Fic: The Faces We Wear
Title: The Faces We Wear
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Nick, implied Lucifer/Sam
Rating: R
Spoilers: 5x10
Word Count: 830
Warnings: Themes involving non-con, self-harm
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: The world can turn on a smile.
AN: Written for the hc_bingo for the 'self harm' square.
Nick's never greedy, he's never aggressive, and Sam doesn't know how much of that is just how he is and how much of it is for Sam's benefit. But tonight they're both pushing, both too impatient to care where the lines are or why they're there. Nick's holding on just a little too tightly, fingers pushing in a little too sharply. All weight and greed and the rough drag of stubble against Sam's jaw.
As easily as that, suddenly everything's wrong.
Nick isn't Nick any more and Sam goes taut like a fucking wire. Something rough and desperate clawing up the back of his throat, sliding out through his teeth. He's shoving him off, shoving him back. Because he has to get out from underneath him before he does something stupid. His knee rings against bone and Nick makes a rough noise that's all surprised pain. Sam can't stop pushing, can't stop dragging every one of his limbs away as quickly as possible, until his feet are on the carpet and his bare hip smacks into the windowsill.
Nick's gone and Sam's breathing too fast, the back of his neck cold and damp. He's swallowing and he can't make himself stop. The glass behind him is freezing against his bare shoulders, and that just makes every memory he's trying to shake off sharper.
There's a loud, angry crack from the bathroom, followed by another.
"Fuck," Sam says breathlessly into the empty room. He's shaking with something he tells himself is more anger than anything else, skin crawling and prickling like it wants to tear open. "Fuck."
It drains out of him with every slow breath, that discordant angry panic. It leeches away and leaves him cold and shivering, a mess of other emotions he's sick of looking at, sick of analysing. He pulls his jeans back on, makes his way out of the room, and pushes open the bathroom door. The mirror is cracked into a thousand pieces. Each one glinting out a tiny image of the room. There's a dark red space in the middle. Blood runs along the cracks in an unsteady line.
Nick's folded into the sink. Sam can see his shoulders trembling. His hand is a mess.
Sam doesn't say a word. He wants to, God, he wants to. They claw their way up his throat so hard he feels like he's choking. But he doesn't say anything. He just eases Nick's hand off the edge of the sink and spreads his fingers out. His knuckles are torn open, glass dug into the skin where it's deepest. Sam can't help the noise he makes. The breath that shakes out of him. Because they can't keep doing this.
"You can't do this kind of crap to yourself," Sam says, can't help but say. He knows it's wrong, knows it sounds too much like an accusation. Because his heart's still beating fast enough to make it tight, almost angry.
Nick doesn't say a word.
"This is about us," Sam says against the roughness of his jaw. "This has nothing at all to do with him."
Nick's eyes shift, raise to the shattered mirror and stare at the mess of his own reflection. Sam catches the expression it leaves on his face, something so close to self-loathing that it worries him. He grabs Nick's arm and makes him turn around.
"No, don't do that. Don't keep reacting like it was you."
"It was me," Nick says roughly.
"Like fuck it was," Sam's fingers dig into his arm, just hard enough to make him feel it. "Don't put that on yourself." There's a long stretch of silence, but he knows well enough that it's not empty, that there's still so much underneath.
"I want you too," Nick says quietly, flatly. Like that's something he should be punished for, something he should be fucking ashamed of.
"It's not the same," Sam says. Nick tenses, body crawling back against the sink, like he thinks Sam shouldn't even be touching him. "It's not the same." It's firmer this time. Sam pulls until Nick takes a step forward. "And it won't ever be the same."
Nick takes a shaky breath, and Sam knows there's a protest there and he doesn't want to hear it right now. He can't hear it. He turns away, thinks about bandages and tape and nothing else.
"Go sit on the bed, while I get the kit. You've probably broken something."
"Sam, I can't -"
Sam stops rifling in the cupboard by the sink. "Nick, please, just do it."
He knows exactly when the bathroom's empty, he lets his hands drop and curl round the sink. It's cold under his fingers and he can't tell if that's better or not. But having something to dig his fingers into is good. He does it until they ache all the way down to the knuckle and then slowly lets go. He stares at the splintered pieces of his own reflection, a mess of pieces that make up a face.
Sam takes a deep breath. "This is my life and you will not fuck it up again."
