It was gone. LUX was gone.
After waking up half naked in the desert with an almighty Fuck You from Dad pinned to his back, Lucifer had a clear plan. Get back to LA, apologize to Chloe, deal with his new wings later. It was simple; it shouldn’t have had a single hiccup… except for the fact that something was oh so horribly wrong.
LUX wasn’t the only thing missing. Chloe’s name wasn’t anywhere to be found in a phone book, and calling the detective’s number only gave him an old lady thinking he was trying to sell her life insurance. Hell, he couldn’t even find his own name anywhere . No one seemed to recognize him, and he was one of the more talked about faces in LA. There was an office listed under a Dr. Linda Martin, but even that information was all wrong.
Lucifer couldn’t give it much thought, however. A feeling wriggled its way into his mind, distracting him from the ever-growing sense of foreboding that was filling him. It was a feeling he hadn’t felt in a long time - a good three thousand years at least. There was an abomination upon the earth. A nephilim.
Maybe that was the reason everything was so wrong… At least it was a lead, the beginning of a thread he could pull until this whole mess unraveled. Ducking out of sight of the humans filing up and down the street, Lucifer allowed his wings to unfurl. They were annoying and infuriating, and they kept reflecting the blinding sunlight into his eyes, but for now, they were his only source of transportation. Whoever had fucked everything up (his father, he presumed) hadn’t been kind enough to send his Corvette along with him. A few strong strokes lifted him into the air. Flying was just as he remembered, with the wind whisking past his ears and tugging at his feathers. Maybe it was like riding a bike.
Flying, it turned out, was not like riding a bike—unless riding a bike entailed hurtling halfway across the United States in a few heartbeats before suddenly plummeting in a fit of exhaustion. The ground was gradually getting closer, but it was hard to gauge how fast he was falling with the biting wind stinging his eyes. Finally, the treetops rushed to meet him, and he smashed (thankfully not face first; he might be immortal, but it would still hurt like a son of a bitch) into the dirt on the side of a road.
Everything faded out for a few seconds before the dust settled, and he found himself in a small crater of upturned dirt and gravel. Spitting out bits of grass and rock, Lucifer rose to his feet and brushed off his pants and ragged skin as best as possible. In addition to his already sunburnt and peeling skin, he was now streaked with mud and grass stains. With a bit of struggling and cursing, he managed to get his wings to vanish again; however, they continued to grate on him like sand was caught between the feathers.
A few steps made his limbs tremble with exhaustion; it seemed throwing oneself across the country with atrophied wings was quite draining. He couldn’t stop, though. Not yet; he had to figure out what was happening and fix it. Lucifer paused, tilting his head skyward. The nephilim was close. Somehow, he had managed to throw himself in the right direction. Only a few miles of walking to go…
Walking without shoes on a poorly paved backroad was murder on the feet, Lucifer soon found. Each step forward was accompanied with a grimace and a curse. Eventually, a few vestiges of civilization peeked out from the neverending stream of trees and road. The only problem was that they looked like they hadn’t housed any actual people in a good half century. Nevertheless, Lucifer approached the abandoned building; if anything, it was a place to rest his weary feet.
The door to the place was a real head turner, carved and decorated with intricate symbols. The most prominent was an aquarian star. Curious, Lucifer tried the door. As any door did, it unlocked under his touch, though this one seemed hesitant to. There was a power struggle between him and the door before he came out on top. Dutifully, the door swung open. A wave of cool air washed over him, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The interior lacked the stale smell he was expecting; instead, it smelled of old books, dust, coffee, alcohol, and a whiff of bacon. So, maybe the place wasn’t abandoned, and the owners were into some kind of weird cult shit—and good food.
Lucifer prowled further into the establishment. Beyond the door was a staircase leading down into a very headquarter-y base area filled with technology from a cheesy 50’s sci-fi movie. Beyond that was the source of the old book smell; rows and rows of bookshelves stretched out, interspaced with tables and chairs. Perhaps this place wasn’t so bad.
He didn’t get much farther than the bottom of the stairs before the click of cocking guns made him freeze. Looking up, he was faced with a pair of very angry lumberjacks. Both were garbed in an ungodly amount of flannel, and one was sporting a messy face of stubble and tired eyes while the other boasted a grand mane of shoulder-length hair.
“Ah,” Lucifer winced internally at the way his voice grated discordantly along his dry throat. “I suppose you two apes are the owners of this time vault.”
Neither shifted a muscle. The shorter (Lucifer dubbed him Tweedledee) addressed him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice was deep and rough, obviously abused by a copious amount of hard liquor. The taller (Tweedledum) said nothing, and Lucifer took it as a cue to answer Tweedledee’s question.
“That… is rather difficult to answer. Would you find looking for a glass of water a suitable response?”
Tweedledum shifted his stance, studying Lucifer. “Who are you and who sent you?” He appeared to be the more intelligent of the two, so Lucifer turned his attention towards the man.
“The name’s Lucifer Morningstar, and I believe the initiator of my little conundrum is my ass of a father.” His patience (and consciousness) was starting to wear thin, and weariness was weighing at him. His words came out as a harsh bark at the mentioning of Dear Old Dad.
Something in his sentence sparked a reaction, but not really the one he was looking for. Instead of defusing the situation, it only made the plaid duo straighten and take an aggressive step forward. They moved with an odd synchrony that bothered Lucifer a little. “Right, you’re the Devil,” Tweedledee was talking again; his dry tone was drenched with sarcasm.
“What? Need a demonstration?” Lucifer was at the end of his rope. He wanted this idiotic little confrontation to end; what did it matter if a few humans went insane? They were in the middle of nowhere, anyway. He attempted to melt away his human visage and show the burnt mess underneath, but nothing changed. (So Dad had taken away his Devil face; just another thing to be pissed about.) Instead, he let his eyes burn with hellfire; at least they hadn’t been affected. “Is that enough proof for you?”
Again (infuriatingly), the humans didn’t react like he expected. There was no screaming, crying, begging, or even wetting of pants. They just continued to look more angry. “What are you—some kind of demon?” Tweedledee seemed intent on getting a rise out of the Devil.
This time, Lucifer didn’t hold back; he was done playing games. “A demon? ” He let his wings emerge from their hiding place (causing a few grains of sand to trickle to the floor; he did his best to ignore them) and flared them out; they ate up the space and replaced it with sharp white feathers. His voice rumbled in his chest and roared out of his throat like an untamed beast. “I’m Lucifer bloody Morningstar.” He advanced on the pair, barely noticing when bullets plinked off him like pebbles.
Embarrassingly, he didn’t make it more than a few steps before his legs decided to fail him and drop him to the floor in a flurry of rage and feathers. Mind-numbing sleep suddenly sounded like a really good idea, and he couldn’t care less that the last thing he saw was a discarded bullet rolling up near his nose.
Waking up from an exhaustion-induced unconsciousness was a fuck-ton more painful than falling into one. It didn’t help that Lucifer found himself manacled to a chair in what could only be described as a dungeon (and sadly, not the sexy kind). It was dank and dark and stank slightly of smoke, blood, and acrid herbs. His wings were still visible as well, and they too were bound in a very uncomfortable position. However, it only took him a few minutes to free himself completely; it would have taken less time if his head had stopped pounding every time he moved too sharply.
His captors and resident lumberjacks were nowhere to be seen. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait too long before they entered the little dungeon. Neither seemed to be expecting Lucifer to be awake yet, much less free. Once more, gun barrels were thrust into his face.
“Come now, gentlemen. You’ve tried this already—”
Tweedledee fired. Lucifer was braced for the tiny bruising that usually followed a bullet; he wasn’t prepared for the bullet to actually hurt him. “Bloody hell!” He cried out, instinctively crowding his injured wing closer to him. The wound burned, even more so than the time Chloe had shot him, and dark blood stained the feathers red and pink. “What the devil was that for?”
