Fine
Look, ma, I wrote actual H/C! Well, actually, the 'H' and the 'C' should stand for 'horror' and 'crack' in this case, but--h/c! \o/
This was inspired partly by my current frustration with Show, and partly by a brief exchange with the very talented minviendha, where it was decided that Hallucifer? Is the ULTIMATE hurt!Sam AU fanfiction writer. Because he is.
This story... is very, very weird. I don't know if it'll appeal to a lot of people, but I loved writing it. I've read very, very little fanfic in the past few months, and even fewer s7 tags, so I don't know if this has been done before. I hope it hasn't.
Summary: Dean knows Sam's 'coping mechanism' isn't exactly healthy. He does. But he hasn't anticipated just how bad it can get.
Warnings: SPOILERS up to and including 7.03: The Girl Next Door, violence, torture, mild swearing, sorta-kinda-Wincest-but-not-really, weirdness to the max, present-tense, metaphor-abuse.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.
Fine
I think this is my best torture, yet.
-
Sam has never felt better.
Lucifer props his feet up on the coffee table and smiles lazily at him. “You seem pretty confident lately, Sammy. Been reading up on The Secret?”
He doesn’t say anything; only presses against the crescent of scar tissue on his hand. The pain isn’t as sharp as before-there’s only a dull ache these days, even when he digs his nail at the edges of the scar. It doesn’t really matter, though-the pain isn’t important.
“The pain up here, it’s different, and I know you can feel it,” Dad had said. “You’re not down there. We got you back, Sammy.”
And that’s all Sam needs. Lucifer begins to flicker, but his smile doesn’t fade. “Well, what do you know,” he says, putting his hands up. “You got me again.”
Nikhil enters the room just as Lucifer disappears. “We need to keep moving. Jo said she found-” He pauses and frowns. “You okay, Sam?”
Sam smiles at him. “Yeah, absolutely.” He resumes packing with a renewed vigour, although he doesn’t really need to prove a point anymore. “We’ll drop you off at Vidya’s once the job’s done.”
Nikhil shakes his head and laughs. “As much as I’d like to see the back of your father, Vidya’s even worse.”
Sam slings his backpack over his shoulder. “You should’ve thought of that before you married her.”
Nikhil just grins and turns to leave. Sam’s about to follow him when he-
it’s dark and damp and his head hurts like it’s being split open and he can hear sammy please don’t do this sammy SAMMY like it’s never, ever going to stop-
-closes his eyes and presses against the scar again. The voice fades and he’s slammed back into reality. The sunlight’s bouncing bright off the Impala where Dad’s sitting going over research and Nikhil’s gesturing impatiently and Sam breathes in the fresh air and feels, for the first time, completely fine.
“Coming,” he says, and stalks toward the Impala.
-
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, I don’t know what to do, Bobby. I thought he was over the worst of it, but now-”
“Is he seeing the devil again?”
“That’s the thing: I have no friggin clue what he’s seeing. Just yesterday he was calling for somebody named Nick Hill.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know! It was bad enough when he was hallucinating me or you, but now he’s making people up? What-what do I even do anymore, Bobby?”
“Dean, you gotta relax. Sam can still function-you gotta give him time.”
“Time for what? To friggin put a bullet in someone’s head because this Nick character told him to?”
“Time to adjust. Sam’s been through so much, but he’s still here. He’ll be fine, Dean, you’ll see.”
-
The sky is always red.
There are ribbons of light coiling down toward them, pulsing and undulating gently like giant jellyfish in a sea of blood. Sam stands, mesmerised, as he watches them descend. Few know what they are, and fewer still understand how dangerous they are.
“Beautiful,” Lucifer breathes next to him. “My brothers and sisters... scattered to the wind.”
One of the tendrils of light loops down toward him, wraps itself around his scarred hand, but Sam jerks away. He will not allow it to be healed. He can’t.
“Such a convenient little weapon you have there, Sammy,” Lucifer says, reaching out, tucking Sam’s hair behind his ear. “You and your little obsessions. Do you know how much I love you for them?”
Sam clenches his jaw, digs his nails into his palm. He doesn’t wait to see if Lucifer’s gone; only turns around back to camp. Jessica’s waiting with a canister of holy oil at the entrance, and she isn’t looking at him like he just grew an extra head, so Sam figures it’s been a good day. He must look okay. Hell, he should, because he feels fine.
