Remembering Hell was in some ways worse than Hell itself. There was that quote, wasn't there, about if you're going through Hell keep going, and Sam felt that made a lot of sense. After all, what else could you do? At least in Hell objectives were simple, to survive, to ensure, to keep safe. Thinking about Hell was different, because it crept over you, swamped you with all its details that you could dwell on and torture yourself with. Who needed demons? He was his own best inflictor of pain, and the self-damning, paranoid, haunting thoughts that crept into his mind were worse than any slice of a razor blade or lick of hell fire.

The memories had come back like a mad, jumbled rush, bits of some, parts of others. And all seen through the filter Hell put on his vision which turned everything into despair.

He'd remembered everything in the worst possible way. He'd known, overwhelmingly, the moment Castiel broke the wall in his head, that he'd had Lucifer, loved and been loved by him, and at the same time knew from it the crushing and almost unbearable weight of that loss.

The other seeping memories of Hell had been bad enough, throwing themselves at him with hallucinations, until one painfully real vision of his lost Lucifer appeared before him and Sam let it convince him that the real thing was angry at him for his abandonment. He'd endured the vision, though somewhere in the back of his mind he'd known that it wasn't Lucifer, that it was his own more self-depreciating, bitter underlying consciousness talking back to him. Sam had lived so long with hard choices, a hard life, and people looking at him like there was something wrong with him. It was only natural for his hell-abused mind to take the one being that understood him wholly and convince him that he'd turned on him, too.

It was only in the slow, uneasy days of recovery, after Castiel took the burden of an internalised personal hell from him, that he began to see clearly. Unfortunately, it was at the expense of Castiel inheriting his curse of metaphorical hell-goggles, leaving the angel to face his own internal demons instead. Sam, meanwhile, though still wracked with guilt over it all, slept just that bit easier now, enough for his mind to begin healing itself. Enough to be certain of the pure, longing memories of Lucifer's presence close to him in the cage, that this thing, this real thing he'd had, wouldn't hurt him. Not now, not ever, not really.

Maybe Lucifer was mad. At their circumstances, at fate, at God maybe. Maybe a little at him, but that was okay. Dean had been angry at him before, and Bobby, and Cas, and others. Anger was normal and would pass. Anger didn't make the love any less. And when he felt himself slipping again, uncertain, Sam knew undeniably that Lucifer loved him still, and that made it all just about bearable.

Hunters didn't need calendars. There had often enough been times when he'd barely known what month it was, let alone what day of the week. Not that it mattered. It wasn't like they had schedules to keep. But Sam had brought a diary. One of those fake-leather cheap things with a box for each day to write appoints and reminders. The kind millions of people around the world used to keep track of their schedule, usually peppered with scribbled entries such as 'hairdressers- 3pm', or 'pay credit card bill' or whatever else normal people had to remind themselves about. Sam, however, didn't have much he needed to remember in his upcoming schedule. Instead, he wanted to remember back, to keep track of how much time had passed. He wasn't sure how the physics of moving on into the netherworld worked, but he was sure he could convince Death to let him take this little bound scrap of papers with him. And the diary he planned to buy for next year, and the year after, until he died.

He wanted to give them to Lucifer. He addressed each entry to Lucifer. He knew some people did things like that, wrote 'dear diary', or made up an imaginary friend, or perhaps wrote to a dead loved one, he recalled when he'd read Anne Frank's diary she addressed the entries 'dear kitty'. It was therapeutic, he supposed.

The first entry, he hoped, explained his thinking behind this strange gimmick:

Dear Lucifer,

Yesterday, I left a mental hospital. Remembering Hell was hard, but I'm sure I don't need to tell you about that. I'm at some motel now, with Dean. Back to hunting, saving people, or at least trying to. I know you might not think much of that, but I'm just trying to do the right thing, and I think you'd get that, at least. You've always tried to do what you thought was the right thing, too, right? Even if everyone kept telling you you were wrong, or that you should stop. I think that's how you always thought of it. Your own justice, your own morals. I remember you once told me you were doing this (you know, the whole apocalypse business) because you had to. And I get it, I really do.

Sorry, I'm rambling. I've never really done much of this whole writing down my thoughts thing before. I'm hoping you can make sense of it because it's kind of for you. I want to get these things down as I'm thinking them, because I can't tell you all this now, I want it recorded so you can at least know one day what I wished I could have said.

First of all, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for leaving you, for leaving... whatever it was we had. A kind of home, I guess. I know it's not fair on you, all this. You've done so much for me, you deserve to keep me. And you will, I promise. I meant it when I said I'd be back. I just need you to wait for me. I'm kind of hoping that because you're so many billions of years old that it won't feel like too long in comparison.

Anyway, this is just the best I can do for now. I'm hoping it'll be of some small consolation to you, to see all this. I want to write something everyday, even if it's just one or two lines. I just want... need you to know that I haven't forgotten you, not for one moment. I hope that I can give this to you, and you can see that I thought about you everyday, that I missed you everyday. Because I do. It's like someone cut a part out of me. You were right with all that two halves made whole stuff.