“Stay where you are, or the next one will be through the heart,” Tweedledee threatened, his expression hard-set.
Swallowing the pain, Lucifer slowly raised his hands in a surrendering position. “Gentlemen, there’s got to be a way to peacefully settle this little standoff.”
Tweedledum waved his extended gun at him. “Get back in the chair.”
The two apes didn’t seem too keen of talking things out, so Lucifer complied. He placed himself back in the chair, but he made no move to put the manacles back on. It didn’t seem to bother the duo; at least they had figured out that no binds could hold him.
“Right, here’s how this is gonna go,” Tweedledee had taken command of the situation again. “We’re going to ask you questions, and you’re going to answer them.”
“And if I don’t?” Lucifer was pretty sure what was going to happen if he didn’t, but it seemed like such a necessary piece of dialogue that he said it anyway.
As if on cue, Tweedledee answered. “You get another bullet in those pretty wings of yours.” He glanced at Tweedledum before nodding. Apparently, it was Bigfoot’s turn to lead the show.
There was an awkward moment of dead silence before Tweedledum deigned to speak. “What are you?”
Lucifer sighed. “I told you, I’m the Devil. Beelzebub, Belial, Old Scratch… perhaps you’ve heard of me?”
“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Lucifer got shoved through a rip in the world.”
The cogs in Lucifer’s head turned, and he directed his full attention to the giant towering over him. “Come again?”
“The Devil got his ass kicked into another dimension,” Tweedledee provided the terse quip.
Ah. That would explain a lot. Lucifer sent a quick glower at the ceiling. Thanks, Dad . “And why do you have a stick shoved up your ass? Miss the old Devil?”
That got a rise out of Tweedledee. The man gave him a glare so filled with fury and pain it would kill a lesser being (or at least scare them back to whence they came), and he forged a hellbent path towards Lucifer. Tweedledum intervened. “Dean!”
Finally, a name! (Lucifer was tempted to keep the nickname.)
The two fell into a hushed conversation which Lucifer strained to hear snippets of. He got words like “Devil” (him?), “dead” (he didn’t like the sound of that one), and “Cas” (Dean looked like someone had stabbed him).
He cleared his throat in an attempt to get their attention. “Could I possibly share my side of the story? It could clear things up a bit.” He paused as the duo looked at him. “Also, might I trouble you for a bandage? I’d rather not die from blood loss. And possibly a shirt as well?”
Dean and Tweedledum had a silent conversation before Dean exited the dungeon, and Lucifer was left with Bigfoot for company. He only lasted a few minutes before asking, “So, what’s your name?”
The man spared him a glance as if considering his answer. “Sam,” he finally said.
Dean and Sam. Sam and Dean. Such boring, bland names (about as creative as their owners’ fashion sense). “You and Dean. Friends? Brothers? Partners?” Sam seemed much more willing to talk, so Lucifer let his curiosity wander.
“Brothers.” That question made Sam uncomfortable, and Lucifer wondered what people assumed of them. “You haven’t heard of us? We’re kind of well known.”
“Well,” Lucifer allowed a faint chuckle (not that he was really amused; he was beyond pissed). “That’s the funny thing...”
Before he could launch into his story, Dean returned with first aid and a black t-shirt. He made to grab (manhandle) Lucifer’s wing, but the Devil lurched it out of his grasp with a wince. “Ah, no touching, please. They’re… sensitive.”
Dean simply stared—or rather, glared—at Lucifer before dropping the first aid kit and piece of clothing onto the floor with a muffled bang and shoving it in the fallen angel’s direction with his boot. Grumbling under his breath, Lucifer retrieved it from the floor. He’d like to believe there was much less wincing and hissing involved in the process than there actually was, but alas.
“So,” Lucifer began, fixing his injured wing in the most comfortable position possible in the little chair, “my story… I assume you fellows know about the Fall and everything, so pardon me if I skip the boring bits.” He launched into an abbreviated tale of his “holiday” from Hell, pausing as he drew closer to the current timeline. He shifted his attention from his now-bandaged wing to the brothers watching him with hawk-like stares. “No comments so far? Questions?”
“Just one—why are you here? ” Dean interjected the accusatory query.
“Patience. I’m getting to that.” Lucifer licked his dry lips and pulled the shirt over his head after folding his wings into another plane (an action which garnered hilarious expressions of surprise from Sam and Dean). “I had just left the hospital with the full intent of going to the detective’s house, but some imbecile decided to knock me upside the head. Next thing I know, I’m waking up in a hellish desert wearing nothing but my trousers and new wings. And, to top things off, I’m no longer even on my world.”
The brothers deadpanned. “So what you’re telling us,” Sam started slowly, “is you’re actually the Devil, but you’re not our Devil?”
“Precisely. At least, that’s what I think. This entire bloody thing is my father’s fault, if you ask me.” Lucifer shifted in his seat, studying the two brothers. “I never got to ask before, with you lot shooting me and all, but how is all this,” he waved a hand at himself, “not driving you mental?”
Again, Sam and Dean did their silent conversation thing, but this time, Lucifer was able to gather what they were debating. Do we trust him?
“I don’t lie, by the way,” he felt the need to interject.
Finally, the conversation ended and both turned back to the present Devil. “We’re hunters,” Sam explained. “Killing supernatural creatures, saving the people they attack. Dealing with the Devil is part of the job description.”
“I got just one last question—why exactly are you here, at the bunker?” Dean still looked like he wanted to murder Lucifer.
“There’s a nephilim loitering on your doorstep. Following that lead seemed like a good idea (at the time).”
Sam cast Dean a glance. “Jack’s back.”
“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.” Dean replied. “Go tell him where we are before he breaks something or wanders off.”
Sam rolled his eyes and holstered his gun before leaving the room. This time, Lucifer was left with Dean, and he had all the intention to grill him (or at least sate his curiosity a little).
“Dean, isn’t it?”
The shorter brother didn’t reply, shooting him a nasty look. The hunter’s gun was no longer pointed at Lucifer, but it was still clasped in his hand.
“Did past me kick your dog or something?”
Still, Dean didn’t answer, and Lucifer was getting tired of being ignored. He huffed and shifted, gathering Dean’s attention. “Right… now, what is it you desire, hm?”
Dean met him with a look of confusion, only the faint glazing of his eyes foretelling that Lucifer’s mojo was still working. “What?”
“What secrets are you hiding? C’mon, everyone’s got some…” Lucifer rose, albeit a bit cautiously. He wasn’t ready to be reacquainted with another bullet. The hunter made no move to shoot him, however. Lucifer strode closer until he was nose to nose with the man.
Dean was fighting against his charm, he could tell. The man’s jaw was twitching with denial as the words bubbled to his mouth. The struggle seemed to exhaust him, though, and when the secret burst forth, he looked weary beyond his years. “I just… I just want Cas back… I just want him back…”
“Oh, well…” Lucifer took a step back, letting Dean collect himself. He was straying into the dangerous territory that was human emotions, and there was no way in hell he was willingly getting into that mess. The room fell into an awkward silence after that, and it was thankfully broken by the sound of footsteps and Sam’s voice.
The tall hunter appeared in the dungeon’s doorway, accompanied by a small-statured human, or… Lucifer did a double take; the feeling that was wriggled its way into his head was going mad, and he struggled against it to think straight. Not a small human. Nephilim.
“Jack,” Sam was saying, talking to the abomination. He sighed and waved a hand at the Devil. “This is Lucifer Morningstar.”
Lucifer met Jack’s eyes and was confronted with such an intense feeling of power he took a step back. Likewise, the nephilim’s eyes took on a golden sheen.
“My… father?” Jack said lowly, confusion and anger twisting his face. As if the tension was palpable, Sam got between the two, his back facing Lucifer.
