"This is real." A touch upon a mark, warmed by the hand that's firm against it. A squeeze. "Breathe."
When the trumpetssounded, the army shouted, and at the sound of trumpet, when the men gave aloud shout, the wall collapsed.
No, deeper than that: Lucifer is in his blood, his bones.Lucifer is in every nerve ending, every cell. Lucifer is become him. The wallheld and held and held until it didn’t, and now it crumbles like the walls ofJericho at Joshua’s shout.
But it’s not an army that marches over the rubble. It’s thedevil.
And did he ever escape the cage, or is he still there,burning? Is this the greatest trick the devil ever pulled, convincing Sam hehad escaped before he shattered the illusion — a taste of what he can neverhave before a taste eternity?
He doesn’t sleep, he can’t eat. Muscles waste and sanity isslipping. He’s this Gordian knot, tangled mess of time until there’s a linecrossed, no going back: goodbye Sam Winchester. And through it all, as thatwall comes down, the memories of himself, sans soul.
It wasn’t Lucifer who killed in cold blood, who lied andmanipulated and was prepared to give up his family for the sake of a hunt. Itwasn’t Lucifer that made a deal with wolf, traded loyalty for life and theguarantee of a coat at the end of it. That was all him, that’s the monster thatlurks beneath his skin, caged only with the fragile fetters of shattered soul.
(Will he be able to keep that monster caged, now, withburned-edge fragments rattling around in him, a mosaic of pieces slotted backtogether with no real finesse? The question would keep him awake at night, ifLucifer and the nightmares hadn’t already beaten it to the mark.)
Sulu speaks with such authority, but how can he know? Howcan he know what is real and what is not? Even as thumb brushes hot againstcurling mark of deal made, Sam is doubting. Sam is pulling air into his lungsand wondering if he’s really sucking in the scent of hellfire, of burningflesh, of his own demise.
Does wolf not understand what man can?
From behind him, familiar face laughs familiar laugh, asound that locks muscles up against spine and leaves Sam hunched and fearful.Cowering.
‘Does he really think that can convince you? A mark? Oh,Sam. Sammy. Tell him he’s got to try harder than that.’
Sam squeezes eyes shut, and then they open again, cloudedwith something like fading panic. Eyes fix against the form of Lucifer, the loweasy smile and the wicked glow in his eyes, and realisation oozes into Sam’smind like sweet honey.
Nobody else can see the mark.
Not men, not wolves, not angels – not even archangels, noteven the fallen. Only he and Sulu know it, only they can see the brand of debtbetween them, a promise rendered in something more than just words or blood.
‘You’re my own mind,’ he says, thick and low and slow, andSulu hushes him. Is ignored. Sam’s hand covers Sulu’s, presses hard into fleshof forearm, too hard, until there’s a bite of pain to the pressure, Sulu’s warmthumb under his own, cold and clammy and shaking.
Lucifer flickers, and Sam clings on, anchors himself againsthot skin and elegant hands, against a loyalty undeserved where it was wrestedfrom within traps of rowan and silver and magic, painted against skin that hadno intention to do anything but exploit.
Eyes focus on wolf’s own, dark, focused.
‘This is real,’ Sam repeats, weakly, and the smile he getsback in return is sharp canines and a curl of something edged with relief.‘This is real.’
Still, hand has not let up the bruising pressure. Tomorrowthere’ll be a mark visible to everyone, just there, a thumb-print bruisethat’ll ache when its pressed. A reminder. Sam doesn’t mean to catch lips withdesperate lips, but there’s muscle memory there, and fingers curl beneath thesweep of his long hair, against the weak-rabid jump of his pulse.
‘Trust me,’ Sulu murmurs against his lips, and Sam resiststhe urge to bite, to draw the catch of teeth in return, to taste blood on histongue. He breathes, because he was told to. He trusts, because he was asked.‘If nothing else —- trust in me.’
Against Sam’s skin, brand and thumb and pressure staybright, in focus, against the haze of uncertain exhaustion, the grey-paintedworld illuminated by the dream of hellfire and brimstone.