just say
real-placebo-effect
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for alex. i loved you so i drew these tides of men into my hands and wrote my will across the sky in stars. also on tumblr.
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Lucifer's hand spreads like starlight spiders on Sam's shoulder and he shies away, recoiling heat and disgust and fear. His skin crawls, Sam clambering from the bed in a flurry of legs and limbs, and the angel's eyes are old, old, old.
"I want to give you everything." He says.
"I don't want anything from you."
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"If you say yes, I could look after Dean."
"If I don't, you won't need to."
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"I'm sorry."
"I won't say yes."
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"Sam, this is how it's meant to be."
"I won't say yes."
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"You were made for me. Why are you resisting?"
"I won't say yes."
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"Don't you want to be something more?" Lucifer says, desperately.
"I've been more all my life. I just want to be normal."
"Sam—"
"I won't say yes."
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Lucifer doesn't speak anymore. He sits at the end of the motel bed, legs folded, eyes studying Sam, dark, indiscernible, inhuman. Sometimes, his hands brush across the arches of Sam's feet, calves, knees.
Sometimes, he sits himself next to Sam, knees on the floor, head on his forearms on the bed and still, his eyes are studying. His hands still wander the planes of Sam's face, shoulders, back.
It's a soothing motion, back and forth, repetitive and lulling. Guilt roils in his gut where disgust should be, because Lucifer's curious touches keep him grounded in a sea of resentment.
Sam should probably push him away, but Lucifer looks at him with so much wonder like he's never wanted anything else and—
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"You don't know me."
"I know you better than you know yourself, Sam." Lucifer hisses. "You were made for me."
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"How do you think Dean's gonna react, knowing you're spending the night with me?" Lucifer smirks.
"Better than your brother did to your little bitchfit in Heaven." Sam smirks back.
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Lucifer is always in his dreams. He doesn't mean that in any way other than the truth. The archangel allows Sam to dream, waiting, waiting, waiting for recognition, consent – something to slip.
It's been a long time since Sam's been able to sleep properly.
The weariness grates at his nerves, cuts and hacks away at his patience, unravelling him faster than any of the Devil's words ever could. Already, Dean's looked at him with too-wide eyes, shattering green glass, at the words that slide out of his mouth, unbidden, unwanted, unintentional.
As always, the archangel looms over his resting area and Sam releases a hot breath, the thud-thud-thudding of his heart swirling with the fury on his skin. Lucifer sits, quietly as always, eyes unnerving, tearing at him. The icy blue does nothing to temper the storm growing in the space between where Sam sits and where he sits – if anything, he burns faster, quicker at the sight of it, like it's gasoline.
Throwing off the sheets, Sam paces, heart hammering and frustration at his fingertips. His jaw ticks wildly, hand clenching and unclenching and his ears strain to hear Lucifer's soft footsteps.
"You're angry." The archangel says.
Sam refuses to say anything.
"What is it? The wraith you hunted today?" Lucifer pokes and prods and Sam's hackles raise, tensing himself, god, if he says one more thing, I'll—"Is it Michael?"
"It's you," Sam snaps, turning to meet the archangel. Lucifer's eyes flash, a mimicry of hurt, and damn, if that just doesn't rile him up more. "You're the problem."
"Sam—"
"No—why me? I told you, I'm never gonna say yes. What do you want from me?" Lucifer is silent.
"Why do—why do you have to ruin everything?" Sam says, miserably, and Lucifer flinches. The archangel straightens up, and Sam shivers, the room flooded with ozone and power and betrayal.
"You let me out. I didn't do that; you did. I'm here because I'm going to end this. I'm going to make God answer to everything else for a change." Lucifer says, quietly, but his eyes ruin Sam, dark blue and furious. "I just want it to end."
"The only one keeping it going," Sam snarls, "Is you."
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"Thanks for that. The group of demons, really sweet of you. I got my leg cut."
Lucifer's eyes are furious – not at him, Sam realises with a jolt – but he replies, casually, "You could always tell me where you are so I can hea—"
"Fuck you."
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"They won't hurt you, Sam, I've made sure of it," Lucifer says, quietly. "You're mine."
Sam turns to him, surprised, and finds the archangel's face too close, too close to his own, dark blue and grey and sky blue all laid out in front of him. He wants to say, what about Dean, wants to say, I'm not yours I'm my own person, but instead, anger shoved aside momentarily, "Uh, thanks, I guess."
Lucifer inclines his head.
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There's a kind of violence to their silences that wasn't there before. It's punctuated by Sam's sharp movements when he tosses and turns restlessly, by Lucifer's curious fingers pressing stronger into his more delicate bones; punctuated by everything but words.
