Fic: Chrysalis (Supernatural, Sam/Hell!Sam)
Title: Chrysalis
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Hell!Sam
Rating: NC17 for violence and inexplicit sex.
Word Count: 924
Warning: Contains references to torture and implied past non-consensual sex, imagery of Hell and blasphemy.
Summary: Sam puts Hell back behind the wall, where it belongs.
Notes: Written in second person, and I blame obstinatrix for everything ;).
You know Sam shouldn't be here. He took you in, made you part of him against your advice and all better judgment. You've watched the world through his eyes for weeks and listened as his prayers fell silent because he's seen God now, and God is not a cruel and capricious Lord, not a benevolent divine Father; God is less than that, no more than a man who believes his own hype.
You should hate him because he didn't listen to you, but you can't. Not for that. You hated him before your ride inside him reminded you how he thinks. You know that if Lucifer had never laid a finger on you, you would have done the same. You might even have thought it the right thing. He gives so much thought to saving others lives, and not enough to his responsibility for each life he saves.
"I'm sorry," he says. He doesn't say he needs you, or that he wants you to go back. Both of you already know he does.
"Thank God," you reply. He doesn't pray. You do. It's one of the only things you have left, and even a weak god is better than nothing. Lucifer hated you for praying. Michael didn't.
Sam flinches.
He wraps his arms around you and you start bleeding again, the barely formed scars on your sides coming undone under the pressure, but you hold him close anyway; his cheek is soft and warm against your throat and the scratch of stubble stings the raw surface of your skin more than you can bear. It hurts, but you don't ask him to stop. You've forgotten how to say no.
He pulls back and looks at you, eyes soft and sympathetic as they take in the marks on your face, the thatched cuts and crinkled paper burns of your forehead. He is so unmarked in comparison, pure in his humanity, and you don't deserve the kindness of his kiss but you accept it anyway. He isn't as rough with you as he is with the girls he fucks, and you don't know if you should resent or thank him for it.
He pushes you up against the oversized bedroom mirror, its surface too cold and too smooth to be natural, and you know how to get back from here. He doesn't let you leave immediately though, pushing up your shirt and pulling your jeans down only as far as he needs to; what he has already seen of your wounds is warning enough against further curiosity.
He kisses you three times, four times, before he turns you around and has you face the mirror, your world starting to take shape again the moment your fingers meet their reflection. You choke back a sob as he takes your hands and closes his eyes in order to avoid yours; he knows, though he'll soon forget, that Michael liked to see your face.
Lucifer never interfered. He watched. He waited. When he pushed your liver back inside you and stitched up your sides with angelic hands that had forgotten how to heal, he promised it would be their turn someday.
You believed him. That made it worse.
Sam pulls your collar down to kiss the back of your neck, and the touch blisters with its intensity. It's been a long time since anyone made you feel.
"I'm sorry," he repeats as you take him inside you, and you thank him by pouring your world into the mirror, tearing your reality away from his. He links your fingers with his as the reflection's wallpaper starts to peel away, its carpet starting to bleed as you do.
"Don't look," you say, and it's a command rather than a request; you can't remember when you last gave an order to anyone. You pull one of Sam's hands down between your legs but don't allow it to stroke you - the pressure is enough, the firm presence of something soft and warm and human. The bed sheets on the alternate bed turn to wet plastic, the wooden supports fading to something metallic and cruel.
You come, the painting above the bed now another mirror, repeating his reality and yours over and over and over. Sam shines as brightly as he should in the reflection, not belonging to the world you have made to protect him; he tightens his grip on your waist but you pull away before he can bleed into you, repeat your order. "Don't look. You don't belong here. Go away."
You chance a quick glance at the mirror and you hate him for not recognizing you, but you love him for it because it is the one thing you must not let him do.
His reflection stays and you clutch your stomach, swallow down your vomit and your sobs while you still have the strength. "Go away, Sam," you repeat, ducking your head and avoiding his gaze as you push your hand deeper into the mirror.
You remember how to scream when he touches your shoulder. "Go away!"
The mirror gives way beneath you and you fall through more than glass and metal, the shift from his world into yours leaving you dizzy with vertigo as you fall onto a floor as broken and ruined as you.
He's gone, and you're alone. The shapes twisting in and behind the walls around the bedroom are lost memories once more.