“I’m not your mother, y’know,” Jessica tells him dryly as he gets in. “I’m not going to run after you shouting ‘get back in here, it’s late!’ every time you decide to stay outside past curfew.”
“And yet, here you are,” Sam says, smiling.
Jessica rolls her eyes and sets about pouring the holy oil as a barrier across the entrance. It’s been years since the battle in Heaven began to bleed down to the world below-sometimes the things that fall from the sky are nothing more than the remnants of angelic grace, soothing and healing, and sometimes they are far, far worse. Sometimes they are things that are comparable to the horrors of the Cage-
“Hey.” It’s Dean with a hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing, and Sam leans into the touch. “You okay?”
Sam nods. It’s a little redundant of Dean to ask the question, at any rate: if there’s anybody who can ground Sam even on one of his worst days, it’s Dean.
“Your sister’s been grumpy all day,” Dean says conversationally. “You really shouldn’t make her worry so much.”
Sam ignores the implicit I was worried, too, you know, and snorts. “It’s probably her time of the month, or something.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You’re pretty brave when she isn’t around.” His smile fades as he continues, hesitantly, “So, uh... any visits from him today?”
Sam automatically strokes his scar. “It’s under control,” he says.
To his relief, Dean doesn’t push it. “You must be starving,” he says. “Dinner’s ready. And-oh, yeah. I managed to talk Tom into letting us take the single bed today, so that you don’t start chaos in the camp with your uncoordinated octopus act in the middle of the night.”
Sam grins. “What would I do without you?”
“Oh, crash and burn,” Dean says, just before Sam leans in and kisses him.
-
“Any improvements? Dean? Dean, you still there?”
“Jessica.”
“What?”
“He thinks I’m his dead girlfriend, Bobby. Hell, he freakin tried to kiss me! And-dammit, Bobby, you’d better not be laughing.”
“I’m not-”
“Because this isn’t funny. Not even a little bit.”
“I know it isn’t, Dean-I’m just saying, these things don’t resolve overnight. He’s not seeing the devil anymore, and, well, at least it’s Jessica and not some stranger.”
“Are you really trying to pitch me the ‘glass is half full’ line here? Really? Sam’s totally disconnected from reality and all you have is ‘well, there’s a silver lining’?”
“I’m not sure what you were expecting from me, boy, but giving me lip ain’t gonna make your brother better.”
“I-crap. I’m sorry, Bobby. I just-I feel like I’m really scraping the bottom of the barrel here, y’know?”
“Bring your brother over-I’m holed up in Rufus’ cabin. You don’t have to deal with this alone.”
“Thanks, Bobby. I mean, with the-just. Thanks.”
“Don’t waste time thanking me. Get your asses over here before he actually molests you.”
“Very funny.”
-
Sam brings her shotgun up and fires. The ghost disappears in an explosion of rock-salt, and she shouts, “Dean! Hurry up, already!”
Dean’s still frantically trying to get the lighter to work, and Sam sighs. She really didn’t expect her brother to be this rusty. It’s been a few (hundred) years, sure, but even then-
“But Sammy,” Lucifer coos in her ear, “how do you know it’s really him?”
She stiffens (not now not now please god not now) and that moment of distraction is all it takes: the ghost reappears, and with one swing of a spectral arm, sends her flying almost halfway across the graveyard. She crashes headfirst into a grave marker and the whole world flares a brilliant, blinding white before winking out altogether.
When she comes to (and for a moment, she really wishes she hadn’t: her head hurts like somebody’s wedged something in her brain through the back of her skull), Dean’s crouched next to her, looking as closed to terrified as she’s ever seen him. “Sam,” he’s saying, “Sammy, you okay?”
She wishes she can roll her eyes-she just nearly split her skull open on a grave marker, what does Dean think she feels like?-when she realises: she really, really is okay. There’s no Lucifer anymore. It’s the pain, it’s always the pain that does the trick, and when Dean’s hands are hovering her wound and pulling up her eyelids and generally being painfully fussy, she just fingers her scar and lets him with a smile.
“I’m fine,” she says.
-
“He gave himself a concussion. Really?”
“He just-I don’t know, Bobby. He just fell over, didn’t even hit his head that hard. He’s not showing any clinical signs of a concussion, but he’s been throwing up and says his head hurts like a mother.”
