Striving For the Light, SPNJ2BB, Part 2
Masterpost
Part 1
“Dean,” Sam says, when Dean emerges, dripping from the shower, towel wrapped loosely round his waist. Dean was looking different these days - Sam can’t quite put his finger on it (Oh, but wouldn’t you like to, Sam, you could just reach out and touch him). Maybe he’d been working out more; or it was the alcohol; or it was just age; or all of the above. Sam knows he probably wasn’t looking all that hot recently. It was harder and harder to get to sleep.
“Yeah,” Dean replies, grabbing another towel and rubbing roughly at his hair.
“This...well, Shady Trees Holiday Developments, you know your plan?”
“Yes, Sam?” Dean says, with a sigh that Sam can very easily interpret as ‘what the fuck now, Sam?’
“Well, you do know that it’s a couples only resort, right?”
Dean is silent for a moment before he breathes out. “Yeah, I knew.”
Sam waits, but nothing more is forthcoming. “...So...”
Dean shrugs, and flings the towel around his shoulders. “So nothing, Sam. We go in, we do the job.”
“But we’re not a couple,” Sam says, and he doesn’t mean it to sound like a whine, but it does, and then it echoes back in his ears as Lucifer mimics it back at him.
“Well observed,” says Dean, drily, pulling a clean(ish) shirt from his duffel. “We’ll act, Sam. I mean, we just have to smile at each other and I don’t know, hold hands twice or some shit like that. It’s nothing big.”
It is, Sam wants to say, but the words catch in his throat. It’s not that easy, it’s not that clean-cut, you can’t go changing everything, you can’t go changing the rules, you have to remain constant, Dean, you have to remain the same, the stone that everything is built on, you can’t be...you can’t be like him.
He doesn’t say them.
“Oh,” he says instead, quietly. Dean turns towards him, and his expression softens. He’s holding a pair of boxers in his hands, so the effect isn’t perfect.
“I mean, that’ll be okay, Sam? We’ll get a two room place, they have them, I saw - and you can have your own space for a bit, and I won’t have to put up with your snoring, and we’ll just have to put on the pretence a bit, and once we know what’s going on and if we can stop it, we will and we’ll get the hell out. Done, quick and simple.”
“Sure,” says Sam, with a weak smile, and Dean grins back at him. “Sure.” Sure. Sure, I don’t want my own space, I don’t want to go to sleep not knowing you’re right there in the bed next to mine, I don’t -- “It’s fine. It’s a good plan.”
Dean’s shimmied on the boxers under the towel now and he’s pulling on his pair of least stained jeans. They’re going to have to do laundry again soon. “I’ll get it booked,” he says. “Frank’s found a way of paying for it or putting down a deposit or something that won’t tie it to us at all. So, we’ll just...lie as low as possible.”
“Sure,” Sam repeats.
The drive to Shady Trees had been pretty uneventful, all things considered. Sam had been quiet, not batting an eyelid at the choice of music or the volume, and had instead engrossed himself in the journal whenever he thought Dean wasn’t looking. But he was, because Dean always had Sam in the corner of his vision, years of habit, years of practice. He didn’t say anything; Sam had always had something to keep him occupied in the car - school books, homework, class projects that were never going to be handed in and marked, drawings. Dean had been content to sit and watch the country fly past, or watch his Dad up in the front seat, or chat with Sam if Sammy needed it, but Sam had always needed something there.
Towards the tail end of the drive, Sam’s eyelids start drooping, and Dean smiles and lowers the volume on the cassette player. The pen slips from Sam’s hand, and he’s asleep, and Dean glances over at the open journal on Sam’s lap.
It’s dark and angry and twisted and sharp lines and Dean can’t make out anything coherent.
He turns his attention back to the road, but the dark scrawls are playing on his mind, dancing across his vision, and he risks another glance over; the road ahead is empty, and he’s in control.
“Shit, Sam,” he breathes, and he tries to figure out what it is, what Sam’s drawing, but he can’t. It’s a mass of shapes and points and it doesn’t make sense, and Dean doesn’t even want to start thinking about what that means.
He only stares at the road ahead until they reach their destination. He doesn’t even really register what song’s playing.
Sam snuffles awake when they arrive, and jolts upright, slamming the journal shut on reflex, and Dean doesn’t say anything. “We’re here,” he says instead, and Sam nods, and eases himself out of the car, stretching out his limbs slowly, and they’ve got to be aching ‘cause there’s not much room in this little box.
Dean slides out of the driver’s side, and hefts open the trunk, grabbing both their bags and slinging them over his shoulders. He wanders around the car, and bumps his shoulder against Sam’s. They’ve only just arrived, but he’s not sure who’s watching, and if they’re making out they’re a couple, they’ve got to do it right from the start. Sam flinches, and Dean can feel him stiffen up for a moment before he relaxes, and that’s kinda confusing. Dean knows he’s not the most touchy-feely guy in the world, but he and Sam live out of each other’s pockets, and a shoulder bump? That’s nothing. He can’t understand why Sam reacted like that, but Dean shoves the thought aside - it’s probably nothing, Sam’s just tired, it’s been a long drive, Sam’s been through a lot.
There’s a sign stating “WELCOME” in big fancy green letters and an arrow pointing towards a small tidy looking building. “Please check in at reception,” the sign continues in a smaller print. It all looks very neat and unsuspicious. Dean’s guard is up already.
Sam’s following him as he heads towards the office, and he’s all but caught up by the time Dean pushes the door, which opens with the light jingle of a bell, signalling their arrival. A moment later, an incredibly smiley woman appears from a small room behind the counter.
“Welcome to Shady Trees!” she exclaims, and Dean forces a smile onto his face in response. “My name’s Helen, I’m here to help with everything you need. Do you have a reservation?”
Dean keeps smiling, turns his charm onto her, because Sam, he can see behind him, is looking more resigned to the whole situation. “We do,” he says. “Name of Huxtable”
Helen types rapidly into the computer. “There you are,” she confirms. “Five nights in one of our deluxe cabins. A very good choice.”
“I hope so,” Dean replies. “We’re really looking forward to it, aren’t we, Sam?”
“What?” says Sam, who seemed to have been staring at a leaflet about cattle ranching, of all things. “Oh, yes, can’t wait,” he stumbles, with a wan smile at Helen, but this doesn’t seem to dampen her enthusiasm.
“I hope you’ll find the cabin meets your approval. As you’re probably aware, we’re a new development on this site, although Luxury Holiday Developments has been running complexes for years and we are proud of our successes and the services we offer. So if there’s anything we can do to improve your stay, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Right,” says Dean, moving to take the key, but she hasn’t finished.
“We run a full range of activities that are fully catered for couples and will appeal to a wide variety of interests, so please take a look through the brochure in your cabin and see if anything takes your fancy. We’re also holding a Meet and Greet this evening in the Sunshine Bar. You can meet the other residents and our representatives will be there to can book you into your chosen activities or help you with any queries.” She finally pauses, and takes a breath. “Is there anything else I can help you with now?”
“I think we’re good,” says Dean, and holds his hand out more firmly for the key.
“I’d just like to add,” she says, and Dean resists the impulse to just snatch the damn thing off her, “how pleased we are that you’ve chosen to holiday at Shady Trees Resort. As a company, we are very proud of our inclusive policy, and I hope your stay will be a pleasant one.”
“We’re---” starts Sam, but Dean interrupts. “We’re really looking forward to it,” he says. Helen smiles again, and explains how to find their cabin, drawing a line on a map from reception round to number 86. “Thank you,” Dean says, taking the key with a sigh of relief.
“Anything at all,” she says, as they leave reception.
“Fuck me,” Dean breathes as soon as the door closes behind them. “Was it just me, or was she far too cheerful?”
Their cabin is nice - much nicer than Sam expected, although the place is entirely new, so it should be good quality and the finish should still be up to scratch and not tarnished by the rush of eager holidaymakers. The lawn is neatly trimmed, and there are perfect rows of petunias and some other flowers lining the borders. It’s all very exact. There’s a porch with two comfortable looking recliners, and okay, Sam could see just sitting and relaxing there for a while - but they’re here to do a job. This isn’t a holiday, this isn’t fun.
We could make it fun though, Sam?
Dean unlocks the front door, and shoves himself through unceremoniously. Sam follows more sedately, and takes in the scene in front of him. There’s a lounge, with a large soft couch facing the widescreen TV with all gizmos attached. There’s a kitchen, of course, fully stocked and equipped. Sam opens the fridge. The basic essentials are in there - some milk, bread, butter. At least they won’t be hungry tonight if they don’t get round to shopping. There’s a dining table - a proper one, and Sam can’t remember the last time he and Dean ate at a table like that. Motel tables were all well and good but the flimsy Formica things, small and not enough room for all the elbows of two large and hungry brothers, really couldn’t cut it when compared to this solid wood construction. Sam has a strange urge to cook a meal and sit down with Dean, all civilised and normal and eat together.
That’d be nice. What would you make, Sam? A nice juicy bloody steak? I bet Dean would love that; that would get you in his good books, and then we can talk more about that fun. Oh c’mon, Sam, you can’t ignore me forever, you’ll talk to me eventually. I know you, Sam.
Sam digs his fingernails deep into the palm of his hand and grits his teeth. He continues exploring; there isn’t an upstairs, and Sam’s beginning to wonder where these bedrooms are. There’s a door leading off from the dining room, and Sam opens it. There’s a bedroom, one double bed, wardrobes, the usual. Sam walks around the room - there’s no other door, apart from the one leading to the en-suite. He walks back out into the dining room, circles the cabin again.
“Dean?” he says after a moment’s pause
“Yeah?” his brother responds, shuffling through his duffel searching for something. Probably his phone charger.
“Where’s the second bedroom?”
