Lucifer,

I have decided to move out and to go back to the bunker.
For our relationship, or whatever name you've ever given our federal government, is dangerously close to the abyss, I want to bring distance between us as soon as possible.

This is not only mine, but also for your own good. I do not want to risk hurting you again in such a way, as I do, or how I've done it for weeks.
Therefore I beg you to accomplish this separation in peace and accept it.
I would like you to be not at home when I come to pack up my things. Go for a walk or to a cafe, torch a little voodoo doll with my face on it, just do what you have in mind - as you have always done, since I know you.
The maximum of two hours in absence should be enough.

Farewell,
Sam

It was as if time stood still.

Mouth pressed into a thin line Lucifer stared in bewilderment at the snow-white sheet of paper in his hand.
The writing had been brought into existence with aqueous ink pen and blurred accordingly productive, as he let go of his thumb as if hypnotized several times over the Farewell. The large curved L stretched out in a dirty black brook over the smooth surface, sucking firmly and ended in ash-gray spots. The rest of the greeting drowned itself in a private lake of ink blood and as Lucifer finally had the kindness to take away his finger from the - now very wrinkled - document, his thumb was as dark as the bitter hot pitch, which once hung on his wings in hell when he was cast down from heaven.

Horribly formal.

That was the only judgment which Lucifer attached to this letter.

It was horrible and formal - therefore terribly formal. It sounded more like an outrageously expensive bill from an unpopular tax advisor, not like a farewell letter, which ended a relationship of two people who should never be separated actually. But Sam wanted it that way.
And Sam had done it, they had devided within these words. Snip-snap. Snip-snap. Just like that.
For the first time in ages Lucifer's heart felt as if it would be shredded by a mower into microscopic pieces. Otherwise the remaining ingredients and limbs of his human shell (of which he even forgot sometimes that it was not actually his body - The custom just shaped him) seemed strangely numb suddenly.

He knew many kinds of torment and suffering, some he even invented and designed himself, thousands more to improve - but these goddamn numbness was new to him, but no less painful, as he clearly understood with every passing second.
Mute Lucifer turned his head, looked at the reddish golden spots which loomed by the incident sunlight on the parquet floor. The sun would go down soon and befall the evening.
Two hours Sam had written. Two hours away from home at the behest of a seemingly bygone lover - what did this man imagine at all? To make such demands? What gave him the right to act this way?
Lucifer was fully aware that Sam had intentionally threaded so that he could give no argument. For argument he would have given, oh, he would have brought to the volume of his screams the window panes to collapse. But Sam was too clever for such a scenario. He knew him too well so as not to have at least acquired a little foreknowledge.

Sam could be incredibly cunning, if he wanted. And brave. And to go up the wall. And stubborn. And sensitive. And passionate. And adorable.
And ... well, Sam.

Lucifer took a deep breath, feeling the oxygen crawling into his throat and reaching the human lungs.
Actually, he did not have to breathe. After all, he was an angel - an archangel. But during the time period that he spent primarily on earth (thanks to Sam), he recognized that this breathing while fulfilling no particular purpose, but somehow it looked comforting, the more you did it yourself or heard it from others. A little regain of control. In most cases, anyway.
Therefore, he had also become accustomed to it, while he listened to the breathing of Sam's naps at night. The steady, peaceful rhythm swelled in his ears to a tune, compacted to a symphony soon and as Lucifer had whether notes nor instruments (nor the desire to learn an instrument) he had played that melody constantly in his head off and back again. It was a song with no voice and no sound he knew before.

Lucifer called it simply Sam and he kept this music like a treasure inside him, cataloged it in one of the chrome painted drawer compartments that piled up there, where else would have been his soul.

For the silent hours he had once hummed it quietly to himself and forgot about it shortly after.
Now he remembered. And, God, he never thought that memories could be so agonizing. But they were there. They trembled like liquid fire in his borrowed veins and perhaps he would have welcomed it at this moment to be burned alive. Perhaps it would have reduced the gravity of his bones or exempt him from the sudden fatigue that now rolled over him like a landslide.
He knew this particular fatigue already and that was why he hated it even more to have to feel it just now again, after eons of years.

The disappointment. The anger. The hate. The mourning. The suffering... that feeling when the organs were individually lifted up with a butter knife from the meat.

Blankly, he watched as the sun slowly faded on the smooth sanded wood, watched as the darkness collection held in the world in this apartment and into his heart (though he did not quite know whether it had ever been there bright scars and if angels could ever have a heart).

Two hours.

So that was it.
Two hours and Sam Winchester would be gone from his life. Finally.
And why? Because he loved his little brother more than him.
Gabriel, the Trickster. Gabriel, the Casanova. Gabriel, the one with the big grin and protruding ears and the cheeky glint in his caramel eyes. Lucifer had never understood why his brother was so fond of sweets and why sugar was like a drug to him. Now it was clear to him that Gabriel is not merely limited in the area of sweets on cake, licorice and candy canes. He had also explored an addictive taste for Sam... and Sam himself seemed to have given himself away with joy and desire.
All this hurt Lucifer only more, but he could not stop. He could not stop thinking about it.

The maximum of two hours in absence should be enough

Farewell,
Sam

Farewell. Snip-snap.

Lucifer swallowed.
But how could he live this life without Sam teaching him? Without telling him all these little, unimportant secrets of everyday life that created human cooperation? That helped him to keep the conversation and prevented him from making a fool out of himself or to be marked as a mental patient? He was not like Gabriel, who had chosen the earth as his personal playground for centuries. Down in the cage he never had to deal with the life of the 'naked apes' nor did he want to do. Now the cage was just one of those nightmares he dreamed awake and the sky was an absolute no-go area for him. This only left him to stay at the golden mean. And with what was lingering in the shadows, of course.
Lucifer had still problems to socialize with people and to what kind of environment it was necessary to adapt. When Sam was with him, everything else was almost easy. It was secure and peaceful.
But without him ...

Lucifer made a decision.

Step by step he staggered down the hall, grabbed a chair from the kitchen table and leaned it against the wall. Sighing, he let himself decline thereafter to the thin seat cushion, resting his forearms on his knees. He fixed his eyes on the oak door and waited for Sam to arrive. He would not go. He would not leave the battlefield without a fight. His pride, the smoldering anger and the cursed, hateful love he still felt for his former shell forbade him to do so.
Sam should face him and say what he had tried to hide between the lines of this ridiculous letter.
He should be honest with him – that was all he demanded. The truth. He had never asked more from him.

And he waited.

Waited ... for Sam. His Sammy.

And suddenly the time melted away again like sparkling spring water in a marshy pond.

Because Lucifer knew how to wait. The cage had taught him so.

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