You hate him again, for leaving you here, and you'll hate him more if he ever comes back.
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Sam/Hell!Sam
Rating: NC17 for violence and inexplicit sex.
Word Count: 924
Warning: Contains references to torture and implied past non-consensual sex, imagery of Hell and blasphemy.
Summary: Sam puts Hell back behind the wall, where it belongs.
Notes: Written in second person, and I blame obstinatrix for everything ;).
You know Sam shouldn't be here. He took you in, made you part of him against your advice and all better judgment. You've watched the world through his eyes for weeks and listened as his prayers fell silent because he's seen God now, and God is not a cruel and capricious Lord, not a benevolent divine Father; God is less than that, no more than a man who believes his own hype.
You should hate him because he didn't listen to you, but you can't. Not for that. You hated him before your ride inside him reminded you how he thinks. You know that if Lucifer had never laid a finger on you, you would have done the same. You might even have thought it the right thing. He gives so much thought to saving others lives, and not enough to his responsibility for each life he saves.
"I'm sorry," he says. He doesn't say he needs you, or that he wants you to go back. Both of you already know he does.
"Thank God," you reply. He doesn't pray. You do. It's one of the only things you have left, and even a weak god is better than nothing. Lucifer hated you for praying. Michael didn't.
Sam flinches.
He wraps his arms around you and you start bleeding again, the barely formed scars on your sides coming undone under the pressure, but you hold him close anyway; his cheek is soft and warm against your throat and the scratch of stubble stings the raw surface of your skin more than you can bear. It hurts, but you don't ask him to stop. You've forgotten how to say no.
He pulls back and looks at you, eyes soft and sympathetic as they take in the marks on your face, the thatched cuts and crinkled paper burns of your forehead. He is so unmarked in comparison, pure in his humanity, and you don't deserve the kindness of his kiss but you accept it anyway. He isn't as rough with you as he is with the girls he fucks, and you don't know if you should resent or thank him for it.
He pushes you up against the oversized bedroom mirror, its surface too cold and too smooth to be natural, and you know how to get back from here. He doesn't let you leave immediately though, pushing up your shirt and pulling your jeans down only as far as he needs to; what he has already seen of your wounds is warning enough against further curiosity.
He kisses you three times, four times, before he turns you around and has you face the mirror, your world starting to take shape again the moment your fingers meet their reflection. You choke back a sob as he takes your hands and closes his eyes in order to avoid yours; he knows, though he'll soon forget, that Michael liked to see your face.
Lucifer never interfered. He watched. He waited. When he pushed your liver back inside you and stitched up your sides with angelic hands that had forgotten how to heal, he promised it would be their turn someday.
You believed him. That made it worse.
Sam pulls your collar down to kiss the back of your neck, and the touch blisters with its intensity. It's been a long time since anyone made you feel.
"I'm sorry," he repeats as you take him inside you, and you thank him by pouring your world into the mirror, tearing your reality away from his. He links your fingers with his as the reflection's wallpaper starts to peel away, its carpet starting to bleed as you do.
"Don't look," you say, and it's a command rather than a request; you can't remember when you last gave an order to anyone. You pull one of Sam's hands down between your legs but don't allow it to stroke you - the pressure is enough, the firm presence of something soft and warm and human. The bed sheets on the alternate bed turn to wet plastic, the wooden supports fading to something metallic and cruel.
You come, the painting above the bed now another mirror, repeating his reality and yours over and over and over. Sam shines as brightly as he should in the reflection, not belonging to the world you have made to protect him; he tightens his grip on your waist but you pull away before he can bleed into you, repeat your order. "Don't look. You don't belong here. Go away."
You chance a quick glance at the mirror and you hate him for not recognizing you, but you love him for it because it is the one thing you must not let him do.
His reflection stays and you clutch your stomach, swallow down your vomit and your sobs while you still have the strength. "Go away, Sam," you repeat, ducking your head and avoiding his gaze as you push your hand deeper into the mirror.
You remember how to scream when he touches your shoulder. "Go away!"
The mirror gives way beneath you and you fall through more than glass and metal, the shift from his world into yours leaving you dizzy with vertigo as you fall onto a floor as broken and ruined as you.
He's gone, and you're alone. The shapes twisting in and behind the walls around the bedroom are lost memories once more.
You hate him again, for leaving you here, and you'll hate him more if he ever comes back.