“No, Jack. It—it’s fine. He’s not your father… well, not technically. See, yeah, he’s Lucifer, but not from this dimension. He’s from… another place.” Sam’s words were hasty, but they seemed to calm the power that was emanating from the nephilim.
“Father?” Lucifer muttered. He was certain he was no one’s father (or at least, he hoped not; he was quite vigilant when it came to using protection). He looked to Dean (who was still just quietly observing) for answers.
“Our Lucifer took the President as a vessel and managed to knock someone up.” Dean explained with a vague shrug. (Not that the explanation made the situation any less confusing.)
“What?” Lucifer couldn’t keep the disbelieving laugh out of his tone.
The hunter waved a hand at him that meant ‘I’ll explain it later.’
By the time their little exchange had finished, Sam and Jack had ended their own conversation. Jack had stepped past Sam and was eyeing Lucifer with his head at a tilt. “Why are you here?”
The nephilim reminded Lucifer of a bird (and of himself; he had imitated the gesture before, much to his chagrin). “That’s what I would like to know. My being here is your fault, I’m quite certain. Why else would I have been drawn here?”
“I—I don’t know…” Jack looked perturbed by the question, and he dropped his eyes.
“Well, you must know something. My father doesn’t do anything without a plan. That’s his whole spiel, isn’t it? Obviously, I was sent here to fix this mess you humans have made.” All of his audience’s eyes were on him. Sensing their confusion, Lucifer plowed on. “You can’t just send a celestial being to another universe and not expect cosmic consequences, can you?” He wasn’t sure why it made sense (he wasn’t even completely following his own logic), but for some reason, it explained his predicament. “So… I fix this fuck up and I get to go back to my dimension. Ta da , everyone’s happy.”
Sam and Dean were still eyeing him like he was slightly insane (he was quite familiar with the expression), but at least the nephilim seemed to be following along.
“Right… so you need to do what exactly?” (Damn these humans and their slow minds!)
Lucifer sighed. Whatever otherworldly voice was whispering the answers in his ear hadn’t gotten that far. “I have utterly no idea.”
“Great.” Dean holstered his gun and strode out of the room.
Sam stared after him before looking back to the Devil. “We’ll figure it out.” He looked to the nephilim that still lingered nearby. “Jack, you mind setting up a room for Lucifer?”
“Sure.” Casting a last glance at Lucifer, Jack left as well.
Once more, Lucifer was left in the company of the long-haired hunter. The man in question crossed his arms and shifted uneasily. Sam seemed much more uncertain without his two companions. Lucifer arched an eyebrow and tucked his hands into his ruined pant’s pockets. “I make you uncomfortable, don’t I?” It was a statement, a rhetorical question. The answer was obviously yes.
Sam held his gaze, his hazel eyes a myriad of unreadable thoughts. “We’ve… allied with Lucifer—our Lucifer—in the past. It… never turned out well.”
“Why? The sourpuss not cooperative?” Lucifer grinned.
Sam’s jaw set, and his eyes took on the sheen that Chloe’s got when she talked about her father. “He killed our friend.” The grin disappeared from Lucifer’s face, and he schooled his features to display a stoic sadness (he didn’t completely have a grip on emotions, but enough time with Chloe and fragile humans taught him that people didn’t react well to jokes about the dead). “And he took our mother with him to this other dimension.” Sam continued on, his eyes gaining a faraway look. Whatever memories plagued him, he shook off and fixed his stare back upon the Devil. “Jack can’t open the portal again by himself, but…”
“But maybe I can.” Lucifer finished the statement. “So you want a favor: I help save your mother.” He read between the lines. He could do favors; he understood favors.
“Yeah.” Sam’s shoulders relaxed. “Just, don’t tell Dean.”
“Ooh, a secret favor. Right-o.” The grin returned to Lucifer’s face. “I will be expecting retribution on this secret favor, though.” That was how favors worked, after all.
“Of course.” Sam nodded slightly and exited the room. He paused in the doorway and looked back to Lucifer; he rubbed at his neck with a nervous air. “You, uh… do you eat?”
In response, Lucifer’s stomach growled mightily, and he was reminded of his raging hunger (and thirst). “Yes! What a preposterous question. Some whiskey would be wonderful, as well. Or even just a glass of cold water.”
His answer managed to pull a flickering smile on to Sam’s face. “C’mon. There’s food and water in the kitchen.” The hunter started up the hallway, and the fallen angel trailed after him.
Jack was watching as Lucifer inhaled a turkey on rye, his head tilted in the permanent angle it seemed to live in. Lucifer eyed the nephilim in return, slurping at a glass of water. “D’ya mind?” He set the glass down with a harsh clink, making Jack jump slightly.
“I—” The nephilim looked abashed and uncertain. He averted his eyes, studying the floor with a sudden intensity.
Lucifer snorted and finished his sandwich with the gusto that only a starving man (or Devil) possessed. He continued to study the nephilim over the rim of his glass; Jack had sat down across from him midway through his meal and proceeded to stare at him as he ate. The nephilim reminded Lucifer of himself more than he’d like to admit; or rather, he reminded Lucifer of who had used to be, before he had met Chloe: naive to humanity, curious, childlike, as if every experience was new and exciting.
Lucifer shook away the thoughts and set his plate in the sink. He chugged the rest of the water before joining the glass with the plate. Sam had disappeared after giving him his sandwich, and Dean had yet to reappear from wherever he had slunk off to. Peeking his head out of the kitchen, Lucifer looked up and down the hallway. Vaguely, he could hear sounds coming from the right, so he set off in that direction.
He didn’t make it more than a few steps before he made out the shuffling of footsteps following him. Jack, the nephilim. The little brat was still intent on shadowing his every step. He was like Chloe’s spawn, Trixie, but without any of the cheeky charm. Lucifer rounded on the abomination, his eyes glowing with hellfire and his teeth bared. Unbidden, his wings flared into existence and scrunched up in a threatening pose in the tiny hallway. “Stop it!” He growled, his voice low and feral.
Jack froze; he balked and stumbled over himself in his haste to back away from the defensive Devil. He threw a hand up, and Lucifer felt a rush of power emanate from him. The nephilim’s eyes glowed with golden light, and Lucifer was shoved backwards into the wall. His wings crumpled around him, and the sudden movement tore at the bandage wrapped around his injured wing. He winced and swallowed another growl. Lucifer pulled himself into a semi-sitting position and eyed the nephilim with renewed wariness. Jack was watching him with the same expression; his hand was lowered, but his eyes still reflected golden light.
Apparently, their little confrontation had caused quite a commotion, because Sam and Dean came tearing around the corner with guns drawn. The duo lowered the firearms when they saw the scene spread out before them, but their expressions were hard set.
“Jack.” Sam’s voice was terse as he called to the nephilim. “What happened?”
Jack looked close to tears, and he hugged his hand to his chest, his other hand picking at his knuckles. “I…”
Lucifer pulled himself upright and brushed himself off. His wings winked out of view, and he glanced sheepishly at the hunters. “My fault, boys.” He wasn’t sure why he was taking responsibility for the nephilim’s reaction; he never took responsibility for a situation unless he was actually the one at fault. Maybe spending so much time with the detective had rubbed some of her personality off on him. “I… startled him. I didn’t know he would react like that.”
The brothers still looked a little uncertain, but they slowly put their guns away. Dean muttered something under his breath about annoying sons of bitches and walked back the way he had come. Sam glanced at Lucifer and went to Jack. He laid a comforting hand on the nephilim’s shoulder. “Hey, you alright?” The soft words were directed to Jack, not the Devil who had been slammed into a wall. Lucifer somehow felt as though he had broken Sam’s brittle trust in him.
Lucifer shifted and cleared his throat. Sam looked to him, an eyebrow raised in inquiry. “Is there a place I could rest?”
