One night in March, 1/4, [R], Dean, Sam (no slash)
Title: One night in March
Author: Shellsanne
Rating: R
Characters: Sam and Dean (with a side of Lucifer)
Genre: heavy on the angst, hurt/comfort/craziness, no slash
Spoilers: This takes place after season 7, episode 15; no spoilers
Note: Comments welcome! Please comment!! This chapter links through to the end of the story.
Summary: As Sam struggles to face his impending breakdown, it’s Dean who is spiraling out of control.
Lucifer smiled at him in the bathroom mirror.
His face had appeared in the path Sam cleared of steam as he swept a towel across the mirror. Sam didn't startle, didn't react much at all, not even when Lucifer greeted him with a pleasant "Hi, Sam." (Lucifer always seemed happy to see him.) Instead Sam lathered foam on his face and pulled a razor from his toiletry bag.
Lucifer rested his chin on Sam's shoulder and grinned amiably at their reflections in the receding steam. "You just going to pretend I'm not here? Is that your plan?"
"You're not here," Sam muttered quietly as he pressed the razor to his jawline in an upward stroke. "I don't have to pretend."
Lucifer clicked his tongue. "C'mon now, Sam, you know you can't kid a kidder." His eyes were bright, intense, sparkling with amusement, and even as he refused to meet them Sam couldn't help noticing that they looked more alert, somehow more alive, than his own. "And besides, you're so damn good at it, you should be proud. You've become a master in the art of pretense. I mean look at you."
Sam inched just slightly to the left, enough to dislodge the chin from his shoulder, and maintained his focus on the task at hand, clearing foam from his face in smooth lines. "Pretending everything's okay, and you're just going about your business," the face in the mirror continued, his voice lithe and silken, "and nothing's more important than a clean shave … You missed a spot there, Sam," he said, dabbing a finger against Sam's chin. "Just there."
Sam refused to meet his eyes. He concentrated on the slow, even strokes of his razor, and ignored the slight tremor in his hand. Lucifer leaned slightly closer, and when he said "Pretending you haven't changed, that you're the same ol' Sam," Sam could feel the warm breath of his words against his neck, and he could feel the hairs there prickling. "Reliable, soulful, sane …" His smile broadened with the last word and he winked at Sam.
Sam fixed his attention on the sliding motion of the razor against his skin, on the crunching sound the disposable blades made against his bristles. For just an instant he was distracted by the thought that he wasn't controlling the razor at all, that it was moving entirely on its own, that it might begin slicing into his skin whenever it chose. Nonsense of course. He knew he was in control.
Lucifer's smile was unfaltering. It wasn't a malevolent smile, and it wasn't an affectation. He seemed genuinely happy to be sharing Sam's company. Hangin' out. Watching him shave. "How long has it been now, Sam, that you've been steadily going batshit and pretending you're okay? Six months? Seven?" His expression softened into one of gentle concern now. "Of course it's not as easy as it was at first, is it. You're not really pulling it off any more. The cracks are showing, Sam."
Sam dropped his razor into the basin and felt a tiny splash of water on his elbow. It seemed important in moments like these to focus on physical sensations, to allow them to ground him. Especially when he was finding it hard to make himself breathe.
Lucifer gave a little shrug. "Not that there's really anyone around besides me to notice. Anyone who might have cared about you is dead now, right? Thank God for small blessings, huh?" And his eyes positively glistened as he chuckled. "I guess it's just you and your brother now. Oh wait-" His eyes widened, his eyebrows arched. "That's right. Your brother ditched you here nearly a week ago, didn't he. So I guess it's just you then. Well…" He flashed that flawless smile. "You and me."
Sam was dimly aware that his entire body was beginning to shake. But he wouldn't-he couldn't-meet those eyes riveted on his in the mirror. "You aren't real," he sputtered in a voice that sounded far too thin, too anemic to be his own. "You're not here."
"No, he's not here, Sam. Your brother's gone. And that's what you have to come to terms with. I think that's what we have to talk about." His face had changed again, his forehead etched with worry lines, his brows knitted slightly, and the eyes gently imploring, asking to help. The artfully sculpted face of a concerned friend. Or a protective brother. "The fact that you've lost Dean."
