What the Devil May Say
Title: What the Devil May Say
Fandom: Supernatural
Characters: Sam, Dean, Lucifer
Pairing: Dean/Sam
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I do not know or own Supernatural or any other affiliated character, nor is any money being made. The show, and all recognizable characters, belongs to Eric Kripke and the CW.
They weren’t the kind of couple to say I love you. They were hardly the couple that kissed each other goodbye in the morning and hello at night. Sam can count, on one hand, how many times Dean hugged him in the last seven years.
So they were little unconventional. That didn’t mean they didn’t love each other just as much as any other couple. In fact, Sam could argue that they were closer than any other normal couple out there, that he knew almost everything there was to know about his brother, that he had already died for his brother and would do it again in a heartbeat. Without a single doubt, he knew Dean had and would do the same for him. They didn’t need the ‘I love yous’ or the kisses and the hugs to show their love.
They knew with just a look and a touch what the other was thinking, or feeling. They just knew.
There was a hard look in Dean’s eyes as he glared at the computer screen in front of him, a wistful lust for revenge and a deep seated hatred lurked behind those eyes. A permanent frown was glued to his face, eyebrows drawn in what might have been rage, or could be worry. Sam knew what that look meant. Dean was researching Dick fucking Roman again.
But for the first time in his life, Sam didn’t know why. They didn’t know everything about each other. They both kept their secrets, but on some fundamental basis, they always understood one other, they always seemed to know why.
But this time…? Dean’s sole focus narrowed down to the need to hunt down and gank not just any Leviathan, but Dick and only Dick. This time Dean wasn’t in it to save the word, he just wanted that bastard dead. This time Sam didn’t get it. His brother hadn’t been this dead set on killing the demon that stole both of his parents, hadn’t been this angry at Ruby, or Meg, or Crowley or Lucifer, or the angels, or any other enemy that had crossed their paths.
This quest was being to feel like a dying man’s last mission. And Sam knew why. He just didn’t want to admit it.
Dean huffed angrily, his hunt for Roman temporarily put on hold and he angrily stood to his feet. “I’m going to go get some Chinese from that place down the street. Wanna come with?” Dean asked as he snatched his keys off the small table in their newest hotel room. The hotel they were staying at was nicer than the last, but just as disgusting. There was a stale, moldy smell to the green carpet and the faded yellow wallpaper. If he turned his head just right there was the scent of stale sex and body odor that the dust covered Glade plug in did nothing to mask. All the Febreze in the world probably couldn’t make that smell go away. Black mold dotted the grey tiles in the bathroom and the shower curtain was more brown these days than the off white it was originally. The sheets weren’t exactly the whitest and if Sam wasn’t so used to this, he would be disgusted. But there were no rats, nor mice, no cockroaches and no noisy, sex deprived occupants in the surrounding rooms. By their standards, this dingy hotel room off the I-85 in the middle of fucking nowhere was definitely tolerable.
“Uh, no,” Sam replied as he tore his eyes away from the stool across the table from him. “Just, uh, just get me the usual if they have it.” Knowing Dean would see right through it, Sam still forced a smile for his brother’s benefit.
Lucifer sat perched atop a rickety, wooden stool, calm and collected, looking for all the world like he belonged there. A cruel smirk alighted his once angelic face, eyes gleaming with amusement. The Devil wobbled the stool back and forth, back and forth on the uneven legs, like an impatient child, shredding the last of Sam’s frayed nerves. Sam dug his thumb into the scar on his hand, willing the apparition of Lucifer to disappear. He frowned in disappointment when it didn’t work, but pointedly ignored the hallucination, hoping his tormentor would vanish back into the recesses of his tortured mind if Sam refused to acknowledge him again. He shooed Dean out the door with a quick kiss and a promise that he would be fine.
