WINDOWS OF THE SKULL

CHAPTER i

Our Father who art not in heaven,

unhallowed be thy name.

Your kingdom broken,

your will undone,

on earth as it is in heaven.

For years, there is only silence. Sulking, unforgiving, raging silence. Between them, they have two souls. Only one of them is obedient to the whims of the two much more powerful creatures trapped in the metaphorical iron bars of the Cage. One of them bows and scrapes, trembling, whenever one of them threatens the rest of the occupants of the Cage. The other shakes, just a little, but rolls his eyes every time the silence threatens to gain any sound. Adam Milligan is all but gone, in over his head, hiding as best he can. Sam Winchester holds steady, though by mere fingerfuls of the Cage itself. Michael and Lucifer occupy opposite corners of a space which lacks corners.

Here, in the Cage, everything is stripped away. They have only their essences and their wits.

Once the sulking is over, the screaming begins.

There are many mistakes to be counted and thrown between them. Details overlooked, innocents killed. Lucifer is no stranger to being here and, though he's furious at being thrown back in, he's – in a strange way – comfortable. Much more comfortable than the others, at least. When Michael begins to scream about their Father and the plan, most of his fury on the two souls, Lucifer snarks right back to him about all of the humans he would have killed fulfilling their Father's plan. Why is he so willing to kill them, if they mean so much to him?

This, though, is a bad plan, because immediately they are reminded of other meaningful beings, and Michael begins to rage to him about Gabriel.

Just the name sends a cold, mournful shiver down the entirety of Lucifer's Grace.

He throws up a few excuses. Defending himself. Fulfilling Father's plan, like Michael wanted (in a way). Gabriel had sided against them and killing him had been the only safe option. But these are just that: excuses. Lucifer knows that Gabriel hadn't been planning on killing him. He'd just been trying to cover the tracks of the vessels, and the pagan that he'd cared for. Hurt him, maybe, but not kill him. No, Lucifer had gone that route. He had escalated the confrontation and been left to stare at Gabriel's wings, burned into the floor.

Michael is quick to remind him of how often he escalates things, and Lucifer, in turns, starts screaming himself. Because all they have, now, is the anger.

He asks why Michael is so obedient to an absent Father, a Father who brings back a foot soldier but leaves his fourth son dead. There's no clean answer to this question and they both know it. Michael was created to be obedient, Lucifer snarls, just as he must have been created to rebel. This is another unspoken, uncomfortable truth of their brotherly bond, and the two archangels stop speaking again. The two souls in the Cage breathe easier, still shaking.

They've almost reached another shaky, sullen impasse when Sam Winchester's body and mind are taken away.

It's quick, and they sense the approach of another's Grace just before it happens. Someone has come to rescue Sam from the Cage, but leave the rest of them there. Michael buries himself in another corner, despairing. Raphael could remove him, they both know he has the power to, and yet he doesn't. This isn't Raphael's Grace, either. It's familiar to Lucifer, and so much younger. He remembers it well, watching it flicker uncertainly within the burning ring of fire, and then later, confronting he and Michael just before Sam Winchester had taken control. Castiel.

The foot soldier, resurrected again.

Lucifer feels a wave of rage when the Grace reaches out to Sam, and he, in turn, grabs hold. He slips his Grace underneath the other angel's, deceptively light. Castiel can't even sense him. But he makes his presence known in other ways – when the younger angel grabs hold of Sam Winchester, Lucifer grips his soul and doesn't let go. He can feel Sam screaming, and he doesn't let up in the strength he shows. Sam is someone he can sympathize with, but not here. They're trapped because Sam made sure that they were trapped. If he has to suffer through it, then Sam does, too.

But the other half of Sam's essence, his mind and his body, slip from Lucifer's weakened grip, and Castiel makes a clean break for it. Michael watches, unimpressed. And unless both archangels have lost the ability to read souls, they can see that Adam Milligan is relieved. Adam is a selfish soul, Lucifer reflects, and he likely relishes not having to face them alone.

