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The crash of lightning outside was jarring, jolting his heart as though the bolt had struck him, instead of thundering a few hundred yards away. Sam wanted to close his eyes to avoid the shock of another flash, but the primal terror of a lizard-like instinct forced his eyes open after a mere heartbeat. His head spun around like an owl's, searching the dark, empty expanse madly, but finding nothing but runed bars and a vast darkness illuminated only in the brief flash of lightning.
Sam breathed a shaky exhale, his heart stilling from the sudden, eerie familiarity. His mind shrieked in a cacophony of incoherent terror, a desperate urge to flee clawing at his every bone, protesting his return to this place. Knowing he wouldn't survive another tenure—and knowing he wouldn't have a choice.
"Sammy," the all-too-familiar voice sang behind, a melody of ruin. He whipped around, the motion jerky and panicked, to find the bane of his soul flitting closer, his steps an easy wander.
Sam wanted to sprint, but his legs wouldn't work. Wanted to scream, but his lungs were stone.
He couldn't be back here. He couldn't—he couldn't. It was—he couldn't—it was impossible, he was out—it couldn't be real—he'd been out, he wasn't here—he couldn't be here.
"Welcome home," Lucifer wrapped an arm around his shoulder, the icy hand clasping his neck like the greeting of an old friend, "We have so much to catch up on."
"Stay away from me," Sam somehow managed a few stumbling steps, his body heavy and uncoordinated as though he was drunk. The motion merely served to sever the contact, rather than allot any real distance between them.
"Come on, Sam," Lucifer didn't seem deterred in the slightest, stretching his arms out as though in invitation, "I know you've missed me."
"This isn't real," Sam rebutted, eyes flicking about madly for anything to prove the truth of his assertion, but even his words were shaky.
The Devil cocked his head, face contorting in offence, "What makes you think that?"
Sam shook his head, the panic rising in his throat almost as tangible as bile. He'd gotten out. Dean said he'd gotten out—he'd promised. He hadn't been in the Cage in… in… his breaths were shallow—it was hard to think as the Devil approached casually, a mocking pout on his face.
"You're taking Dean's word over mine?" Lucifer's hands cupped Sam's cheeks before he could organize his fumbling, stalling limbs to another few steps. Lucifer stared into Sam's face, affecting hurt. The Winchester froze in his grip, heart quivering, his gaze dancing between the crimson eyes that smoldered like coals, for there was nowhere else to look. Apologies bubbled in his throat unbidden, pleas and offerings ready to follow, his protests withering beneath the nearness.
The Devil had other plans. Before a single syllable could escape, a sharp, burning pain erupted from Sam's shoulder. He gasped in pain and surprise, his eyes darting faster, searching, as he struggled to breathe. His gaze finally broke to find Lucifer's fingers tracing a vast, iron hook in Sam's flesh. At its sight, Sam couldn't help but tense further, for he recognized the tool, and he knew it never travelled far from its siblings.
"Does it feel real?" Lucifer asked, his voice piercing, curious.
Sam forced a shaky nod, muffling his cry of pain to a mere grunt when another hook speared his other shoulder, then another. He returned his eyes to Lucifer's, though they filled unbidden with tears from the agony.
"Good," Lucifer patted Sam's cheek, smiling, "I missed you too, you know."
The pain—it felt real, but that was good. It was jarring, clarifying.
"I can't be here," Sam whispered, not sure if he was speaking to the Devil or himself. "I can't—I can't be here." He could remember—he could remember Dean promising he was safe, he remembered him proving it true day after day.
"You're always here," Lucifer tugged on one of the chains trailing from a thick hook, forcing Sam to stumble into the pull and grit his teeth to withhold a scream. "You never left."
"No," Sam shook his head, pressing into the burning sting of his flesh as the hook grated against bone, "No—I got out. I got out."
He could remember Dean, Cas, drilling it into his mind, repeating it over and over. Lucifer wouldn't exhaust himself with the assurances for so long, not even for the sake of the sick game. He bored easily—he'd never let it last so long.
"Does it look like you got out, to you?"
Sam retreated a step, despite the immediate tension in his shoulders as the hook strained against his body. He forced himself to meet the Devil's gaze, trying to steady his shaky voice. "This is a dream. You're not real—this is—this is just a dream."
Lucifer chuckled, "Is that what you think?"
