Sam's hands immediately go right up with his eyebrow as he's ruffled by Lucifer. And really, Lucifer's instincts are good: Sam doesn't believe it either. Not as a whole. Not in practice. It's easy to say, not so easy to do, especially with the bad blood between them.
"Screw what up?" he asks, feeling evermore like there's more behind Lucifer's words than the obvious. Granted, it's easy to see why anyone who knows the Winchesters would say such things, but here on Abraxas, with their whole beings altered in ways they don't know or can't fully imagine, Sam doesn't understand why the petty squabbles of Terrans against their religious iconography matters so far away from home.
(Do old habits die hard? Or do they just need excuses because that's the only way they know how to be?)
Sam's waiting for an answer, but he pulls out of the grip regardless, too tired to appear any more than ten percent eager for this tête-à-tête. He's not sure why he thought even for a second they could share company without coming to this.
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"Screw what up?" he asks, feeling evermore like there's more behind Lucifer's words than the obvious. Granted, it's easy to see why anyone who knows the Winchesters would say such things, but here on Abraxas, with their whole beings altered in ways they don't know or can't fully imagine, Sam doesn't understand why the petty squabbles of Terrans against their religious iconography matters so far away from home.
(Do old habits die hard? Or do they just need excuses because that's the only way they know how to be?)
Sam's waiting for an answer, but he pulls out of the grip regardless, too tired to appear any more than ten percent eager for this tête-à-tête. He's not sure why he thought even for a second they could share company without coming to this.