He wonders how long it will be before those on top realize that Sammy Winchester has no soul. It shouldn't be very long, but then again, he doesn't know what's going on outside of the Cage. Maybe there's no one around to notice. Maybe Castiel is busy with the other Winchester, the one he was clearly so attached to. The Righteous Man who had tried to lecture he and Michael, who he'd bloodied.

It was a fitting title.

More time passes, enough that neither archangel can be silent anymore. Both are, in equal turns, steadfast and regretful, but always opposite. Declarations and apologies serve to make the other even angrier. Sam is quiet, now, sensing the oncoming storm, and Adam folds in on himself. Instead of working anything through – blinded by fury – the angels turn to the two souls who do not matter, now, in the slightest. They flay, strike, cut, bludgeon and burn. It even starts to make Lucifer feel better. This is like the old days. This is like when the Earth was new and he'd led Lilith aside, to show their Father how defective his creations were and why he could never bow to them.

When they're done, so much later, the two souls are little more than raw nerves, and Lucifer imagines that he'd imparted a lot of himself to Sam. They would never be apart, now, even if Castiel came back for his soul and managed to dodge the other occupants. So many of the cuts and burns are his, a marker of ownership on his one and true vessel. He leaves him coherent, though just. Adam is in much worse shape. That's the difference between them, Michael insists, in a growling tone. Michael was willing to go all of the way, to do what was necessary, whereas Lucifer tried to back away.

Part of me wishes we didn't have to do this.

Lucifer feels numb, all of his rage drained in his treatment of Sam; he has nothing left for Michael but honesty. How can his brother throw that back into his face? Is there nothing left in his Grace for the Morningstar? Is his need to kill Lucifer that powerful, even in the Cage when the Apocalypse doesn't matter anymore?

Michael is dismissive. The Apocalypse will happen, he says, because they, too, would be pulled from the Cage. He doesn't answer Lucifer's questions, and the other archangel deflates almost entirely. He had been able to live with all of his brothers angry and fearful of him. But he had hoped, in all his previous years in the Cage, that his closest brethren would retain some love or small amount of affection. Tentatively, he reaches out with his Grace, to see if Michael is just too angry to display any residual warmth. But immediately, he's thrown to the opposite side of the Cage – stunned, and then truly mournful.

He had been created to be rebellious. Why couldn't his brothers see it? And why couldn't they see that humanity would sooner stab them in the back then believe in what they truly were? Humanity, with all of its ugliness and inferiority.

Lucifer doesn't speak again. Were they human, he would have turned his back to his brother and faced the wall – hugged his knees to his chest. Blessedly, they aren't, and instead he simply shuts off his awareness of anything around him, pulling his Grace in close. He doesn't want to perceive any of it. Not the Cage, not the souls of Adam and Sam. And especially not his big brother. Lucifer lets himself dull.

He's still far gone when he senses something very powerful and old, older than them, swoop in. It isn't Raphael. The Horseman, Death, scoops up Sam tidily and makes off with him, Adam's soul giving a violent tremble as they all perceive Sam's leaving. A rescue for Sam, always for Sam. First mind and body, and now the ruined core. Lucifer feels petulantly satisified of his marking of his vessel. The young man will never fully forget his stay within the Cage. He's made sure of that.

Michael mutters something snide about how no one cares about Lucifer or Adam. Lucifer, in turn, remarks of Raphael's absense. Hadn't their younger brother been just as uncomfortable being in charge of heaven? Why was he so keen, now, to rule? Maybe he'd always wanted to rule in Father's stead, and he'd just lied to Michael?

They go back and forth. Adam buries himself deeper, especially when Michael snaps. Haven't you caused enough dissent among the ranks without twisting Raphael to your own vision as well? Weren't Uriel and the others enough?

