Delilah’s hand stilled in his hair the second he pulled back, like the moment had cracked right down the middle. Her expression flickered—confusion first, then something quieter, something that hurt a little deeper than she let show.

“…Dad?” she tried softly, like maybe saying it again would fix whatever just broke, but it didn’t. Her fingers curled slightly at her side, a faint ripple of tension brushing the air around them—subtle, almost unnoticeable, except for the way her gaze drifted past him for half a second, like she could feel something else there. Watching. Pressing. Wrong.

Lucifer was no hallucination this time around. He was here to stay, and his looming presence made the wounds beneath Sam's bandages to flare and ache. The glow at least remained contained and tightly wrapped under the dressing.

Sam was too preoccupied anyway. His shoulders jumped not at Lucifer's proximity but at the shattered light and suddenly plunge into darkness. Brows met in the middle in a mixture of confusion and concern bordering on fear as he took a step back. Lucifer took that step back with him, the fabric of Nick's shirt just barely ghosting across Sam's shoulder blades.

"I'm sorry..." He repeated, voice choked up just a bit. Not because he felt bad for who to him was a stranger with a familial title, but because he was terrified. Just how many people out there knew him so intimately before the Cage, and expect a warm welcome? Sam swallowed thickly, extending one hand carefully towards her. No sharp movements. He didn't like them himself. "This doesn't mean I can't re-learn. Make new memories..."

Delilah’s hand stilled in his hair the second he pulled back, like the moment had cracked right down the middle. Her expression flickered—confusion first, then something quieter, something that hurt a little deeper than she let show.

“…Dad?” she tried softly, like maybe saying it again would fix whatever just broke, but it didn’t. Her fingers curled slightly at her side, a faint ripple of tension brushing the air around them—subtle, almost unnoticeable, except for the way her gaze drifted past him for half a second, like she could feel something else there. Watching. Pressing. Wrong.

Neither he or Bobby could comprehend what he'd just said in that moment, but their faces said it all. They knew that he was broken beyond repair. Something that was never meant to shatter was now in pieces and Sam was kneeling in the shards, cutting himself on every crumb of information.

"I'm sorry..."

"Third time's the charm?" Lucifer chimed in, blond brows perking up as he walked behind Sam's back. He stretched his arms in a loud groan, knowing that his voice was for Sam alone even if the girl showed some promise.

Delilah’s hand stilled in his hair the second he pulled back, like the moment had cracked right down the middle. Her expression flickered—confusion first, then something quieter, something that hurt a little deeper than she let show.

“…Dad?” she tried softly, like maybe saying it again would fix whatever just broke, but it didn’t. Her fingers curled slightly at her side, a faint ripple of tension brushing the air around them—subtle, almost unnoticeable, except for the way her gaze drifted past him for half a second, like she could feel something else there. Watching. Pressing. Wrong.

Sam's stare didn't change. If anything it morphed into something else, something alert and perhaps a bit scared. Dad. The word echoed in his head while his scared eyes kept holding hers like a deer at headlights.

The Cage took so much from him. Two centuries of torture and violation, and decades of fake realities created and curated for him by Lucifer. Worlds where he had kids, realities where the end of the world came to pass. At the end of them, Sam always had a meltdown on his knees as everything melted around him to reveal he never left the cold metal of the ever-suspended Cage.

Was this one of those times?

He couldn't remember ever having kids in the real world. But it was hard to remember even just what he had for dinner yesterday. Sam lived in a constant state of dissociation.

Remembering cost him too much.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. Careful. He had to be re-taught what an apple is. How to speak English again. The first thing he did when he saw the soil outside Bobby's house was to dig his fingers in and roll in it like some animal because all he remembered is metal, metal, and hooks. "I'm sorry..." Sam repeated, quieter now. "Lucifer took everyone away."

→     𝐈 .    GENERAL

❛   hush .   raise  a  finger  in  a  gesture  to  silence  my  muse . ❛   sit .   gesture  for  my  muse  to  sit  down . ❛   door .   hold  a  door  open  for  my  muse . ❛   tap .   tap  my  muse  on  the  shoulder  to  garner  their  attention . ❛   hunger .   give  my  muse  something  to  eat  /  drink . ❛   cook .   present  my  muse  with  home - cooked  food . ❛   brush .   work  a  brush  /  comb  through  my  muse’s  hair . ❛   read .   silently  read  a  book  alongside  my  muse . ❛   hand .   hold  out  a  hand  for  my  muse  to  take . ❛   dressed .   help  my  muse  put  on  an  article  of  clothing . ❛   note .   give  my  muse  a  note  saying :   [ content ] . ❛   amplify .   turn  up  the  music  in  the  car .