“He’s... hallucinating an injury?”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe we should tie him down. Maybe it’s safer that way.”
“How long-how long can he keep doing this, Bobby?”
“I don’t know, son.”
-
Sam can’t move, and he’s seeing Lucifer everywhere.
The walls are pristine-whitewashed and spotless. There’s no furniture but the chair he’s strapped to, no sound but that of his harsh breathing. Lucifer’s leaning against the far wall, smiling down at him. “Oh, Sam,” he says. “How you’ve suffered. How much more you have to suffer until you realise that it’s all futile.” He shakes his head. “Makes my heart break, really.”
Sam ignores him; tries to focus on the faint scent of ammonia and old blood that fills the room. His hands are tied behind his back, but he rubs against the scar with the fingers of the same hand.
Lucifer’s not going that easily this time, however. “Remember,” he says, “It only ends when you end it.”
He’s still there when the door opens and Dean enters. He’s carrying a knife and a glass of water. “Hey, Sammy,” he says, smiling, but his smile is tight and about as humourless as it can get. “You-uh. You okay today?”
Sam opens his mouth to answer, but he can’t manage more than a dry croak. Dean tips the glass against his lips and Sam drinks greedily. “Still seeing him,” he says once Dean’s taken the glass away. He’s never thought of lying to Dean, not anymore. Especially not when Dean’s the only one who seems to be able to do something about it.
Dean looks so tired. “Right now?”
Sam nods.
His brother lifts the knife, traces one of Sam’s scabbed-over scars on his bare chest. Always so gentle at first, like every one of those cuts is a wordless apology. “You sure?” he asks.
“Please, Dean.” Sam’s never felt surer of anything in his life.
Dean nods and digs the tip of the knife into the scar. Sam barely locks in a scream as agony radiates through his already-battered chest, his eyes squeezed shut, tears springing at the corners. Dean finishes tearing open the scar after what seems like an eternity, and Sam leans forward, panting, and opens his eyes. He watches the blood seep down and soak the waistband of his jeans for a long moment before he dares to look up. When he does, however-
Lucifer isn’t there.
Lucifer isn’t there, and Sam has never felt better.
-
You never left, Sam. You’re still in the Cage. With me.
Finis
This was inspired partly by my current frustration with Show, and partly by a brief exchange with the very talented minviendha, where it was decided that Hallucifer? Is the ULTIMATE hurt!Sam AU fanfiction writer. Because he is.
This story... is very, very weird. I don't know if it'll appeal to a lot of people, but I loved writing it. I've read very, very little fanfic in the past few months, and even fewer s7 tags, so I don't know if this has been done before. I hope it hasn't.
Summary: Dean knows Sam's 'coping mechanism' isn't exactly healthy. He does. But he hasn't anticipated just how bad it can get.
Warnings: SPOILERS up to and including 7.03: The Girl Next Door, violence, torture, mild swearing, sorta-kinda-Wincest-but-not-really, weirdness to the max, present-tense, metaphor-abuse.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.
Fine
I think this is my best torture, yet.
-
Sam has never felt better.
Lucifer props his feet up on the coffee table and smiles lazily at him. “You seem pretty confident lately, Sammy. Been reading up on The Secret?”
He doesn’t say anything; only presses against the crescent of scar tissue on his hand. The pain isn’t as sharp as before-there’s only a dull ache these days, even when he digs his nail at the edges of the scar. It doesn’t really matter, though-the pain isn’t important.
“The pain up here, it’s different, and I know you can feel it,” Dad had said. “You’re not down there. We got you back, Sammy.”
And that’s all Sam needs. Lucifer begins to flicker, but his smile doesn’t fade. “Well, what do you know,” he says, putting his hands up. “You got me again.”
Nikhil enters the room just as Lucifer disappears. “We need to keep moving. Jo said she found-” He pauses and frowns. “You okay, Sam?”
Sam smiles at him. “Yeah, absolutely.” He resumes packing with a renewed vigour, although he doesn’t really need to prove a point anymore. “We’ll drop you off at Vidya’s once the job’s done.”
Nikhil shakes his head and laughs. “As much as I’d like to see the back of your father, Vidya’s even worse.”
Sam slings his backpack over his shoulder. “You should’ve thought of that before you married her.”