The hunter was silent a moment. “Just a bit farther down the hall. First door on the right.”
Lucifer dipped his head and shuffled off towards the indicated room. The room displayed the same decor as the rest of the bunker. It was mostly barren save for a few shelves, a dresser, and a bed. To the side, there was another door that undoubtedly led to a bathroom. Suddenly, a hot shower sounded really nice. Lucifer stripped off his clothes (he needed to find some new pants, he noted; his were torn to shreds) and stepped into the shower.
As the hot water pelted down around him, he allowed his wings to unfurl. The shower was large, but nowhere near large enough to house his wings comfortably. A single twitch sent them bumping against the cold tiles. Nevertheless, he let the steaming water wash away the remaining sand and blood. With the bandage removed from his wing, he could tell that the bullet wound was mostly healed, but his sudden meeting with the hard wall had caused the offended skin to tear a little. The multitude of white feathers would be hell to dry, but getting them clean was worth it. After scrubbing his fingers through his wet curls one last time, he stepped free of the shower. He did his best to towel off the appendages, but they continued to drip onto the bathroom floor.
Lucifer sighed and tugged on a silk robe he found hanging in the bathroom’s closet. The action required him to send his wings away to pull the robe over his shoulders, and he could feel the cold water dripping off of them even after they were gone. Once the robe was on, the wings were summoned again. Disappearing them to a separate plane was handy, but they remained in stasis there; if he didn’t let them air out in the visible plane, they would stay wet indefinitely, and that would just be a pain in the ass.
He threw himself down on the bed and sank into the sheets. It didn’t compare to his bed with its Egyptian cotton at all, but it felt heavenly to his bruised body. Against Jack, he felt as mortal as he did around Chloe (hopefully it was just because the nephilim was an extremely powerful celestial being; he was certainly no miracle). Lucifer felt uncharacteristically tired, and the lull of sleep was calling his name. He wasn’t even bothered by his soggy wings staining the sheets with water as he drifted off into oblivion.
The smell of coffee tickled Lucifer’s nose and yanked him from the entrapment of deep sleep. In a groggy state of half-awake, he tried to roll over. Instead, he was pinned down by two enormous wings which were completely asleep (right; those were still there). The Devil suppressed a groan and sat up, stretching. His back and shoulders popped with a satisfying rush of endorphins, but his wings remained limp. Slowly, they began to wake up, but the blood-deficient muscles protested with the feeling of pins and needles. Lucifer grumbled under his breath and tucked the feathery nuisances out of sight. (At least they were dry.)
Lucifer searched through the drawers and closet for any new, fresh clothing to wear, but they were empty save for a few moth-eaten scraps. Begrudgingly, he put yesterday’s clothing back on. Outside the room’s door, however, he found a t-shirt and pair of worn jeans neatly folded. On the top was a scrawled note: You need some new clothes. These should fit. -SW. So the taller Winchester didn’t completely hate him; that was good to know. Lucifer glanced up and down the empty hallway before retrieving the clothing from the floor and putting it on.
Jeans and a tee weren’t really his thing, but they were better than tatty slacks and an old shirt. The t-shirt hung off him a bit, but other than that, they appeared to fit fine. Lucifer cast himself a glance in the bathroom mirror (then he decided he’d much rather not look at himself and instead find out where the delicious scent of coffee was coming from).
He threaded his fingers through his unruly curls as he plodded towards the kitchen, trying to get his hair to at least go in one direction. The curls persisted, however, sticking up in odd directions.
Lucifer slowed as he reached the bunker’s kitchen. He was hesitant to walk in, and he was faced with an emotion he hadn’t fully experienced yet: apprehension. The trio that was Sam, Dean, and Jack seemed almost like a family, albeit with a few disagreements and squabbles. He was an outsider, lost and not to be completely trusted. Not even a silver tongue and devilish charm could make him be accepted.
Sucking in a breath, Lucifer entered the kitchen (because what was he doing loitering outside like a lost puppy? He was Lucifer fucking Morningstar). Instantly, the conversations ceased. Dean looked up at him from a pan of sizzling pancake batter, and Sam from the coffee maker. Only Jack’s eyes didn’t meet his; the nephilim was absorbed in shoving a syrup-soaked strawberry around the circumference of his half-eaten pancake.
Lucifer forced a flashy grin onto his face, doing his best to ignore the piercing looks he was getting. “Good morning!” Dean’s attention flicked from his face to his borrowed clothes. (Lucifer wondered if he recognized them as Sam’s.) The elder Winchester merely grunted in response to his greeting. Sam returned it without the ‘good’, and Jack mumbled it to his breakfast.
The air was tense before Lucifer decided to sit down at the table. Jack shot a glance at him and finally stabbed the strawberry with his fork. The nephilim nibbled at it while watching the Devil. Lucifer sat there absorbed in his thoughts until Sam walked over and sat a steaming cup of coffee beside him. Lucifer looked up at him with mild surprise. He took the mug and stared at it for a moment. “Thank you…” He said after a thought. “For the clothes, as well.”
Sam gave him a small smile. “ ‘Welcome.”
The kitchen fell into silence again, and the only sound was from the sizzling of the cooking pancakes. Lucifer didn’t feel a need to make any noises, lest he get more withering glares from Dean. Instead, he sipped at his coffee; the caffeine cleared his mind of lingering sleepiness, and he began to sort through the chaos that had been yesterday. So, his wings were back, he had been transported to another world, and everything he knew was different. A stray thought wormed its way into his conscience, and he voice the question aloud in Sam’s direction. “What did you mean by vessel?”
“What?” The younger Winchester had been engrossed in his breakfast. Confusion was written across his face, and his brow furrowed.
“Yesterday, you said your Devil took the President as a vessel. What’d you mean by that?”
“That’s how angels and demons work. If they don’t have a mortal vessel, they’re just—‘spirits’. I thought—” Sam broke off. His gaze, which had been trained on Lucifer’s face, drifted to study Lucifer himself. “Are you saying you don’t have a vessel?”
“Nope. Had this face since the day I was created.” (And it was the only face he had, now that his Devil face was gone.)
Sam looked ready to ask more questions; his curiosity had been piqued, but Dean chose at that moment to sit down at the table beside his brother.
The shorter Winchester brother shoved a plate of pancakes across the table towards Lucifer. “Sam says you actually eat, so—here.” He squared his shoulders and dug into his food.
Lucifer stared at Dean for a moment. Finally, he shrugged to himself and took a bite of his proffered breakfast. Contrary to the man’s appearance and attitude, he could cook an excellent pancake.
Awkwardness settled once more into the kitchen as everyone ate and no one spoke a word. Sam and Dean shared a few glances, but beyond that, there was no communication of any kind. After a while, Jack stood up and disappeared into the many halls of the bunker. Lucifer was tempted to follow him, but after remembering what had happened the last time the two of them were left alone, he thought better of it.
His own pancakes disappeared quickly, and he gulped down the rest of his coffee (he may or may not have burnt his tongue a little) to escape the judging eyes of the Brothers Two. The Devil shot a hasty compliments to the chef at Dean before disposing of his plate and mug. He could feel the pair’s eyes on him the entire time, and despite himself, he felt a flush of… something. Embarrassment? Shame? No, that couldn’t be right… Nevertheless, as soon as his utensils put away, he hightailed it out of the room.
Low voices sounded from the kitchen as soon as he was out of the doorway. Lucifer loitered outside in the hallway, straining his ears to hear what they were saying.
Sam started talking about researching something. A case? Dean’s voice began, louder than Sam’s had been. “So, what? You just wanna leave the Devil and a nephilim together while we go off on a hunt? Remember what happened last time they were left alone together? I’d rather the bunker not be turned into a celestial warzone.”
