Libera nos a malo // Supernatural, Lucifer/Castiel
Title: "Libera nos a malo"
Author: terryh_nyan
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Implied Dean/Castiel; some creepy, twisted and not-really-pairingish Lucifer/Castiel.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: mental illness, torture both physical and non. Grace speculation. Spoilers for 7x17.
Word Count: 1.629
Summary: Castiel knows he's hallucinating. Unfortunately, that doesn't make things any easier.
Notes: This is my first fic in English. I have no idea if it's good or well-written. Up to you to tell me that. Thanks a bunch to leontina who beta'd it on Tumblr. Her advices helped a lot in improving this little one-shot. <3 Written for comment_fic prompt "Supernatural, Castiel/Lucifer, now we are alone, brother".
Libera nos a malo
They say that the best trick the devil ever pulled out was making the whole world believe he didn’t exist. You, on the other hand, have every possible reason to strongly disagree.
He hadn’t looked discouraged at all by your lack of knowledge of the pop culture he had enjoyed using to tease Sam, not at all. Actually, it only seemed to intrigue him even more, like the entire situation were nothing but a game, and he had just reached a brand new level to explore. These thoughts aren’t completely yours, but more of a far-off memory, some sentence you’d heard between a hunt and a break, in another context, but it still sounds like it makes sense anyway. Maybe those words are the only thing that’s making sense, as of now.
A sharp pain flows through your body as a wooden stick falls with unusual violence against your forehead, something that you shouldn’t be able to feel with such clearness, but it’s just one of the many incoherencies that have been going on, lately. Some part of your mind appears to suggest that he might have covered it in holy oil, or the steel from the angel blades, or the ashes of some dead angel’s wings, and you really don’t want to think about it. You twitch, biting your lower lip so hard it starts bleeding, jerking away in a desperate attempt to get the furthest you can from the monster that leans over you. You know you can’t run.
Because he’s in you, and you can’t escape from yourself. It’s so much more than the terror of an enemy.
Espicially now that you are alone.
- Pay attention to the class, Castiel. We’re not even halfway through our lesson. Actually, I’d say it’s just the beginning, don’t you think? We have so much time to spend here together. Almost the eternity -
He’s careful to underline those final words with a sudden lowering of his voice, and it’s enough to make you shiver.
- I never got to know properly all my siblings. Aren’t you glad we finally get some quality time all for us, little brother? -
He’s closer now. Even with your eyes closed, you can see his shadow over you, almost feel the heat of his breath against your ear, a scent that smells like roses and blood at once.
- Shall we go back to our little movie, then? -
He brushes his nose against your stubble, just the lightest touch, but you still startle like a wave of pure electricity has cracked against your skin.
He can’t harm you by sleep deprivation, or food poisoning. But he can do worse.
He can scratch against the limbs of your Grace.
And it hurts. It hurts like a thousand needles piercing all together through the sensitive skin of a human, like pure acid flowing through your veins. What hurts the most, though, in that physical kind of torture, is that your Grace seems eager to jump into the arms of the Morning Star of its own will. It’s fascinated by that creature, the Most Beautiful, the Favorite child amongst them all, it feels drawn to him, like a planet to the sun. Maybe it’s your head that’s just too broken, but you’re perfectly able to see Lucifer’s true form, beneath the layers of clothes and that meatsuit.
It’s twisted. It’s horrifying and stunning at once: his wings are mangled and bloody, yet their curve is graceful. His light is covered in dirt and ashes, yet it manages to be equally blinding. It’s in order not to see all of that, because you find it disgusting and your own nature betrays you here, finding it highly charming, that you keep your eyes shut most of the time, when it’s still possible.
But Lucifer said he wanted to see the movie.
And while you’re not sure how he managed to get a perfectly functioning TV in your head, with a remote and everything, this is a far worse torture than the one he inflicts to your Grace.
This is Hell.
- Oh, c’mon. It’s not polite to keep your eyes closed at the movie theater -
And, with these words, he moves one hand towards you, tracing the borders of your eyelid with his thumb, setting fire to each eyelash. It hurts.
It hurts so bad you can barely grind your teeth together in time, before the pain comes at waves and makes you scream. And still, you keep them shut. Because what awaits outside the reassuring darkness of your eyelids is far, far worse.