Sam closed his eyes. Through clenched teeth he muttered, "Dean's following a lead on Dick Roman. He'll be back."
"Right… How long has he been gone now? A week?"
"Five days."
"How often has he called you? Asked you for your input? Asked you for your help?" There was a long pause. "Asked you how you are?"
"He…" Sam was feeling dizzy. "…texts."
Lucifer's sigh carried a soft hum of compassion.
"Tell me, Sam. How does it feel when the one person in your life who always believed in you, stood at your side, had your back, thought you were worth something, finally… just… gives up?"
"Shut up," Sam snapped, too quietly to carry any weight.
"Not that you can really blame him. I mean, the guy's got his own problems to deal with. You didn't expect him to shoulder yours for the rest of your life, did you?" Sam flinched when a hand touched his shoulder. "Or did you? Oh Sam… You really thought he'd always be there, didn't you? Looking out for you, protecting you, fighting at your side… You thought the two of you would go out like Butch and Sundance, didn't you."
A guttural sound escaped Sam's throat. He tried to cover it by sucking in a deep breath, then releasing it.
"I'm sorry, Sam. The reality is, Dean's only human. There's only so much disappointment a man can take. He really wanted to believe that you would be okay, I know he did. And even when the signs started showing, even when he could see you were losing it, he tried, I mean he really tried. He wanted to keep you with him, he wanted to help you. But… how long do you chase a lost cause?"
Sam kept his eyes clamped shut, concentrated on the sandpapery sound of his breaths as they rasped in and out of his lungs. He counted them … in and out, one … in and out, two … and he wondered fleetingly how long he would be able to stay conscious like this.
"Try to see it from his perspective, Sam," purred Lucifer. "He's lost everything, everyone who ever mattered, apart from you. And then he was losing you too. More and more of you every day. I mean, you… just aren't you any more, kiddo. However much you want to pretend otherwise. He tried not to notice how needy you were becoming. How dependent on him to make decisions, to call the right shots." A soft murmur of sad empathy. "Dean watched you grow into such a strong, confident, independent man, the finest hunter he'd ever fought beside, only to see you shrink into this passive, docile kid, scared of his own shadow these days. Pathetically unable to trust his own judgment. Too weak to stand up to the monsters in his own head, let alone the real ones. Truth is, for the last few weeks, Dean wouldn't have counted on you to swat a fly, let alone behead a big mouth. Dean can't count on you at all any more, Sam. It's no wonder he's left you."
A small whimper managed to push its way from Sam's throat, overriding his best efforts to swallow it back; he'd lost count of his breaths.
"So you see, Sam, he could either stick around and watch you waste away … or he could finally walk away. Finally be free of you."
And that's when Sam's body shuddered as raw emotion tore loose, fueled by the heady mix of exhaustion, desperation and sheer terror he'd been battling all week to control. He felt the hot sting of tears coursing down his face, heard the ragged gasps of sobbing that issued from his throat. He stood there with his eyes closed tight, frozen to the dimly lit spot in front of the bathroom mirror, and he sobbed.
The warmth of the hand on his shoulder felt comforting this time. And he didn't pull away. Time seemed to pass…
Lucifer's voice was very soft when he finally spoke, almost a whisper, and very close to Sam's ear. "It's alright, Sam. You'll get by without him. I promise. I'll help you. We'll do it together…" The cadence of his words had a strangely lulling, seductive effect, and Sam found himself swaying slightly with their ebb and flow, as his sobs began to fade into muffled hitches. He felt something heavy, with the slick coolness of metal, slide silkily into his hand, and he felt Lucifer's hand gently cradle his beneath it. "We'll find a way," Lucifer breathed into his ear, and Sam felt as if he was floating. The metal object in his hand seemed all that tethered him to the floor.
"Open your eyes, Sammy," said Dean.
Sam's eyes snapped open.
Dean smiled at him in the bathroom mirror.
