“Lucifer?” Cas called, hearing his voice bounce off the stone walls of hell. This was bad. They had to find Jack... and Sam and Dean... he had no time to be wasting away in a cell.
The familiarity of the heavy bars, confined space, and solitude hardly made them any easier to accept. As a matter of fact, it had the opposite effect on the Archangel, the shredded wisps of his remaining Grace recoiling from the scene just as the mouths of Pavlov’s dogs would salivate at the sight of their caretaker. PTSD. Humans might simplify it with such a term, but no human had ever felt this raw fear, this honest panic, or this breathtaking trepidation that now threatened to seize the Archangel and swallow him whole.
It was Castiel’s voice that drew Lucifer out from where he had begun to retreat into his mind, and he took a long moment to really steady himself, cold eyes staring straight ahead until he was certain his own voice would not crack upon responding.
“I’m here.” Slow, steady, solid - good. He sighed, finally rising up from the bench he’d been perched upon and moving closer to the bars that separated him from that elusive thing they called freedom.
“If you’ve become a master of lock-picking during your partnership with the Winchesters, now would be a good time to tell me.”