Summary: Set 11.22, We Happy Few. In which Lucifer is a dick with a very twisted sense of humor, Sam gets a panic attack, and Dean is the angry, overprotective big brother who wants to pummel Satan with his bare hands.

Warning: Language, spoilers for S11, graphic descriptions of panic attacks (and derealization/depersonalization due to them), mentions/implications of torture and past sexual abuse (It's one line and is a bit more blatant than the level of implication about it in the show). Please turn back if these are triggers for you. If you 'woobify' Lucifer (characterize him with traits that make him someone to be sympathized with), this is not a story for you (which, I suppose, is obvious by the summary).

Confined

As his room revealed itself to be empty when he opened the door, Sam tried not to acknowledge the knots loosening in his chest, about them even being there in the first place. Tried not to think about how his heart jolted in terror when he finally managed to push the door open, and that being after a few minutes of trying to muster up all the courage and strength he could. It was hard to admit it when his Winchester pride got in the way, when he thought about how it had been years now, and he had already faced him so many times before, but he was still so goddamn afraid.

He couldn't let himself think too much and too deep about it all though, couldn't let himself dwell too much on it, because he knew if he did, he was sure he would have a meltdown of some sort. Dean seemed to think he had it all together, that he was absolutely okay and unbothered, and he wanted to keep it that way. There were bigger and more important things to worry about than the emotions brewing just underneath the surface, that if he let in would make it all too hard to keep doing this, keep fighting the fight, and quite possibly jeopardize the entire mission.

And he couldn't do that. He needed to keep his head in the game, keep it straight and uninfluenced by the waves of rippling fear and anxiety that flowed through his veins every time he was even in the same damn room as him. He needed to set it all aside, needed to not think, about the entire situation and how sick it made him feel all over to be living in the same space as him, about all the horrific things that had happened down there with him (and to talk to him and look at him like they had never happened at all was hard), about the images in his head that he was constantly terrified of even though he knew they wouldn't happen, not with Chuck there.

It made it easier to have Him there. Felt safer. It made his lungs a bit more open to breathe, the vice around his gut a bit more loose. Having Dean there too... sometimes his shoulder would brush against his and he'd calm down just a fraction. His heartbeat would slow slightly, his stomach not so tight and aching. In these circumstances, even the moments of minor relief felt prominent. He didn't know if it was on purpose, if it was done knowingly or accidental the way it often was, but it helped nonetheless.

He walked towards his duffel bag. Lucifer didn't bother at least leaving his things out before hijacking his room. He couldn't quite tell if this was what he thought it was, some cruel way of mocking him and showing him that he had the power, that he could still do whatever he wanted and Sam couldn't fight back because he was too damn afraid (the way he had always been i— no. No. Damn it. Can't go there). Maybe it wasn't. Maybe Sam was just being paranoid. Lucifer seemed to have found better things to occupy his time and focus with, which...thank God.

They weren't there anymore. There was a lot more to do out here. There, it was millenias' worth of rage and vitriol and nowhere else to let it all out on except him (and on top of that, he was the one to hurl him back down there, so that just made him even more furious at him). There, it was too much boredom and too much time and nothing to do but tort—

Can't go there. There are bigger and more important things to worry about than me having a fucking panic attack and puking my guts out.

He rushed towards his closet. He'd just take necessities; clothes, some weapons, toiletries, and then he'd be out. It shouldn't take too long. Hopefully it would be long before Lucifer came back from wherever the hell he was.

It was one thing to be around him and talk to him and see him while there were others around too, and another thing to be caught alone with him. There was always that logical, rational part of him, keeping him sane and above water and from having that mental breakdown he so dreaded, that told him he could count on nothing bad happening to him here when God Himself was around. Along with that, that little irrational, habitual and instinctive part of him too that had always sought out his brother for feelings of safety, security and comfort. The logical part of him knew that Dean was just human, couldn't really protect him against a being like Lucifer, but somehow, he still felt like he couldn't be hurt by anything or anyone if he stayed close to him.

He had all his clothes unceremoniously dumped in the bag. He went into the bathroom to get the items he needed; his toothbrush, his toothpaste, soap, shampoo and conditioner.

But when he came out…

His heart dropped down to his feet before stopping altogether, steps jerking to a halt.

Because there stood his biggest goddamn nightmare. The very reason he had been having nightmares again.

Well, just his crappy luck.

When the fallen angel caught sight of him, his eyebrows twitched in surprise. He tilted his head curiously, smirking.

"Sammy, Sam, Sam. Sam-I-am. What brings you here?"

Sam could feel his lungs constrict, feel his breaths about to come short and fast. He tried to control his breathing, dug his nails into his palms to keep himself grounded with the pain and counted to ten, his heart hammering hard in his ears, his stomach heavy and nauseous.

"To my room, you mean?" Sam said defiantly, chin raised, and it took everything in him to stare him steadily in the eye and to keep staring.

Lucifer straightened his head. He held his eye-contact, so effortless and easy, and all Sam wanted to do was look at anything but him, wanted to make a run for it and not glance back.