"Dean…?"
"You know I'd do anything for you, Sammy, don't you?" His face brimmed with love.
Sam barely heard himself as he whimpered, "I know…"
"Well, tonight I need you to do something for me …" And Sam felt the pressure of the hand beneath his tighten around his fingers, around the object they both held, and twist, turning his own hand inward toward his chest. "I need you to do the right thing."
"I don't … understand …"
"I know, Sammy." Tears welled in Dean's eyes as he spoke, and Sam found it nearly impossible to look away. He felt captivated by their reflections, as if he were trapped in the mirror itself. "I know you're confused. I know you've been lost for a while now. That's why I need you to trust me. Let me take the lead. And all you have to do is follow. Can you do that for me, Sammy?"
Anything for you, Dean, he wanted to say, but instead he forced himself to blink-just one willful blink-and the momentary break in the dream-like trance allowed his gaze to fall, to drop to his hand, to Dean's hand, and to the heavy object they together clutched. It was a pearl-handled Bowie knife, the clip-top blade at least 10 inches long, its point leveled just below Sam's sternum.
"All you have to do," said Dean, as his fingers squeezed Sam's against the Bowie's handle, "is let me guide you. And we can both … finally … be free."
The image of the blade hovering over his chest blurred as fresh tears flooded Sam's vision. "Okay," he choked out. "Whatever you say, bro. But…" And with a sickening wrench away from the mirror, he turned to the man beside him who looked so much like his brother, and as both hands grasping the Bowie twisted into awkward positions, he faced him. "Let me do this for you by myself. Okay?"
A frown flickered briefly across Dean's brow.
"Please," Sam whispered, allowing the pain that flooded his emotions to resonate through the word.
And with that Dean smiled, gave a little nod, and released Sam's hand.
Sam smiled back at him-a flash of flawless, genuine happiness-then whipped the blade over in his hand, raised it high in a fist and with all his weight and every last ounce of his energy shoved it downward in a fierce arc and plunged it deep into Lucifer's heart, the force of the thrust sending them both crashing backward against the bathroom wall. His brother's face gone now, Sam was peering into the glinting blue eyes and pallid expression of the Lucifer he knew so well, the face less than an inch from his own. Pleasantly Sam said, "Go back to hell, you motherfucker." And then, letting go, he stepped back.
Blood erupted like a geyser from the punctured orifice. It spattered the porcelain sink, the shower curtain, the tiled floor, Sam's shirt. Lucifer stood there for a moment, his countenance one of pale surprise, then very slowly slid down the wall, smearing the seashelled wallpaper with thick streaks of the blood that pumped life from his body.
Sam was shaking uncontrollably. He stood there for a while, staring at the lifeless bloodied heap on the floor. Waiting for the eyes to blink open. Waiting for Lucifer to suddenly grin and say "Gotcha!" After a while he stopped waiting for anything, stopped thinking altogether. He didn't know how long he stood there, but he'd stopped shaking. His breathing had returned to normal. He felt surprisingly calm.
But why should that be a surprise? Killing things was, after all, his job. "And I'm good at it," he muttered.
He glanced down at his blood-soaked hands and turned to the sink. In the basin was a pool of water muddied with shaving-foam and sprinkled with droplets of blood. He pulled out the plug, watched it drain, then held his hands under the cool tap, and watched the blood slowly wash away. He started to glance up, but couldn't quite bring himself to look in the mirror. He sighed, turned off the faucet, headed out. He'd reached the door when he remembered his half-shaved face, and the foam he could just about see on one cheek, and turned back to reach for a towel. And stopped.
Every drop of blood was gone. The tiles, the shower curtain, and the sink were back to their lackluster, questionably hygienic state of seedy-motel clean. There were no smears or stains on the wallpaper. The seashells stood out in their bland beach scheme on the far wall. Halfway up the wallpaper a Bowie knife jutted out of the wall at a severe angle.
Sam didn't react much. He retrieved the hand towel and switched off the bathroom light before closing the door.
Chapter 2: http://shellsanne.livejournal.com/1637.html