He couldn’t tell Dean Lucifer was there. They had been through too much. Before the Death of Cass and Bobby, and before the days his soulless body walked the Earth, before Sam’s death, even before the damn apocalypse there was something different about Dean, something different than the strong, courageous indestructible older brother he grew up with. Sam wasn’t sure if it was Dean’s time in Hell, or the combination of everything that happened to him, including their shitty childhood, that made Dean defeated, hopeless, broken…
“Damaged is the word you’re looking for,” Lucifer said atop his perch on the rickety stool. His elbows rested on the table, head held up in his hands, looking more like a mischievous child, than a cruel sadistic bastard.
Sam jabbed his thumb repeatedly into the raised flesh on his palm, angry and frustrated that it wasn’t working this time. He knew Lucifer wasn’t really there, almost believed that was true, but Sam couldn’t make the vision disappear anymore.
“It’s not going to work, Sammy,” he taunted, his cruel smirk growing into a malicious smile. Sam did not reply, knowing a response would only spur his companion on. He should have gone with Dean to go get food. Being alone with nothing but his own broken mind to torment and taunt him could only lead to disaster. But Dean could not know. Lucifer was right. Dean was damaged and this would not be another burden he would lay on his brother’s shoulders. Sam could handle this problem just fine.
“He’s different,” Lucifer casually continued as if they were discussing the weather, completely unperturbed by Sam’s silence. “We both know it. He’s dead on the inside,” Lucifer jeered. “Defeated, broken, almost, suicidal, wouldn’t you say?” he asked, lips curving into a Cheshire smile.
Sam clenched his fists in anger, digging his fingernails into his scar hard enough to draw blood. He scowled and spun away from the disfigured phantom, refusing to rise to his jabs and argue with the product of his fucked up mind.
Lucifer threw his head back and laughed. “I’m only saying what you’re thinking,” his sickly sweet voice insisted.
He jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder, flinching away as Lucifer pressed his lips closely to his ear. “Ever wondered if maybe it’s your fault?”
Sam pushed Lucifer away and jumped to his feet, intent on putting as much distance between himself and the Devil as he could. He paced the room, clenching his eyes shut and pounded his palm on the wall. You’re not real, go away, he repeated in his mind over and over again. He turned back slowly towards the table. Once more perched atop the stool, Lucifer stared back at him coldly.
Damnit.
“You can’t ignore me, Sammy. I’m not going away.”
Defeated, Sam sat on the edge of his bed, not trusting himself to face his hallucination, but he still saw the fallen angel in his periphery. You don’t know anything, he angrily thought, his own voice nearly screaming in his head. It’s not my fault.
“We both know you don’t really believe that,” Lucifer said, tilting the stool back and forth. Sam glared at him, lips pursing in a tight frown. “You forget, Sam. I know all your secrets.”
Sam clenched his hands into fists and looked away, glaring a hole through the back wall of their room. “You’re taking advantage of him, using him, breaking him further,” Lucifer accused, soulless eyes boring down on him. “Dean doesn’t love you that way.”
“That’s not true!” Sam vehemently argued and glared uselessly at the Devil. “Shut up!”
“Isn’t it?” he questioned, his inhuman smirk twisting his face once more. “He came from Hell different, didn’t he Sam? Dean was damaged, broken, his soul as mutilated as yours is now. You wanted a piece of that. You invited him into your bed and took him, degraded him, forced him, just so once in your pathetic life you could feel more powerful than him. Again and again, you used him.”
Sam sank to the bed opposite the Devil and stared him evenly in the eyes. “That’s not true.”
“You were so hopped up on demon blood, you wouldn’t have known the difference between love and aggression, between consent and well, rape.” He said the word rape so cheerfully, it made Sam shiver in disgust.
“Dean would never let me do that to him.”
“He would let you do anything, Sam, and you know it. We both know it.”
That’s not true, he wanted to say, but couldn’t. He didn’t believe it wasn’t. Stray thoughts and doubts on the matter had been plaguing him since before the apocalypse. Sam didn’t want to believe anything Lucifer was saying, but this was his hallucination, his mind making up the words coming from the Devil’s mouth. And he was right; they did both know Dean would do anything for Sam, anything.
But faking a relationship? Was it possible Dean was just doing this for Sam’s benefit? Sam thought he knew his brother inside and out, and despite how many times Dean said he was fine, or how badly he faked it, put himself together, and kept going, Sam knew the truth. He knew how badly Dean just wanted to give up.