Until he opens his mouth, you stay that way, clenching fists in the white sheets of the bed.
But then he does it again.
It’s a faint touch, so phantom you could as well have imagined it - yeah, actually… -. He brushes his lips on your earlobe as he speaks, and the problem it’s not the fact that they’re colder than anything you’ve ever felt, anything in this world or any other; it’s your Grace. It’s the way it leans into the touch in awe like a purring cat, like the creature beside you is the most desirable blessing in the whole universe. It’s so horrible your eyes startle open before you know it; and there he is, closer than he should, closer than anyone should - anyone but one.
One you can’t afford to think about, not now.
- Now, that’s good. Be a good boy and sit tight, little brother. The movie is starting -
And if that sentence alone wasn’t yet enough to give you the chills, what happens next totally complies.
The room goes dark and a scream arises from the TV. A familiar voice cries out in pain, calls, hisses, through the blood and through the knives.
Stop.
A mutilated hand reaches forward as the walls start to melt, and so does the screen. You can’t take your eyes off the scene. You can’t take your eyes off his.
Suffering, dried, begging, a look that shouldn’t ever be on anybody’s face, that shouldn’t be on that face, not anymore, at least.
He prays to his torturer to put the blade down. He looks at him with something in those green eyes that makes you shiver hard, something that’s not repulsion, not fury, not hate.
It’s faith.
Make it stop.
His voice calls out again. Not to “Sam”, not to “Bobby”, not to “dad”, not to “someone, please”. Not to God, either - he never did that, not even in the Pit.
It calls you.
- Cass. Cass, man, please, wake up. This is not you. I know you’re still in there. Fight it, Cass, please, I-- -
And there, in front of him, silencing him with another deep cut of the angel blade - there’s you.
- No. That’s not true. That never happened - you breathe, gaze fixed on the blood that spills from the wound, on the smile on your other self’s face while he slices, pierces, breaks.
You glance at Lucifer with an expression of pure terror and hate. But he just looks back with slight surprise.
- Don’t you remember, Castiel? You did this. When you tried to steal Daddy’s wheel -
His voice is low and serious.
- It didn’t happen - your head shakes, but so does your conviction. Lucifer always seems so honest when he speaks. It doesn’t help reminding yourself that he’s the freaking devil, that he lies, that he’s inside your head and will take your worst memories and fears just to use them all against you.
And he looks so concerned about your words.
- But it did, little brother. You did this to him. To your precious Dean Winchester -
- I would never -
- No, maybe you wouldn’t - he concedes. - But you weren’t really “you” at the time, remember, Castiel? You were a billion monsters’ souls plus the Leviathans. It’s hard to admit, you know, but I think you even surpassed me, back then -
And if those words are meant to flatter you, they truly don’t.
- Look at him, little brother. Look at how hard he tries to snap you out. Look at how much he trusts you, even with your sword down his throat -
You physically can’t look away. Your eyes are chained. You can do nothing but watch as Dean chokes on his own blood and his own prayers once, twice, so many times you can’t count them all.
- Look at how he doesn’t call anybody else for help. He’s calling you, Castiel. He’s begging you to stop and you just cut him harder! -
He laughs, a sick, silver laugh that pleasantly strokes your Grace but makes you want to throw up.
You try not to focus on Dean’s eyes, on Dean’s screams, on Dean’s please, Cass, don’t do this.
- It’s not real -
Lucifer turns around with a sympathetic look on his face.
- Does it look like it’s not real to you? -
And, Heaven help you, it just doesn’t.
You’ve already missed so many pieces of your memory along the way. Who can say this isn’t just another fragment you forgot, another slice that hurt too much for you to keep remembering?
Who can say you didn’t kill Dean over and over, betrayed his faith a thousand times?
Who can say you didn’t?
- Wanna get closer to the screen, little brother? -
The room becomes bloody, the air a scent of death.
In front of you, chained to the wall, Dean is looking in your eyes with so much undying hope that it hurts probably more than all those wounds.
In your hand, the blade.
And no matter how many times you scream no, no, stop, don’t, I never wanted to hurt him, Dean, I'm so sorry, your body won’t listen.
Lucifer chews some pop-corn, gaze fixed to the screen.
Then he smiles and, with a low voice, he mutters:
- Showtime -