“Yeah...about that,” Dean rubs his hand over his face and refuses to meet Sam’s eyes. “Turns out they didn’t have any after all; I mean, I asked, dude, I did, honest, but this was all they could offer me.” He stops, but Sam doesn’t say anything, and Dean continues, filling the silence. “They said they’ve been really popular since they opened and this was the best they could do - it’s a deluxe one, Sam, I didn’t get any crap...”
“You said there would be two bedrooms!” Sam exclaims, and it really shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but it is. There’s Lucifer, there in his face, and sometimes he wears Dean and sometimes he does things that Sam loves, but he feels oh-so-dirty-wrong and he begs Dean-Lucifer-Dean to stop, but Lucifer doesn’t, of course, and he just whispers “I know just what you want, Sam, I’m going to give it to you, you want it” in Sam’s ear, and Sam says “no”, but he feels “yes.” Sam was looking forward to the space, that distance from Dean, just for a while, to see if that helped separate what was Dean and what was not because it was getting harder and harder to tell.
“It’s alright, Sam,” Dean says, and he pats the couch, “I’ll sleep here, give you the chance to get your beauty sleep, lord knows you need it.”
“Fuck you,” says Sam, and he leans over and punches Dean’s shoulder.
“Ow!”
“Thank you,” Sam says, quietly, and Dean just nods.
“Yeah, well. So. We should go to this thing tonight, this mixer. It’s a good chance to find out what’s going on, what their plan might be.”
Sam nods, and goes to put his things in the bedroom. It is, now that they’re here, the best plan.
So, tonight, says Lucifer, and he doesn’t stand on courtesy, doesn’t wait for Sam to shut the door, but Sam does, leaving Dean - real Dean - out there on the couch, probably engrossed in some soap or other already.
Tonight is going to be interesting, Lucifer continues. Sam unfolds shirts one at a time from his bag, hanging them up methodically into the wardrobe.
I mean, don’t you think so? You, Dean, a room full of people who think you’re together. A room full of people who are picturing, well, you know, don’t you, I mean, you’ve seen it, you’ve seen how damned gorgeous you both are together, and I know how much you love it. That’s what they’re all going to be thinking, Sam, how can they not. You’re going to have to touch him and smile at him, and it will be him, won’t it? I mean, it won’t be me? You’re sure? It’s not real, Sam, none of this is real. You really have to start believing me when I tell you that, Sam, it’ll be easier, I promise. I just want to help you, I’m just giving you wha you want.
“Shut up,” says Sam before clenching his jaw shut tight.
Sam! Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice. I’ve missed your voice, I’ve missed it talking to me. Say something else, Sam, say anything.
“You’re not real,” Sam says, and there’s a razor blade in his hand. He doesn’t quite know how it got there, but it’s there, the cold hard metal against his fingers. His washbag is open on the side, and Sam can’t remember opening it, but he must have done.
You don’t know that, beams Lucifer, and he pats Sam on the shoulder. Sam feels the pressure, he feels Lucifer’s hand there, and he feels the hot-cold-indescribable heat that flows from him.
“You’re not real,” Sam repeats, like a mantra. “There is pain and it’s different. It’s different.”
You know how to stop it, Sam, you know how to be certain one way or another. There is only one way this story ends, and it will end that way because you’re with me and you’re never getting out. You’re mine, Sam, and don’t you forget it.
Sam slips the blade against his skin, blood trickling from the cut. He breathes slowly, deeply, and slides the blade across again, another cut underneath.
It’s not going to work, Lucifer says, and he sounds bored, perched on the bed now, watching Sam. It really won’t. I mean, it might, for a while, and you can kid yourself that it’s different and that that’s really Dean out there and that you’re not holed up with me and that you’re not mine, but it won’t hold, Sam. Everything’s gotta give.
Sam breathes deeply again and presses his fingers against, into the cuts. It stings, a slow burn. “It’s different,” he grits out, and presses his fingers deeper, blood flowing around them, red and sticky.
You sure? Lucifer flickers, and Sam presses down again, thinks of Dean, believes in Dean, his stone number one. Lucifer flickers again, and disappears.
Sam breathes a sigh of relief, and collapses onto the bed. There’s blood around, everywhere. He’s going to have to be more careful, next time, and there’s going to have to be a next time, he can tell, he can feel it. Dean can’t know, can’t know what Sam’s having to do to keep his grip on reality.
Sam lies down, closes his eyes. He’ll clean up and get ready in a minute. He’ll be ready to face the day.
The mixer, meet and greet, whatever the fuck it is, is being held in the big communal hall in the middle of the holiday development. It’s all green and fancy, shiny and new, and so unlike any of the places they’ve stayed in recently. Dean can’t help but feel horribly out of place, and it’s not just because of the whole “hey, yeah, we’re a couple” thing, but he just feels like he taints the place just by being here; like everyone can take one look at him and know that he’s an imposter, that he was never meant to be in places like this, that this was never the life drawn out for him.
He smoothes down his shirt nervously. It’s one of his newer ones, a green affair, picked up from Goodwill, but still in a great deal better condition than some of the clothes stuffed into his duffel. Sam huffs a sigh next to him, and picks at his own shirt sleeve.
“How’s this gonna go?” he asks.
“Not sure,” Dean says, and he shrugs his shoulders. “Depends, I guess, on what the other guests are like. I mean.”
“Right,” says Sam, and he sighs heavily again. “Let’s get this over with then.” Dean couldn’t agree more really, but he wishes Sam wasn’t being quite like this. It’s no big deal, it really isn’t. It’s not like they haven’t been mistaken for being a couple before. Alright, so it was years ago, and God knows, things were different then, but Dean can’t quite get why Sammy’s so put out over this whole thing. It’s just a shoulder touch here, a few smiles there, maybe some handholding or something. If Dean can get his head round it, do it, then surely Sam can. Dean’s used to Sam being the touchy-feely one. This Sam confuses him. Sam says he’s not hiding anything, but Dean knows when his brother isn’t right. He’s seen enough Sams to know which one is his (yes, his, his Sam) and which ones aren’t the Sam he knows and...well, loves. Dean wishes he knew what Sam was really seeing, but he wouldn’t know how to make it better anyway. He doesn’t know where to begin, where to go from here.
Sam scratches his arm and winces. “You alright?” asks Dean, catching the movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Yeah,” Sam says. “Forgot I walked into the doorframe, bruised my arm.”
“You’re an idiot,” Dean grins. “How’d you let a doorframe bust you up?”
“It was a very forceful doorframe.”
“Well, watch out for this one,” says Dean, standing protectively in front of the door they’ve just reached, and opening it for Sam, making a show of stopping Sam being near the frames. “I know you’re big, Sasquatch, but what did the doors ever do to you?”
“Ha ha,” intones Sam, stepping through the door, and he looks awkward, but Dean can’t quite put his finger on it.
“There you are,” a bright voice greets them as soon as they step into the room, “I’ve been telling everyone all about you! We were getting worried you weren’t going to turn up!”
“Uh,” says Dean, as he looks around for the source of the voice through the small gathered crowd of couples who are now staring curiously at them, before a small woman pushes through the throng and makes their way over to them. He recognises the voice now; it’s Helen, the overly enthusiastic receptionist, and it looks like she’s just as overly enthusiastic here.
“Everyone,” she announces loudly, and Dean kind of wants to turn around instantly and head back out of the door. Or place a gun to his head. “I’d like you all to meet Dean, and this is his partner, Sam. They joined us today, just in time for this little gathering.” She looks expectantly at them both, and Dean coughs awkwardly.
“Uh, hi,” he says, rubbing his hand across his cheek. Next to him, Sam nods, but doesn’t say anything. He’s moved a bit closer, but he’s still too far away really, probably, and Dean reaches out and pulls Sam towards him, hooking an arm around his waist and holding him close. Sam looks surprised, but he schools the look quickly, and it’s replaced with something Dean can identify as a carefully blank expression. Well, whatever. “So yeah, Sam,” he gestures his brother towards them all, “and Dean, nice to meet y’all.”
“We’re just waiting for one more couple to join us,” Helen informs them all, “and then we can explain a bit more about the programmes we offer and what you might like to do during your holiday with us, including all your options for rest and relaxation, because we understand how important that is too! For the moment, while we wait, please, help yourself to a drink, and there’s some nibbles over on the table as well.” She smiles, and pushes Sam and Dean towards the group, before she disappears off.
“Bit much,” Dean whispers in Sam’s ear.
“You think?” Sam grits back, but he plasters on a smile as they are approached by a young couple. Dean slips his arm around Sam and gives a smile of his own.
“Hi,” the young woman says cheerfully, holding out a hand. “I’m Phoebe, and this is my husband, Mark.” Mark looks like he’d rather be somewhere else, and raises one eyebrow at the both of them. Dean gets it. He totally gets it. Right now though, there’s a role to play.
He squeezes Sam closer to him. “Dean,” he says, “and Sam, my partner. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“It’s so lovely being able to interact with like-minded couples at these things, don’t you think?” enthuses Phoebe, and Dean nods, and nudges Sam, who nods as well. “What made you decide to come here?”
Dean looks up at Sam, and they share a glance. “Well,” Sam begins, and Dean settles for smiling at him softly. That’s totally what couples do, right? He doesn’t let go of Sam, and he can feel Sam wriggle against him, feel that urge to move away, but he can’t, not now. It would look weird. “We were looking for some place that would be open to our lifestyle, you know? Not everywhere is, sadly, but Shady Trees assured us that we would be welcome here. So we booked straight away, didn’t we?”
“Yep,” grins Dean, “Only the best for my Sammy-bear.”
“Dean!” Sam hisses, and elbows Dean in the side. Dean smirks and covers his mouth with his other hand.
“Whoops,” he says, looking apologetically over at the other couple. “I forget I’m not meant to call him that in public.”
