Samifer. PWP.
Prompt: Samifer in a coffee shoppe.
"You wish you were like them, don't you?"
Sam flinches but doesn't look away from the window. He idly traces the scar on his palm, presses his thumb into the raised and puckered skin that served as his divide between reality and hallucination. It doesn't work as well as it used to.
As in, it doesn't work at all.
But he isn't going to tell Dean that.
No, he's going to sit in this coffee shop, books and manuscripts littering his little table, and watch the oblivious masses as they walk by, going about their blissfully mundane lives. Going to work, going to school, seeing their family and children and friends. God, but does Sam ache to have that, wish with every fiber of his being that he was just an ordinary guy with an ordinary life, with an ordinary family and ordinary problems.
"Sam, you're not like them."
Yes, ordinary problems would be nice.
Sam looks at him then, finally acknowledges Lucifer's imagined presence and it takes everything he has not to gasp at the intensity of the archangel's stare, real or no. It's like Lucifer's stripping him bare, delving into his wounded and scarred soul, picking through his innermost thoughts and emotions, hopes and desires. But he can't look away, can't break the eye contact-he's well and truly caught in the hallucination and he knows it. Sam tenses, waiting for hooks to descend from the ceiling to rip into his skin, waiting for chains to wrap around his arms and hold him down as Lucifer peels him apart, layer by layer.
But the pain never comes. If Sam's honest with himself, he hasn't been in pain for a long time, though he can't help his reaction.
Lucifer tsks and shakes his head, leaning back in the chair across from Sam. "I really wish you'd abandon the notion that you could have ever had a normal life," he says, tilting his head in that way that all angels seem to do, like birds looking at something they don't quite understand.
When Sam doesn't reply-because, really, there's no quicker way to look crazy in public than to start talking to someone nobody can see-Lucifer continues. "We are two halves of a whole, Sam. You were created for me, and I for you."
Sam doesn't have to verbalize his denial, because he's screaming it in his head, wailing that no he's nothing like Lucifer, they're not the same. And Lucifer just smiles at him because he's heard the denials over and over, the same anger and disgust a million times over. But Sam knows the truth, so his hallucination knows the truth too. Knows that, for that one day that Sam and Lucifer were together in one body, Sam felt complete.
And with Lucifer in the Pit and Sam topside, there's a bottomless hole in his chest that can't be filled, can't be covered, can't be hidden.
"You do know why you're hallucinating me, don't you?"
Sam doesn't have to reply, because they both know the answer.
Lucifer leans forward, reaches across the table with a pale hand free of wounds and decaying skin to touch Sam's arm, to run cool fingertips along the ridges of his bicep. The hairs on Sam's arms rise as his skin pebbles with goosebumps and he lets out a shaky breath he didn't even know he was holding, his eyes fluttering closed for just an instant as he steadies himself.
When he opens his eyes, Lucifer's gone, but the chill of his skin remains.
And in that instant, Sam knows he'll never really be okay, never truly feel whole.
Because half of him will always be in Hell, and the hole in is chest will never be filled.