Okay, this all just sounds lame. You can make fun of me when you see this if you want to, but I just hope you get it. Not just the physical bits of paper I'm writing on, but why, and what I'm trying to say and all that. I think you will. You... get me.

I hope you're okay. I hope you're not fighting with Michael. I just... hope you know I'm thinking about you still.

I'll be back soon. I miss you. I miss you so, so much.

All my love,

Your true vessel, and yours in every other way,

Sam Winchester.

The write was cramped and barely readable, over-flowing into the next box down, even though the space for each entry was a third of the page. He'd just have to make the next entry smaller. He hadn't meant to write so much. Reading it back, it seemed a little corny, embarrassing, but it wasn't like Lucifer didn't know all the worst things about him anyway.

Closing the book, Sam placed it carefully into his duffle bag, ensuring it wouldn't get bent, before piling clothes on top of it to keep it out sight, and zipping the bag closed.

The motel room door clicked open, and Dean appeared with reloaded guns and car keys in hand. He passed the bulky silver hand pistol over to Sam, who stuffed it into the waistband on his jeans. "Ready?"

Sam nodded, plastering a smile on his face and shifting his mind to hunting mode. "Yeah, let's go."

They were chasing up some kind of haunting in a gigantic cathedral out in Nebraska. Another standard day, standard monster hunt. The staff kept quitting on account of unsettling paranormal occurrences, and after one had declared the place cursed to a local newspaper, the Winchesters had caught wind of the story and gone along in the guise of two journalists.

Sam was interrogating the reverend, while Dean subtly explored with an EMF meter. The elder Winchester was currently on the other side of the room, supposedly examining the building's architecture, while Sam asked questions.

"Has there been any deaths in the area? Anyone connected with church?"

The reverend pondered, wringing his frail hands together thoughtfully. "There's a fairly large old community around here. Death is sadly common. The most recent that comes to mind is old Mr. Hansen. Kind old fellow, donated lots of bits for our jumble sale."

"He donated some of his own things?" Sam asked, instantly latching on to the suggestion of objects to which spirits could become attached.

"Yes. I think there's still a few bits for our sale next week."

"I see." He caught Dean's eye, nodding to show he had a potential lead, which immediately garnered his brother's interest. "Would you mind if we had a quick look at the things he donated? Just, you know, build up a bit of an image of him for our story."

"Yes. Yes, of course. They're in a room upstairs. Come this way."

Both Winchesters followed the man toward a door at the back. It opened to reveal a stone staircase rising up into what must have been the large tower they'd seen from the outside of the building.

"I'm afraid it's a bit of a climb," the reverend told them. "My old legs find it rather difficult, but you're welcome to take a look yourselves. Two floors up, door marked storage."

"Alright," Dean declared, already passing through the door.

Sam was about to follow when the reverend stopped him. "You know, this church has a wonderful collection of hand-drawn books. Some of them are very old. Would that be of interest to your article? I'm sure your readers would love to know about them."

Sam paused awkwardly, glancing at Dean who grinned and shrugged. It would have rude to decline, so Sam forced a smile and nodded to the man. Dean could handle rummaging through some old charity donations by himself, he supposed.

Besides, Sam rather did like books, of course. The man talked him through some old bible copies they had in various language, some with detailed illustrations, others in original latin or old english. Had they not been in the middle of a case, he would have rather loved to spend a long time looking through them at his leisure.

"This one is a personal favourite," the old reverend said, carefully placing a heavy volume down onto the table. The title was in latin, and Sam recognised the word for angels. "Beautiful images," the reverend continued. "I don't know where the artist drew his inspiration. They're quite unorthodox, but very well done nonetheless. Unfortunately, not many are titled, but there's a whole array of angels covered, all drawn by hand."

"It's amazing," Sam said earnestly, turning the pages slowly and with due respect, studying the many winged and strangely shaped beings depicted. About twenty pages in, he paused.

"Ah yes," the reverend said, noting the look on Sam's face. "Strange to include it, but I suppose we can't deny the truth that the devil was once an angel. Despite all the badness it caused, the devil's fall from grace is a part of our Christian history."

It was a wondrous image, it almost looked alive. Carefully sketched out was the symbolic clouds of Heaven above, and falling from them, a sensuous figure with streaming wings, outlined in light. It wasn't an accurate representation, of course, but it got the effect across. Unable to stop himself, Sam let one fingertip trail over the image.

"It's beautiful," Sam said.

"Yes," the reverend admitted. "A great piece of artwork. Not how one should perhaps picture the devil, but nonetheless..."

"Lucifer," Sam corrected softly. "His name is Lucifer."

The reverend gave no sign of being affronted. "Yes, it was back then," he replied, clearly having assumed Sam was merely demonstrating his religious knowledge.