“You’re so cute together!” Phoebe says, ushering them over to the drinks table. “We must meet up and do some activities together - Matt, you’d like that wouldn’t you - see, he’s fine with it, and it’s always lovely to have another couple to do things with.”
“Sure,” shrugs Dean, ignoring the look from Sam he can feel burning into his shoulder. “We’d love to.”
“It’s getting late,” Mark says, as he hands a drink over to Sam and Dean. Dean notices that Sam drinks his with a bit too much enthusiasm, and takes the opportunity to distance himself slightly from Dean. Sorry, Sammy, this act’s gotta stick.. “It’s not like Ada and Harry to be this late to these things, is it?”
“It’s not,” agrees Phoebe, furrowing her brow. “They’ve always been so punctual.”
Dean looks pointedly over at Sam, who gives a small shrug in return. He glances around the room, scanning for anything suspicious, but it’s all so normal, all so dull. There’s couples talking with other couples, there’s Helen buzzing around trying to make sure everyone is chatting to other couples, and there’s a load of seats, ready and waiting for what Dean assumes will be a highly boring talk all about the wonderful things he can get up to with Sam, who is doing a good job of only being as coupley as he has to be.
Dean’s just resigning himself to this being one of the dullest and most frustrating jobs they’ve ever set their minds to, when the door bursts open and a hysterical man appears on the other side of it. The room immediately falls silent, and everyone turns to stare, as he tries to talk, fails, and stammers. Helen takes a step towards him, and the man finds his voice.
“Ada,” he begins, stops, takes a shuddering breath. “She’s - Ada’s gone.”
There’s silence, and then a clamouring for information.
“I don’t know, Dean,” Sam says, and he furrows his brow in confusion. “It doesn’t seem to fit with what we’ve already seen of the Leviathan, you know?”
Dean huffs and draws a red line around some of the wall of information they’ve set up in the dining room. “It has to be them, Sam,” he says, peering at the newspaper text. “They own this place, the people who’ve died - they’ve all had some kind of connection that would have stopped them building this place. I just know it, Sam. This is a cover for something bigger.”
“Maybe,” concedes Sam, “but I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s like we’re missing something.”
“Yeah, the actual information about what the fuck Dick Roman wants with this place.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Other than that, Dean. The deaths, okay - look, we’ve got Mia Delante, heart ripped out, all the blood drained from her body. There’s Eric Blant, again, not a drop of blood left in him, liver, heart, gone. And then just before we arrived there was apparently this other, Walt Rivers - but he’s just missing, there’s no body or anything yet, so it might not be connected at all, but then there’s Ada, last night. But I can’t see anything that connects Walt to this place, I mean, Ada, sure, she’s staying here, but Walt? He’s just an ordinary guy, lives down in the town, works at the bank, y’know? So, maybe he’s just gone somewhere else, I don’t know Dean, but it doesn’t fit together, it doesn’t make sense.”
“Right,” says Dean, carefully drawing a line between two apparently important pieces of information that Sam can’t see the connection between. “Organs gone, blood gone, it’s gotta be the Leviathans. I mean, that’s their moves, dude.”
“Not the blood,” argues Sam. “All the deaths that we know were caused by Leviathan, it’s only been the organs they’ve been after, or the whole body. They don’t drink the blood --”
“As far as we know,” interrupts Dean, “and face it, Sam, we know fuck all about them. They could do a world of kinky-assed shit, and we wouldn’t have a clue. Look. It all fits. We just need to figure out why, get rid of the lot that are running this place, and get the hell out of Dodge.”
Sam opens his mouth to argue again, but he’s not getting anywhere fast with Dean today. Thing is, something is off, and although Dean’s right, they don’t know anywhere near enough about the Leviathan to be able to make sweeping statements about what they might or might not do. The fact is that they do know certain things about them, they’ve faced a fair few now, here and there, and Sam’s pretty certain that all the modus operandi have been dammed similar. He can’t see why they’d go making an exception now. Unless it was a bluff, he supposed, but then, they hadn’t really seemed too bothered about covering their tracks before now.
He looks back down at the notes he’d gathered about the latest disappearance. Poor Ada Wiles. Harry had been stricken when Sam tried to talk to him earlier, but he’d managed to get some information out of the panic and the worry. And there was the thing. Ada wasn’t connected to this place in any way other than the holiday. They’d seen an advert, seen the bargain introductory rates, and booked the place. So, that didn’t fit either, not with what Dean was concluding. They’d have to keep an eye out now, if the Leviathan were expanding into killing their clients. But why bother - why go to all the expense of setting up a holiday complex if you were going to kill your customers? Sam wasn’t convinced that was the Leviathan master plan here, but Dean was running on a one track mind when it came to Leviathan. Find Leviathan, find plan, find Dick, get revenge. Sam got it, he really did, but it was blinding his brother, and he could see Dean slipping, the worse it got, the harder it got - he could see the bottle, and this fixation, this belief that it must be the Leviathan was just another example.
What if it wasn’t? The place was obviously run by Leviathan, Sam wasn’t denying that, but what if there was something else at work here, something entirely unrelated. Sam grabs his laptop, opens a new document, and starts to type. Lucifer laughs at him from somewhere in the distance, and Sam tries to ignore him.
I don’t know why you’re bothering, says Lucifer. It’s none of it real, Sam, you know that.
Sam tries to focus on the ideas and letters in front of him, but it’s becoming more and more difficult. He’s starting to think that what Lucifer is saying, that all of this is a lie, he’s starting to think that Lucifer might be telling the truth.
Despite the disappearance of Ada Wiles, Shady Trees Holiday Development seemed to be running as normal. Helen had dropped round earlier that morning with a slightly strained smile explaining all they were doing to help find Ada and the work they were doing in conjunction with the police force. Sam and Dean had nodded politely and assured her that they would still be attending the Masked Ball later that evening. It seemed a stupid idea really, the few of them that there were at a ball, awkwardly dancing to some terrible music. Dean was, to be honest, dreading it, and not just because there’d be no Iron Maiden. He was going to have to dance with Sam, and Sam was going to be all stiff and frozen in his arms and Dean wasn’t going to know what to do.
It wasn’t shaping up to be the greatest evening, and they still had to find Ada.
Sam sighs at the small booklet in his hands detailing the variety of activities that Shady Trees has to offer. He can’t honestly believe anyone here actually wants to go to events billed as “exciting and thrilling evening of cabaret style entertainment,” or the “intriguing and mysterious Masked Ball - who will you spend your evening with?” None of them sound any fun at all, it all sounds so forced and fake, and seriously, people do this for fun? Sam can’t quite wrap his head around the concept. He supposes it’s normal, this is something normal people do on holiday. His holidays had only ever really consisted of somewhere to stay a bit longer between hunts, and that one time Dean took him to Disneyland, even though Sam insisted he was too old for that now, but Dean must have been feeling guilty about the lack of holidays in their lives because he dragged Sam there anyway.
Sam had somehow managed to find a small jewelled eye mask (Helen had held it out for him triumphantly until Sam reluctantly accepted it) but he still doesn’t know what Dean’s intending to wear. Sam sits, ready and waiting for Dean to emerge from the bathroom. There’s something playing on the TV, voices talking out of the box, but Sam’s not really paying attention. He turns the booklet over in his hands, turns the mask between his fingers.
Disguise. He’s been disguising himself his whole life, and now he’s going to put this small mask over his eyes and people are going to smile and coo and they aren’t going to know the half of the hell that the disguises really hide. Sam, and Dean, he supposes, can hide it beneath glitter, and sparkles, cloak it in darkness and unspoken agreements to leave the hell alone, can disguise their pasts from those who don’t know and can bury the rest deep enough that perhaps, just perhaps they can forget, but these people, these holidaymakers, they aren’t even going to have the slightest idea.
There’s movement from the bathroom, and the door opens, Dean emerging into the room. Sam looks at him, and he can’t really believe what he’s seeing. Dean just stands there, hands on hips, posing in the doorway.
“Seriously?” Sam intones after a moment’s pause. “Seriously?”
Dean doesn’t let up from his position. “Seriously,” he nods.
“I don’t think you’ve quite got the right impression as to what a Masked Ball actually en-“
“I know exactly what a Masked Ball is, bitch,” Dean interrupts. “But if you think I’m wearing some glittery piece of whatever on my face, you have got to be kidding me.”
Sam waves his own glittery piece of whatever in the air accusingly. “I thought we were playing a role,” he argues.
“I will only go so far,” Dean says, and he pulls his mask off his face, revealing his grinning face underneath, and Sam can’t help but smile back at him. It’s so rare he sees a smile like that on Dean’s face now, a true smile, and Sam will indulge it, whatever it takes. “Batman is way cooler. And this is totally a mask. It doesn’t specify what kind of mask, does it?”
“No,” Sam agrees, and he pokes his mask again. “You could have got me one, though.”
“You’d have had to be Robin.”
“I’m not being Robin again”
“Exactly.”
“Whatever.” Sam smiles again, and stands up. “We should get going, if we’re going to talk to as many people as possible, see if we can get more of a handle about what’s going on with all these disappearances.”
The Ball is exactly as awkward as Dean was expecting. People are milling around as some music plays from the speakers. There’s a band set up in the corner, so Dean supposes this is meant to get better, but he can’t really see how. He also can’t really see Sam’s expression under that glittery mask of his, but he imagines Sam is feeling much the same. Fuck, why did he get them into all of this? He clutches at Sam’s arm, and pulls him towards the drinks table.
“I don’t know about you, but if I’m gonna survive this, I need something strong,” he mutters, and Sam nods in agreement for once, grabbing a bottle of beer, and downing half of it in one gulp.
“Everyone’s staring,” Sam hisses into Dean’s ear, as they move towards a table.
