.: imagine dragons || starters.
Sam didn’t know where he was. Well, he knew he was in the pit, but the fire, the brimstone, the icy chill of an ethereal, cosmic winter that Sam had gotten used to feeling, to suffering through as his skin burned and scorched or his limbs froze over cold enough to shatter into pieces when Lucifer hit them hard enough -- it was gone. All there was now, was ... darkness. All-encompassing, all consuming darkness so thick and murky Sam couldn’t tell up from down or sideways.
But the pain --- the pain
so much Sam couldn’t see -- he couldn’t think.
Couldn’t speak past the non-existent blood in his mouth, insides and organs twisted up and tangled in each other, torn and ruptured and practically hanging out and off of him like some sick, twisted form of art (art only the Devil was creative enough to come up with, and did he come up with them. Slow, painstakingly slow, he had years and years to build it to perfection -- to destroy Sam.
Sam didn’t know how long it had been. Whether it had been a year, or a decade, or a day -- all he knew that Lucifer had succeeded in the worst tortures imaginable, and then some. But Lucifer hadn’t broken him yet. Maybe he’d managed to physically -- multiple times over, several times all at once -- and maybe he’d managed to manipulate and torture him emotionally as well, taking on the forms of the people Sam’d loved most -- Bobby, Ellen, his father, Jess, Dean -- to whisper platitudes and reassurances, get Sam’s guard to drop and then shove poison and sharp edged words and insults in his face, shove literal, physical blades into his skin and muscles and organs and twist, try to get him to give up, to break in every way possible -- But Lucifer hadn’t succeeded yet. Sam didn’t know how long it had been, but he knew it hadn’t been long enough. Knew that however long, at least he’d held out this long. Whether it be a day, or a year, or a decade. Lucifer could torture the English and the knowledge right out of Sam’s memory until he was nothing more than a scorched, limbless bloody mess, he could feed Sam his organs and skin and flay him alive for what seemed like an eternity, could play Sam’s worst memories and Sam’s worst nightmares of what he could have been could have done didn’t stop over and over again behind his eyes until Sam begged for him to stop and then Sam couldn’t see because he had no eyes left to see with --
But Lucifer hadn’t broken him. Not fully. Not mentally.
Sam felt like he breathed in deep (remembering the time Lucifer took away his lungs and left him to flounder like a fish out of water and then gave him his lungs back, only to puncture them with holes and watch as Sam breathed and breathed and drowned in his own blood) and tried not to shake. Because he knew --- he knew as much as he wanted to hold out ... It was only a matter of time.
Idle hands were the Devil’s playthings, and the Cage was Lucifer’s. Sam had let the Devil possess him and then cast the Devil back into the pit, and now that there was no Apocalypse for him or his brother Michael to start, only all of eternity to be damned and to burn in Hell with nothing but Sam to keep them company ... It was only a matter of time. Sam didn’t fool himself into thinking he was strong enough to not break. He would eventually.
But -- But he’d hold out as long as he could. He could do that at least. He could do that .... He could. (He hoped.)
Sam replied, voice hoarse and raspy and his throat feeling like it was on fire, even if there were no bones - from his ribs, from his back, from his legs, broken and shattered and ripped out of his body only to be stuck back in, in all the wrong places - sticking out of it anymore. Honestly, it was a miracle he even remembered how to speak again. He forgot what words were, sometimes, when he was too busy screaming himself hoarse. But he remembered now, and Sam gave a hollow, bitter laugh, feeling like there was a brittle, humorless smile on his lips.
❛ You lost. Get over it. ❜
It’d fuel the fire that Lucifer liked to roast him over, sure, but if Sam was going to burn or freeze in Hell’s Cage with the Devil, he’d at least make sure to get in his hits and jabs where he could, no matter how small.