But Sam was selfish. He needed Dean, he needed Dean to stay sane and fight his hallucinations. He never asked if Dean wanted Sam the same way Sam wanted him. He couldn’t ask Dean if he wanted to let go, because he needed him too much.
But was Lucifer right? Had he taken advantage of how damaged his brother was after his rescue from Hell and forced Dean into this relationship?
Dean’s recent behavior was answer enough. His brother had given up all hope. If Sam hadn’t arrived when he did to pull the trigger on the Amazon girl, Sam’s not sure Dean would have defended himself. And after the incident at Plucky’s, Sam was almost glad to have been attacked by his greatest fear. Being covered in seltzer water and glitter, and the few bruises and strained muscles he obtained was well worth it just to hear Dean laugh again. He even stole the giant slinky just to see his brother smile. But under the cover of night, once more in the grasp of darkness, the nightmares once more took over and Dean’s obsession with Dick had not relented. It was as if revenge was the only thing keeping Dean going, and nothing Sam could do could change that.
It’s a hard pill to swallow.
But it had been three years now since their relationship had grown from brothers to lover, surely Dean would have said something?
But then again, this was Dean they were talking about. Dean didn’t talk about anything unless Sam pried it out of him with a crowbar and even then his attempts usually fell short.
“No. No you’re wrong.” He shook his head vehemently, trying to forcibly remove Lucifer and all the crazy attached to him, from his troubled mind.
“Huh,” the Devil huffed. “Remember this.”
He saw Lucifer disappear from the corner of his eyes. Dean materialized before him, lying face down on the bed opposite from him, mere feet away from his touch. Dean’s pants and underwear were bunched around his knees. Bruises and blood covered his face; a swollen eye, a busted lip, a sluggishly bleeding cut that ran from the corner of his right eye to the middle of his cheek. His eyes stared straight at him, scared, confused, lost, and lonely. “Sammy, don’t,” Dean’s voice pleaded with him. “Please stop.”
“That never happened!” he roared and jumped to his feet pointing a finger at Lucifer as he reappeared and the haunting vision of Dean vanished.
Lucifer laughed at his outburst. “Think of how many times you’ve beat the shit out of him, Sam. You can blame Demon blood or, hell, even me for all those times you’ve hurt him, but in the end, wasn’t it really just you? Do you think rape is really a far cry from that?”
“Dean gives as good as he gets,” Sam insisted, remembering all those times Dean punched him, the times they used to wrestle or train together when they were kids and Dean always kicked his ass, or some of the yelling matches they’d gotten into over the years, yelling themselves hoarse before falling into bed together.
“How many times have you bottomed for him?” his persistent hallucination insisted. “How many times has he invited you into his bed at the end of a long day? How many times has Dean sought out your comfort? Not much, I gather.”
Sam didn’t know what to say to that. It was true. Dean didn’t top very often and he was always so damn reluctant about it, only caving when Sam insisted. His brother was never the one to initiate contact that was anything more than casual and was often hesitant to continue things after Sam started them.
He heard Dean at the door, keys jingling at the lock and he turned to face him. Lucifer wrapped an arm around his shoulders in a friendly gesture. “You know I’m right,” his apparition said. “Just look at him.”
A ghost of a smile graced Dean’s tired face, but his eyes were hollow and haunted. His shoulders were hunched, the weight of the world weighing them down once more. He was more than tired, more than defeated, more than broken. Sam hadn’t missed what famine told his brother years ago. Dean was dead on the inside, with nothing, but Sam to live for. And maybe Sam wasn’t enough.
Maybe this was his fault. Maybe the Devil was right.
***
They slept in separate beds that night for the first time in a long time. That night he dreamed of pain and suffering and darkness so powerful it consumed him. A hard body lay pliantly beneath him, but dark green eyes pleaded with him. No, those eyes spoke, please stop. Wrists were held tight in his bruising grip, knees forced apart; a pained gasp forced itself past swollen lips.