“They can’t quite believe my beauty,” Dean counters, and he definitely sees Sam’s eyeroll. There’s green in the sequins around Sam’s eyes. It brings out their colour - and Dean cannot believe that he just had that thought. He pushes it quickly from his mind, that’s not the kind of thing he needs to be thinking. Stay on the job, Dean, he admonishes himself. Focus.
“Can’t believe the stupid thing you’re wearing, more like,” replies Sam, and Dean glares at him.
A seemingly interminate amount of time passes, people flitting around, talking, complimenting them both. The main topic of conversation is, unsurprisingly, the disappearance of Ada. There’s a heaviness to the evening, despite the best efforts of the staff, and Dean really just wants to go back to the cabin and drink something stronger than this shit and fall asleep in a world where he doesn’t end up thinking about sequins complementing his brother’s eyes.
There’s activity though; the band are finally getting started, and the attending couples seem to share a collective grin. This is, apparently, the main part of the evening. Maybe they can see some of this out, and then get out of there. By the way Sam is toying with his beer bottle, he’s not having any more fun than Dean.
The band starts up, some slow number that Dean doesn’t recognise, but the dance floor instantly fills with couples. Fuck. Keeping up appearances and all that. Dean grabs Sam’s hand and tugs at it. “C’mon,” he says, tugging again when Sam doesn’t move.
“What?” says Sam, shaking his head. “No way, nahuh. I didn’t agree to any dancing.”
“It’s not proper dancing, dude, it’s just like…I don’t know, swaying or some shit. C’mon, just a song or two, just so people see us.”
Sam hesitates, but eventually he sighs, and pushes himself up. “One song,” he says, and Dean nods.
“Fine, whatever.” He pulls Sam awkwardly towards him, all long limbs and ungainliness. “Fuck it, this is…”
“Yeah,” agrees Sam, and Dean doesn’t need to see his face to know that Sam is blushing slightly at this proximity. Dean’s got Sam pulled up tight against him, his arms around Sam’s bulk, and Sam, after a moment, puts his arms around Dean as well. They sway together, and it feels weird, not like wrong weird, but just weird, Sam against him like this, kinda stiff and immovable.
“Relax a little,” Dean whispers into Sam’s ear, resting his head against Sam’ shoulder. It’s comfortable. “It’s like dancing with a rock, here.”
“I’m not exactly in a relaxing place right now,” Sam bites out, and Dean doesn’t press it, just sways Sam in time with the music. Sam’s warm and solid and there in his arms, and it’s good. It’s really good, his Sam, there with him, and Dean, for all this awkward weirdness, doesn’t want it to end. He wants Sam in his arms with him forever. He always wants to be looking at Sam’s eyes, looking into them, noticing their colour, the way they are a window into everything that Sam is thinking. He wants to dance with Sam again, he realises, he wants more of this. He wants Sam. He wants, more than anything, right there and then, to show the world that Sam is his. He wants to kiss him.
So he does.
Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Fuck. Dean draws a long pull of the flask, and swears internally again. And then again for good measure. And then again just because this is well and truly fucked up and it’s all his fault. What the fuck was he thinking? How was that possibly ever going to be okay with Sam? No wonder he couldn’t find his brother anywhere. His head was still all messed up from Lucifer’s cage and God knows what else and Dean had just gone and kissed him like it was nothing, just part of the act, and it wasn’t until he saw the look on Sam’s face; that mixture of shock and horror and disgust and want, before Sam had shut down completely, hung around just long enough to be polite before excusing himself back to the cabin. Dean had let him go, he had known Sam long enough to know when to leave him alone (not that he always followed his own advice), and had made up some lame excuse about Sam having felt ill all night - something he ate, best he just go back and sleep it off so they could carry on with all the activities tomorrow.
Except when Dean had returned to the cabin, Sam wasn’t there.
Dean sits down heavily on a chair in the dining room, and pours himself another finger of whiskey. It’s been hours now, and he’s starting to get really worried about Sam. He doesn’t know where to begin looking for him. He’d checked every room in the house, checked the car, called Sam’s cell (rang through to voicemail), called Sam’s other cell (straight to voicemail), called Sam’s cell again (still no answer) and wandered around the dark, sanitized streets of Shady Trees looking for him, but nothing.
Fuck.
Dean drinks another shot, and he’s lost count of how many that is now. Enough that everything’s starting to get a little bit fuzzy round the edges, which means it really must be a lot, because Dean’s tolerance has gotten pretty fucking high over the years. He pours another one anyway, because Sam’s not here to bitch at him, and Sam’s not here.
He doesn’t know why he did it, why he leaned over, crossed the short distance between their lips and pressed them together. He didn’t need to, they were dancing, holding each other awkwardly, but putting on a decent enough show. Everyone had had their “aww” moment at their token gay couple, and Phoebe and Matt were smiling at them, and Dean had just wanted, just then, right then, to be closer to Sam, to prove to everyone that Sam really was his, and Sam had smiled at him, just a little, and Dean had kissed him. Sam was his, dammit, he was his brother, he was his world, and Dean needed to look after Sam, and in that moment, he had wanted nothing more than to protect and care for him in every possible way.
And then Sam had pulled away, and Sam had fumbled his words and mumbled something about “getting some air” and then he was fucking gone and Dean doesn’t know what to do.
Fuck. He pours another shot, a large one. The bottle will be empty by morning.
This time it’s Dean on the page, Sam is pretty certain of that. The details aren’t clear, and he’s not entirely sure what was flowing out of the pen, but he’s pretty certain it’s Dean. That’s his body shape, his hair, there, outlined in ink, but he’s twisted and broken and not right, and it hurts Sam just to look at it. Since he’d run from the ball, disorientated and confused, he’d wandered around the quiet roads for some amount of time, an hour? Maybe more. He’d stumbled back to the cabin, grabbed the journal, grabbed a pen, nothing else, and left again. He couldn’t be in there right now, not when everything was Dean and all things reminded him of his brother. His spare jacket dumped on the floor near the front door, the half eaten sandwich Dean had made before they went out still sitting there on the counter. The sweet wrapper on the coffee table, the dent of his shoes in the carpet, fuck, even the smell of him in the air.
It was all Dean and it was too much and Sam didn’t know what to do. He’d clattered back out of the cabin, down to the lakeside, and somehow ended up sitting on a jetty. The moonlight was bright tonight, and he’d turned to a blank page and just let it all out.
Dean had kissed him. His Dean, his brother Dean, the actual real flesh and blood, live and in front of him Dean. Sam was aware that it had just been a show, something to convince everyone that this act was real, that they really were the perfectly sweet couple everyone thought they were, but Dean had leaned across the space between them and kissed him.
It wasn’t -- reality was difficult, and confusing. What was up and what was down, what was Dean and what was Lucifer? Lucifer was blessedly silent for a moment, but Sam knew from prior experience that wouldn’t last. He’d pop up again, cheerful voice in Sam’s ear - so, hey, does Dean know what you got up with me? Have you told him yet?
No, fuck no, Sam hasn’t told him. Sam hasn’t told him of all the times Lucifer wore Dean’s face, spoke softly to him and soothed him in ways that only Dean could, years of bringing Sam up always working well. He hasn’t told him of how Lucifer-Dean-Lucifer then soothed him in ways Dean never had; how, wearing Dean’s face, Lucifer had kissed him and told him that this, wanting Dean like this, wasn’t bad, it wasn’t terrible - it was a good thing, and Sam should give in to it. Sam had tried, keeping Lucifer at arms length during nights, days, nights that seemed interminably cold, with no way to get warm, but Lucifer-Dean-Lucifer said he’d heat him up, all it had to do was let him in and it would be so much better, everything he’d ever wanted, everything he needed right then.
Sam had stopped resisting after a while, and Lucifer blurred into Dean and memories of Dean blurred into Lucifer and he couldn’t tell which was which for a long time. He still wasn’t always entirely sure. Lucifer-Dean-Lucifer-Dean? had held him, and whispered in his ear. He told Sam he would be safe, looked after, that Dean would always look after his little brother, give him what he needed. Lucifer-Dean-Lucifer always did.
Sometimes Dean-Lucifer-Dean wasn’t there, it was all Lucifer, pent up and angry and all cool rage at something, lashing out at Michael, or sometimes at Sam, or sometimes the both of them lashing out together, and Sam longed for Dean to come back and take care of him, but Dean never came, not until he was ready.
Sam hashes another thick line onto the page, and etches out the word: ‘REALITY?’ in rough capitals.
Did you enjoy that tonight?
“Shut up.”
But I thought that was what you wanted, Sam? Don’t you miss it when Dean held you in his arms and kissed you? You always seemed to like that part.
“Shut up,” Sam repeats.
I thought I’d cheer you up a little, give you what you wanted.
“It was Dean,” Sam bites out. “Dean kissed me. Dean.”
Nope, shrugs Lucifer, ‘fraid not. That was all me, 100% pure and amazing.
“No,” Sam says. “I know what’s real, I know Dean. That was Dean.”
But Dean wouldn’t, Lucifer argues, I would. I know what you want, Sam, I know what you need. Dean’s never going to give that to you, but me, I can, and I’ll look after you Sammy, I’ll treat you right.
“Leave me alone,” Sam hisses. “It was Dean. It was just an act, but it was Dean.”
No can do, Sammy, I’m in your melon. Lucifer taps his head almost confidentially. And I’m not going anywhere. You can end all this, Sam. You know what to do.
Sam stands with a speed that surprises even him, almost toppling off balance, and strides off the jetty, back towards dry land. Sam, wheedles Lucifer, behind him. C’mon Sam, don’t be like this. Please? Pretty please with a cherry on top? Sam ignores him, it’s not right, none of it is right and he can’t...he can’t.
His feet have walked him back to the cabin. There’s a light on in the kitchen, and upstairs. Maybe Dean is back. He stands outside for a moment, ignoring Lucifer’s continued pleas for attention, before he takes a deep breath, and goes back inside.