“It was an accident, Dean. Lucifer said he hadn’t known—”
“What, you trust this asshole now?”
Sam’s sigh was audible from the hallway. “Dean, I—no, I don’t trust him. I just think it would do us some good to just work a case by ourselves.”
“Us?” Skepticism was rich in the elder brother’s tone.
“ You. It would do you some good.” Suddenly, Sam’s voice dropped to where Lucifer couldn’t make out what he was saying.
There was a moment of silence before Dean’s voice snapped, “Fine. Go round up Lucifer and Jack and make them play nice.”
There was more silence before the sound of a chair scraping across the floor echoed from the room. Lucifer realized the brothers likely wouldn’t take kindly to him listening in on their conversation. He crept back to the room he had been given as quietly as possible and tried to act like he had been there the entire time. Not a minute later after he had situated himself on his bed did Sam’s head come peeking around the door. “Yes?” Lucifer asked, even though he knew full well why Sam was there.
“C’mon. We need to have a chat.”
Lucifer feigned ignorance as he unfolded himself from the bed and trailed after Sam. The Winchester led him to the library where Jack was seated at a table reading a book. The nephilim lifted his head when the two entered; his expression grew nervous when he saw Lucifer. The Devil couldn’t help but mirror the feelings.
Sam indicated for Lucifer to sit in the chair opposite of Jack. Obliging, Lucifer settled into the seat and folded his hands across his chest. “Right, what’s this you want to talk about? Where’s your brother?”
“Dean’s busy.” Sam ran his tongue over his bottom lip and focused most of his attention on Jack. “We found a case.” That drew the nephilim’s full attention; instantly, his entire face brightened. “But we think we should handle it alone. It’ll be quick, and we’ll be back in a couple of days.”
“But—” Jack looked ready to protest, but Sam cut him off before he could start.
“It’ll be easier this way, Jack.” Safer, Lucifer, heard, and he was pretty sure Jack heard it too. Jack looked crestfallen and a touch angry. It was probably a trick of the light, but Lucifer thought he saw a glimmer of gold in the nephilim’s eyes. “You can practice harnessing your powers.” Sam’s gaze flicked to Lucifer. “Maybe Lucifer can help.”
Scoffing aloud probably wasn’t the best plan of action, but Lucifer couldn’t help himself. Him? Teach someone? The thought was absurd. Sam sent him a hard glare, and Lucifer did his best to look innocent.
“Just… don’t leave the bunker, don’t destroy the place, and don’t kill each other.” Sam’s voice strained on his last few words, and his expression said that he was regretting leaving them alone.
“We’ll be good little children, won’t we, Jack?” Lucifer grinned and looked across the table at the nephilim. Jack didn’t seem to share his sentiments; he dipped his head and muttered an, “Okay.”
Sam eyed them both before nodding once and leaving. Lucifer watched him until he disappeared. His attention was drawn back to Jack by the scuffing of book leather on wood and the shuffling of pages. The nephilim was engrossing himself back in his book.
Wordlessly, Lucifer rose and meandered through the many bookshelves that were spread through the small library. Different titles jumped out at him. Some were in different languages, and some radiated ancient power. Lucifer’s fingertips danced across their spines as his gaze examined each one. He finally stopped and plucked an old, heavy volume from a top shelf. It was in Sanskrit, a language Lucifer hadn’t read in a long time. He flipped through a couple of the first pages before deciding it was worth the read.
Jack didn’t say anything as he returned to the table and plunked back down into his seat. The spine of his book creaked as he pried it open, and plumes of dust arose from the yellowed pages. The story the book told wasn’t magical in tone, but it was still an enthralling tale. It was so enthralling that Lucifer stayed still reading it for hours. He wasn’t aware of how much time had passed until he tried to straighten his posture, and his stiff back muscles screamed in protest. The little clock on the wall read 12:47, and Lucifer realized he hadn’t moved for nearly four hours.
He lifted his head towards Jack and found the nephilim missing. Had he really been so absent-minded that he hadn’t heard him leave? Lucifer stood and stretched languidly, his thoughts whirling as he did so. Where had the little miscreant wandered off to? The halls of the bunker were labyrinthian, and Lucifer had no desire to search through them all.
Lucifer strode towards the one he was familiar with—the one that led to his room and the kitchen. “O, nephilim? Jack?” He called down the passageway. His voice echoed back towards him, and it nearly muffled the clattering sound. Bingo. Farther down the hall was a room much like his own; Jack’s, he presumed. The door was ajar, but he knocked all the same. He didn’t want to be shoved into a wall again by a startled nephilim.
Jack was seated at a small desk with a pencil grasped firmly in his clenched fist. His wide eyes were locked on Lucifer. For a moment, the two simply stared at each other. Lucifer shifted and cleared his throat. “Lunch?” He offered, not entirely sure why he was offering. Jack gave a jerky nod and set the pencil aside. Lucifer made his way to the kitchen, and the nephilim tailed him.
The Winchester’s kitchen was quite basic, especially when compared to the kitchen he had had in LUX (had—it was still there in his own dimension, Lucifer reminded himself). However, despite the quaintness of it, it boasted a variety of food (not all of which was fresh) in the fridge and cupboards.
“Anything in particular you’d like? Soufflé, filet mignon, chicken cordon bleu?”
Instead of answering his question, Jack sat himself at the table. “You can cook?”
Lucifer huffed. “You can’t?” The kitchen didn’t have the ingredients for a two-star restaurant, much less a five-star, so the Devil settled for macaroni and cheese. He knew Trixie would eat anything he made, and Jack was similar to her, so maybe he’d do the same? In his musings, he nearly missed Jack shaking his head in answer to his (rhetorical) question.
“Nobody has taught me.”
“What are you, a child?” The water in his pot began to boil, and the dried noodles made a sharp shshing sound as Lucifer poured them in.
“I am only a few weeks old.”
Lucifer turned to face Jack, deadpanning. “How—? Right, nephilim…” He turned back to his pasta and drained it before adding the cheese and a bit of butter. It was simple and came from a box, but he could still try to make it taste good, couldn’t he?
His theory about Jack’s taste in food was proved correct when he offered a bowl of macaroni to the nephilim; Jack took it without complaint and even gave him a soft smile. Lucifer wasn’t sure how to react to the smile, so he opted to ignore it and grabbed his own bowl. He sat down, once more, opposite of the nephilim. For a long stretch of time, the only noises were the clinking of spoons against ceramic.
It wasn’t until both were nearly done did Jack speak. “You have wings,” he observed.
Lucifer’s head shot up; he wondered what had brought about such a strange subject. “Yes…” he said warily. He hadn’t given his wings much thought because of his current situation, but if he was still back home in his world, his new wings would’ve been shorn off the moment he got back to LUX. “Is that really surprising? I—” His voice died in his throat. Am an angel , he nearly said. “Was an angel.” He conceded.
“You were an angel?”
“Past-tense, yes. I was, right up until my Father decided to shove me out because I spoke against him.”
“Yes . God .” Lucifer said with a little more conviction than necessary; his words nearly came out a feral growl. His poor spoon had nearly been bent in half in his tense grip. He relaxed and took a breath, dropping the spoon into the bowl. (Hopefully the Winchesters wouldn’t notice that one of their spoons was a little crooked…)
Jack had snapped his mouth shut at the Devil’s tone and was silent as he ate the rest of his lunch. Lucifer considered him, his fingers tapping the side of his bowl. His feathers were still ruffled (quite literally) from their parental conversation, and a thousand snarky and biting comments were on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed and looked down at the remains of his own lunch.
“What about your father, hm?” Lucifer schooled his tone to be nearly flat. Emotionless. “The other me . From what I hear, he’s nowhere near as charming as yours truly.” He allowed a small smirk to curl his lips.
