreads his legs and swallows roughly.
"Please."
There's lube in the drawer by the bed and Sam inhales when Lucifer's weight presses into him when he reaches for it. A slow almost purposeful slide and crush of movement. He tips his head back and waits obediently. He waits for Lucifer's fingers to stretch him open, slow and impossible and deep. Just slick enough to be comfortable and Sam's groaning out every breath, air catching in his throat as his thigh's are pushed up higher, high enough to leave the muscle tense and his teeth dug into his lip at how fucking exposed he feels. Like Lucifer has stripped him down to something raw.
"Every inch of you is mine and I will remake you every time you make it necessary. I will repair every break and every wound. I will hold every piece of you together like you have commanded me. I will do it because I love you. Because you are mine and I am yours, always."
Sam can't find enough breath to speak.
"Lucifer -"
"Quiet," Lucifer says simply. He draws his hand free, shifts in and tilts Sam's hips back, pressing in where he's left the strange empty ache.
Sam exhales, a shake of sound and need, at the slow, endless push that leaves Lucifer buried all the way inside him. It's not quite easy, it hurts just a little, just enough to make him feel it. The pace is steady but hard, like Lucifer refuses to be denied. Sam can't do anything but bite down on half rambled curses and choked out, strangled breaths under every push. For the first time it's not just sex. It's a claim and a promise, something quiet and unexpected. Like Sam is something important, something sacred.
For all the fear and anger Lucifer breaks Sam just as easily as the world. He leaves him hollowed out and aching and owned. Something different to what he used to be. Until Sam's groaning his way through the sharp intensity of release, fingers dug hard into the chilled skin of Lucifer's back. He's gasping and tipping his head up to find the roughness of Lucifer's mouth. It never refuses him, never turns away from him. Sam doesn't know how to be grateful for that.
"I will suffer for you, and only you," Lucifer says, voice quiet and warm against his mouth.