Imagine how good season 7 would have been if they actually paid attention to Sam and his hell trauma instead of witch couples that need counseling and spoon bending psychics.
Rating: Explicit - Main Pairing: Sam/Balthazar
Status: Complete
Part 2 of the Jimmyverse series
Dean, Cas and Jimmy actually talking things through in Season 5 has major ripple effects. Sam still gets locked in the Cage with Lucifer, and comes back soulless for a bit. But Balthazar survives Season 6 and Purgatory never gets opened.
Some things change. Some things stay the same. And Balthazar might be Sam’s best chance at getting some sleep without going completely insane.
Sam actually forgets that he's there sometimes. Maybe, he imagines, it's a bit like having a small child, whose babbling and constant attempts at getting your attention eventually start to drift into the background. Someone you can learn to ignore, unless there's a particular urgent cry. But like anyone who won’t take no for an answer, he just changes his tactics, until Sam is forced to listen again. He’s relentless, and his methods, in their cunningness and force, completely unchildlike.
Sam doesn't talk back. He forces himself not to. He acts like he's not seeing things he knows for a fact aren't there. Can’t be there. Unless this whole universe is fake. Which, granted, doesn’t seem that improbable, but he’s not ready to give into this belief just yet.
It's different when Dean is around. It's harder to ignore with someone else is in the room, and if there’s someone else in the room it’s almost always Dean. They both sound just as real to Sam and in their approach to get his attention, they employ similar methods. They’re all-encompassing in their plea for attention. Sam feels like he’s a dog and there's two guys both adamant they're his one and only master. They can't both be, and Sam knows it. One of them is lying.
Dean sits in front of him, the back of the chair turned towards Sam’s. As if he's interrogating him. Because that's exactly what he's doing.
The light on Bobby’s living room is dim, except for the one lamp on the desk shining its light directly at Sam, making him quint. His eyes hurt, but he won’t shield them, not with that scrutinizing looks Dean throws him.
Dean talks, and Sam listens, and meanwhile he tries very hard not to notice the figure out of the corner of his eyes. But he does see. Quick glances are enough to know he’s there. He sits on a third chair positioned right behind Dean’s – a chair that probably doesn't even exist, Sam thinks. Or maybe that’s a sign that everything he’s seeing is either real or fake. All the chairs look just as realistic. It's got to be either or, right? This is either hell or not. Fantasy or reality. It can’t both be. He tells himself to count the chairs tomorrow.
Lucifer rolls his eyes. Sam fears it's because of his own doubting thoughts, but then Lucifer yawns. He ticks the place on his wrist where a watch would be and points at Dean. "Bo-ring!" H shouts so loudly that Sam misses the last of Dean's sentences, hopes it's nothing of note. He nods hard to make up for the lapse in attention.
Dean stops talking, his eyes go small. And then, with a snap of his neck, he swirls his head around. He’s searching the room. "What the hell are you looking at?" he asks, and Sam can't reply. Shrugs and feigns ignorance.
This time he gets away with it. Dean is pissed instead of worried. He thinks it's something to do with them and the eternalness of their dysfunctional relationship. He's so focused on what is wrong between the both of them, he can't look beyond any of it. Can’t imagine that there’s a hell worth than the one they’re going through right now. Together but torn apart.
At night, when Dean is only an arm’s length away, Lucifer is between them. He prefers staying in the spots Sam tends to look at it, so he can't ever miss him. Sam tries to stare right through him. He wills himself to see Dean instead. But his brother remains hidden behind this stocky short body he knows so well. Knows it better than anyone else's in all it's incarnations, and all his forms and lack of forms. He tries not to think of these things. Formlessness, and existences as a soul without his body – or with his body out there without himself in there. Really, no, it wasn't him down there for the most part. Just his core. The vulnerability of his soul stripped off its coating. The strong veneer that he might have been able to fight and resist. Who is he trying to kid here? Certainly not himself. He knows: No part of him is strong enough to withstand the creator of all that is evil. His hallucinations right now are proof enough.
