Chapter Text
The first time Sam sees Adam again, he thinks his heart stops.
The dirty blood pumping itself through his veins halts, stagnating as if holding its breath, before pushing itself with a new wave of energy. It zings throughout his body, making his palms sweat and the world fade in and out slightly. The walls of the warehouse crack and chip, cementing themselves into shapes similar to the walls of the cage, striped and parallel.
The worst is the figure his brain conjures behind him, hooking its chin over his shoulder and breathing cold puffs of air against his face. The pressure against his shoulder is enough that he wants to drop to his knees like he distantly knew he was supposed to.
He logically knows that it’s his mind, because otherwise Dean would be yelling and screaming and probably freaking out more than Sam is right now. Still, his body twitches at the contact. It’s almost imperceptible, just a twinge of his torso, but he knows Dean catches it, eyebrows creasing.
He waves off his brother. He knows he’s not in the cage, and they have more important things to deal with right now. Mainly, the archangel trapped just feet in front of them, wearing his brother's skin.
As he focuses himself back on the situation at hand, he can see the archangel assessing him, gaze narrowing. Michael hadn’t paid him much attention in their time in captivity together, and right now, he’s grateful for that fact. The coldness in the figure’s stare makes Sam narrow his own eyes in response, and his skin prickle uncomfortably.
The harsh blue stare is so different from the one he remembers. The sympathy in it when Adam would let Sam huddle on his lap like a scared child.
After what feels like an awkward eternity, Michael looks away, apparently finished his observations, and Sam subtly lets out the breath he’d been holding.
It wasn’t that he wasn’t relieved to see his brother out of the cage, because he was, it was the fact that it wasn’t really his brother. It wasn’t the young man who’d cooed and comforted Sam as he cried, who’d hum to him as he fell asleep and who’d pick crusts of blood from his scalp. Instead, it was the uncaring archangel who’d watched as he’d lost blood and bones and limbs and his voice.
The difference is obvious, and it makes Sam wish he were far away back at the bunker.
He zones out slightly as Dean and Cas debate how to get Michael back to safety. It’s not exactly like the archangel is willing to follow them, and the cuffs are precarious at best. It would be so much easier if Cas could still fly them all home.
Sam’s still lost in his own head when Dean stomps down on his foot. Hard.
“What the fuck?” His voice is high-pitched in pain, and he lets out a garbled groan.
“What do you think?” Dean’s voice is surprisingly calm, like he’s ignoring how he probably just crushed all five of Sam’s toes with his brick of a foot.
“Think about what?” Sam’s confused. Sure, he hadn’t been listening to the conversation, but did Dean really need to squash his foot like a fly?
“How should we get Michael home?” He points his thumb towards the figure still lit by the slowly dwindling holy oil, and Sam purposefully doesn’t turn to meet the archangel’s eyes again.
“The Impala?” It’s the only obvious answer, unless they want to walk a state in the dark with an archangel cuffed between them. That would look totally normal and not weird to anyone unfortunate enough to be out at this time of night.
The idea of actually walking Michael back to the bunker almost makes Sam laugh, but he stifles it before it can come out cracked and broken, and Dean can look at him like he’s losing his marbles.
“Fine.”
The start of the drive is silent, not even a low bass sounding from the car's speakers, in tune with a singer’s husky voice. Instead, the four riders listen to the hum of the engine and the soft rush of wind as it covers the car.
It’s cloudy above, and only two twin stars poke their way out from behind the cover.
Sam stares at them.
Maybe they’re him and Adam. The only humans in the cage, forced into a harsh, unnatural environment. The stars are definitely as close as he and Adam were, leeching into each other's light, merging the way Adam would hug Sam, uncaring about the auburn that would stain his clothes and arms.
Maybe they’re him and Michael. The last two beings that survived from the cage, held close by their shared experiences in that cold, dark prison cell. Relating to each other in the newness of the grass and sky.
The last option makes Sam want to throw up. Maybe they’re him and Lucifer. They’d been as physically close as those two stars before, bodies brushing up against each other, covered in sweat and dirt. Sam on the ground and Lucifer on top of him. He was practically made for the archangel after all, woven into time and space in his image.
He stares at the stars until they fade back behind the clouds again, and Sam’s secretly glad.
“You okay?” The voice interrupts his thoughts, and Sam turns away from the window and towards where Dean sits in the driver's seat, eyes glancing between the road and his brother.
Dean’s voice is low, and Sam knows he’s trying to avoid the angels in the back hearing their conversation.
“I’m fine.” Sam’s voice is equally quiet.
There’s something about Michael’s presence that shrouds the inside of the car in the same darkness that floats outside it. A darkness that purrs whenever Sam shifts restlessly, sucking happily off his vague uncomfortability.
“You’ve been weird ever since we got Michael.” Dean doesn’t seem to pick up on the car’s omnipresent fifth passenger, instead content to push and prod Sam for answers.
It’s times like these, Sam guiltily wishes for the old Dean back, the one who hated talking about feelings and having chick flick moments. The one who would let Sam stew in his emotions before he would ask Sam to talk about them.
