Every rose has its thorn

His name was Sam Winchester

As the archangel fire begin to scald his blood, it took more and more focus to cling on to who he was.

My name is Sam Winchester. I was born in 1983. Have a brother, Dean. I am a hunter.

Name, rank and number, Sam repeated it over and over as carried on walking to his personal Mount Doom.

My name is Sam Winchester.

The sky was now an inverted dome of yellow. The colour of radioactive pus. Even inside Lucifer's souped-up protective womb, it was getting harder and harder for Sam to push on through.

There was no question now, of ever taking the ring off.

He felt a sudden, brutal jarring at his core. Michael's awareness, his penetration, scraped against his soul like a cheese grater. He looked at Lucifer.

"Oops", she said. "Guess we don't get to sample the entrée after all. Straight onto the meat course it is Sammy."

It was all happening too fast. Decades, and more, of long, slow imprisonment, and now everything was suddenly spinning away from him.

Sam shrank, like a salted slug. What the actual fuck was he doing here, involved in a fight between two archangel brothers? He had no place, no right being here.

His name was Sam Winchester, and he felt pathetic and small.

There was no warning, no preamble. In a rush of volcanic wind, the yellow pulse condensed into a swirling, sparkling funnel, and it wrapped around, twisted against Lucifer's white-gold essence.

As the whirlwinds expanded, as the huge tornadoes writhed against each other, Sam's connection to Lucifer pulsed with a sickening, distressing pain. Not physical pain - this was spiritual pain, spiritual torment.

The destructive might of the war happening inside their universe was so utterly incomprehensible to a mortal, so devastating, that the entity that was Sam Winchester began to unravel.

My name is......is.