“Don’t do this, Sammy.”
He tried to tell himself it wasn’t real, but he wasn’t sure he believed that anymore.
Sam couldn’t bring himself to get anywhere near Dean after, couldn’t bring himself to touch his brother, even casually. He couldn’t trust himself.
The weeks dragged on as Dean slipped further and further away from him. Sam couldn’t bring himself closer, couldn’t bring himself to talk to him about what the Devil had said, afraid of what his answer might be. The more he thought about it, the more he believed it, the more he realized he had hurt Dean, over and over and over again, long before they even started this thing between them. It wasn’t really so outrageous to believe anymore that he abused Dean, that he forced Dean into this relationship.
The way his brother flinched away from his touch, the Devil’s quiet I told you so, were silent proof of what Sam had done. They hadn’t slept together in weeks and Dean hadn’t brought it up once, didn’t seem bothered by it at all. Sam was pretty damn sure he wasn’t imagining the relief he saw in Dean’s eyes every time he went to his own, separate bed at night.
For three longs weeks, Sam agonized over what he had done to Dean. It only took him one week, and constant barbs and sneers from the Devil for Sam to be convinced Lucifer was right. He couldn’t bring himself to leave, though, even if he did believe his presence was hurting his brother. Because the Devil always left him alone when Dean was there, never bothered him when his strong, courageous older brother was around. He needed the reprieve. He needed Dean.
Sam was a selfish bastard.
He was aware of the longing, angst filled eyes he was casting towards his brother, the puppy dog eyes filled to the brim with sorrow and tears. When he gazed into a mirror, he had to admit, even to himself, that he looked like a kicked puppy, or like a starving child with a feast laid before him, only to have it snatched away before he could taste any of it.
And every night Dean’s eyes haunted him in his sleep, the dark, accusing stare freezing his soul.
How could he do those things to his brother? How could he hurt him like that? Why hadn’t Dean said anything?
He deserved to have Satan on his shoulders every second of the day, taunting him until the last of his sanity fled from his tortured mind. Punishment, he supposed, for the pain he caused.
He looked at Dean every day, saw the emptiness in his eyes, felt the hollow sorrow in his movements, watched him slip away a little more into his own madness. Snatches of memories came back to him in his dreams, of Dean pleading with him, begging him to stop as Sam used his body, the same haunted look settling in his green eyes every time. And all the while the Devil sat on his shoulder and laughed.
“If you just left him, he would get better,” the Devil told him day after day. “He would be happier if you were gone.”
It was time to stop torturing them both. He couldn’t be selfish anymore. In the middle of the night, at another hotel in the middle of Bumbfuck, America, Sam decided it was time to leave and never look back.
It was only fair to Dean.
Avoiding the creaky floorboard in between their beds, and the one just slightly to the right of the door, Sam quietly packed his things. One hand rested on the door, his meager belongings packed in an old, worn bag, slung over his shoulders, he stopped and stared at his brother, a last longing look at the one person that meant more to him than anything else, whose trust and body he had abused time and time again. “This is the right choice,” Lucifer comforted as he walked out the door.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Dean’s sleep laden voice asked after Sam had turned to leave. He was halfway out of the door already, hallway to salvation. Lucifer glared in Dean’s direction and disappeared.
“I’m leaving,” he replied as if it wasn’t already obvious.
“Okay,” Dean replied annoyed, clearly having already figured that one out for himself. He groaned as he forced himself into a sitting position, bare feet touching the ugly blue carpet of their hotel. “Why?”
The question sounded so innocent, so confused that Sam broke. His face crumpled and he squeezed his eyes shut to avoid the onslaught of tears he wanted to let fall, but wouldn’t.
Winchester men don’t cry.
“Because I hurt you.” He walked back into the apartment in reluctant resignation. His bag dropped to the floor with a thud, the hotel door shut with an ominous click. This was the conversation he didn’t want to have with Dean: confirmation of all the horrible things he had done.
“When?” Dean’s sleepy face clouded with confusion, his nose wrinkled just slightly, eyes furrowing in concern. “I think I’d remembered if you did.”