“I’m fine,” Sam repeats, putting more emphasis on the words. His voice holds a conviction that he doesn’t, and he’s grateful when Dean finally seems to drop the topic.
He gets why his brother’s worried, especially after he took a dive into the deep end a few years ago with hallucinating Lucifer and all that, but he doesn’t need a babysitter. He’s learnt to deal with his problems, both in healthy and unhealthy ways, and Dean’s never questioned it before, so there’s no point in him doing it now.
The car’s silent again, and Sam swears he can feel Michael’s eyes on the back of his head.
Before long, the bunker entrance fades into view, and Sam leans his head back, closing his eyes as the vehicle curves around the familiar road. He stays seated when Cas and Michael eventually get out, leaving the car empty apart from himself and Dean.
Dean shakes him lightly, and Sam does not yelp in response.
“What’s up with you?” His brother’s face is frowning, eyebrows pushed together like he wishes he could open Sam’s skull and read the thoughts bouncing inside.
Sam’s pretty sure Lucifer did that once, cracked open his skull. No, he’s sure it happened. He can remember the way blood rushed down his face, sticky and hot, catching in the corners of his eyes and curves of his nose. The way it penetrated his mouth, the iron taste making him cough and splutter. It wasn’t the first time he’d tasted his own blood, but it was the first time he’d had so much of it rush into his mouth, leaving him gasping and choking, only still alive through some cruel feat of angelic grace.
“Sam?” Dean’s voice brings him back to the present, and Sam tries hard to pretend he wasn’t just remembering his time in the cage. Dean doesn’t look convinced.
“I’m fine.” He’s sure he’s beginning to sound like a broken record at this point.
“Yeah, you said that earlier.” Dean stares at him, flat and unimpressed, and Sam has to stop himself from squirming uncomfortably.
He would be fine if he could just go to his room and sleep for ages.
Instead, he’s stuck with a well-meaning but overbearing brother, an angel, and an archangel who watched him get abused for 180 years. It’s almost the start of a bad joke.
“Seeing Michael again was hard, but I’m okay, really.”
Dean nods understandingly, and Sam figures if anyone can understand Hell, it’s his brother. Dean may’ve been down there for less time than him, but he knows that any time in Hell does damage.
“It’s just cage memories. No worse than usual.”
Dean frowns. “You’re not seeing him again, are you?”
The reply is so random that Sam forgets who Dean means. “Who?”
“Lucifer.”
Just the name makes the heat in the car evaporate, leaving a biting cold that nips at Sam’s hands, and he has to stop a shiver.
“No.” His reply is quick and reassuring. There’s no need to burden Dean. The experience in the warehouse was probably a one-time thing, the initial shock of seeing Michael again. Besides, he didn’t even really see Lucifer, just felt the archangel pressed against his back.
Dean looks unconvinced. “Dean. I’m not.”
His brother’s apparent disbelief makes Sam’s already frayed nerves tighten.
“I’m fine, alright?” His voice is strained, and not doing much to help his case, but Sam continues anyway. “Stop worrying. I’m not a baby, and I’m not crazy. I don’t need your pity.”
Normally, he’d feel bad for going off at Dean like that, but he’s tired and on edge. The fact that Michael’s in the bunker right now is making Sam twitch. He’d have to ward his room against archangels, copying the symbol off that wartime submarine that kicked off Lucifer when he was taking up residence inside Cas’s vessel.
He’d memorised it in case it ever came in handy, and right now it’s about the only thing he has between himself and Michael.
With one last, “Dean, I’m fine,” Sam retreats from the Impala, stalking quickly through the bunker before he reaches his room, shutting the door quickly and quietly behind him.
He’s kept spray paint cans in his room for occasions like this, and although he knows Dean, and probably Adam too, would call him paranoid, he knows he needs them to feel safe.
It doesn’t take long to find them, rattling as he shoves open the lowest drawer in his dresser. They’re an ugly crimson colour, but it doesn’t matter as long as they work at keeping archangels out and away from his room
Crouching, Sam paints one onto the floor in front of the door, then one on the door itself, then one on the wall above the dresser. He’s about to paint another one on the wall above his bed when he pauses.
Regular angel banishing was done in blood; maybe he should do a symbol like that in case the painted ones don’t work.
There’s barely a moment of hesitation before Sam’s slicing open his palm and watching the skin separate.
He’s dragging his hand across the wall in front of him when he hears Dean call his name and enter the room.
There’s silence, and Sam expects worried yelling, when Dean finally just drawls, “Isn’t this a bit overkill, Sammy?” His tone is light, but Sam’s sure that if he turned around, he’d find worry curling itself into his brother’s features.
“No. It’s protection.”
“I think the first one on the floor was enough protection.”
Sam can feel Dean’s unrelenting stare, and it’s what finally makes him turn around after finishing the sigil, gaze annoyed. “Did you come in here for something?”
“Cas wants us with him to speak to Michael.”