→     𝐈𝐈 .    ANGST

❛   patch .   help  my  muse  patch  up  a  wound . ❛   night terrors .   hold  my  muse  after  they  wake  up  from  a  nightmare . ❛   company .   silently  sit  with  my  muse  to  comfort  them. ❛   hospital .   my  muse  is  told  that  yours  is  in  the  hospital . ❛   revelation .   show  my  muse  evidence  of  a  lie  they  told . ❛   indulge .   find  my  muse  drinking  to  cope . ❛   downfall .   find  my  muse  collapsed  on  the  ground . ❛   console .   comfort  my  muse  as  they  cry . ❛   nurse .   give  my  muse  company  in  the  hospital .

→     𝐈𝐈𝐈 .    AFFECTIONATE

❛   wink .   wink  at  my  muse .  ❛   wrap .   wrap  an  arm  around  my  muse’s  [ shoulders  /  waist ] . ❛   caress .   gently  caress  my  muse’s  face . ❛   tousle .   mess  playfully  with  my  muse’s  hair . ❛   chest .   place  your  head  on  my  muse’s  chest .    ❛   comb .   comb  fingers  through  my  muse’s  hair . ❛   grasp .   run  to  my  muse  &  jump  into  their  arms . ❛   lean .   lean  on  my  muse’s  shoulder . ❛   tender .   kiss  my  muse  on  the  [ forehead  /  cheek  /  nose ] . ❛   abrupt .   kiss  my  muse  out  of  the  blue . ❛   chaste .   chastely  kiss  my  muse . ❛   good morning .   kiss  my  muse  the  morning  after . ❛   volumes .   gaze  at  my  muse  in  a  way  that  silently  says  ‘i love you’ .

→     𝐈𝐕  .    VIOLENT

❛   strike .   [ slap / punch ]  my muse in the face . ❛   gun .   wield  a  gun  at  my  muse . ❛   twist .   twist  my  muse’s  arm  behind  their  back . ❛   throttle .   aggressively  wrap  your  hands  around  my  muse’s  throat . ❛   parch .   burn  my  muse  with  a  hot  object . ❛   take down .   forcefully  bring  my  muse  to  the  ground . ❛   gouge .   wield  a  sharp  object  at  my  muse . ❛  shunt .   shove  my  muse  backwards . ❛  stickup .   yell  at  my  muse  to  put  their  hands  in  the  air. ❛  shoot .   [ fatally  /  non-fatally ]   shoot  my  muse . ❛  stab .   stab  my  muse with a  [ knife / other object ].

→     𝐕 .    NSFW

I'VE BEEN WORKING ON THE DOOR FOR MOST OF THE LAST FIVE MINUTES.

Tried the handle. Tried the hinges. Put my shoulder into it twice, which did nothing except confirm that it's solid wood and that I'm not as young as I used to be. The latch isn't stuck, that much I know—Something is holding it from the other side.

I turn back around.

The man occupying the other half of the closet is tall enough that I'm aware of the ceiling on his behalf, and he has the particular look of someone accustomed to bad situations who is currently assessing whether this qualifies as one.

Hunters.

"Okay."

I press two fingers to the bridge of my nose and take a breath.

"I'm going to need you to tell me what that thing is out there--"

I gesture toward the door with the same two fingers, calmly.

"--because I've seen plenty in the last couple of years, but whatever is keeping that door shut from the outside without touching it is new to me."

It wasn't his fault. Neither of their fault, really. It was simply a bit too cramped for Sam to be comfortable, and being stuck between two entities in such a crammed space was making his vision blur.

He cleared his throat, then tested the door with his shoulder. "Telekinesis makes me guess a ghost. Which type - I didn't quite get a feel for it yet." Sam finally said, his voice on the quieter side, a bit strained. His neck was adorned with bruises and his fingernails all black, damaged, or missing. He was careful on his fingers as he bashed his shoulder in the door one more time, trying his best not to resort into using his own powers.

Not when there was someone else in here with him. Anxious, alerted, and already looking for something to blame and strangle, at the very least. Sam refused to use his powers even next to Dean. It was better to pretend they didn't exist.

"Poor little Sam, you'll never get out the closet."