Real or Not-Real
Real or Not-Real
Author: enigmaticblue
Rating: R (for disturbing imagery)
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters; too bad, so sad.
Pairings/Characters: Gen; Sam, Dean
Spoilers: Through 7.02
Warnings: Self-harm
Word Count: ~850
Summary: The thing is, Sam knows he’s crazy.
A/N: Written for the
hc_bingo prompt “mental health issues.” The title is something of a reference to The Hunger Games Trilogy. If you’ve read them, you’ll know what I mean.
The thing is, Sam knows he’s crazy. Back when they’d been admitted to the psych ward, Sam had been pretending, but he wouldn’t have to do that now. All he’d have to do is walk in the door and say, “I see Lucifer, and I think I might still be in hell,” and he’d probably get a padded room all to himself.
The idea is seductive, especially on days when he wakes up to find Lucifer sitting next to him, leering and saying, “Welcome to another day in the Cage.”
“Good morning to you, too, asshole,” Sam mutters, mostly out of reflex.
Lucifer laughs, and Dean asks, “Sammy? Something wrong?”
Sam glances over at Dean in his plaster cast. His brother has the same worried look he’s worn since-well, probably since forever. Once upon a time, that look irritated Sam, but now he’s mostly grateful for the concern. After all, Dean has every right to look at Sam like he’s a grenade with the pin pulled.
“No,” Sam lies. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You-you still seeing him?”
Sam glances over at a still-laughing Lucifer. “Yeah, he’s still here.”
He can tell that Dean has no idea what to say to that. There’s only so much Dean can do to reassure Sam that he’s the one who’s real, that Sam is out of the Cage, and Dean’s hanging on by his fingernails, too.
“If you need anything…” Dean offers.
“I’ll let you know,” Sam replies, dredging up the ghost of a smile.
Next to Sam, Lucifer’s face changes. He looks like Dean now. “No, you won’t. You always had to be so independent, didn’t you? You couldn’t ask anybody for help. Look where that’s landed you.”
Sam bites his tongue, knowing that today is going to be one of the really bad days, where the lines between hallucination and reality become so blurred, he’s got no hope of sorting them out.
Days like this, Sam just pretends that he knows he’s out of the Cage, because anything else will freak Dean out, and Dean doesn’t need that shit.
Sam leaves his laptop with Dean to research their latest case, and he heads outside, wandering among the trees surrounding their latest home base, now that Bobby’s place has burned down.
Dean follows him.
At least, Sam is pretty sure it’s Dean, because his leg is in a cast, and he’s on crutches, but then he says, “What good are you anyway? It’s not like I can trust you on a hunt. You’ll get distracted, and I’ll get dead. Or maybe you’ll shoot me, like you nearly did last week.”
So, it’s probably a hallucination. It’s so hard to be sure these days.
“I’m not going to shoot anybody wearing Dean’s face,” Sam snaps.
Lucifer grins at him. “No? Are you sure about that? It’s only a matter of time before you’re too crazy to know the difference between your brother and those monsters you like to hunt so much.”
Sam isn’t surprised that Lucifer has managed to hit on his worst fear.
And God, he’s suddenly so tired, so fucking tired, of trying to discern real from not-real, and he just wants a break. He’s desperate for some objectivity, for some distance, for anything that will help.
The cut on his hand has healed enough that there’s not much pain anymore, so Sam takes out the pocket knife he’s carrying and rolls up his left sleeve.
Funny how Dean had been the one to show him this trick when he’d be seriously pissed off if he saw Sam using it in quite this way.
The blade is dull, and Sam has to press hard to cut skin, but that might not be a bad thing. The more it hurts, the easier it is to gain a little distance from his hallucinations, and Sam needs that right now. The pain is sharp and bright, the cut deep enough so it won’t heal for a while, but not so deep to need stitches. Sam tucks the knife back in his pocket, and then presses against the wound hard with his thumb.
Blood trickles down his arm, and the pain makes his eyes water, but Lucifer fades away without another word. Sam breathes a sigh of relief, and then hears footsteps behind him.
“Sam?”
There’s no way to hide what he’s done. Sam probably should have done this inside, where he had access to first aid supplies.
Then again, he’s not sure there’s any way he could hide this sort of thing from Dean.
He turns slowly and watches Dean take in the rolled-up sleeve, the blood, the wound. Dean closes his eyes, but there’s no disgust on his face, no censure. He just looks tired and sad and somehow a lot older.
Sam doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t know what he can say.
“Come on,” Dean says, his voice a little rough, but his tone is gentle. “Let’s get that cleaned up.”
Sam feels absurdly grateful as he follows Dean back to the house, thinking real with every footstep.