The demon was crying. I didn't know demons could cry, a vague thought whisked through his mind, immediately feeling somewhat...familiar? Had he thought that once before? Sam turned his face into the door, nose brushing against the wood painfully. He wanted to hide. Sleep, maybe. When was the last time he had slept? Sam had forgotten. He raised a shaking hand to rub at his eyes, the shudders that he'd taken on upon being released from Lucifer's hold still dominating his entire body. "You're Ruby," Sam finally said in an uneven voice. "But you're not my Ruby." He turned into the door a bit more, trying to stay as far away from her as he could manage. "I don't want you. I want her. Where is she?" This wasn't Ruby. His Ruby wouldn't do this to him. She wouldn't have let Lucifer get away with trying to kill his brother, she wouldn't have even worked for Lucifer to begin with. Maybe the old Ruby would have, the one that he hadn't fallen in love with, but not his Ruby. Sam trusted that Ruby. He believed in her. He had married that Ruby, knowing that she would always do the right thing because she knew that it was what he would have wanted. That was his Ruby. This one, the greedy, backstabbing one, wasn't one that he wanted anything to do with. Angrily, Sam turned away from the door and glared at her, his own eyes damp for a reason he couldn't quite understand. "I want you to leave. You're not her. You'll never be her."
The white suit that Lucifer had crammed his body into felt unusual. Too soft. Richer than anything Sam Winchester would have ever worn. Sam grimaced, hands going for the jacket. He clumsily began to pull at it, twisting himself up in the sleeves as he tried to pull the jacket from his body. He didn't want to wear this. It wasn't him, it was Lucifer. This outfit belonged to Lucifer.
It took a lot more effort than it should have for him to pull it from his body, but once he got his arms free Sam tossed it as far away from him as he could manage - which, pitifully, wasn't very far at all - and then went for the shirt. "I don't like it. It's dirty, it's not as clean as it looks..." Sam could remember blood staining these clothes. Repeatedly. Lucifer had cleaned this outfit over and over again with a simple wave of his hand, washing all the blood and dirt away with ease. But it never went away. Sam could still see it, even if it wasn't there. He could still feel the people that he had ripped apart, all begging him for mercy. Begging, begging - wanting to live. They hadn't been ready for death, yet Lucifer had taken them anyway. Just like he was going to do to Dean.