Part 3
Part 1
“Dean,” Sam says, when Dean emerges, dripping from the shower, towel wrapped loosely round his waist. Dean was looking different these days - Sam can’t quite put his finger on it (Oh, but wouldn’t you like to, Sam, you could just reach out and touch him). Maybe he’d been working out more; or it was the alcohol; or it was just age; or all of the above. Sam knows he probably wasn’t looking all that hot recently. It was harder and harder to get to sleep.
“Yeah,” Dean replies, grabbing another towel and rubbing roughly at his hair.
“This...well, Shady Trees Holiday Developments, you know your plan?”
“Yes, Sam?” Dean says, with a sigh that Sam can very easily interpret as ‘what the fuck now, Sam?’
“Well, you do know that it’s a couples only resort, right?”
Dean is silent for a moment before he breathes out. “Yeah, I knew.”
Sam waits, but nothing more is forthcoming. “...So...”
Dean shrugs, and flings the towel around his shoulders. “So nothing, Sam. We go in, we do the job.”
“But we’re not a couple,” Sam says, and he doesn’t mean it to sound like a whine, but it does, and then it echoes back in his ears as Lucifer mimics it back at him.
“Well observed,” says Dean, drily, pulling a clean(ish) shirt from his duffel. “We’ll act, Sam. I mean, we just have to smile at each other and I don’t know, hold hands twice or some shit like that. It’s nothing big.”
It is, Sam wants to say, but the words catch in his throat. It’s not that easy, it’s not that clean-cut, you can’t go changing everything, you can’t go changing the rules, you have to remain constant, Dean, you have to remain the same, the stone that everything is built on, you can’t be...you can’t be like him.
He doesn’t say them.
“Oh,” he says instead, quietly. Dean turns towards him, and his expression softens. He’s holding a pair of boxers in his hands, so the effect isn’t perfect.
“I mean, that’ll be okay, Sam? We’ll get a two room place, they have them, I saw - and you can have your own space for a bit, and I won’t have to put up with your snoring, and we’ll just have to put on the pretence a bit, and once we know what’s going on and if we can stop it, we will and we’ll get the hell out. Done, quick and simple.”
“Sure,” says Sam, with a weak smile, and Dean grins back at him. “Sure.” Sure. Sure, I don’t want my own space, I don’t want to go to sleep not knowing you’re right there in the bed next to mine, I don’t -- “It’s fine. It’s a good plan.”
Dean’s shimmied on the boxers under the towel now and he’s pulling on his pair of least stained jeans. They’re going to have to do laundry again soon. “I’ll get it booked,” he says. “Frank’s found a way of paying for it or putting down a deposit or something that won’t tie it to us at all. So, we’ll just...lie as low as possible.”
“Sure,” Sam repeats.
The drive to Shady Trees had been pretty uneventful, all things considered. Sam had been quiet, not batting an eyelid at the choice of music or the volume, and had instead engrossed himself in the journal whenever he thought Dean wasn’t looking. But he was, because Dean always had Sam in the corner of his vision, years of habit, years of practice. He didn’t say anything; Sam had always had something to keep him occupied in the car - school books, homework, class projects that were never going to be handed in and marked, drawings. Dean had been content to sit and watch the country fly past, or watch his Dad up in the front seat, or chat with Sam if Sammy needed it, but Sam had always needed something there.
Towards the tail end of the drive, Sam’s eyelids start drooping, and Dean smiles and lowers the volume on the cassette player. The pen slips from Sam’s hand, and he’s asleep, and Dean glances over at the open journal on Sam’s lap.
It’s dark and angry and twisted and sharp lines and Dean can’t make out anything coherent.
He turns his attention back to the road, but the dark scrawls are playing on his mind, dancing across his vision, and he risks another glance over; the road ahead is empty, and he’s in control.
“Shit, Sam,” he breathes, and he tries to figure out what it is, what Sam’s drawing, but he can’t. It’s a mass of shapes and points and it doesn’t make sense, and Dean doesn’t even want to start thinking about what that means.
He only stares at the road ahead until they reach their destination. He doesn’t even really register what song’s playing.
Sam snuffles awake when they arrive, and jolts upright, slamming the journal shut on reflex, and Dean doesn’t say anything. “We’re here,” he says instead, and Sam nods, and eases himself out of the car, stretching out his limbs slowly, and they’ve got to be aching ‘cause there’s not much room in this little box.
Dean slides out of the driver’s side, and hefts open the trunk, grabbing both their bags and slinging them over his shoulders. He wanders around the car, and bumps his shoulder against Sam’s. They’ve only just arrived, but he’s not sure who’s watching, and if they’re making out they’re a couple, they’ve got to do it right from the start. Sam flinches, and Dean can feel him stiffen up for a moment before he relaxes, and that’s kinda confusing. Dean knows he’s not the most touchy-feely guy in the world, but he and Sam live out of each other’s pockets, and a shoulder bump? That’s nothing. He can’t understand why Sam reacted like that, but Dean shoves the thought aside - it’s probably nothing, Sam’s just tired, it’s been a long drive, Sam’s been through a lot.
There’s a sign stating “WELCOME” in big fancy green letters and an arrow pointing towards a small tidy looking building. “Please check in at reception,” the sign continues in a smaller print. It all looks very neat and unsuspicious. Dean’s guard is up already.
Sam’s following him as he heads towards the office, and he’s all but caught up by the time Dean pushes the door, which opens with the light jingle of a bell, signalling their arrival. A moment later, an incredibly smiley woman appears from a small room behind the counter.
“Welcome to Shady Trees!” she exclaims, and Dean forces a smile onto his face in response. “My name’s Helen, I’m here to help with everything you need. Do you have a reservation?”
Dean keeps smiling, turns his charm onto her, because Sam, he can see behind him, is looking more resigned to the whole situation. “We do,” he says. “Name of Huxtable”
Helen types rapidly into the computer. “There you are,” she confirms. “Five nights in one of our deluxe cabins. A very good choice.”
“I hope so,” Dean replies. “We’re really looking forward to it, aren’t we, Sam?”
“What?” says Sam, who seemed to have been staring at a leaflet about cattle ranching, of all things. “Oh, yes, can’t wait,” he stumbles, with a wan smile at Helen, but this doesn’t seem to dampen her enthusiasm.
“I hope you’ll find the cabin meets your approval. As you’re probably aware, we’re a new development on this site, although Luxury Holiday Developments has been running complexes for years and we are proud of our successes and the services we offer. So if there’s anything we can do to improve your stay, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Right,” says Dean, moving to take the key, but she hasn’t finished.
“We run a full range of activities that are fully catered for couples and will appeal to a wide variety of interests, so please take a look through the brochure in your cabin and see if anything takes your fancy. We’re also holding a Meet and Greet this evening in the Sunshine Bar. You can meet the other residents and our representatives will be there to can book you into your chosen activities or help you with any queries.” She finally pauses, and takes a breath. “Is there anything else I can help you with now?”
“I think we’re good,” says Dean, and holds his hand out more firmly for the key.
“I’d just like to add,” she says, and Dean resists the impulse to just snatch the damn thing off her, “how pleased we are that you’ve chosen to holiday at Shady Trees Resort. As a company, we are very proud of our inclusive policy, and I hope your stay will be a pleasant one.”
“We’re---” starts Sam, but Dean interrupts. “We’re really looking forward to it,” he says. Helen smiles again, and explains how to find their cabin, drawing a line on a map from reception round to number 86. “Thank you,” Dean says, taking the key with a sigh of relief.
“Anything at all,” she says, as they leave reception.
“Fuck me,” Dean breathes as soon as the door closes behind them. “Was it just me, or was she far too cheerful?”
Their cabin is nice - much nicer than Sam expected, although the place is entirely new, so it should be good quality and the finish should still be up to scratch and not tarnished by the rush of eager holidaymakers. The lawn is neatly trimmed, and there are perfect rows of petunias and some other flowers lining the borders. It’s all very exact. There’s a porch with two comfortable looking recliners, and okay, Sam could see just sitting and relaxing there for a while - but they’re here to do a job. This isn’t a holiday, this isn’t fun.
We could make it fun though, Sam?
Dean unlocks the front door, and shoves himself through unceremoniously. Sam follows more sedately, and takes in the scene in front of him. There’s a lounge, with a large soft couch facing the widescreen TV with all gizmos attached. There’s a kitchen, of course, fully stocked and equipped. Sam opens the fridge. The basic essentials are in there - some milk, bread, butter. At least they won’t be hungry tonight if they don’t get round to shopping. There’s a dining table - a proper one, and Sam can’t remember the last time he and Dean ate at a table like that. Motel tables were all well and good but the flimsy Formica things, small and not enough room for all the elbows of two large and hungry brothers, really couldn’t cut it when compared to this solid wood construction. Sam has a strange urge to cook a meal and sit down with Dean, all civilised and normal and eat together.
That’d be nice. What would you make, Sam? A nice juicy bloody steak? I bet Dean would love that; that would get you in his good books, and then we can talk more about that fun. Oh c’mon, Sam, you can’t ignore me forever, you’ll talk to me eventually. I know you, Sam.
Sam digs his fingernails deep into the palm of his hand and grits his teeth. He continues exploring; there isn’t an upstairs, and Sam’s beginning to wonder where these bedrooms are. There’s a door leading off from the dining room, and Sam opens it. There’s a bedroom, one double bed, wardrobes, the usual. Sam walks around the room - there’s no other door, apart from the one leading to the en-suite. He walks back out into the dining room, circles the cabin again.
“Dean?” he says after a moment’s pause
“Yeah?” his brother responds, shuffling through his duffel searching for something. Probably his phone charger.
“Where’s the second bedroom?”