And I hardly had to lift a finger at all, he crows, now just as snide as Michael had been earlier. I was in HERE, remember? Clearly you were doing a pretty bad job of Father's duties. No wonder you wanted the Apocalypse so badly. Couldn't find the Pledge? Lemon-scented blind obedience!

Neither speaks for a year. Cage-time, of course. Lucifer's lost track of how much time would have passed outside of it. It's best, perhaps, not to think of it.

It's when Lucifer begins to stretch and fill the Cage, expanding from his 'corner' and becoming mildly comfortable, that he realizes no one's coming for him. It's been a long time and he had expected to be back out of the Cage by now. The demons would be scattered – useless, ugly, traitorous things. And no angel, clearly, was coming for Michael. He doesn't know what that last part means.

When he bridges the subject with his older brother, Michael reacts badly.

Michael slams his Grace against the side of the Cage, and then into Lucifer. He's surprised, at first. There's nothing on the Cage that prevents violence to those inside it, as made obvious by the ruined soul dwelling with them, but he'd thought Michael would want them both... alive. So that their Father's plan could, eventually, be carried out. But the way he strikes Lucifer isn't with kid gloves. He burns a patch of Lucifer's Grace, grabbing hold out of one of the archangel's many wings and yanking.

Captivity does not suit him.

If it's a fight he wants, Lucifer will oblige him.

Adam cowers away as best he can as the two archangels try their damndest to burn the other out of existence. At least, that's what it looks like. Lucifer holds back at first. Even after all is said and done, even being maddenly trapped in this Cage, he doesn't want to kill his brother. For all that he was prepared to, before they were interrupted, even this much fighting pains him.

But Michael isn't holding back. Not at all.

When Lucifer tires – and who knows how much time has passed, neither has kept track and Adam is whimpering and unresponsive – Michael grabs hold of Lucifer's wing again and continues to strike him. But Lucifer doesn't beg his older brother to stop. His pride makes that impossible. He takes it long enough to catch his breath before trying to force Michael off of him, but finds that he can't. It's true, he distantly considers, what they said: Michael is more powerful. His pride, and his ego, keens.

His brother keeps burning and cutting and, finally, Lucifer lets out something close to a whimper. A hoarse, weak, wounded plea. He's barely able to formulate it.

Michael's rage finally runs dry, and he goes back to his corner. He doesn't say anything.

Lucifer crawls to his own and licks his wounds, threading his shredded Grace together to shield himself if his older brother becomes angry again; he much more resembles Adam than Michael, now.

He's alone. Father has taken, in his own way, everyone away from him.

Once, he had been heaven's most beautiful angel. The Lightbringer.

Michael, of course, had been the stiff and obedient son, the dutiful one. He had been the first to wrinkle his Grace if there was anything out of line, and the first to punish. Lucifer, second-born, had all but been raised by Michael – cared for, beloved. He had always been much more relaxed, though, and – of the archangels – the one who questioned things the most. This irritated Michael more than any other trait, but the two had been nigh inseparable for a long time. Then there had been Raphael. Stern, sullen, quiet. Whenever there had been a debate, Raphael had always leaped to Michael's side immediately. And then – Gabriel. Lucifer had been drawn to his younger brother immediately. He had been as free-thinking as an angel could be, but he never questioned in the same way that Lucifer did. Gabriel had been quick and clever, eager to learn.

Lucifer had given him all of his best tricks. He had no illusions: of the two of them, Lucifer was the more powerful, and they both knew it. But Gabriel learned fast. When he reached out with his Grace to instruct him in illusions and warping their Father's reality, Gabriel took to him instantly and he hadn't let go. With others, Lucifer found that to be an irritating trait. But with Gabriel, he said nothing of it, and truthfully he enjoyed being the protective older brother. Michael had been that way for him, and he had been eager to be someone else's pillar. Gabriel, in turn, had taken on that role for the younger angels, when Michael and Lucifer were busy elsewhere. Lucifer didn't have that same connection with the young angels, the specs of Grace, that he had with Michael, Gabriel and even Raphael. But he hadn't shied away from them, when asked to spend some time or administer to them alongside Gabriel. They were his little brothers, and he loved them. Their Father had made him that way.