Sam ignored it—it was a taunt, it was a lie, it was just a manifestation of memory. He squeezed his eyes shut, wrapping his fingers around one of the hooks. After a deep inhale, he ripped it from his flesh and, without hesitation—for the Devil pounced in hesitation—he raked its sharp tip deep across his throat until his sight wavered in white light, and his body collapsed in a heap.
Sam gasped for air as his eyes flung open, the dark shadows of the room slowly taking shape. A wooden dresser stood against the opposite wall, a painted canvas of a simple landscape hanging above it. He was lying on a bed; the walls were painted a muted, deep green; there was a book, lamp, and small glass of water on the nightstand at his side. It was dull, simple—safe. His sheets were drenched in sweat, tangled around his body, his pillow lumped unevenly behind him.
He heaved a heavy sigh of relief, raking his fingers through his damp hair, then cupping his hands over his face for a moment to recompose. After releasing another breath, he finally leaned back against the headboard, his eyes flicking around the room one final time to verify his solitude.
Just as he was about to settle back further into the bed, he froze, breath catching, heart stilling, for two crimson eyes stared back from the shadows.
He immediately reached for the lamp—only, his arm wouldn't move. The realization sparked a burst of panic; he tried to slide his legs from the bed, or if he couldn't manage that, to maybe draw them up defensively. But he couldn't move. Not an inch. He couldn't even turn his head a single degree. His eyes were the only thing free from the spell, and they couldn't part from those staring back with a fiery glow.
"Did you really think you could get away?" the deep, familiar voice drifted from the shadows, the figure slowly taking form as it approached, garbed in a pristine white suit.
"This… this isn't real." Sam's tongue and lips proved a similar exception, but the rest of his body found no grace, no liberation.
"Careful, Sam," Lucifer warned with a smile that gleamed from the dark, "Deny me much more, and the rooster's going to run out of breath… either that, or someone's gonna chop off its head."
"You can't be here," Sam insisted, his voice hoarse, desperate, pathetic. He was awake, he knew he was awake.
"Really?" Lucifer's tone bespoke amusement as he stepped closer. Where his posture and tone had been largely mocking cruelty moments before, it was now jarringly level, calm… sincere.
He wasn't here. It was Sam's mind playing tricks—that was it. A trauma-induced hallucination. This wasn't real. A waking dream, that was all.
Sam squeezed his eyes shut, but when he reopened them, Lucifer was only closer than before, at the foot of the bed, and still advancing in those unhurried, deliberate steps.
"Stay back," Sam ordered, straining vainly against the invisible shackles that froze his every muscle. He couldn't even garner a centimeter of purchase.
"Sammy," Lucifer shook his head gently, though obligingly pausing his approach—at least for the moment. He tilted his head, almost pityingly, "You don't have to play this game." The archangel sat at the edge of the bed, twisting to watch Sam. He was silent a moment, before he asked lightly, "Are you afraid?"
Sam didn't reply, biting his lip.
Lucifer smiled softly, turning and planting his fingers on the bed on the other side of Sam's legs to steady himself as he leaned over the Winchester. "What's the matter, Sam?" His voice was soft, concerned.
Sam forced out the shaky echo, "You're not real."
Lucifer's eyes remained light, and he twisted his body to settle his knees on the mattress. Sam's breath quickened as the archangel began to maneuver closer, careful, slow.
"Get the hell away from me," Sam near-shouted, with all the breath his body would spare.
Lucifer still seemed unbothered, halting only when he was level with Sam's chest, when he leaned forward to caress Sam's cheek—Sam flinched at the frigid touch, but it was tender, gentle. "It's okay," the archangel assured in his native tongue, "It's just you and me." His words were so soft, his touch so kind, it was almost like—
No—Sam twisted his head away as much as the invisible shackles would allow. He felt the sting of the metal that tore apart his body, the fire that scorched his flesh, the acid that ate to bone, the wretched torture the Devil had wrought for eons. He forced himself to feel it.
"You know why I had to do those things," Lucifer turned Sam's head back with a gentle, but firm draw of a finger against his chin, "Don't you?"
Sam was silent, and Lucifer's hand withdrew an inch, his eyes curious, before his fingers glided to Sam's forehead, caressing his face, "You can't hide anything from me. I see it all, Sam." His left hand followed the lines of Sam's body, traveling down his neck, his shoulder, his arm. His right attended Sam's face, gradually tracing every shape in apparent curiosity or wonder. The flow of his touch proved stark contrast to the taut rigidity of Sam's every muscle, his fingertips grazing the scars upon his flesh.