"Creator of all that is evil? Pff." Lucifer props up his head on his hand and touches his chest in mock offense. "You old flatterer. Anyway, you know that would be my father, right? I never created anything. The old man just kicked me outside, and I just tried to, you know, live my own life. Do my own thing. Do it better than Daddy. You know how that feels, right? The need for independence after being told to never come back because of 'hubris' or something stupid like that.“
If Sam tries hard, he can still hear Dean breathing. Dean is real. Dean has a smell. You can touch Dean.
He looks at Lucifer. He stares him right in the eyes now. Lucifer stares right back.
Sam reaches out his hand. If he's not really there, maybe a touch is going to make him evaporate. But there's no poof. Lucifer just looks at him, curious now, as Sam's hand touches his face. Then he puts his own hand on Sam's cheek, too. They’re in mock posture of starstruck lovers. Sam waits and waits. The skin under his fingers remains solid, and the palm on his face is warm. Lucifer is cose enough so he can smell his breath. It's surprisingly minty. Sam recalls a moment earlier today when he was taking a shower and Lucifer stood outside. Sam hurried up, ignoring the shadow on the curtain, the crude comments, and trying not to look at his own body. But he remembered now, that his voice had sounded odd, that there had been a smacking of lips. Lucifer was chewing gum then, Sam realizes. It makes total sense. Or it would make sense. If this was real, if Lucifer were a real being that could retain smell, who could stand behind shower curtains making fun of your shampoo choices and reminding you of times when he fucked you hard.
"Why are you so worked up about whether this is real or not?" Lucifer whispers, still in bed, still shielding Dean. "Has this ever helped you before?"
Sam needs to know. It's important to know. If he's crazy or not.
"This is so small-minded," Lucifer says, as his thumb trails Sam's bottom lip.
He needs this to be not real, because otherwise he's lying on his bed with Lucifer caressing him.
"But that is exactly what is happening," Lucifer says. "Either way. Don't be ashamed for wanting this."
"I don't," Sam says out loud. He listens to his own voice carrying over the atoms of the air, willing it to be profoundly different to Lucifer’s voice, but it's no more real than any other sound he's hearing. Dean doesn't stir in his bed. The wood doesn’t creak. Maybe Sam has never opened his mouth at all.
Lucifer's whole hand cups the side of his face.
"Look at it this way," he says. "Either this is real, and you could, you know, try to fight me instead of doing what you’re doing. Or this isn’t real and you’re just fantasizing this little get together because you miss me so much. So the way I see it, there’s no way around it: it’s you all the way, buddy.“
But I don't want it, Sam thinks.
"Then why don't you stop me?"
Lucifer’s smile broadens, until his teeth show. "Don’t worry, I’m not flattering myself. I know it’s not me you want. We both know what you’re really craving." He throws a look at the other bed. "You want your big bro to not hate you. You want him to stop being disappointed in you. You want brotherhood, camaraderie, trust. Touch." With each word he inches forward, until his cheek is flush with Sam’s. "We both know that’s not gonna happen. No one will want to touch you after me," Lucifer says, speaks right into his ear, speaks right his soul. "No one will want you again, after the way I’ve been through with you." His hands never stop caressing Sam. "And no one, believe me, no one will ever know or understand you like me. Least of all your brother." He draws back, and smirks. "So we might as well, you know."
This isn’t real. If it were real, he’d have to face the fact that the devil’s hands are soft and inviting. If it were real, he’d have to acknowledge the truth of this little speech.
Internally Sam struggles. But on the outside, he's calm, as Lucifer inches forward to kiss him. This is not the touch he’s been craving, but it’s the only one he’ll get.
He's never going to tell Dean about what transpired down in the pit beyond the vagueness of torture – not that Dean would ask. Dean thinks he knows all there is to hell. But if Sam were going to talk about it, with anyone, he would skip the softness that creeped up from time to time. The ways Lucifer made him think not just that he deserved what came for him, but that he craved it. That he was the creator of these situations in the first place. It's hard to argue with the truth of it, when he's here, kissing back. The devil’s minty tongue burning his mouth. Sam moves onto his back, willingly, and turns away from Dean. Lucifer is heavy and weightless all at once.