“Yeah...about that,” Dean rubs his hand over his face and refuses to meet Sam’s eyes. “Turns out they didn’t have any after all; I mean, I asked, dude, I did, honest, but this was all they could offer me.” He stops, but Sam doesn’t say anything, and Dean continues, filling the silence. “They said they’ve been really popular since they opened and this was the best they could do - it’s a deluxe one, Sam, I didn’t get any crap...”
“You said there would be two bedrooms!” Sam exclaims, and it really shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but it is. There’s Lucifer, there in his face, and sometimes he wears Dean and sometimes he does things that Sam loves, but he feels oh-so-dirty-wrong and he begs Dean-Lucifer-Dean to stop, but Lucifer doesn’t, of course, and he just whispers “I know just what you want, Sam, I’m going to give it to you, you want it” in Sam’s ear, and Sam says “no”, but he feels “yes.” Sam was looking forward to the space, that distance from Dean, just for a while, to see if that helped separate what was Dean and what was not because it was getting harder and harder to tell.
“It’s alright, Sam,” Dean says, and he pats the couch, “I’ll sleep here, give you the chance to get your beauty sleep, lord knows you need it.”
“Fuck you,” says Sam, and he leans over and punches Dean’s shoulder.
“Ow!”
“Thank you,” Sam says, quietly, and Dean just nods.
“Yeah, well. So. We should go to this thing tonight, this mixer. It’s a good chance to find out what’s going on, what their plan might be.”
Sam nods, and goes to put his things in the bedroom. It is, now that they’re here, the best plan.
So, tonight, says Lucifer, and he doesn’t stand on courtesy, doesn’t wait for Sam to shut the door, but Sam does, leaving Dean - real Dean - out there on the couch, probably engrossed in some soap or other already.
Tonight is going to be interesting, Lucifer continues. Sam unfolds shirts one at a time from his bag, hanging them up methodically into the wardrobe.
I mean, don’t you think so? You, Dean, a room full of people who think you’re together. A room full of people who are picturing, well, you know, don’t you, I mean, you’ve seen it, you’ve seen how damned gorgeous you both are together, and I know how much you love it. That’s what they’re all going to be thinking, Sam, how can they not. You’re going to have to touch him and smile at him, and it will be him, won’t it? I mean, it won’t be me? You’re sure? It’s not real, Sam, none of this is real. You really have to start believing me when I tell you that, Sam, it’ll be easier, I promise. I just want to help you, I’m just giving you wha you want.
“Shut up,” says Sam before clenching his jaw shut tight.
Sam! Oh, it’s so good to hear your voice. I’ve missed your voice, I’ve missed it talking to me. Say something else, Sam, say anything.
“You’re not real,” Sam says, and there’s a razor blade in his hand. He doesn’t quite know how it got there, but it’s there, the cold hard metal against his fingers. His washbag is open on the side, and Sam can’t remember opening it, but he must have done.
You don’t know that, beams Lucifer, and he pats Sam on the shoulder. Sam feels the pressure, he feels Lucifer’s hand there, and he feels the hot-cold-indescribable heat that flows from him.
“You’re not real,” Sam repeats, like a mantra. “There is pain and it’s different. It’s different.”
You know how to stop it, Sam, you know how to be certain one way or another. There is only one way this story ends, and it will end that way because you’re with me and you’re never getting out. You’re mine, Sam, and don’t you forget it.
Sam slips the blade against his skin, blood trickling from the cut. He breathes slowly, deeply, and slides the blade across again, another cut underneath.
It’s not going to work, Lucifer says, and he sounds bored, perched on the bed now, watching Sam. It really won’t. I mean, it might, for a while, and you can kid yourself that it’s different and that that’s really Dean out there and that you’re not holed up with me and that you’re not mine, but it won’t hold, Sam. Everything’s gotta give.
Sam breathes deeply again and presses his fingers against, into the cuts. It stings, a slow burn. “It’s different,” he grits out, and presses his fingers deeper, blood flowing around them, red and sticky.
You sure? Lucifer flickers, and Sam presses down again, thinks of Dean, believes in Dean, his stone number one. Lucifer flickers again, and disappears.
Sam breathes a sigh of relief, and collapses onto the bed. There’s blood around, everywhere. He’s going to have to be more careful, next time, and there’s going to have to be a next time, he can tell, he can feel it. Dean can’t know, can’t know what Sam’s having to do to keep his grip on reality.
Sam lies down, closes his eyes. He’ll clean up and get ready in a minute. He’ll be ready to face the day.
The mixer, meet and greet, whatever the fuck it is, is being held in the big communal hall in the middle of the holiday development. It’s all green and fancy, shiny and new, and so unlike any of the places they’ve stayed in recently. Dean can’t help but feel horribly out of place, and it’s not just because of the whole “hey, yeah, we’re a couple” thing, but he just feels like he taints the place just by being here; like everyone can take one look at him and know that he’s an imposter, that he was never meant to be in places like this, that this was never the life drawn out for him.
He smoothes down his shirt nervously. It’s one of his newer ones, a green affair, picked up from Goodwill, but still in a great deal better condition than some of the clothes stuffed into his duffel. Sam huffs a sigh next to him, and picks at his own shirt sleeve.
“How’s this gonna go?” he asks.
“Not sure,” Dean says, and he shrugs his shoulders. “Depends, I guess, on what the other guests are like. I mean.”
“Right,” says Sam, and he sighs heavily again. “Let’s get this over with then.” Dean couldn’t agree more really, but he wishes Sam wasn’t being quite like this. It’s no big deal, it really isn’t. It’s not like they haven’t been mistaken for being a couple before. Alright, so it was years ago, and God knows, things were different then, but Dean can’t quite get why Sammy’s so put out over this whole thing. It’s just a shoulder touch here, a few smiles there, maybe some handholding or something. If Dean can get his head round it, do it, then surely Sam can. Dean’s used to Sam being the touchy-feely one. This Sam confuses him. Sam says he’s not hiding anything, but Dean knows when his brother isn’t right. He’s seen enough Sams to know which one is his (yes, his, his Sam) and which ones aren’t the Sam he knows and...well, loves. Dean wishes he knew what Sam was really seeing, but he wouldn’t know how to make it better anyway. He doesn’t know where to begin, where to go from here.
Sam scratches his arm and winces. “You alright?” asks Dean, catching the movement out of the corner of his eye.
“Yeah,” Sam says. “Forgot I walked into the doorframe, bruised my arm.”
“You’re an idiot,” Dean grins. “How’d you let a doorframe bust you up?”
“It was a very forceful doorframe.”
“Well, watch out for this one,” says Dean, standing protectively in front of the door they’ve just reached, and opening it for Sam, making a show of stopping Sam being near the frames. “I know you’re big, Sasquatch, but what did the doors ever do to you?”
“Ha ha,” intones Sam, stepping through the door, and he looks awkward, but Dean can’t quite put his finger on it.
“There you are,” a bright voice greets them as soon as they step into the room, “I’ve been telling everyone all about you! We were getting worried you weren’t going to turn up!”
“Uh,” says Dean, as he looks around for the source of the voice through the small gathered crowd of couples who are now staring curiously at them, before a small woman pushes through the throng and makes their way over to them. He recognises the voice now; it’s Helen, the overly enthusiastic receptionist, and it looks like she’s just as overly enthusiastic here.
“Everyone,” she announces loudly, and Dean kind of wants to turn around instantly and head back out of the door. Or place a gun to his head. “I’d like you all to meet Dean, and this is his partner, Sam. They joined us today, just in time for this little gathering.” She looks expectantly at them both, and Dean coughs awkwardly.
“Uh, hi,” he says, rubbing his hand across his cheek. Next to him, Sam nods, but doesn’t say anything. He’s moved a bit closer, but he’s still too far away really, probably, and Dean reaches out and pulls Sam towards him, hooking an arm around his waist and holding him close. Sam looks surprised, but he schools the look quickly, and it’s replaced with something Dean can identify as a carefully blank expression. Well, whatever. “So yeah, Sam,” he gestures his brother towards them all, “and Dean, nice to meet y’all.”
“We’re just waiting for one more couple to join us,” Helen informs them all, “and then we can explain a bit more about the programmes we offer and what you might like to do during your holiday with us, including all your options for rest and relaxation, because we understand how important that is too! For the moment, while we wait, please, help yourself to a drink, and there’s some nibbles over on the table as well.” She smiles, and pushes Sam and Dean towards the group, before she disappears off.
“Bit much,” Dean whispers in Sam’s ear.
“You think?” Sam grits back, but he plasters on a smile as they are approached by a young couple. Dean slips his arm around Sam and gives a smile of his own.
“Hi,” the young woman says cheerfully, holding out a hand. “I’m Phoebe, and this is my husband, Mark.” Mark looks like he’d rather be somewhere else, and raises one eyebrow at the both of them. Dean gets it. He totally gets it. Right now though, there’s a role to play.
He squeezes Sam closer to him. “Dean,” he says, “and Sam, my partner. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“It’s so lovely being able to interact with like-minded couples at these things, don’t you think?” enthuses Phoebe, and Dean nods, and nudges Sam, who nods as well. “What made you decide to come here?”
Dean looks up at Sam, and they share a glance. “Well,” Sam begins, and Dean settles for smiling at him softly. That’s totally what couples do, right? He doesn’t let go of Sam, and he can feel Sam wriggle against him, feel that urge to move away, but he can’t, not now. It would look weird. “We were looking for some place that would be open to our lifestyle, you know? Not everywhere is, sadly, but Shady Trees assured us that we would be welcome here. So we booked straight away, didn’t we?”
“Yep,” grins Dean, “Only the best for my Sammy-bear.”
“Dean!” Sam hisses, and elbows Dean in the side. Dean smirks and covers his mouth with his other hand.
“Whoops,” he says, looking apologetically over at the other couple. “I forget I’m not meant to call him that in public.”