He turns his back on the mirror, and shuts the door behind him.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Nick, implied Lucifer/Sam
Rating: R
Spoilers: 5x10
Word Count: 830
Warnings: Themes involving non-con, self-harm
Disclaimer: In no way mine, or anything to do with me, I own nothing.
Summary: The world can turn on a smile.
AN: Written for the hc_bingo for the 'self harm' square.
Nick's never greedy, he's never aggressive, and Sam doesn't know how much of that is just how he is and how much of it is for Sam's benefit. But tonight they're both pushing, both too impatient to care where the lines are or why they're there. Nick's holding on just a little too tightly, fingers pushing in a little too sharply. All weight and greed and the rough drag of stubble against Sam's jaw.
As easily as that, suddenly everything's wrong.
Nick isn't Nick any more and Sam goes taut like a fucking wire. Something rough and desperate clawing up the back of his throat, sliding out through his teeth. He's shoving him off, shoving him back. Because he has to get out from underneath him before he does something stupid. His knee rings against bone and Nick makes a rough noise that's all surprised pain. Sam can't stop pushing, can't stop dragging every one of his limbs away as quickly as possible, until his feet are on the carpet and his bare hip smacks into the windowsill.
Nick's gone and Sam's breathing too fast, the back of his neck cold and damp. He's swallowing and he can't make himself stop. The glass behind him is freezing against his bare shoulders, and that just makes every memory he's trying to shake off sharper.
There's a loud, angry crack from the bathroom, followed by another.
"Fuck," Sam says breathlessly into the empty room. He's shaking with something he tells himself is more anger than anything else, skin crawling and prickling like it wants to tear open. "Fuck."
It drains out of him with every slow breath, that discordant angry panic. It leeches away and leaves him cold and shivering, a mess of other emotions he's sick of looking at, sick of analysing. He pulls his jeans back on, makes his way out of the room, and pushes open the bathroom door. The mirror is cracked into a thousand pieces. Each one glinting out a tiny image of the room. There's a dark red space in the middle. Blood runs along the cracks in an unsteady line.
Nick's folded into the sink. Sam can see his shoulders trembling. His hand is a mess.
Sam doesn't say a word. He wants to, God, he wants to. They claw their way up his throat so hard he feels like he's choking. But he doesn't say anything. He just eases Nick's hand off the edge of the sink and spreads his fingers out. His knuckles are torn open, glass dug into the skin where it's deepest. Sam can't help the noise he makes. The breath that shakes out of him. Because they can't keep doing this.
"You can't do this kind of crap to yourself," Sam says, can't help but say. He knows it's wrong, knows it sounds too much like an accusation. Because his heart's still beating fast enough to make it tight, almost angry.
Nick doesn't say a word.
"This is about us," Sam says against the roughness of his jaw. "This has nothing at all to do with him."
Nick's eyes shift, raise to the shattered mirror and stare at the mess of his own reflection. Sam catches the expression it leaves on his face, something so close to self-loathing that it worries him. He grabs Nick's arm and makes him turn around.
"No, don't do that. Don't keep reacting like it was you."
"It was me," Nick says roughly.
"Like fuck it was," Sam's fingers dig into his arm, just hard enough to make him feel it. "Don't put that on yourself." There's a long stretch of silence, but he knows well enough that it's not empty, that there's still so much underneath.
"I want you too," Nick says quietly, flatly. Like that's something he should be punished for, something he should be fucking ashamed of.
"It's not the same," Sam says. Nick tenses, body crawling back against the sink, like he thinks Sam shouldn't even be touching him. "It's not the same." It's firmer this time. Sam pulls until Nick takes a step forward. "And it won't ever be the same."
Nick takes a shaky breath, and Sam knows there's a protest there and he doesn't want to hear it right now. He can't hear it. He turns away, thinks about bandages and tape and nothing else.
"Go sit on the bed, while I get the kit. You've probably broken something."
"Sam, I can't -"
Sam stops rifling in the cupboard by the sink. "Nick, please, just do it."
He knows exactly when the bathroom's empty, he lets his hands drop and curl round the sink. It's cold under his fingers and he can't tell if that's better or not. But having something to dig his fingers into is good. He does it until they ache all the way down to the knuckle and then slowly lets go. He stares at the splintered pieces of his own reflection, a mess of pieces that make up a face.
Sam takes a deep breath. "This is my life and you will not fuck it up again."
He turns his back on the mirror, and shuts the door behind him.