Author Notes: I'm soooo sorry I've been so inactive over here. I'm not dead yet, I swear, school has just taken over my life. It's a cruel twist of fate indeed. I swear I'm going to update Mother's Eyes and Lips as soon as I can. I have over 2/3 of the chapter written.

In the meantime, enjoy this drabble. M just to be safe, it's rather triggering.

Trigger warnings: Psychological torture, mentions of physical torture, character hurt, suicidal thoughts

Fifty years, since he breathed fresh air.

"! No no no, please!"

Oh god. Oh god no, not again please not again! He, he said he would get a break, n-no... "Help me! Somebody! DEAN!"

"Dean's not here, Sammy."

"Please, please stop stop stop..." He's screaming again. It's too much oh god it's too much. But he won't stop he knows he won't, he can see the joy in his eyes- finally, a toy to play with.

He screams and screams, because his throat may grate itself raw and agonized but his voice is never too sore to wail for mercy. His eyes are wide, unblinking but unseeing and they are glassy and swollen from the heat of his tears.

Fifty years since he was able to laugh. To walk with his head high and steady.

He sobs out for Dean despite the fake sympathetic laughter that follows and reassurance that his big brother won't come. Something base inside him tells him to whimper for his big brother, hoping that he'll chase the monsters away. Before the monsters were real. He knows he won't come but it gives him a cruel sense of comfort, a memory of when pain and fear had a stopping point.

Fifty years since he felt that reassurance, despite it all. Fifty years since he's seen Dean.

A too well known caress to his cheek makes him flinch violently.

"You knew this was what you signed up for. Stuck in here. With me. It's your fate, Sam."

"I d-didn't...Lucifer I didn't..."

He screams so loudly his entire body quivers and he arches in vain to get away from him. He never, never fathomed it would be like this. It hurts so much he can't feel his legs, not anymore, but he's terrified to look to see if they are still there. He bites his lip to muffle a loud sob; it doesn't work.

In a last desperate effort he turns glassy eyes to Michael, ever silent as he stares placidly at them. There's no way he can be unaffected by this, not by his own brother-

He bites his torn, bloody lip on another cry; the agony is spreading into his guts now, into his limbs and he wishes he could die. He wants to die he can't do this, not for an eternity.

"Please...please Michael," he bites out and the archangel looks away, his father's borrowed face cast downwards to the ground. He can't spare a thought for where Adam is right now, he's not sure what the General does to him. But for a moment he thinks he sees-

It hurts it hurts IT HURTS! Oh god get it off get it off get it off oh please please get it out! It's too much, it's too much let him pass out, kill him anything oh god GET IT OUT!

Just when he's about to scream for mercy finally, finally it stops for a few miraculous moments. His entire body sags and he whines from the perpetual agony.

"L-Let me die...I know can...please let me..." He doesn't know if he says it out loud, but he knows it doesn't matter. Lucifer always hears.

The fallen archangel looks up and it's been fifty years since he was able to look into anyone's eyes and not feel the immediate dread and terror seep into his core.

Suddenly, somehow, the archangel does something to intensify it all and Sam's eyes shoot so wide his eyes bug out of their sockets. It's burning, freezing, sharp and hard and blunt and a caress of agonizing nails and velvet and it's Pain. It's pure unadulterated Pain because it hurts more than human tongue can say. He can't even scream because his body convulses too much to breathe, tight as a bow with his mouth stretch open and his eyes wide and spilling silent tears. It's turning black then and it's numb, his vision is fading to dark and deep and cold and he prays this is finally it-

And then he's whole again. Perfect, undamaged body and he whimpers pathetically low.

"Sam..." Calm, consoling, and icy hand strokes his cheek. He is hauled up to his knees and despite the cooing voice even the Morning Star can't hide the glee in his eyes. Fifty years taught him that well.

"We've barely started. Oh, and happy anniversary."

Fifty years. Fifty years to the date since he jumped into Hell.

Happy Anniversary.

A/n: I adore you all, and feedback is always loved.