Those had been the good days, and they hadn't lasted nearly long enough – because Father had also made him to rebel.

It had been leveled at him that he was an abomination, but he was only what their Father had created. How had he turned out this way if Father hadn't wanted it? Father had needed a contrast, needed the Devil. There was no dark without light, as the saying went, though Lucifer usually didn't like thinking about it. He had been the Lightbringer, after all. But after that one fatal day, when their Father had made humanity and had asked Lucifer to love humans more tham him...

Things had been changing. Too fast, always too fast, and Lucifer had gone to Gabriel to plead him to leave heaven – alongside him. They could make their own home, somewhere else. Somewhere that Father couldn't tell them what to do, somewhere that they could appreciate his creations but not deal with Michael's severity. Lucifer's relationship with his older brother had become strained. He had asked too many questions, confused too many of their younger brothers; Michael had stopped speaking to him. Gabriel, though, he had thought would come. It didn't matter if he had to live without his Father's love if Gabriel had just come along with him.

But Gabriel had refused him, and an icy knot had tied itself into Lucifer's Grace. Shortly thereafter, Father had asked him to love humanity more than Him, and then all had become complicated very quickly. Father hadn't understood why his request was so troubling to Lucifer, and the archangel had tried to explain. No one would ever love their Father as much as him. He couldn't ask for that to be transferred to humanity, for him to bow down to creatures with such ugly thoughts and desires. Lucifer knew them all too well. He could feel every loathesome thing that they'd ever wanted.

To prove it, to make his Father see, he had gone and collected a young girl. She was a quiet little thing to everyone, but inside she was so dark. It had been easy to blacken everything, inside out, and make her shrieking and growling and not human anymore. A demon. Lucifer's creation, but a perfect example of why humanity didn't deserve his love – or Father's. ...It had backfired, however.

Michael, enraged, had cast him out of heaven.

Monster. Abomination. That, by itself, had hurt him almost more than he could bear. But Lucifer was resourceful, powerful, and he had gone on. Until the Cage, all alone with only fire for company, until Azazel had finally contacted him. And from there, everything had begun to change.

Now Michael doesn't look at him. When he does, he strikes first, apologizes – sometimes – later. Falling from grace does not suit the older archangel. Lucifer's Grace is still shredded, burning and tattered from his brother's first temper tantrum. Every new line and break cuts into the healing process. They cannot use their Grace to escape, or to do many things at all, but the Cage doesn't prohibit violence to the things inside it. Lucifer isn't sure how much time passes. Adam's fallen silent entirely, a muted presence curled into a corner like the wounded animal that he is.

Not that Lucifer is much better. In fact, in some ways, he's in worse shape.

The Cage is bad enough without greivous wounds; because of them, Lucifer's mood further deteriorates, tapping into anger. When Michael reaches out to strike him now, he strikes first, lashing against his brother's Grace and starting fights anew. At first, the younger archangel is convinced that he'll win, with a little more determination. But soon he realizes, for good this time, just how superior his brother is. The two of them could lay waste to lesser angels, and they both had in the past for various different reasons. But against each other, Michael is the victor.

Anger fades into depression, and then apathy. He stops caring how much Michael hurts him. And, to some extent, he also stops feeling it. What does it matter? They'd be in here until the end of time, when Death would come back into the Cage – for the other three occupants. Who knew when that would be, with the Apocalypse off track and heaven surely in disarray. Raphael was not as strong as his siblings. There would be disobedience, if Castiel was anything to go by. Then what would happen?

It did no good to think about. Lucifer turns himself away from everything and retreats, deep inside, burrowing into memories. Memories of Father's love. Memories of Michael teaching him how to fly. Memories of teaching Gabriel how to fly.

Anything other than reality.