He moved as though he had eons to savor every cell, unhurried and unbothered, as though nothing could interrupt or impede his venture. Sam knew the truth of such a fear better than anyone—he knew, despite his deep-seated dread and his mind's resistance to the notion, that the archangel was utterly and completely in control, that he would always get exactly what he wanted and precisely in his time, and the archangel knew it too.
"I know what you've done," his breath was like winter's kiss against Sam's ears, "I know what you've done to yourself."
"That wasn't for you," Sam rebutted, but his quivering voice sounded pathetic even to his own ears.
"No—it was for you," Lucifer returned easily. Where Sam couldn't even trust his mouth to form coherent syllables, the archangel's every word, every motion was sure, his will unshakable, his confidence intoxicating. He brushed a stray strand of hair from Sam's face, gazing at him in something remarkably akin to adoration, "You're doing so well."
Sam swallowed hard, trying to ignore the shudder that claimed his body at the soft praise. Lucifer seemed pleased, and that was good, that was right, that was all he really wan— he shattered the thought before it could conclude. He squeezed his eyes shut and remembered the glint of delight in the Devil's crimson eyes as he carved into Sam's body and soul.
He felt the icy touch brush his neckline, trace his collarbone, the fingers finding the buttons on his flannel, almost lazy in their leisurely pace.
His eyes reopened, and he would have lurched backward, if he could. Instead, all he could manage was a tone ill with apprehension, "What are you doing?"
Lucifer cocked his head, interest glinting his eyes, "What do you think?"
"Stop it," Sam demanded, but the archangel didn't. He yanked the flannel apart, his icy hands crawling up his body to again find Sam's neck. It was hard to breathe, though Sam couldn't be sure if it was the frigidity, the flex of Lucifer's fingers, or the mere proximity that would suffocate him.
Sam knew the archangel was toying with him, but the knowledge made no difference. He needed it to stop. He wanted it to stop. The Devil hated him; the Devil tortured him. This was no different.
"It's one thing to lie to Dean, to Cas." Lucifer straddled Sam's waist, leaning against his chest as a hand roved through his hair, fingers tormenting his scalp. His other hand squeezed Sam's throat lightly, not enough to steal the air from his lungs, but enough to send Sam's brain buzzing in confusion and uncertainty. His breaths spiked in the apprehension that they'd soon be deprived. His jaw clenched in anticipation of the strange, unnervingly gentle touch morphing abruptly to the more familiar, boundless torture. But Lucifer's face didn't reveal a hint of malice—instead, it held mere savoring interest, his tongue grazing across his teeth. He leaned closer, voice low, "It's another to lie to yourself. And another thing entirely to lie to me."
Lucifer hated lies. He'd vowed never to lie to Sam, and he expected the same in return—and he always knew. Sam searched his eyes—but… no. He blinked. This couldn't be Lucifer, for he had. His voice was tentative, enveloped in unease, "But you lied to me."
Lucifer rose with such a swift intensity that Sam winced, tensing for the promised retaliation. He could feel the archangel's appall crackle in the air, a demand for an explanation.
"You told me I was still in the Cage," Sam forced out, "You said I'd never left." His eyes flicked about the room, "But we're not in the Cage, are we?"
Lucifer's expression immediately eased into a smile, a low chuckle on his breath, "You're on Earth, yes, but I didn't lie." His finger trailed across Sam's chest, "You're with me in the Cage, too."
"That doesn't make any sense," Sam refuted, watching the archangel warily.
"Did you really think you could ever truly leave me?" Lucifer looked at him almost sadly—sweetly, "You'll always be with me. And I'll always be with you." It sounded like a promise on his lips, signed in the swirl of his gentle fingertips.
Sam's pulse thundered quick and loud in his skull—he was certain the archangel could feel the thrum of his heart through his chest. Maybe that's what wrought the soft upward curl of Lucifer's lips, his face only inches away, the distance rapidly vanishing.
"You tortured me," Sam whispered, not entirely sure for whose sake he proffered the reminder.
"Tell me you didn't deserve it," Lucifer studied Sam's eyes, likely able to trace every crypt and furrow of his irises from his proximity. As though Sam might have been too distracted to catch it the first time, Lucifer repeated, his voice thicker than honey, "Tell me you didn't deserve it, and I'll leave."