Jack met his gaze. “I never met him. He’s my father, but he’s not my family.” The nephilim’s expression became a touch happier. “Sam and Dean are. Sam’s helping me to control my powers so I don’t hurt people. Or he’s trying, at least. Dean doesn’t really like me, but that’s just because he’s hurting.”
Lucifer stared at Jack, his jaw working. For a being only a few weeks old, he was pretty wise. Standing, Lucifer collected their bowls. Much to his surprise, Jack joined him at the sink. “What’re you doing?”
“Helping,” Jack supplied simply, flashing Lucifer another soft smile. He said it as if it explained everything. Maybe it did. Maybe it meant he would help Lucifer save the Winchester’s mother, as the Devil had promised. Maybe it meant he would help him get home. Maybe… Maybe he was reading too far into the situation. Lucifer gave his head an imperceptible shake to clear his thoughts and instead focused on making sure the dishes were spotless.
For the next two hours, Lucifer and Jack spent their time in the library, reading as they had been before lunch. The air was lacking the tension it had been before (and this time, Lucifer decided to sit in one of the plusher, more comfortable seats). Reaching the end of his story, Lucifer closed his book with a snap. The noise made Jack jump slightly, and the kid looked up from the laptop he was perched behind. (After growing tired of his book, Jack had retrieved Sam’s laptop and said he was going to do some research. Had it been anyone else, Lucifer would’ve suspected he was watching porn, but he doubted the nephilim even knew what porn was, which was a disappointment in itself.)
The Devil put the book back in its proper spot and began to peruse the shelves once more. He stopped in front of a sword on display atop one of the shelves. Curiosity and mischief were in his mind, and he plucked the blade from its stand. The edge was sharp and polished, and the hilt sat perfectly weighted in his hand. He gave it a few experimental flicks and grabbed another sword from a wall display.
Jack was watching him as he reemerged from the maze of bookcases; the nephilim’s brow was drawn up in confusion. “What’re you doing?”
“You need to learn to control your powers. I’m teaching you.” At least, he assumed he was going to. (He hadn’t ever purposefully tried to teach someone something before; it was going to be a learning experience for the both of them.) He slid the other sword across the table to Jack.
Jack looked uncertain, but he grasped the sword nevertheless and stood.
“Right… Come here. Too much table in the way over there.” Lucifer beckoned the kid towards a clear spot in the center of the room.
“I don’t understand how this will help me.” Jack’s shoulders were squared defensively, and the blade hung loosely in his hand.
Lucifer sighed. “I—I never had to learn how to control my powers. It was instinctual to me on how to utilize them.” He licked his lips, debating his next words. “ However , I did have quite the temper when I was small. It was always getting me into all kinds of trouble.” Still did , the thought came to his mind unbidden, but he shoved it away. “So, my brother, Amenadiel, gave me a sword and told me that if I could disarm him, he would take the blame for me the next time I got in trouble.”
Jack merely blinked owlishly at the Devil, his grip on the sword a bit tighter.
“Of course, I saw it as a grand deal, so I agreed and rushed him. I was stronger than him (still am) and could easily overpower him in a brawl. But the next thing I knew, I was flat on my back and Amenadiel was standing over me with my sword in his hand.” Lucifer continued, occasionally gesturing with the tip of his blade. “Then the bastard made me learn how to sword fight until I could disarm him. I learned two things then: not to trust Amenadiel with deals, and how to control myself in a fight.”
“You want to teach me how to sword fight.” Jack said quietly, looking at the sword in his hand.
Lucifer gave another sigh. His entire story had been lost on the nephilim. “Yes.” He acquiesced. “Now, c’mon. Disarm me. Ah—with your sword.”
Jack lowered his free hand he had started to raise. Instead, he hefted the sword and stepped towards the fallen angel; he aimed a clumsy slash at Lucifer’s side, which Lucifer easily dodged.
In an instant, the Devil was upon him. Lucifer knocked the sword out of Jack’s hand with ease and placed the tip of his blade at Jack’s throat. “Keep your grip on the hilt firm but not rigid. And keep your wrist flexible, not a noodle.”
The afternoon progressed into the evening with the scene in the library on repeat. Each time, however, Jack got closer to knocking the sword from Lucifer’s grasp. The kid was a fast learner. A few times, the sword blades met skin, but they simply glanced off Lucifer, and Jack promised that he felt no pain when he got cut (which Lucifer felt inclined to believe when he watched an accidental scratch heal before his eyes).
It was nearly nine o’clock before Lucifer called for a rest. He wasn’t tired per se, but the kid had given him a run for his money, and he still wasn’t fully recovered from yesterday’s events. Jack seemed to share his sentiments and dropped into a nearby chair. He set his sword on the table beside him and rubbed at his sore wrists.
Lucifer collected the swords and returned them to their display stands. He casted Jack a glance before striding off to the kitchen. He was too weary to make anything intricate, but he found a can of tomato soup buried in the cupboard (surprisingly, it wasn’t from the 1950’s) and set it to cook in a pan on the stove.
He returned to the library with two bowls of steaming soup and found Jack asleep with his head pressed against the table. The Devil suppressed a soft chuckle at the kid’s sleeping expression and set the bowls on the table. Cautiously, he prodded Jack’s shoulder.
Much to Lucifer’s surprise, he didn’t wake with a start. He lifted his head groggily and stared at Lucifer with a blank expression. After a moment, Jack seemed to realize where he was and what was going on. He scrubbed a sleeved hand over his face and eyed the soup hungrily. Lucifer started to push a bowl over to him, but Jack held up a hand.
“Wait, I want to try something.”
Lucifer had a pretty good idea of what ‘try something’ meant, so he picked up his own bowl and stepped away from the table for good measure.
Jack’s face morphed into an expression of intense concentration. He held his hand out towards the bowl, and slowly, it began to inch its way across the table towards him. It made it about halfway before Jack dropped his hand. Frustration wormed its way onto his face. He reached across the table and dragged the bowl the rest of the way to him.
“That’s an improvement, isn’t it?” Lucifer decided it safe enough to sit down. He propped his feet up on the chair beside him and sipped at his soup.
“Yes…” Jack answered begrudingly.
Lucifer said nothing else, eating his soup in silence. The kid did the same, and he never raised his gaze. Lucifer cleared his throat to get his attention. “I don’t usually say this, especially to a nephilim, but—I think you are good. And I know what good looks like; I know a miracle.” He gave a wry smile at the thought of Chloe. “And I know you will learn how to control your powers because you are good, and…” (And he was rambling; excellent.)
He dropped his head towards his bowl, embarrassed at showing such sentiment.
“Thank you.” Jack’s reply was muffled but sincere, and Lucifer could hear the soft smile painting his expression.
Later, when Lucifer was lying on his bed, sleep evaded him. His restless thoughts flitted between Chloe, home, his wings, Jack, the Winchesters, and his eminent problem. He rolled onto his side and pressed his eyes shut. Normally, he wouldn’t care if he slept or not, but he was exhausted from the previous day’s ordeal and his sparring with Jack. He would rather not be groggy the next day and have to run solely on caffeine.
Sleep finally did find him, but he dreamed (he never dreamed!) and it was the opposite of restful. It was dark, and the shadows grasped at him like tortured souls of Hell. In the distance, he could see glimpses of her—Chloe—calling to him for help. He never could reach her, though, and if he got too close, the shadows dragged him down and began whispering nasty things in his ears. Finally, he managed to shake them off and draw near to Chloe. ‘Chloe!’ He called, reaching out a hand to her. She turned, and her joyous expression morphed to one of horror and disgust. She jerked her hand away and stumbled backwards. ‘What—what are you…?’ A cold fear settled in the pit of Lucifer’s stomach, and he looked down at his outstretched hand; scaly, red, burnt skin met his gaze, and he didn’t need a mirror to feel the hellfire emanating from his eyes and face.
