This is a continuation/sequel thing to By Your Side, because people seemed interested in seeing more, and Sam and Hallucifer being messed-up BFFs has become my favourite thing to write EVER.
Summary: Sam's coping with his problem. Lucifer helps. Unfortunately, some things don't last forever.
Warnings: SPOILERS for s7 till 7.07: The Mentalists. Weirdness, metaphor-abuse, present-tense, some violence and blood. It might be helpful to read By Your Sidefirst, but I don't think it's necessary.
Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of its characters.
Forever and Always
Dean's trying to understand.
There are a few, halting attempts at discussion, most of which end with Dean storming out and returning hours later, drunk out of his mind. Then there are other ways—Dean's peculiar brand of concern, with the sidelong looks, the gruff "You okay?"s, turning down the music in the car and buying him vanilla lattes. It hurts to watch Dean try so hard to reach out to Sam, especially when he has such a hard time keeping himself together.
Sam doesn't deserve so much.
Not when you have me, Lucifer whispers in his ear.
Sam... shuts down after that, pretends to ignore Lucifer, even presses against that ineffectual scar every now and then to keep up appearances. Dean seems happy when he does that—Sam's okay. Sam's dealing. Sam's being Sam.
And—he's happy being that Sam, slipping into a role he didn't know he could play. He's the Sam that can deal with two hundred of years of the worst of Hell screaming in the back of his mind, the Sam that can ignore the devil whispering in his ear, breath hot and sour and so very, very real, the Sam that can hunt and laugh and drive and live and at the end of the day, take the bottle away from Dean and ask his brother to stop destroying himself.
He is. He has to be.
You are, Lucifer tells him, and Sam believes.
Sam doesn't talk to other people much, anymore.
It's hard enough to focus when he's talking to Dean; the thought of doing it with strangers exhausts him even before he opens his mouth. Dean seems to be handling that part of their job pretty well on his own, anyway; for all that he's hanging from a frayed thread, he seems to have lost none of his glib charm.
Sam's always alone. Sam's never alone.
(it's okay, sammy. and a touch. a word. peace. lucifer.)
"Call me if anything comes up," Sam says one morning, lacing up his sneakers. They're hunting a shapeshifter this week; after hours of watching and rewatching surveillance tapes, they still haven't gotten anything concrete. Lucifer offered to help, of course, but Sam does draw a line for certain things.
Dean grunts from where he's lying sprawled on the bed, one hand checking the gun under his pillow, the other already feeling for the half-empty beer can on the bedside table.
"I mean it," Sam tells him, then steps out into the sun.
The jogging helps keep his mind off things, if not in the way he'd intended when he started it; it's become a way to escape the suffocation of being with his brother, being the Sam that he needs to be. Sam can fall apart now if he wants to, can—
(always running away, sammy)
—pick up the pieces later—
(always running toward me, even now)
—but he doesn't. He runs and ignores Lucifer, even if it hurts, because he can't fall apart now, he can't, he can't.
He can't, not until Lucifer comes for him in the night and they talk till dawn.
Sam decides to jog through the forest bordering the town today. It's a glorious morning, the air fresh and crisp, and Sam is already looking forward to running in the woods, filling his lungs with all that moist air, letting himself go.
Lucifer keeps up with him without even trying, of course, even when he really starts going, pouring on the speed. There's an unparalleled joy in this, in feeling the adrenaline, his breath burning his throat, the rapidly-cooling sweat. Lucifer pushes aside fallen boughs and rocks in his path; Sam's head throbs as always when he does that, but he's grateful.
He stops finally at a clearing, panting harshly, hands on his knees. Lucifer watches him, leaning against a nearby tree. "Just seven miles this time," he says. "Getting out of shape already, Sam?"
Sam rolls his eyes, wipes the sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. "Shut up," he mutters, but it's half-hearted.
Lucifer shrugs. "Don't really have much else to do here, Sam. But I can be patient. You remember that, don't you?"
He does. Lucifer was ridiculously patient in the Cage, drawing out his torture for as long as possible, to get as many screams from Sam as he could. In a strange way, Sam is grateful for that, because he sees the pain for what it really was: a distraction. There are far worse things that an eternity alone could do to you.