Sam's gaze flickered, his breath wavering. Lucifer would taste a lie before it could even poison the air. Dean and Castiel had told him it wasn't his fault. Countless times. But… maybe that was simply a truth that wouldn't change beneath recitation. He stared up into Lucifer's eyes as tears watered his own, silent.
Lucifer leaned closer, tilting his head like a predator that recognized it had cornered its prey. Knowing it had won, but pausing nonetheless to savor its prey's squirm. "Tell me you didn't want it."
He didn't want it. He didn't—he didn't.
"It's okay, Sam," Lucifer's use of the holy tongue was like the crackle of an inferno and the divine shine of the stars. "I know."
The archangel's gaze was piercing, its scrutiny stripping Sam bare, his very soul exposed. Nothing in Sam was hidden from Lucifer's sight.
Terror wound like blood through his veins as he stared back into those crimson eyes. In the corners of his vision, he glimpsed the outline of the vast, glorious wings sweeping from the archangel's back, consuming the room in their shadow. He saw the grace coursing through the archangel's form, the fallen angel still charged with holy power, the spark of divinity. Lucifer, not at his truest, but as he was meant to be—beautiful, undeniably.
Tears streamed across his face unbidden. Any man would fall apart at the sight, he knew, but it did little to ease the shame and horror that chased his helpless adoration.
He wanted to scream, to cast the archangel off and sprint away, to curse his name… didn't he? He… he didn't know what he wanted. It was so hard to think. It was so cold…
He tried to move, but his body wasn't his. When had he forgotten?
"Sam," he felt Lucifer's voice vibrate through his chest, rapidly yanking him from his head, his attention immediately refocused on the archangel so close. Lucifer's cold breath crystalized ice on his cheek as his lips brushed his skin in languid kisses, "I forgive you."
The words were unexpected, his body and mind twitching in uncertainty as they raced to decide how to feel. A warm sense of gratitude, a curl of disgust, a blossoming of delight, a recoil of injustice. He loved the words, and he hated them, he craved to hear them again, and he wanted to spit them back in Lucifer's face.
"Why?" Sam's words trembled like autumn leaves, quiet—afraid, "Why are you doing this?"
Lucifer's only reply was the curve of his smile, his fingers teasing Sam's skin—in exploration, in claim. His every muscle was wired with buzzing energy—the invisible restraints were agonizing. He was trapped, and he couldn't think straight, and he wanted to be free—he needed it.
"Let go of me," he begged hoarsely, his words slipping into the angel's tongue in his hysteria. He wasn't even entirely sure what he'd do if Lucifer fulfilled his request—the realization served only to compound his terror.
Lucifer's expression twisted to a blend of pity and amusement as he leaned tighter into Sam's body, "I'm not the one holding you back."
Sam bore one last glance at Lucifer, before he sealed his eyes shut. He had no plan, no expectation or thought. He just—he couldn't dare to look at him anymore. He couldn't—
A sudden sound gave him pause.
Footsteps.
…footsteps?
The door flung open, crashing loudly into the wall, and Sam flinched, his eyes startling open.
The shift was jarring—it took several seconds for his brain to coalesce the change into information. His body lurched disjointedly as he realized the invisible shackles had vanished. At the same time, he processed that the space above him was void, empty. A mere second later, he registered Dean standing in the open doorway.
"Sammy?" Dean's voice was sharp with concern, his figure silhouetted against the dim light filtering from the hallway. He paused only a heartbeat, hastening toward his brother.
Sam couldn't afford to watch his approach, his eyes darting about the room madly. Where was he? He couldn't—he couldn't just disappear, he was here, he had to be—
"Sam, what happened?" Dean asked, this time his voice edged with the same panic that flooded Sam's veins. His gaze followed Sam's around the room, clearly wary of a threat. When Sam didn't answer, or even signal that he'd heard, Dean grabbed Sam's shoulder in an attempt to both ground him and demand his focus.
Sam immediately yanked away, fumbling backward until he'd half-fallen off his bed and shoved himself away. His voice was thick with warning and emotion, "Don't touch me."
Dean raised his hands in apology, "I'm sorry—I'm sorry." His face twisted in sorrow and worry, his eyes scanning Sam for injuries, notably raking across the parted flannel that hung loosely around Sam's arms, a few buttons missing as though it had been ripped open. "Just… talk to me, man. Tell me what happened."