‘No—no, Chloe, wait!’ He made a mad grab for her and managed to ensnare her wrist. She shrieked when he caught her and began to struggle out of his grasp. ‘Let go of me, you monster!’ Monster. That word struck Lucifer like a stone, and he let go of Chloe’s wrist in shock. Free, Chloe turned and disappeared once more into the shadows. Lucifer dove after her, his heart thundering in his chest. He finally caught up to her in a small clearing in the shadows; Chloe had her back to him, and she was facing a towering shadowy form. Before Lucifer even had the chance to speak, the shadow struck at Chloe, and a bloody sword tip was thrust through her small body.
‘CHLOE!’ Lucifer tore his throat raw with his scream, and he surged forward to kneel beside her fallen form. ‘No no no no…’ He held her hand, not caring that his was still a mess of burnt flesh. Chloe drew a shuddering breath as blood oozed from the stab wound in her chest. Her attention focused on Lucifer, and intangible fear entered her eyes. ‘This is your fault… How—how could you do this to me…?’ Her breath wheezed out of her chest as the light in her eyes died. ‘No!’ A sob racked Lucifer. ‘No…’ He gripped her hand tighter as it grew unbearably cold, willing for life to fill her once more.
The shadows whirled around him, whispering jabs and taunts in his ears. ‘Look what you’ve done…’ One hissed. The shadows plucked at him painfully, and white feathers stained red at the quill rained down around him. ‘This is what you deserve, Monster…’ A feral snarl built in Lucifer’s chest, and he let it out; the shadows scattered at the inhuman roar he released, and everything disappeared except for Chloe’s blood on his trembling hands.
Lucifer woke in a cold sweat and hugged his shaking fingers close to his chest. It took him a moment to realize that at some point during the night, his wings had unfurled, and they were draped over him. He pulled them tighter around himself and took comfort in their familiar weight. His heart pounded in his ears, and his face was streaked with half-dried tears. He was a mess.
He laid curled up on his bed for an intermittent amount of time while he regained control of himself. Finally, he sat up (his head was still pounding quite painfully) and willed his wings away. The comforting weight left him, and he almost missed it. He couldn’t stay like this all day, though. Jack would come looking for him, and there was no way in hell he was letting the kid see him like this.
Lucifer heaved himself off the bed and stumbled to the shower. He looked long enough in the mirror to note the bruises beneath his eyes but not long enough to comprehend the red scratch marks on his chest. He showered quickly, scrubbing at his hands the longest in a futile attempt to wash away Chloe’s unseen blood. As he was toweling off, his foot slipped out from under him, and his wings shot out to balance himself. The right wing’s pinions struck the mirror and shattered it into a million little shards. Great, another thing to be pissed at. With a deepthroated growl, Lucifer seized a large shard of the mirror and hurled it at the wall; it broke into even smaller pieces, tinkling to the floor.
Heaving a sigh, Lucifer sheathed his wings and swept the shards aside with his foot. He had no new clothes to wear (something Sam Winchester hadn’t thought of), so he pulled back on the wrinkled clothes from yesterday. As he left his room, he tugged his fingers through his rampant curls, but per usual, they stayed wild (and he was quite certain the Winchesters didn’t invest in any gel).
The hallway smelled like burnt food, and the smell only grew stronger as Lucifer approached the kitchen. Leaning in the doorway of the kitchen, the Devil watched Jack scrub at a crusted frying pan with a spatula. Bits of half-burnt eggs littered the counter, the stove, and the sink. And if the bunker had had functioning fire alarms, Lucifer was sure they would be blaring. It took Jack a moment to realize Lucifer was present, and the kid shot him a cheery grin. “I’m cooking.”
Lucifer couldn’t help himself; he huffed a laugh, dispelling the wisps of unease the nightmare had set in his bones. “Yes, it certainly smells like it.”
A frown settled on Jack’s face and he turned his attention back to the frying pan where more smells of smoke were arising. “They’re all burning, though. Why?”
The Devil pushed himself off the doorframe and approached Jack. He leaned past the kid and turned off the stove; grasping the pan, he set it in the sink and procured a new one from a cabinet. “Well, you’re not doing it properly. Give me an egg.”
Jack complied, thrusting an egg into Lucifer’s hand. Lucifer set the pan on a new eye and cracked the egg with practiced ease. He could feel Jack’s interest as he poured the contents of the egg into the frying pan without letting a piece of shell fall in. “There, you try.”
Eagerly, Jack grasped an egg and mimicked Lucifer’s actions. “Softer…” Lucifer breathed as the kid smacked the egg against the edge of the pan with too much force and created a sizable hole in the shell’s side. Jack cast him a glance before trying again, gently tapping around the egg’s circumference. Splitting the egg seemed to be easier for Jack, and he broke the two pieces apart without any problems. A broad smile broke across his face as he spilled the white and yolk into the pan with Lucifer’s egg.
“Right, how d’you want them? Fried? Scrambled?” Lucifer grabbed the spatula.
“Scrambled.” Jack leaned against the counter beside the stove and watched as Lucifer broke the yolks and stirred them together with the whites. Lucifer turned the eye down and began to flip the egg bits until they were nicely congealed. He turned the eye off and grabbed the salt and pepper shakers, sprinkling the spices into the eggs.
“There. Scrambled eggs.” The Devil dished their breakfast evenly onto two plates and set the pan in the sink atop the crusty one.
Jack sat down at the table and Lucifer sat opposite of him. They ate in silence, but it wasn’t as awkward as yesterday’s breakfast or lunch had been. After finishing his eggs, Lucifer made himself a cup of coffee; he nearly inhaled his first cup, not caring that the hot liquid scalded his tongue and lips. By his second cup, he was feeling more awake and more at ease. He had thought about giving Jack some coffee, but the kid was already so lively, he’d probably spontaneously combust with caffeine in his system.
Again, Jack was watching him from across the table. Lucifer took a sip of his coffee before speaking. “Y’know, most people consider it rude to stare.”
Jack averted his gaze hastily. “Sorry.” He mumbled.
Lucifer hummed into his mug. “S’fine.”
The kid fiddled with his fingers, glancing back at Lucifer’s face. “You didn’t sleep well last night.”
Lucifer gripped his coffee, cold fear pooling in his stomach as he recalled his nightmare. “Bad dream.” His voice was a bit croaky, and he cleared his throat to remove the huskiness.
“I heard you calling out to someone.”
Lucifer’s nails chipped at his mug, and ceramic flakes fell onto the table.
The mug made a shattering bang as Lucifer slammed it down against the table. Jack jumped, and his eyes flared golden. Still-hot coffee sloshed over the Devil’s fingers, and bits of ceramic crumbled under his grip. “ Shit… ” He hissed and stood, shaking coffee droplets off his hands. Lucifer grabbed a dishrag that hung by the sink and sopped up the coffee before it could drip onto the floor. “ Fucking hell… ” He growled and gathered up the mug pieces in the rag. He tossed the entire bundle in the trash; he could get the Winchesters a new rag later.
When he came out of his revery, Lucifer noticed that Jack had stood up as well and was eyeing him warily. “She’s—someone.” He said in answer to Jack’s question. The kid said nothing as Lucifer left the kitchen, leaving him to clean up the mess.
Lucifer found an old bottle of scotch hidden away in the library, and he brought it with him back to his room. Once inside, he settled himself on his bed and uncorked the decanter. He took a long draught of the scotch and leaned his head back, letting the alcohol burn a fiery course down his throat.
Why did he dream? Did he have to dream? Dreams were shit. He didn’t want to dream.
Lucifer spent the entire morning in his room, mulling over his thoughts and flashes of his dream. He was sure Jack had come by once; a knock had sounded on the door, but the kid didn’t try to open it even though it was unlocked. The scotch lasted a long while, but it eventually ran dry. After, he was left with a bitter taste in the back of his throat and a too-empty decanter.