Nikhil just grins and turns to leave. Sam’s about to follow him when he-
it’s dark and damp and his head hurts like it’s being split open and he can hear sammy please don’t do this sammy SAMMY like it’s never, ever going to stop-
-closes his eyes and presses against the scar again. The voice fades and he’s slammed back into reality. The sunlight’s bouncing bright off the Impala where Dad’s sitting going over research and Nikhil’s gesturing impatiently and Sam breathes in the fresh air and feels, for the first time, completely fine.
“Coming,” he says, and stalks toward the Impala.
-
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I mean, I don’t know what to do, Bobby. I thought he was over the worst of it, but now-”
“Is he seeing the devil again?”
“That’s the thing: I have no friggin clue what he’s seeing. Just yesterday he was calling for somebody named Nick Hill.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know! It was bad enough when he was hallucinating me or you, but now he’s making people up? What-what do I even do anymore, Bobby?”
“Dean, you gotta relax. Sam can still function-you gotta give him time.”
“Time for what? To friggin put a bullet in someone’s head because this Nick character told him to?”
“Time to adjust. Sam’s been through so much, but he’s still here. He’ll be fine, Dean, you’ll see.”
-
The sky is always red.
There are ribbons of light coiling down toward them, pulsing and undulating gently like giant jellyfish in a sea of blood. Sam stands, mesmerised, as he watches them descend. Few know what they are, and fewer still understand how dangerous they are.
“Beautiful,” Lucifer breathes next to him. “My brothers and sisters... scattered to the wind.”
One of the tendrils of light loops down toward him, wraps itself around his scarred hand, but Sam jerks away. He will not allow it to be healed. He can’t.
“Such a convenient little weapon you have there, Sammy,” Lucifer says, reaching out, tucking Sam’s hair behind his ear. “You and your little obsessions. Do you know how much I love you for them?”
Sam clenches his jaw, digs his nails into his palm. He doesn’t wait to see if Lucifer’s gone; only turns around back to camp. Jessica’s waiting with a canister of holy oil at the entrance, and she isn’t looking at him like he just grew an extra head, so Sam figures it’s been a good day. He must look okay. Hell, he should, because he feels fine.
“I’m not your mother, y’know,” Jessica tells him dryly as he gets in. “I’m not going to run after you shouting ‘get back in here, it’s late!’ every time you decide to stay outside past curfew.”
“And yet, here you are,” Sam says, smiling.
Jessica rolls her eyes and sets about pouring the holy oil as a barrier across the entrance. It’s been years since the battle in Heaven began to bleed down to the world below-sometimes the things that fall from the sky are nothing more than the remnants of angelic grace, soothing and healing, and sometimes they are far, far worse. Sometimes they are things that are comparable to the horrors of the Cage-
“Hey.” It’s Dean with a hand on his shoulder, gently squeezing, and Sam leans into the touch. “You okay?”
Sam nods. It’s a little redundant of Dean to ask the question, at any rate: if there’s anybody who can ground Sam even on one of his worst days, it’s Dean.
“Your sister’s been grumpy all day,” Dean says conversationally. “You really shouldn’t make her worry so much.”
Sam ignores the implicit I was worried, too, you know, and snorts. “It’s probably her time of the month, or something.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You’re pretty brave when she isn’t around.” His smile fades as he continues, hesitantly, “So, uh... any visits from him today?”
Sam automatically strokes his scar. “It’s under control,” he says.
To his relief, Dean doesn’t push it. “You must be starving,” he says. “Dinner’s ready. And-oh, yeah. I managed to talk Tom into letting us take the single bed today, so that you don’t start chaos in the camp with your uncoordinated octopus act in the middle of the night.”
Sam grins. “What would I do without you?”
“Oh, crash and burn,” Dean says, just before Sam leans in and kisses him.
-
“Any improvements? Dean? Dean, you still there?”
“Jessica.”
“What?”
“He thinks I’m his dead girlfriend, Bobby. Hell, he freakin tried to kiss me! And-dammit, Bobby, you’d better not be laughing.”
“I’m not-”
“Because this isn’t funny. Not even a little bit.”
“I know it isn’t, Dean-I’m just saying, these things don’t resolve overnight. He’s not seeing the devil anymore, and, well, at least it’s Jessica and not some stranger.”
“Are you really trying to pitch me the ‘glass is half full’ line here? Really? Sam’s totally disconnected from reality and all you have is ‘well, there’s a silver lining’?”