Feeling the tears sting at his eyes, Sam carefully closed the book and pushed it back across the table toward the reverend. "Thank you for showing me," he said, the words coming out a little rushed, but thankfully more or less level. "I should probably go help my colleague."

"Of course," the reverend nodded, pointing the door out to him once more, before turning to busy himself with tidying the books away as Sam headed for the stairs.

Some stupid part of him wanted to write all this down now, to record it in the diary. He was embarrassed to admit how much of a comfort he took from telling Lucifer about the little things that happened to him. If only he could have done it in person. As the hallucination had mocked, Sam knew it was true, he had always enjoyed their special little chats.

It was indeed a long climb up the towers. The stairs were large and steep, too. He stopped on the second landing, easily picking out the door for the storage room. He could hear Dean moving around inside, surely searching for any object that looked significant enough for a spirit to bind itself to.

Sam stepped closer, intending to enter, but something made him pause, hand on the door handle. There was no chill in the air or flickering of the lights, so he was pretty sure any spirit that happened to be about wasn't near him. No, that wasn't it.

He turned and looked over his shoulder, studying where the staircase rose up further to the next level.

A burning curiosity overtook him. He didn't know what he'd do if Dean or the reverend realised he was missing, but he could always try to claim that he'd somehow missed the obviously marked door of the storage room if it came to it.

Sighing, Sam turned on his heel and headed up.

His legs began to ache as the climb went on. Reaching the next level, Sam was surprised to round the corner and find himself looking at a large towel bell suspended from the ceiling. Something about the overwhelming size of it almost made him feel dizzy. It looked big and ugly just hanging there, and Sam was about to turn back when he spotted another set of stairs rising even high on the opposite side of the bell chamber. This wasn't a proper staircase with walls either side like the other, but a single set rising diagonally along against the wall on one side, with a simple handrail on the other. Peering round the great bell, he could see a door at the top.

Walking carefully under the looming large bell, Sam crossed the room and made a beeline straight for the small staircase. It looked rather old, but giving the railing an experimental shake, he found it sturdy enough. So with that, he began to climb.

He knew he shouldn't be in here. The Winchesters did enough snooping around, and he wasn't even doing this for the sake of a case. He was just... He didn't even know. He'd probably turn back in just a moment anyway. The approaching single door was surely locked, perhaps even alarmed. That would cause for an awkward situation.

Yet, he found himself reaching for the handle. It gave way easily and the door popped open with only a small push.

It led, as he had expected, to the roof, right on the very top of the tall stone tower.

The wind nipped at him, blowing back his hair and the open suit jacket he wore. The space was only the size of a small room, and the edges were risen hardly more than a foot off the ground, more decorative than anything else. But Sam found the cold, as biting as it was, almost soothing. Ignoring all his best instincts, he slowly walked forward until he came to the stone edge.

The area below was peaceful, fairly quiet, only the odd car passing, or people wandering by. Leaning forward, he could see right down to the grey pavement, cold and hard.

He wondered what hitting it would be like. Would he feel it? Or would it be too quick? Wasn't there something about the fall itself could make you pass out? He might not even be aware the moment he hit the ground. Either way, it would be a quick death, surely. Perhaps the cavernous entrance to the cage would open right up from him there, a gaping mouth in the concrete through which he could drop straight in.

He thought of Dean briefly, what Dean would think. But Dean could move on, eventually. One of them would have to die before the other at some point. Why not now? Why not get it over with?

He wished to write in that silly old diary again. Yesterday, he'd written some drivel telling Lucifer about their crummy motel room. He imagined this entry:

Dear Lucifer,

I'm stood on the edge of a cathedral tower, considering whether to go back inside, or throw myself off...

Actually maybe not write that down. A bitter feeling tore at him as he contemplated which of those options Lucifer would want him to take. Were he to turn back, Sam didn't like the idea of making out like he'd chosen not to come back to him just yet. But were he to jump, Dean would be distraught, and god, it wouldn't be the most subtle way, bound to make the papers and the Winchesters being in the news was never a good idea. Surely it would mean Dean would get discovered to have not been a real visiting journalist, and Sam would feel awful causing his brother such trouble.

With his long legs, it was easy enough to step right up onto the small wall round the edge. He was literally stood with the tips of his black leather shoes hanging off. So close. Maybe he was leaving it to chance. A mere gust of strong wind could have sent him over.

It would be cruel to Dean, wouldn't it? Maybe he could find somewhere else, somewhere discreet. It felt right somehow, just jumping off of something. Falling. He felt curiously calm staring down at the hard concrete below. He knew perhaps he shouldn't, but the plummeting distance seemed nothing. He'd fallen further.

And besides, this time, there would be someone there to catch him.

A/N: The end! Whether Sam decides to throw himself off the roof is open to interpretation. You all said I was cruel for separating Sam and Lucifer, so if you want to read it as Sam choosing to kill himself to get back to him, you can. Either way works.

Anyway, thank you for reading and faving and following and reviewing and whatever else! I've got a new Samifer fic being written, so look out for that :)