"Yeah, I do," Sam says and turns and—
—there's someone, some thing, slamming him back-first into a tree with unnatural strength. Sam feels all the air go out of his lungs, and is only upright because of the thing's hold on his shoulders. It's a man, short and middle-aged with a receding hairline and a soft belly, but the hands digging bruises into Sam's shoulders speak of a strength far, far greater than what he sees.
"I've been following you for a while, Hunter," it spits. "I know you've been hunting me. Can't allow that."
"Oh, would you look at that," Lucifer says from behind its shoulder, raising his eyebrows. "Here's the breakthrough you were looking for."
If Sam weren't occupied at the moment, he would've flipped him off.
Sam knew he was off his game, but he didn't think it would be this bad.
The shapeshifter pulls him and slams him against the tree again, and now his back really hurts and he's having a tough time catching his breath. He hasn't brought any weapon with him—which was stupid, especially when they're in the middle of a case—and if he can just reach the mobile in his pocket—
"Oh, I'm not that stupid," the shapeshifter says and pulls out the phone before he does. It crushes the phone in one hand and smiles at Sam. "Next?"
"This," Sam says and surges forward, his fist flying to meet its jaw. It falls, but recovers almost instantly and charges at Sam once again. It's all Sam can do to parry its blows and get in an occasional hit, all the while cursing himself for not even thinking to bring his pocket-knife.
Its stamina wins out, as Sam knew it would; soon, his mouth is filled with blood, his vision's wavering, his body feels covered in bruises and his punches are losing strength. It knocks aside his feeble attempt at defence and locks its hands around his neck and squeezes. Sam chokes and struggles and tries to pull its hands away, but it hurts and he's so tired and everything is getting dark at the edges—
"Here," Lucifer says, grabs at the shapeshifter and breaks its grip. It stumbles back while Sam falls to his knees, gulping in air desperately. His head is pounding viciously, but even through the haze, he can see the shapeshifter staring at him in stark surprise.
"How did you—" it starts, but Lucifer's already moving; he tackles the shapeshifter again and pushes it to the ground. It breaks free easily this time, however, and stalks toward Sam, its gaze murderous. "I don't know how you're doing that, but—"
And Sam raises his hand.
The shapeshifter slams into a tree, and Sam pushes and pushes and pushes and it goes farther and farther until he can actually hear the tree creaking. It's trapped like a bug on a windshield, face contorted in agony and even as his nose begins to bleed, Sam feels the rush feels the adrenaline feels so much power running through him and around him and for a moment he can't believe that he ever gave this up ever wanted to give this up—
He twists his hand, and sees the shapeshifter's neck snap. It falls to the ground, limp. He stares at it for some time, still revelling in that moment, until Lucifer walks up to him, puts a hand on his shoulder, and says, "Sam."
That's when he understands.
"Oh god," he says, and suddenly, all the fight's out of him; his legs have turned into water and he sinks to his knees. "All this—all this time, it's been—"
"You," Lucifer finishes for him, and he sounds so sad.
Sam covers his face with trembling hands. "But I can't—I didn't—it's not. No."
"Oh, Sammy," Lucifer says. "Your burden never ends, does it?"
Dean finds him a few hours later.
He doesn't say much—or if he did, it's possible Sam didn't really listen—just takes Sam back to their motel room, cleans him up. There's a comfort to the ritual that reduces the buzzing in Sam's ears and loosens his tongue. "Dean," he says. "Dean, I—the shape—"
"'Shifter?" Dean finishes. "Yeah, I saw you'd taken care of it. Stabbed it with silver a couple of times just to make sure." He takes a deep breath, shakes his head. "What the hell, Sammy? You just disappearing like that for hours, do you have any idea how much I was—and you didn't even have a knife on you! You're better than this, man."
"I'm sorry," Sam says and his eyes are filling with tears and he hates himself for it. "I'm sorry," he says again feeling lost in a way he hasn't in a long time, because if he isn't the strong, reliable Sam, and if he isn't the Sam that still knows how to be a little brother, then what is he?
"Hey hey hey." Dean reaches out, squeezes his shoulder. "What's—you okay, Sammy?"
"No," Sam forces through the lump in his throat. "I'm not okay."
Lucifer places his hand on Sam's other shoulder. "But you will be," he says.
Finis