“You’re so cute together!” Phoebe says, ushering them over to the drinks table. “We must meet up and do some activities together - Matt, you’d like that wouldn’t you - see, he’s fine with it, and it’s always lovely to have another couple to do things with.”
“Sure,” shrugs Dean, ignoring the look from Sam he can feel burning into his shoulder. “We’d love to.”
“It’s getting late,” Mark says, as he hands a drink over to Sam and Dean. Dean notices that Sam drinks his with a bit too much enthusiasm, and takes the opportunity to distance himself slightly from Dean. Sorry, Sammy, this act’s gotta stick.. “It’s not like Ada and Harry to be this late to these things, is it?”
“It’s not,” agrees Phoebe, furrowing her brow. “They’ve always been so punctual.”
Dean looks pointedly over at Sam, who gives a small shrug in return. He glances around the room, scanning for anything suspicious, but it’s all so normal, all so dull. There’s couples talking with other couples, there’s Helen buzzing around trying to make sure everyone is chatting to other couples, and there’s a load of seats, ready and waiting for what Dean assumes will be a highly boring talk all about the wonderful things he can get up to with Sam, who is doing a good job of only being as coupley as he has to be.
Dean’s just resigning himself to this being one of the dullest and most frustrating jobs they’ve ever set their minds to, when the door bursts open and a hysterical man appears on the other side of it. The room immediately falls silent, and everyone turns to stare, as he tries to talk, fails, and stammers. Helen takes a step towards him, and the man finds his voice.
“Ada,” he begins, stops, takes a shuddering breath. “She’s - Ada’s gone.”
There’s silence, and then a clamouring for information.
“I don’t know, Dean,” Sam says, and he furrows his brow in confusion. “It doesn’t seem to fit with what we’ve already seen of the Leviathan, you know?”
Dean huffs and draws a red line around some of the wall of information they’ve set up in the dining room. “It has to be them, Sam,” he says, peering at the newspaper text. “They own this place, the people who’ve died - they’ve all had some kind of connection that would have stopped them building this place. I just know it, Sam. This is a cover for something bigger.”
“Maybe,” concedes Sam, “but I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s like we’re missing something.”
“Yeah, the actual information about what the fuck Dick Roman wants with this place.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Other than that, Dean. The deaths, okay - look, we’ve got Mia Delante, heart ripped out, all the blood drained from her body. There’s Eric Blant, again, not a drop of blood left in him, liver, heart, gone. And then just before we arrived there was apparently this other, Walt Rivers - but he’s just missing, there’s no body or anything yet, so it might not be connected at all, but then there’s Ada, last night. But I can’t see anything that connects Walt to this place, I mean, Ada, sure, she’s staying here, but Walt? He’s just an ordinary guy, lives down in the town, works at the bank, y’know? So, maybe he’s just gone somewhere else, I don’t know Dean, but it doesn’t fit together, it doesn’t make sense.”
“Right,” says Dean, carefully drawing a line between two apparently important pieces of information that Sam can’t see the connection between. “Organs gone, blood gone, it’s gotta be the Leviathans. I mean, that’s their moves, dude.”
“Not the blood,” argues Sam. “All the deaths that we know were caused by Leviathan, it’s only been the organs they’ve been after, or the whole body. They don’t drink the blood --”
“As far as we know,” interrupts Dean, “and face it, Sam, we know fuck all about them. They could do a world of kinky-assed shit, and we wouldn’t have a clue. Look. It all fits. We just need to figure out why, get rid of the lot that are running this place, and get the hell out of Dodge.”
Sam opens his mouth to argue again, but he’s not getting anywhere fast with Dean today. Thing is, something is off, and although Dean’s right, they don’t know anywhere near enough about the Leviathan to be able to make sweeping statements about what they might or might not do. The fact is that they do know certain things about them, they’ve faced a fair few now, here and there, and Sam’s pretty certain that all the modus operandi have been dammed similar. He can’t see why they’d go making an exception now. Unless it was a bluff, he supposed, but then, they hadn’t really seemed too bothered about covering their tracks before now.
He looks back down at the notes he’d gathered about the latest disappearance. Poor Ada Wiles. Harry had been stricken when Sam tried to talk to him earlier, but he’d managed to get some information out of the panic and the worry. And there was the thing. Ada wasn’t connected to this place in any way other than the holiday. They’d seen an advert, seen the bargain introductory rates, and booked the place. So, that didn’t fit either, not with what Dean was concluding. They’d have to keep an eye out now, if the Leviathan were expanding into killing their clients. But why bother - why go to all the expense of setting up a holiday complex if you were going to kill your customers? Sam wasn’t convinced that was the Leviathan master plan here, but Dean was running on a one track mind when it came to Leviathan. Find Leviathan, find plan, find Dick, get revenge. Sam got it, he really did, but it was blinding his brother, and he could see Dean slipping, the worse it got, the harder it got - he could see the bottle, and this fixation, this belief that it must be the Leviathan was just another example.
What if it wasn’t? The place was obviously run by Leviathan, Sam wasn’t denying that, but what if there was something else at work here, something entirely unrelated. Sam grabs his laptop, opens a new document, and starts to type. Lucifer laughs at him from somewhere in the distance, and Sam tries to ignore him.
I don’t know why you’re bothering, says Lucifer. It’s none of it real, Sam, you know that.
Sam tries to focus on the ideas and letters in front of him, but it’s becoming more and more difficult. He’s starting to think that what Lucifer is saying, that all of this is a lie, he’s starting to think that Lucifer might be telling the truth.
Despite the disappearance of Ada Wiles, Shady Trees Holiday Development seemed to be running as normal. Helen had dropped round earlier that morning with a slightly strained smile explaining all they were doing to help find Ada and the work they were doing in conjunction with the police force. Sam and Dean had nodded politely and assured her that they would still be attending the Masked Ball later that evening. It seemed a stupid idea really, the few of them that there were at a ball, awkwardly dancing to some terrible music. Dean was, to be honest, dreading it, and not just because there’d be no Iron Maiden. He was going to have to dance with Sam, and Sam was going to be all stiff and frozen in his arms and Dean wasn’t going to know what to do.
It wasn’t shaping up to be the greatest evening, and they still had to find Ada.
Sam sighs at the small booklet in his hands detailing the variety of activities that Shady Trees has to offer. He can’t honestly believe anyone here actually wants to go to events billed as “exciting and thrilling evening of cabaret style entertainment,” or the “intriguing and mysterious Masked Ball - who will you spend your evening with?” None of them sound any fun at all, it all sounds so forced and fake, and seriously, people do this for fun? Sam can’t quite wrap his head around the concept. He supposes it’s normal, this is something normal people do on holiday. His holidays had only ever really consisted of somewhere to stay a bit longer between hunts, and that one time Dean took him to Disneyland, even though Sam insisted he was too old for that now, but Dean must have been feeling guilty about the lack of holidays in their lives because he dragged Sam there anyway.
Sam had somehow managed to find a small jewelled eye mask (Helen had held it out for him triumphantly until Sam reluctantly accepted it) but he still doesn’t know what Dean’s intending to wear. Sam sits, ready and waiting for Dean to emerge from the bathroom. There’s something playing on the TV, voices talking out of the box, but Sam’s not really paying attention. He turns the booklet over in his hands, turns the mask between his fingers.
Disguise. He’s been disguising himself his whole life, and now he’s going to put this small mask over his eyes and people are going to smile and coo and they aren’t going to know the half of the hell that the disguises really hide. Sam, and Dean, he supposes, can hide it beneath glitter, and sparkles, cloak it in darkness and unspoken agreements to leave the hell alone, can disguise their pasts from those who don’t know and can bury the rest deep enough that perhaps, just perhaps they can forget, but these people, these holidaymakers, they aren’t even going to have the slightest idea.
There’s movement from the bathroom, and the door opens, Dean emerging into the room. Sam looks at him, and he can’t really believe what he’s seeing. Dean just stands there, hands on hips, posing in the doorway.
“Seriously?” Sam intones after a moment’s pause. “Seriously?”
Dean doesn’t let up from his position. “Seriously,” he nods.
“I don’t think you’ve quite got the right impression as to what a Masked Ball actually en-“
“I know exactly what a Masked Ball is, bitch,” Dean interrupts. “But if you think I’m wearing some glittery piece of whatever on my face, you have got to be kidding me.”
Sam waves his own glittery piece of whatever in the air accusingly. “I thought we were playing a role,” he argues.
“I will only go so far,” Dean says, and he pulls his mask off his face, revealing his grinning face underneath, and Sam can’t help but smile back at him. It’s so rare he sees a smile like that on Dean’s face now, a true smile, and Sam will indulge it, whatever it takes. “Batman is way cooler. And this is totally a mask. It doesn’t specify what kind of mask, does it?”
“No,” Sam agrees, and he pokes his mask again. “You could have got me one, though.”
“You’d have had to be Robin.”
“I’m not being Robin again”
“Exactly.”
“Whatever.” Sam smiles again, and stands up. “We should get going, if we’re going to talk to as many people as possible, see if we can get more of a handle about what’s going on with all these disappearances.”
The Ball is exactly as awkward as Dean was expecting. People are milling around as some music plays from the speakers. There’s a band set up in the corner, so Dean supposes this is meant to get better, but he can’t really see how. He also can’t really see Sam’s expression under that glittery mask of his, but he imagines Sam is feeling much the same. Fuck, why did he get them into all of this? He clutches at Sam’s arm, and pulls him towards the drinks table.
“I don’t know about you, but if I’m gonna survive this, I need something strong,” he mutters, and Sam nods in agreement for once, grabbing a bottle of beer, and downing half of it in one gulp.
“Everyone’s staring,” Sam hisses into Dean’s ear, as they move towards a table.
