SPN Fanfic: Every Other Tuesday
Title: Every Other Tuesday
Genre/pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13?
Prompt: post-traumatic stress disorder
Word count: ~600
Summary: Sam and Lucifer have a chat outside of a church in Portland.
Spoilers: To 7x16
Warnings: References to torture
Disclaimer: Please don’t sue me.
Author’s Note: Written to fill the “post-traumatic stress disorder” prompt on my dark_bingo card and also maybe the wildcard (ptsd) square for hc_bingo. Maybe you’ll see some comfort if you squint?
“Now, the 16th century,” Lucifer is saying as he plucks at a thread on his tatty jeans. “What an inventive time that was.”
It’s early evening and the streetlights have just buzzed awake. There’s a chill in the air; mounds of sloppy wet snow cling to the corners of buildings and sidewalks.
Sam sits in front of a United Methodist Church clutching at a paper cup of coffee. He’s supposed to be finding a truck so they can haul a load of cursed objects out of Portland. Instead he’s been curled up on the damp cement steps of the church for the past 40 minutes, trying to gather up the courage to walk inside.
“Take the rack. It had already been around for centuries before some French inquisitor decided to put spikes on it. For that little extra something.”
Sam studies the useless scar on his palm. His vision is blurry with fatigue and the coffee-no matter how good it is in the Pacific Northwest-feels like it’s tearing at the lining of his stomach.
“And, I mean, who came up with the Judas chair? What a brilliant piece of workmanship.”
“I remember,” Sam says.
A young woman pushing a stroller down the sidewalk glances at him, uneasy.
“Of course you do. You always cried so sweetly in that chair.”
Sam drains the last of his coffee. He desperately wants to curl up in a ball right here on the cold cement. Sleep for a year.
“Oh, go on inside Sammy. The coffee’s free at least.”
Sam crushes the empty cup in his hands. He never makes it past the front steps. This is as far as he ever gets to the Torture Survivors Support Group, whether it’s a church basement in Boise or Wichita or Seattle or Atlantic City.
“I’m sure they’d love to hear some of your stories. You could blow those refugees out of the water.”
Sam’s lips twist in disgust. “You go without me,” he counters. “You can tell me all about it after.”
“No thanks,” Lucifer says. “Boring boring boring. It’s all electrocution these days, nobody has any imagination anymore.”
A shadow falls across the light cast by the streetlamp and Sam looks up, squinting.
“Hello brother,” says a handsome Middle Eastern man, probably Iraqi. “I am Nadeem.”
Sam glances at Lucifer and then offers a tentative hi.
“We’re here every other Tuesday,” Nadeem says kindly. “Maybe next time you will join us inside?”
Sam knows he could be Leviathan goo by the end of the week, but he nods anyway. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know.”
“I promise, we are nice people inside. We don’t bite.” Nadeem offers a gentle smile.
“I do,” Lucifer says as a cascade of blood spills red over his teeth. “I love to bite your-”
“Thank you,” Sam says quickly, looking away. “I’m actually, I’m travelling so, I probably won’t be here. But thanks for the offer.”
The man looks stricken, knows he said the wrong thing. “My English is…I was told this was an okay thing to say?”
Lucifer strokes his hand down Sam’s back. It’s almost a comfort.
Sam jumps to his feet. “I’m sorry. I can’t go in there. It’s not your fault.”
He twists the ruined coffee cup in his hands as he hurries away from Nadeem.
“You know why you can’t go in there,” Lucifer calls as he follows Sam down the street. “You know why you don’t belong.”
“Shut. Up.”
“The difference is they didn’t deserve what happened to them.” Lucifer begins to whistle the opening bars of “Stairway to Heaven.”
“The difference is, you did.”
Sam knows.
Genre/pairing: Gen
Rating: PG-13?
Prompt: post-traumatic stress disorder
Word count: ~600
Summary: Sam and Lucifer have a chat outside of a church in Portland.
Spoilers: To 7x16
Warnings: References to torture
Disclaimer: Please don’t sue me.
Author’s Note: Written to fill the “post-traumatic stress disorder” prompt on my dark_bingo card and also maybe the wildcard (ptsd) square for hc_bingo. Maybe you’ll see some comfort if you squint?
“Now, the 16th century,” Lucifer is saying as he plucks at a thread on his tatty jeans. “What an inventive time that was.”
It’s early evening and the streetlights have just buzzed awake. There’s a chill in the air; mounds of sloppy wet snow cling to the corners of buildings and sidewalks.
Sam sits in front of a United Methodist Church clutching at a paper cup of coffee. He’s supposed to be finding a truck so they can haul a load of cursed objects out of Portland. Instead he’s been curled up on the damp cement steps of the church for the past 40 minutes, trying to gather up the courage to walk inside.
“Take the rack. It had already been around for centuries before some French inquisitor decided to put spikes on it. For that little extra something.”
Sam studies the useless scar on his palm. His vision is blurry with fatigue and the coffee-no matter how good it is in the Pacific Northwest-feels like it’s tearing at the lining of his stomach.
“And, I mean, who came up with the Judas chair? What a brilliant piece of workmanship.”
“I remember,” Sam says.
A young woman pushing a stroller down the sidewalk glances at him, uneasy.
“Of course you do. You always cried so sweetly in that chair.”
Sam drains the last of his coffee. He desperately wants to curl up in a ball right here on the cold cement. Sleep for a year.
“Oh, go on inside Sammy. The coffee’s free at least.”
Sam crushes the empty cup in his hands. He never makes it past the front steps. This is as far as he ever gets to the Torture Survivors Support Group, whether it’s a church basement in Boise or Wichita or Seattle or Atlantic City.
“I’m sure they’d love to hear some of your stories. You could blow those refugees out of the water.”
Sam’s lips twist in disgust. “You go without me,” he counters. “You can tell me all about it after.”
“No thanks,” Lucifer says. “Boring boring boring. It’s all electrocution these days, nobody has any imagination anymore.”
A shadow falls across the light cast by the streetlamp and Sam looks up, squinting.
“Hello brother,” says a handsome Middle Eastern man, probably Iraqi. “I am Nadeem.”
Sam glances at Lucifer and then offers a tentative hi.
“We’re here every other Tuesday,” Nadeem says kindly. “Maybe next time you will join us inside?”
Sam knows he could be Leviathan goo by the end of the week, but he nods anyway. “Yeah, maybe. I don’t know.”
“I promise, we are nice people inside. We don’t bite.” Nadeem offers a gentle smile.
“I do,” Lucifer says as a cascade of blood spills red over his teeth. “I love to bite your-”
“Thank you,” Sam says quickly, looking away. “I’m actually, I’m travelling so, I probably won’t be here. But thanks for the offer.”
The man looks stricken, knows he said the wrong thing. “My English is…I was told this was an okay thing to say?”
Lucifer strokes his hand down Sam’s back. It’s almost a comfort.
Sam jumps to his feet. “I’m sorry. I can’t go in there. It’s not your fault.”
He twists the ruined coffee cup in his hands as he hurries away from Nadeem.
“You know why you can’t go in there,” Lucifer calls as he follows Sam down the street. “You know why you don’t belong.”
“Shut. Up.”
“The difference is they didn’t deserve what happened to them.” Lucifer begins to whistle the opening bars of “Stairway to Heaven.”
“The difference is, you did.”
Sam knows.