And then he started taking steps towards him, coming closer and closer. Sam's ribs tightened more and more with each bit of distance crossed, his speeding heartbeats jolting. He knew that at this point, with how high his chest was rising and falling, how erratic his breaths sounded through his nose despite his desperate attempts at keeping it regular, even Lucifer could see how how hard he was trying to make himself seem cool and collected.

The gleam in his eye told him he was failing.

When Lucifer got within three feet of him and still kept coming, Sam started to back away. He threw a quick glance at the door, wondered if he could make it if he bailed out now.

His back hit the wall, and his eyes finally broke away, looking down. He glanced at the door again briefly. It was far, and angelic instincts were fast, but maybe… maybe, he could make it.

He forced himself to stand his ground.

"I just came to get my stuff," he said, his voice not quite as even as he aimed for it to be, quivering the slightest bit. He swallowed, head raised, the back of it touching the wall, in forced defiance (and in the need to be as far away from him as possible). He couldn't bring himself to drag it back to Lucifer's eyes, so he gazed past the trench-coated shoulder (felt a pang in his heart when it reminded him of Cas). His hands tightened around the strap of his duffel bag, knuckles going white.

"I still scare the hell out of you, don't I, Sam?" Lucifer said, voice low, that mocking smirk still on his lips. There was no air moving past his lips, even with how close his face (their friend's, Cas') was to his.

He couldn't breathe.

It was happening, his brewing emotions, mainly comprised of pure and utter terror, reaching their threshold, breaking free and rising to the surface, manifesting as the panic attack he was trying so hard to control, but it was so damn hard when everything inside of him and outside of him felt like a wild car ride with no steering wheel or brakes or seatbelts. He couldn't breathe, air going in and out of his lungs through his mouth, short and fast and hard. His head felt light, and he was swaying on his feet. There were black dots beginning to cover his vision, dancing around.

"Let me go," Sam gasped out, felt hot and cold and light in his head, absolute, icy panic washing through his veins. He had faced him before, before Hell, in Hell, and then again in that small cage. He had looked him in the eye, told him no when he tried to persuade him to let himself be possessed by him again, stood up to him even though it took everything in him to. He couldn't understand why it was so much harder now to do the same thing again.

"Why?" Lucifer asked, simple and casual as that. He grinned. "This is fun."

"I'm s-so-fucking glad th-this is amusing- f-for yo-ou." He wheezed out a bitter, sarcastic laugh.

"Oh, it sure is. You see, I've been in a really crappy mood these days." He shrugged his head. 'You know, what with all of these daddy issues and stuff going on. It's just…" He pursed his lips, head jerking. "It's just been very annoying. And we've spent enough time with each other for you to know what happens when I get annoyed, right? I've just been dying to tear someone apart."

Sam clenched his eyes shut, swallowed hard. "You c-can'—can't do any-thin'—h-here."

"Well...I mean, if you really believed that, you wouldn't be panting like a bitch here, you get what I'm sayin'?" He clicked his tongue, shaking his head, and chuckled. "And please. You don't really believe my dear ol' daddy actually cares that much about you, do you? Dirty-blooded boy like you? And Dean?" He leaned in closer, trying to get him to look. "I just have to snap my fingers like this." A loud, sharp clicking sound. Sam flinched hard. His knees were weakening and trembling, so he laid all of his weight against the wall behind him. Fuck. He needed to get away. His body was shaky and weak, hot and sweaty. His chest hurt from lack of air and the gripping terror coiling itself around his heart. "And you'd have his guts all over you."

The image made his stomach jolt violently, but he forced it down. His eyes watered, everything blurring in front of him.

He lurched forward, trying to rush past Lucifer.

The archangel just caught him by the middle and flung him right back against the cement. His eyes clenched shut, back colliding hard with the wall, and the pain and force of it knocked out what little air he had left right out of his lungs. The vertigo finally managed to overcome him, and he dropped down to the floor, duffel bag beside him. He pulled his knees close to his chest, head hanging, and tried to force himself to regain air again.

"I can lock the doors, Sammy-boy. Soundproof the room. And we can relive all the fun times we had down in the cage," Lucifer said, ending in a slight singsong tone. He was looming over him, and he didn't dare look up, because to see him in such a position of higher power would only aggravate the panic. He felt something wet drop down his cheek. "What you say?"

This wasn't really happening, was it? It couldn't be. This didn't feel real. The world seemed like something strange, too bright and loud, but at the same time, like he was watching a low-resolution movie. It was like his brain couldn't process any of the things he was sensing and thinking, all of it too much, too overwhelming. He was wheezing spasmodically. He felt like he was watching this happen to someone else, but he knew he wasn't. He knew it was happening to him. He was about to be torn apart again.

He couldn't be here again. He couldn't be about to go through those things again. It was supposed to be over. It was never supposed to happen ever again.

He desperately wanted to call for Dean, the one name that always came to the tip of his tongue when he was in danger or hurt, but he couldn't find his voice through the gags due to lack of air, the fear choking him and leaving him breathless. And he couldn't put his brother at risk. Not for himself. Lucifer could hurt him, and he couldn't let that happen. But then he supposed, Amara wouldn't let that happen either, but there was no way he was taking that risk whatsoever.