“I’m not sure what you were expecting from me, boy, but giving me lip ain’t gonna make your brother better.”
“I-crap. I’m sorry, Bobby. I just-I feel like I’m really scraping the bottom of the barrel here, y’know?”
“Bring your brother over-I’m holed up in Rufus’ cabin. You don’t have to deal with this alone.”
“Thanks, Bobby. I mean, with the-just. Thanks.”
“Don’t waste time thanking me. Get your asses over here before he actually molests you.”
“Very funny.”
-
Sam brings her shotgun up and fires. The ghost disappears in an explosion of rock-salt, and she shouts, “Dean! Hurry up, already!”
Dean’s still frantically trying to get the lighter to work, and Sam sighs. She really didn’t expect her brother to be this rusty. It’s been a few (hundred) years, sure, but even then-
“But Sammy,” Lucifer coos in her ear, “how do you know it’s really him?”
She stiffens (not now not now please god not now) and that moment of distraction is all it takes: the ghost reappears, and with one swing of a spectral arm, sends her flying almost halfway across the graveyard. She crashes headfirst into a grave marker and the whole world flares a brilliant, blinding white before winking out altogether.
When she comes to (and for a moment, she really wishes she hadn’t: her head hurts like somebody’s wedged something in her brain through the back of her skull), Dean’s crouched next to her, looking as closed to terrified as she’s ever seen him. “Sam,” he’s saying, “Sammy, you okay?”
She wishes she can roll her eyes-she just nearly split her skull open on a grave marker, what does Dean think she feels like?-when she realises: she really, really is okay. There’s no Lucifer anymore. It’s the pain, it’s always the pain that does the trick, and when Dean’s hands are hovering her wound and pulling up her eyelids and generally being painfully fussy, she just fingers her scar and lets him with a smile.
“I’m fine,” she says.
-
“He gave himself a concussion. Really?”
“He just-I don’t know, Bobby. He just fell over, didn’t even hit his head that hard. He’s not showing any clinical signs of a concussion, but he’s been throwing up and says his head hurts like a mother.”
“He’s... hallucinating an injury?”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Maybe we should tie him down. Maybe it’s safer that way.”
“How long-how long can he keep doing this, Bobby?”
“I don’t know, son.”
-
Sam can’t move, and he’s seeing Lucifer everywhere.
The walls are pristine-whitewashed and spotless. There’s no furniture but the chair he’s strapped to, no sound but that of his harsh breathing. Lucifer’s leaning against the far wall, smiling down at him. “Oh, Sam,” he says. “How you’ve suffered. How much more you have to suffer until you realise that it’s all futile.” He shakes his head. “Makes my heart break, really.”
Sam ignores him; tries to focus on the faint scent of ammonia and old blood that fills the room. His hands are tied behind his back, but he rubs against the scar with the fingers of the same hand.
Lucifer’s not going that easily this time, however. “Remember,” he says, “It only ends when you end it.”
He’s still there when the door opens and Dean enters. He’s carrying a knife and a glass of water. “Hey, Sammy,” he says, smiling, but his smile is tight and about as humourless as it can get. “You-uh. You okay today?”
Sam opens his mouth to answer, but he can’t manage more than a dry croak. Dean tips the glass against his lips and Sam drinks greedily. “Still seeing him,” he says once Dean’s taken the glass away. He’s never thought of lying to Dean, not anymore. Especially not when Dean’s the only one who seems to be able to do something about it.
Dean looks so tired. “Right now?”
Sam nods.
His brother lifts the knife, traces one of Sam’s scabbed-over scars on his bare chest. Always so gentle at first, like every one of those cuts is a wordless apology. “You sure?” he asks.
“Please, Dean.” Sam’s never felt surer of anything in his life.
Dean nods and digs the tip of the knife into the scar. Sam barely locks in a scream as agony radiates through his already-battered chest, his eyes squeezed shut, tears springing at the corners. Dean finishes tearing open the scar after what seems like an eternity, and Sam leans forward, panting, and opens his eyes. He watches the blood seep down and soak the waistband of his jeans for a long moment before he dares to look up. When he does, however-
Lucifer isn’t there.
Lucifer isn’t there, and Sam has never felt better.
-
You never left, Sam. You’re still in the Cage. With me.
Finis