“They can’t quite believe my beauty,” Dean counters, and he definitely sees Sam’s eyeroll. There’s green in the sequins around Sam’s eyes. It brings out their colour - and Dean cannot believe that he just had that thought. He pushes it quickly from his mind, that’s not the kind of thing he needs to be thinking. Stay on the job, Dean, he admonishes himself. Focus.
“Can’t believe the stupid thing you’re wearing, more like,” replies Sam, and Dean glares at him.
A seemingly interminate amount of time passes, people flitting around, talking, complimenting them both. The main topic of conversation is, unsurprisingly, the disappearance of Ada. There’s a heaviness to the evening, despite the best efforts of the staff, and Dean really just wants to go back to the cabin and drink something stronger than this shit and fall asleep in a world where he doesn’t end up thinking about sequins complementing his brother’s eyes.
There’s activity though; the band are finally getting started, and the attending couples seem to share a collective grin. This is, apparently, the main part of the evening. Maybe they can see some of this out, and then get out of there. By the way Sam is toying with his beer bottle, he’s not having any more fun than Dean.
The band starts up, some slow number that Dean doesn’t recognise, but the dance floor instantly fills with couples. Fuck. Keeping up appearances and all that. Dean grabs Sam’s hand and tugs at it. “C’mon,” he says, tugging again when Sam doesn’t move.
“What?” says Sam, shaking his head. “No way, nahuh. I didn’t agree to any dancing.”
“It’s not proper dancing, dude, it’s just like…I don’t know, swaying or some shit. C’mon, just a song or two, just so people see us.”
Sam hesitates, but eventually he sighs, and pushes himself up. “One song,” he says, and Dean nods.
“Fine, whatever.” He pulls Sam awkwardly towards him, all long limbs and ungainliness. “Fuck it, this is…”
“Yeah,” agrees Sam, and Dean doesn’t need to see his face to know that Sam is blushing slightly at this proximity. Dean’s got Sam pulled up tight against him, his arms around Sam’s bulk, and Sam, after a moment, puts his arms around Dean as well. They sway together, and it feels weird, not like wrong weird, but just weird, Sam against him like this, kinda stiff and immovable.
“Relax a little,” Dean whispers into Sam’s ear, resting his head against Sam’ shoulder. It’s comfortable. “It’s like dancing with a rock, here.”
“I’m not exactly in a relaxing place right now,” Sam bites out, and Dean doesn’t press it, just sways Sam in time with the music. Sam’s warm and solid and there in his arms, and it’s good. It’s really good, his Sam, there with him, and Dean, for all this awkward weirdness, doesn’t want it to end. He wants Sam in his arms with him forever. He always wants to be looking at Sam’s eyes, looking into them, noticing their colour, the way they are a window into everything that Sam is thinking. He wants to dance with Sam again, he realises, he wants more of this. He wants Sam. He wants, more than anything, right there and then, to show the world that Sam is his. He wants to kiss him.
So he does.
Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck.
Fuck. Dean draws a long pull of the flask, and swears internally again. And then again for good measure. And then again just because this is well and truly fucked up and it’s all his fault. What the fuck was he thinking? How was that possibly ever going to be okay with Sam? No wonder he couldn’t find his brother anywhere. His head was still all messed up from Lucifer’s cage and God knows what else and Dean had just gone and kissed him like it was nothing, just part of the act, and it wasn’t until he saw the look on Sam’s face; that mixture of shock and horror and disgust and want, before Sam had shut down completely, hung around just long enough to be polite before excusing himself back to the cabin. Dean had let him go, he had known Sam long enough to know when to leave him alone (not that he always followed his own advice), and had made up some lame excuse about Sam having felt ill all night - something he ate, best he just go back and sleep it off so they could carry on with all the activities tomorrow.
Except when Dean had returned to the cabin, Sam wasn’t there.
Dean sits down heavily on a chair in the dining room, and pours himself another finger of whiskey. It’s been hours now, and he’s starting to get really worried about Sam. He doesn’t know where to begin looking for him. He’d checked every room in the house, checked the car, called Sam’s cell (rang through to voicemail), called Sam’s other cell (straight to voicemail), called Sam’s cell again (still no answer) and wandered around the dark, sanitized streets of Shady Trees looking for him, but nothing.
Fuck.
Dean drinks another shot, and he’s lost count of how many that is now. Enough that everything’s starting to get a little bit fuzzy round the edges, which means it really must be a lot, because Dean’s tolerance has gotten pretty fucking high over the years. He pours another one anyway, because Sam’s not here to bitch at him, and Sam’s not here.
He doesn’t know why he did it, why he leaned over, crossed the short distance between their lips and pressed them together. He didn’t need to, they were dancing, holding each other awkwardly, but putting on a decent enough show. Everyone had had their “aww” moment at their token gay couple, and Phoebe and Matt were smiling at them, and Dean had just wanted, just then, right then, to be closer to Sam, to prove to everyone that Sam really was his, and Sam had smiled at him, just a little, and Dean had kissed him. Sam was his, dammit, he was his brother, he was his world, and Dean needed to look after Sam, and in that moment, he had wanted nothing more than to protect and care for him in every possible way.
And then Sam had pulled away, and Sam had fumbled his words and mumbled something about “getting some air” and then he was fucking gone and Dean doesn’t know what to do.
Fuck. He pours another shot, a large one. The bottle will be empty by morning.
This time it’s Dean on the page, Sam is pretty certain of that. The details aren’t clear, and he’s not entirely sure what was flowing out of the pen, but he’s pretty certain it’s Dean. That’s his body shape, his hair, there, outlined in ink, but he’s twisted and broken and not right, and it hurts Sam just to look at it. Since he’d run from the ball, disorientated and confused, he’d wandered around the quiet roads for some amount of time, an hour? Maybe more. He’d stumbled back to the cabin, grabbed the journal, grabbed a pen, nothing else, and left again. He couldn’t be in there right now, not when everything was Dean and all things reminded him of his brother. His spare jacket dumped on the floor near the front door, the half eaten sandwich Dean had made before they went out still sitting there on the counter. The sweet wrapper on the coffee table, the dent of his shoes in the carpet, fuck, even the smell of him in the air.
It was all Dean and it was too much and Sam didn’t know what to do. He’d clattered back out of the cabin, down to the lakeside, and somehow ended up sitting on a jetty. The moonlight was bright tonight, and he’d turned to a blank page and just let it all out.
Dean had kissed him. His Dean, his brother Dean, the actual real flesh and blood, live and in front of him Dean. Sam was aware that it had just been a show, something to convince everyone that this act was real, that they really were the perfectly sweet couple everyone thought they were, but Dean had leaned across the space between them and kissed him.
It wasn’t -- reality was difficult, and confusing. What was up and what was down, what was Dean and what was Lucifer? Lucifer was blessedly silent for a moment, but Sam knew from prior experience that wouldn’t last. He’d pop up again, cheerful voice in Sam’s ear - so, hey, does Dean know what you got up with me? Have you told him yet?
No, fuck no, Sam hasn’t told him. Sam hasn’t told him of all the times Lucifer wore Dean’s face, spoke softly to him and soothed him in ways that only Dean could, years of bringing Sam up always working well. He hasn’t told him of how Lucifer-Dean-Lucifer then soothed him in ways Dean never had; how, wearing Dean’s face, Lucifer had kissed him and told him that this, wanting Dean like this, wasn’t bad, it wasn’t terrible - it was a good thing, and Sam should give in to it. Sam had tried, keeping Lucifer at arms length during nights, days, nights that seemed interminably cold, with no way to get warm, but Lucifer-Dean-Lucifer said he’d heat him up, all it had to do was let him in and it would be so much better, everything he’d ever wanted, everything he needed right then.
Sam had stopped resisting after a while, and Lucifer blurred into Dean and memories of Dean blurred into Lucifer and he couldn’t tell which was which for a long time. He still wasn’t always entirely sure. Lucifer-Dean-Lucifer-Dean? had held him, and whispered in his ear. He told Sam he would be safe, looked after, that Dean would always look after his little brother, give him what he needed. Lucifer-Dean-Lucifer always did.
Sometimes Dean-Lucifer-Dean wasn’t there, it was all Lucifer, pent up and angry and all cool rage at something, lashing out at Michael, or sometimes at Sam, or sometimes the both of them lashing out together, and Sam longed for Dean to come back and take care of him, but Dean never came, not until he was ready.
Sam hashes another thick line onto the page, and etches out the word: ‘REALITY?’ in rough capitals.
Did you enjoy that tonight?
“Shut up.”
But I thought that was what you wanted, Sam? Don’t you miss it when Dean held you in his arms and kissed you? You always seemed to like that part.
“Shut up,” Sam repeats.
I thought I’d cheer you up a little, give you what you wanted.
“It was Dean,” Sam bites out. “Dean kissed me. Dean.”
Nope, shrugs Lucifer, ‘fraid not. That was all me, 100% pure and amazing.
“No,” Sam says. “I know what’s real, I know Dean. That was Dean.”
But Dean wouldn’t, Lucifer argues, I would. I know what you want, Sam, I know what you need. Dean’s never going to give that to you, but me, I can, and I’ll look after you Sammy, I’ll treat you right.
“Leave me alone,” Sam hisses. “It was Dean. It was just an act, but it was Dean.”
No can do, Sammy, I’m in your melon. Lucifer taps his head almost confidentially. And I’m not going anywhere. You can end all this, Sam. You know what to do.
Sam stands with a speed that surprises even him, almost toppling off balance, and strides off the jetty, back towards dry land. Sam, wheedles Lucifer, behind him. C’mon Sam, don’t be like this. Please? Pretty please with a cherry on top? Sam ignores him, it’s not right, none of it is right and he can’t...he can’t.
His feet have walked him back to the cabin. There’s a light on in the kitchen, and upstairs. Maybe Dean is back. He stands outside for a moment, ignoring Lucifer’s continued pleas for attention, before he takes a deep breath, and goes back inside.
Part 3