It was in that moment that he heard a smothered laugh. Sam tentatively glanced up, couldn't see as clearly through the stars in his dimmed vision, gaze darting up before immediately coming back down, but he caught the grin Lucifer had on his lips. And then he spun away, threw his head back, his body folding as he clutched at his abdomen, the loud laughters ripping out of him.

When they dissipated into small chuckles, he turned back around. He lowered himself to kneel down in front of him, his wrist hanging off his upturned knee. "Look at you right now," he whispered. "Remember the first couple of years? You had such a mouth on you. God, it pissed me off, but well...I sure shut that mouth of yours up soon enough, didn't I?" He smiled, head inclined. "Made some good out of it too."

Sam gagged, more tears gathering in his eyes. He swallowed down hard, his stomach almost emptying itself right then and there. He breathed in and out, counted to ten in his head, shoved his nails into his palms again. It didn't really calm him down, but there was nothing else to do.

"Relax, Sammy. I was just messin' with ya," Lucifer waved off, chuckling. "But I mean...you do kinda need to tone down on that overreaction of yours. I didn't even touch you, you know? You were shaking in your boots before I even walked in."

Sam felt a flush of humiliation and shame in his aching, hammering chest, but didn't have enough space in his mind to focus too much on it.

All he wanted was to get away.

When Lucifer stood up and backed away in a clear indication of allowing him to leave, he grappled himself shakily into a standing position, heaving heavily, still leaning on the wall. The archangel stepped aside, watched with a grin as he ran. Rather, he staggered and stumbled the whole way out as fast as he could.

He burst out of the room and collided right into someone in front of him, sobbing and gasping.

"S-sor-"

"Woah, woah, hey!" It took him a few seconds through the muddle of his panic to recognize it as Dean's voice. His brother's hands grasped his elbows, but his knees were too weak and trembling and his body was too heavy and his head was too light, and he folded to the floor, wheezing. "Sammy?" Dean's urgent tone held a note of anxiety and worry, his hands following him down to the floor, coming up to grab at his face when they finally landed down. "Sammy, hey! What happened? Are you hurt?"

"D-De'n..." Sam managed through the heavy, strangled gasps, the terror that rushed all throughout his body and seized his heart overwhelming him. And damn it! He didn't want this. He didn't want Dean to worry and know that he wasn't holding it all together as well as he thought. He had enough on his plate as it was. "M'fi-ine-"

"Like hell you are!" Dean growled. Sam figured that was not bound to work when he was actually choking the words out.

Dean's gaze flicked up and down his body, examining for any serious, life-threatening injuries. No blood. He wasn't clutching at anything except the bottom side of Dean's jacket, fingers curling into the material. He seemed to have caught on that it wasn't any agony from physical injuries making him suffocate like this, but rather something very emotional and mental.

"Alright," he muttered gently. "Alright. Hey." He hauled him into his arms by his elbows, Sam's chin pressing into his shoulder, mouth gaping as he struggled to breathe. He tried to adjust Sam's body against his in a more comfortable position, and when he secured him properly, gripped the back of his head, the other hand scrabbling to reach for his. "Where's your hand?" he muttered, trying to keep calm and composed, fingers clambering down his right arm, the one that was closest and not occupied with gripping Dean's jacket, with a slight, controlled franticness. "Gimme your hand."

When he finally caught it, he tugged it up and placed it against his own chest. "You feel that?" he murmured, settling his cheek against the side of his head. "Come on, Sammy. Breathe with me. Just breathe." He inhaled and exhaled deeply, ruffling his hair and close to his ear, his chest rising and falling against Sam's hand.

Sam tried to follow the rhythm of the sounds of his breathing in his ear through his strained, spasmodic wheezes, the up and down motions of his brother's chest. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus on drawing in air, on letting Dean's steady heartbeat mollify his own rapid heartbeats, the regularity of them gradually washing the panic away.

When he began to settle down after a couple of minutes, his heart not quite trying to slam out of his ribs and his breaths a little more in his control, Dean encouraged, "That's it. You're doing good, Sammy." He tightened his grip around his back briefly, brought his palm up to the nape of his neck behind his locks and squeezed it. "Shh… everything's okay, little brother. You're safe. You're safe. I got you."

Author's Note: One more chapter to go!

So, this is for those who hated what the writers did in the later part of S11. It was very upsetting how they overlooked Sam's trauma and abuse at the hands of Lucifer and forced them to work together. They made him save his life, without any acknowledgement of how it must have felt to do that for his torturer of two hundred years, and to have to be that close to him... it's even worse when you consider the implications behind Lucifer's remark at the end of 11.09. It just made sick. I don't often express distaste (disgust in this case, because this was a horrible thing they did) for anything the show does, because I love the characters and I'm just glad I get to see them anew every week, but this was the one and only time that I couldn't stand this show.

For anyone who feels the same way, I hope this story, particularly the next chapter (not vengeance, but the acknowledgement of the horror Sam went through and the expression of anger on his behalf) will make you feel somewhat better about this.

If you have a minute, please let me know your thoughts! Thank you so much for reading.

Constructive criticism is welcome as long as it's polite and respectful.