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Sam startled awake (alive, part of his head said inexplicably) at the sound of popping flames. He froze in panic for a moment before registering his surroundings.
He was outdoors, bright green grass and a stone picnic table beneath him. Somebody was humming a rock song he vaguely recognized. There was laughter--it seemed too frantic to be laughter--in the background. Adam sat across from him drinking from a water bottle filled with thick red liquid; Sam’s stomach turned at the sight of it.
Probably just vegetable juice, he reasoned, unsure of why he reacted like that.
Adam set the drink down. “Glad you finally came around, Sammy. Sounded like a rough nightmare.”
“Yeah, nightmare,” he responded uneasily. That probably explained his weird thoughts.
“Thought you were gonna sleep the whole time,” Dean said from behind them. He was at the grill, doing a great job if the smell was anything to go by.
“Made your favorite, little brother, demon fingers!” Dean continued.
“Wait, what ?”
“Come on, don’t act all surprised, it is your anniversary, after all.”
He almost asked what anniversary Adam was talking about, but then a platter of--of human fingers, grill marks and all, with either BBQ or blood--was put in front of him.
God, what the fuck --
“Come on Sammy, eat up, wouldn’t want Lilith getting worried!”
He wanted to throw up. He wanted to throw up, but his body was completely calm, Sam watching from the backseat, as his hand grabbed a finger, swirled it around in the--oh yeah, that’s blood--and took a bite, careful not to jar his teeth on the bone.
Immediately, the taste of the blood blocked out his surroundings, power and heat rising in his gut against his will. Demon blood.
“Holy shit, Dean, this is amazing!”
“Glad you like it. Now can I get some of those intestines?” Adam interjected.
“Sure thing, but remember, the heart’s mine.”
Sam was stuck, thoughts whited out. He watched his body eat the rest of the fingers, discarding the bones on the ground where they were snapped up by invisible dogs.
Somehow, his body participated in conversation while the others finished their food, talking about family and jobs and never about what anniversary it was. Sam had a husband and a girlfriend and a couple kids and a dog that he didn’t remember, and the others had families of their own.
He was going to have to go back to the family he didn’t remember after this. God, what was wrong with him? Why were they eating people and not even concerned about it? What fucking dogs were invisible?
He felt like there was a barrier in his head, stopping him from remembering what was going on, and he couldn’t find it, let alone break it down.
At least until Dean offered him more.
“I totally forgot about the refreshments! You want some?” A pitcher of red liquid--demon blood by the smell--appeared on the table with a snap.
The barrier broke, and the memories of the apocalypse and the Cage came flooding in.
“Nah, I’m good,” Adam--probably not Adam--said, holding up his water bottle. “Angel blood is better for the body.”
“Way harder to get, though.”
“You aren’t wrong about that.”
“Okay, Lucifer, I remember what’s going on,” Sam interrupted. “You can cut the illusion now.”
Dean’s--Lucifer’s--eyes flashed red. “Aww, we were having so much fun. Or, I was at least. You seemed pretty out of it. Bet you liked the food though. Haven’t given you a fix for a while, huh?”
Adam disappeared, and the laughter in the background turned closer to screams.
“Did you figure out what anniversary we were talking about? I wasn’t making that up.”
Sam raised an incredulous eyebrow at the archangel. “You really think I can keep track of time here?”
Lucifer laughed. “Okay, that’s fair. Well, it’s been exactly a hundred years since you tossed us all in this hell-hole. I figured that deserved a celebration. Plus, you’ve been my little easygoing bitch lately, so I think it’s about time I mark you as mine again.”
Sam shivered. Last time he did that, Lucifer ripped his back open and carved into his vertebrae.
“Luckily, I’ve got a grill right here. I can just--” he snapped, summoning a piece of metal on a pole that looked like an Enochian letter-- “snap up a brand, and mark you like the dumb livestock you are!” He got up and stuck the brand in the grill.
Sam tried to get up, back away from the gleeful angel, but he couldn’t move. Grace-bonds keeping him locked to the stone table. Another snap and his shirts were gone, baring his back to Lucifer. God, he hated branding.
"Now, Sam," he heard the coals shifting in the grill as Lucifer, still in Dean's body, moved the brand around. "I'm writing my name on your back, so all the demons know you belong to me. Say thank you, Sam." His voice turned colder at the end, and Sam could feel the heat from the brand at his neck.
Voice shaking, he said, "Thank you, Lucifer."
Sam heard the sizzle of his skin before he felt it, smelled the burning flesh before the scream was ripped out of him. Lucifer moaned and pressed the brand deeper, driving Sam closer to the table.
"God, please stop !"
Lucifer took the brand off, snapping again. "Don't you want everyone to know who you belong to? Maybe they won't fuck you as often, or hurt you, or chase you right into my arms."
Another sizzle, and a sob.
"Say thank you."
"Th-thank you, Luci-Lucifer!"
By the fourth letter, Sam was crying freely, leaning into the picnic table in a futile attempt to get away.
By the seventh, spots were filling his vision, but not letting him pass out. He was never allowed to pass out in Hell.
Lucifer scooped Sam up in his arms, making Sam writhe against the hand on the burns, and the scene melted away back into the cage, and Lucifer kissed his shoulders and petted lightly over the letters on his back.