The clock on the wall read half past eleven by the time Lucifer finally got up and left the room. He nearly tripped over it, but set beside his door was a sandwich (turkey on rye bread) and a glass of water. A smile tugged at the corner of Lucifer’s mouth. He picked up the plate and glass and made his way to the library. There, he found Jack swishing a sword around; on the table beside him lay a half-eaten sandwich.
“Hello,” Lucifer called out to let himself be known. Jack stopped immediately, the sword dropping to his side. “Thank you for the sandwich.”
Jack gave him his patented innocent grins. “I thought you would be hungry.”
Lucifer sat down at the table and took a bite of his sandwich. “You guessed correctly, then.”
Setting his sword aside, Jack joined him at the table and continued to eat his sandwich. Lucifer could feel the questions burning at Jack’s mind, but the kid never voiced them. For that, Lucifer was grateful.
Once they finished their sandwiches, Lucifer grabbed a sword, and the two began sparring again. As the afternoon stretched on, the Devil found it harder to keep his sword from being wrenched out of his grasp. Right before Lucifer was going to call it quits, Jack feigned a lunge at him, which Lucifer foresaw. The Devil parried it easily, but the kid suddenly changed course and struck his sword near the hilt; Jack twisted his own blade, and the sword was ripped from Lucifer’s grasp.
Jack’s face, which had been one of concentration, broke into a sunny grin, and a triumphant laugh bubbled out of the kid.
His hand was tingling from the strike, but Lucifer smirked and grabbed his sword from the ground. “It took you long enough,” He said teasingly. He returned the sword to its stand, reminding himself that it would probably need sharpening and polishing later. As he was putting his sword away, his eye caught on a particular book. It was small and looked positively ancient, and the spine was lettered with Enochian.
Curiosity piqued, Lucifer pried the book from the shelf. Jack put his own sword away and joined Lucifer. The kid peered over his shoulder. “What is it? Can you read it?”
“It’s—Enochian, the language of the angels. Yes, I can read it. It talks about portals… rifts in space and time. Magic…” Lucifer flipped through the first few pages, muttering under his breath. Jack leaned closer, peering at the little pictures the book depicted. “It’s useless…” Lucifer grouched, putting the book back on the shelf. “Nothing about how to actually open a damned rift.”
The Devil stalked back to the table and grabbed their plates from lunch before heading towards the kitchen. He didn’t catch Jack slipping the little book into his pocket.
His and Jack’s dinner consisted of more soup (chicken noodle this time) and buttered toast. It wasn’t very satiating taste-wise, but it was filling enough. Afterwards, Jack deemed it too early to sleep (as if Lucifer was going to sleep anyway) and bid that the Devil come watch TV with him. Lucifer obliged and grabbed a beer from the Winchester’s fridge (it wasn’t as if they’d notice; they had enough alcohol to intoxicate an angel). The beer was cheap and tasted stale, but it was beer nonetheless.
Jack had a TV in his room (which Lucifer thought unfair), so the kid sat perched on his bed while Lucifer nestled himself at the foot of the bed. The channel was playing old cartoons. It wasn’t Lucifer’s usual choice of television entertainment, but Jack seemed content and Lucifer had nothing better to watch, so he didn’t complain.
The hours stretched into the night, and the TV droned on. Lucifer was pretty sure Jack was asleep or at least dozing off. He thought about turning off the light and the TV, but he didn’t feel like getting up. He’d probably regret it later, but for the time being, the floor was quite comfortable.
Around midnight, Lucifer started to drift off; each time he started to fall asleep, he forced himself awake. He knocked his head against the bedframe a couple of times, and he knew he’d likely have a bruise by morning if he kept it up. In a fatigued haze, his wings made themselves known. He didn’t bother to send them away, though; instead, he wrapped them around himself like a safety blanket. His head drooped towards his chest, and he fell into sleep.
Dreams came to him in flashes. Truthfully, they were more like distorted memories. He dreamt of his childhood, safe in the Silver City with his siblings playing around him. Then the scene warped and Michael’s face was leering over him as he was shoved from Heaven. He tried to scream from the pain of the wind burning his skin and for the injustice of his ousting, but his voice didn’t make a sound. His wings flailed wildly beneath him as he tried to control his descent; they did nothing to slow is falling. Then it stopped and he was standing in Hell with the moaning of tortured souls swirling around him. It was the Hell he had left before going to LA, though, not the new Hell he had been given after his fall.
Before he could take a step, the scene changed again, and he was in an old church. Uriel was stood before him, ready to press the piano key that would end Chloe’s life. Lucifer was helpless against the memory that thrusted Azrael’s sword into Uriel’s chest. ‘No…’ The Devil breathed, willing it all to stop. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying to his Father to make it stop. Hot blood dripped down the blade and onto his hand. ‘How could you?’ A voice hissed, but it wasn’t Uriel’s; it was Chloe’s. Lucifer’s eyes sprang open, and Chloe’s lifeless face stared back up at him from where his brother had been. ‘No… I didn’t—I didn’t…’ Lucifer’s voices failed him, and he crumpled to the ground.
He awoke with a jerk, knocking his head against the bedframe with a loud bang! The Devil spit out curses, clutching his throbbing head. His wings twitched as they too woke up, and the muscles ached as he stretched them.
Lucifer got up slowly, rubbing his head gingerly. His neck had a crick in it (as he had expected), and stars danced on the edge of his vision. His wings disappeared in a fluttering of feathers, leaving only a few downy feathers as evidence. When he found that he could properly think again, he looked around. He was still in Jack’s room, but Jack himself was nowhere to be found. He would find the kid, but first he needed coffee and a clear mind. (He was pretty sure he was only going to get coffee.)
Lucifer was still on edge when he entered the kitchen. His dream had rattled him more than he’d admit to anyone. His mind was still in turmoil as he made himself a cup of coffee. The warm smell helped to settle his nerves a little, at least. He considered making some toast as well, but the thought of food made his stomach flip. No breakfast for him.
Gripping his coffee like a lifeline, Lucifer sipped at it as he made his way to the library. Jack was seated at a table, too engrossed in whatever he was typing to notice Lucifer’s presence. The kid didn’t look up until Lucifer sat down nearby and set his mug on the table with a clunk. Jack watched him, and Lucifer was certain he was going to ask more questions about his sleeping habits. To his surprise, Jack merely said a good morning and turned back to his work. Maybe the kid had wisened after all.
“What’re you doing?” Lucifer asked after a few minutes of silence.
Jack’s head snapped up, and he turned the laptop screen towards the Devil. “I think I found a case.” Jack pointed to some words on the screen, ready to explain what he had found.
Lucifer cut him off. “Does it help me get home?”
Jack deflated, trying to hide the hurt on his face. A feeling of guilt wormed its way into Lucifer’s heart. He sighed softly. “Fine, explain it to me.”
The kid brightened immediately and started talking about something odd he found in a newspaper. Lucifer tried to follow; he really did. His mind was still jarred from his dream, though, and his thoughts kept straying back to the sight of Chloe’s dead face staring back up at him. Jack’s voice faded into the background.
The heavy sound of boots on the tile floor raised Lucifer’s head. Dean was approaching the table (had he really been so lost in his mind that he hadn’t heard them come in?), his expression unreadable. Sam followed him, sporting a similar face. Jack greeted them before noting their silence. “What’s wrong?”
Sam shifted, casting a glance behind him. “Jack, uh—”
Lucifer followed the Winchester’s gaze.
Jack stood slowly. “Castiel…” He said softly.
Lucifer’s breath left him like he had been punched in the gut. He eyed the trenchcoat-garbed angel with trepidation as he stood as well. His voice didn’t break a whisper, and his words cracked as he spoke. “Brother…?”