“I hurt you all the time,” Sam insisted. “I forced you into this relationship, I abused you, I…”
“Don’t be stupid, Sam,” Dean gruffly replied. “Go back to sleep.”
“It’s not,” Sam petulantly argued when he saw Dean attempt to lie down again. Dean instantly sat back up. “Lucifer said…”
“Lucifer?” Dean interrupted sharply. “Since when do you listen to that dick? He's not real.”
Sam just shrugged. “He’s a part of me, Dean, whether you want to admit that or not. I made him up, everything he says, must be something I am thinking. Right? I can’t just dismiss that!”
“Yes you can.” Dean went to lay back down on the creaky hotel bed, the argument clearly over in his mind. But Sam could not let this go. It could not be that easy. It just couldn’t.
“It’s not that easy.”
Dean forced himself to sit again, barely stopping himself from rolling his eyes. “Yes it is.”
“How can you say that?” Sam hadn’t moved away from the door, the strap of his bag still held tightly in his grasp, body tense and ready to flee at any moment.
Dean rubbed his face with his hand, scrubbing away the vestiges of sleep. “Sam, you don’t go through Hell and come out without any scars. The part that was behind the wall, it’s damaged, traumatized, confused. But it’s just a part of you, that’s not you. That part of you is trying to fuck with your mind, but it doesn’t know anything.”
“But…but I forced you,” Sam asserted.
“You didn’t force me to do anything. I can totally still kick your ass.”
“You’re always so reluctant, though,” Sam sulked, but let go of the strap on his bag.
“I’m your older brother. It’s my job to worry about whether or not I’m taking advantage of you,” Dean shrugged.
“Now that is ridiculous.”
“See!” he said with fake enthusiasm. “No go to bed. We can even cuddle if you want,” the reply was scathingly sarcastic, but Sam knew his brother. He knew the offer was valid if Sam wanted to accept.
Sam still couldn’t let go of the fear, though. Dean was here, he was willingly, he was offering comfort and that should be enough. But Sam had spent weeks convincing himself that what he had with Dean was wrong and that wouldn’t go away with a few gruff words from his brother.
“I worry about you Dean. This isn’t you! And you were just going to let that Amazon girl…” He made a vague jester with his hand that could have meant anything. Sighing, he took a deep breath and continued. “You think I don’t know, but I know Dean, I know. I’m not enough, I’m not enough to make you want to stay. Maybe that’s my fault and maybe, I don’t know, I did something.”
Dean looked older and more broken and damaged than Sam remembered. If he looked closely enough, he could almost see the cracks in his older brother, remove one more piece, or push too hard in the wrong spot and the whole thing would shatter. Dean would shatter. Sam wouldn’t be able to fix him. There was nothing he could do, but watch.
“It’s not your fault, Sammy. I’m still here, still fighting, because of you.” His words were soft, and tender and comforting, but most importantly they were sincere. Satan wasn’t there to whisper words of deceit into his ear, to convince him otherwise. He had to believe in Dean, because he had nothing else to believe in. “Now come to bed.” This time Dean did lay down on the bed, leaving enough room for Sam to slide in next to him if he wanted.
A sob caught in his throat as he accepted Dean’s invitation. He stumbled across the room and fell into bed. He wrapped his arm around Dean and pulled him to his chest, despite his older brother’s protests. Burying his head into the soft fabric of his brother’s shirt, he let go of the sob and cried.
“Don’t get any snot on my shirt, princess,” Dean grumbled. Sam laughed and rubbed his face into the back of his shirt, squeezing Dean tighter to his chest and tangling their legs together, so his brother couldn’t move away. Dean let him and in his own subtle way, Sam knew what his brother was really saying. I love you, I’m here for you, and I know you love me too.
They would never be the couple that said I love you and held hands at the diner. There would never be any diner and a movie date nights, nor kisses goodbye in the morning and hello at night.
Maybe what they were doing was wrong. But they needed each other, and Sam just couldn’t let go.
So fuck what the Devil and his demons, or what God and his angels, might think. This was right, this was real, this was love.