Hung
Title: Hung
Pairing:Sam Winchester/Lucifer
Rating: G
Word Count:583
Summary: He's at a loss for words, torn between duty and guilt laden persuasion about a life he knew nothing about until the devil stepped into his doorway.
Sam holds Lucifer cradled against his chest, all tenderness and wary touch as the angel sucks in a trembling breath. The pain doesn't hurt him, of course, but Nick is screaming on the inside of his bone gilded cage and it doesn't do anything for the angel that's inhabiting him.
"He's hurting so much, Sam," Lucifer mutters, fingers curling into the soft fabric of Sam's worn flannel. His knuckles are cracked and bleeding, smearing red over blue cloth while Sam attempts to console him with a gentle pat to the back. He's at a loss for words, torn between duty and guilt laden persuasion about a life he knew nothing about until the devil stepped into his doorway.
"What should I do?" he asks, and his voice is almost broken with the weight of the universe on his shoulders. It's not as if he doesn't know the answer, because it's been whispered into his ear every day since The Morning Star was set free. Other than the fear of disappointing his brother, Sam's got one foot over the edge and nothing to lose. He’s tired of fighting the good fight that no one knows about, tired of constantly running and fighting and demons and angels and when did life get so complicated? He can tell Lucifer is noting his hesitation, as he always does. Scabbed arms wind around his neck as the angel pushes closer, parched lips scraping against the shell of Sam’s ear to breathe out silken words tinged with the rasp of desperation.
“He’s not you, Sam. I need you.”
Sam knows this, feels it reverberate to his very core with the dull ache of wanting to be closer, the edges of his soul fluttering against the confines of blood and sinew that prevent it from merging with Lucifer’s own. He lets out a sigh and shakes his head, moving to pull away. Once more he’s confronted with the feelings he realizes aren’t supposed to exist. The fate of the world hangs on his parted lips and he wants nothing more than to give in to the craving for comfort. His shoulders sag with weariness, hazel eyes flickering uncertainly toward blue as he stares the devil in the eye and gives a firm shake of his head. Lucifer rolls his eyes but holds his arms open nonetheless, knowing that Sam is itching to be close to him again.
It’s almost pathetic, Sam thinks, how much he hates himself.
A soul is being tortured in front of his eyes, cracked, peeling flesh oozing with the evidence of his selfishness. He feels the slickness of warm blood pooling against the angel’s shirt as he presses himself close, groping fingers clinging tightly to the soiled cloth beneath them. If he thought demon’s blood was addicting, he was never prepared for the enveloping warmth of an angel’s grace surrounding him. A soft whine slips past his lips as he buries his face against Lucifer’s neck, greedily sucking in the scent of ozone and sweat with every inhalation of essence. Lucifer allows himself a quiet chuckle, clinging to Sam just as tightly and wishing for all the world that Sam would just say yes.
For now, though, he’ll give him what he can, let him soak in the little bit of cacaphonic light and sound that won’t hurt him, would never hurt him, because even if Sam won’t give him an inch of slackened rope, Lucifer doesn’t mind hanging himself for the man in his arms.