Sam could barely hear him, pressing his back to the wall. His gaze searched every shadow and kept furtively checking his own skin, for he still felt the icy touch across his flesh—as if Lucifer was still there, pressed against him, exploring him.
"It was him," Sam finally managed to choke out, his voice thinner than wire, "He was here."
Dean paused, then couldn't help the deep sigh that escaped his lips at the prediction he'd wanted to deny. It couldn't have come as a surprise. He glanced around the space, just to be sure, "Sammy…" he tried to soften his voice, "He wasn't."
Sam's brow tweaked, his voice bordering on frantic, "No, you don't understand. Dean, he was right here." His arms curled tight around himself, his body yet to recover its warmth. He repeated distantly beneath his breath, "He was here."
Dean took a measured breath, keeping his words slow, "It wasn't him. He's in the Cage, Sam, and you got out. You got out a long time ago." Sam wasn't holding eye contact, still searching shadows desperately, the oily, frozen touch clinging stubbornly to his flesh. Dean tried again, forcing conviction into his tone, "Listen to me, Sam. I know it felt real. But it was just a nightmare. A hallucination. You've had them before. They aren't real." Sam's eyes flicked over Dean—a signal to Dean that he'd heard, then—so Dean continued, tapping his chest, "I'm real." He pointed at Sam, not daring to approach and touch him, "You're real." He tapped the floor with his foot, then the wall with his palm, "This is real. You're safe, Sammy."
Sam stared at Dean, eyes searching, before he squeezed them closed. Safe. Safe. He was—he was safe. He winced faintly, as though Lucifer might strike him for the thought—the lie. He bit his lip, brain scrambling feverishly. He was out, though. He'd been out for years, now. It was… it was just a nightmare. The words were shaky even inside his skull. Realizing Dean's gaze clung to him, he finally nodded. "I know." He pinched the bridge of his nose, "I know. I'm sorry."
"It's okay," Dean tilted his head, as though trying to secure a better view of Sam's face. Perhaps to gauge whether Sam actually believed it, or merely knew it was what Dean wanted to hear. Maybe he'd found his answer, or maybe he'd found a more pressing concern to address, "Deep breaths."
Sam tried to slow his lungs, but his body wouldn't cooperate, adrenaline still coiling his muscles and poisoning his veins. He felt like he owed Dean an explanation, so he loosened his tongue and the panic fumbled out, "I couldn't move, Dean… I—I couldn't move, I couldn't do anything. He was here, and he—" the tears escaped his eyes even as the words got caught in his teeth.
"Sam, stop that." Dean's words had retained their edge as he advanced a step, and Sam followed his gaze down toward his own hands, which were fervently scratching his skin to blood. His arms, his chest, his neck already bore the gouges of his nails. He could barely feel their sting beneath the lingering cold. Unnerved, he drew his hands away from his body, flexing his fingers as though to reset their function or perhaps test his control.
"Sorry," the tremor ravaged his hands, his body. Instinctively, he wrapped his arms back tight around himself, though he tried to monitor both himself and the shadows.
"Are you cold?" Dean asked, the faint disbelief of his tone and sweat stains on his t-shirt conveying that Sam was alone in the sensation. Or maybe it was the sweat coating Sam's skin that sparked his pause.
Sam nodded rigidly, only a degree or two off from violent teeth-chattering, curling tighter into himself to conserve warmth.
Dean snagged the blanket at the edge of the bed, approaching slowly, like one might a wounded animal, with the offering extended in front of him. Sam grasped the fabric, shakily draping it over his shoulders and wrapping it around his body. Holding it clasped tight gave his hands something to do, at least, even if it felt like his body wasn't generating the heat to fill the blanket.
"Want to sit?" Dean patted the mattress, leaning against it himself, perhaps to demonstrate its safety or merely as a result of his own exhaustion.
Sam's eyes trailed over the bed. Lucifer's lingering presence was almost visible in the air, suspended over the bed. The invisible shackles waited eagerly for his bones, ready to seal them in ice and iron. He shook his head, more vigorously than he'd intended, "No."
Dean's gaze flicked over the bed, then back to his brother, brow furrowing a moment, "Okay." After a brief pause, he ventured, his tone low, "You want to talk about it?"
Sam swallowed hard, his eyes darting over Dean, wondering what he thought, wondering how obvious it was. Could he see Lucifer's touch on Sam's flesh? Could he catch the horror of confliction still lurking in Sam's mind—emotions unsettled and warring? His shame paled his skin, and again he shook his head, whispering, "No." Guilt twinged his chest, but he couldn't.
"Okay," Dean repeated simply, watching his brother. His expression was guarded—if he'd been disappointed in the answer, he didn't show it.
Sam's eyes flicked up. Surely Dean couldn't see it—if he could, surely he wouldn't be here. His voice wouldn't be soft, patient, his face concerned, kind. Surely he didn't know.
"Sammy," Dean started slowly, words light, "It's okay." He spoke like he didn't trust Sam to believe it. Maybe he was right in his doubt. "It wasn't your fault."
Why would he say that? Was the shame coiling Sam's frame so stark it became visible to the naked eye? Was it just a blanket assurance he'd thought necessary for Sam to hear? Dean couldn't know. It was impossible, for Sam didn't catch a wisp of disgust or hatred in his face.
He lowered his gaze, absently pushing his fingers through the strands of hair that still felt knotted beneath Lucifer's teasing, his other hand still clutching the blanket with a pale grip. After a moment, Dean seemed to subconsciously mirror the motion, but his hands worked backwards, wiping his palm over his face as though to clear the sleep from it.
It was almost definitely still dark out—Sam winced faintly. He'd undoubtedly woken Dean. Had he screamed, then? He couldn't remember… He cleared his throat, trying to steady his voice, "Sorry… sorry for waking you up." He forced his eyes to meet Dean's, assuring, "I'm okay—really." The words felt hollow on his tongue.
Dean watched him silently, eyes reflecting pain and concern.
"I just…" Sam's mind raced. He was still so cold, his skin still itching with the touch, body still quivering with the lingering nearness. He felt filthy. "I… I need a shower." The words fell fast, settling his resolve even as he reached the idea. Hot water might break the icy grip, clear his head. Maybe he could scrub the traces of Lucifer's searching fingers from his flesh.
Dean nodded, relief relaxing the corners of his face, "Okay." His concern didn't wane, but he seemed grateful for a tangible step—something that might help.
After a hesitant pause, Sam started toward the door, shakily casting off the blanket onto the bed as he practically tiptoed across the room. Dean stepped out of the way, wary of the returned need for space. Sam cursed himself silently for the revived instinct—it had been years since the Cage. He knew trauma didn't just wash clean, but… the waking nightmare, the feeling on his skin, the helpless terror he couldn't shake. It felt like a major step backwards, discounting years of progress. He couldn't help but imagine Dean thought much the same.
"Sammy," Dean spoke quietly, before Sam could depart the room. He glanced back, gaze flicking anxiously. Dean tried to soften his voice, but his words weren't truly a question, "Leave the door unlocked, alright? Just… just in case."
Sam worked his jaw, nodding agreement. It was probably for the best. Who knew what other instincts the nightmare had drudged up?
"When you're done… why don't you crash in my room for the night?" Dean offered, though his tone and faint apprehension signaled his hope for an affirmative, and the probability that he'd insist if Sam refused.
"I, uh…" Sam chuckled nervously, maybe embarrassedly, beneath his breath, "I don't think I'm getting any more sleep tonight, Dean."
"That makes two of us, then." Dean offered a half-smile in return, waving a hand absently toward the hall, "I'm sure we can find a crappy movie or something on the TV."
Sam reflected the weak smile, trying not to count the seconds before it fell away. His voice trailed to barely a whisper, "Okay… thanks." His eyes flicked cautiously over the shadows; he wasn't exactly eager to stay in this room. Regardless, he could use the distraction, and… maybe he didn't want to be alone.
"I'll doublecheck the place, just in case." Dean circled a finger vertically in the air, "But Sam?" He waited for Sam to hold his gaze, his voice as steadfast as dawn, "He can't get to you here. I promise."
Sam nodded, pausing at the doorway for a moment, his hand gripping the frame. His gaze slowly scanned over the room one final time, waiting for crimson eyes to appear in the dark. But none emerged. Perhaps they were cowed with his brother standing in their midst. He wasn't sure he believed it, but he liked the thought nonetheless. With a deep breath, he loosened his grip, closed his eyes a moment, and turned his back to the things that waited in the shadows of the night.