The silence gnaws at them both, fraying ends and tearing syllables.
And then, for the first time, the violence is not so quiet anymore. Sam can't even remember how it starts, a soft sharp comment or word or phrase and he's shoving at the archangel, hard, hands tearing at skin, wanting to feel it break apart and bruise.
"Why are you here? Why are you here? Why are you here?"
Lucifer doesn't fight back, face cracking with each of Sam's blows, eyes wide open in surprise. Sam pushes him back, hard, arm pinning the archangel against the wall, digging into his windpipe, the stubble on his neck scraping against Sam.
Average people would've been choking by then, but Lucifer wasn't human, let alone average.
He doesn't care, he doesn't, so he digs his arm in further, waiting – wanting – a reaction from Lucifer. He only tilts his head at Sam, ever so slightly, and Sam's shoulders shake with the weight of his gaze.
"I will leave." He says, quietly.
A hand comes up to brush against Sam's jaw, feather-like.
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Sam dreams of what it would be like to say yes, to see all the blood and rage and carnage around him, to feel power thrumming with each beat of his heart and each of his footsteps. He dreams of ashes in his mouth, in his heart and under his shoes and an expanse of pale skin. He dreams of green eyes and he dreams of blue eyes and he dreams of his own eyes.
He doesn't dream of Lucifer.
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Dean retreats into his shell once more, one varnished with alcohol, a GED and a give 'em hell attitude. His eyes are always firmly fixed on the road, and they don't play music anymore, and Dean asks him quietly if he wants anything when they make a pit stop.
Bobby never says anything but his eyes hold an echo of an accusation. They all do.
Sam fakes a yawn and Dean suggests sleep, Sam, you look kinda tired. Once, Sam might've protested but Dean looks a little too relieved when Sam stumbles to their room. He ignores that and sinks into the cheap motel bed, rushing into sleep, hoping for some modicum of peace or security or acceptance.
Instead, he dreams of Ruby.
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Sam works longer hours, staying up late into the night. Researching, reading, youtube – anything to distract him for the weariness dogging him. Still, Sam is only human and he blinks, only to realise he's fallen asleep.
Fear gnaws at him, building up and up and up, waiting for the nightmare to unfold, but it doesn't. Instead, he's in his motel room – the only difference being that Dean isn't there and neither are his belongings. It's miraculously empty and Sam looks around, eyes hunting for a familiar form.
There are no hands travelling down the well-worn trails of his arms and legs and Sam dreams about not being able to sleep.
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Sometime later, Lucifer shows up once again, perched on the window, refusing to look at Sam, refusing to look at anything. His presence is cold, freezing, and it makes Sam's toes curl.
He ignores the rush of relief and sleeps better than he has in weeks. He accredits it to knowing that Lucifer isn't out killing, even if just for the night.
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Sam is furious. He is always angry, these days, but today – tonight – he's furious. It probably was the pressure getting to him; Dean's rejection, Cas' contempt, Bobby's judging and everyone just expecting him to say yes, because he's Sam and mistakes are what he does best.
It's Lucifer that bears the brunt of it, Sam screaming and yelling and blaming and shoving and pushing for a response.
For once, the archangel retaliates, eyes sparking and mouth snarling back the filthiest of words. Self-hatred swells up in Sam, with every mention of failure, coward, pathetic, monster, freak, freak, freak until Sam stops clawing at Lucifer and starts clawing at himself, wanting to pull out Azazel's blood by sheer will and force.
"You—stop—" Lucifer says, exasperated and annoyed, tugging Sam's hands away. Blindly, Sam uses that as leverage, uses Lucifer's hands around his wrists, to push him back, further and further until there's an audible smack where the archangel's back hits the wall. There's a pause, as though they're teetering on the edge of something, and they're so stiff and tense, ready for the next blow.
"It's Sam," He replies, quietly but roughly, on an exhale. The tension slips away from the skin under his palms, Lucifer moulding himself to Sam's grip instead of fighting it. Its then that Sam's aware of how close they actually, each of Lucifer's shallow breaths brushing against his (sam) own chest and curling into his (sam) mouth, each laboured breath making the fabric of his shirt shift to give teasing glimpses of an acre of skin. Naturally, easily, Sam's mouth falls open, too, almost brushing against the archangel's, like he was made for this, made for him. Lucifer's eyes are half-lidded and his legs are half-spread, Sam's knees between them, pressing in hard against the heat he finds there.
Lucifer's back begins to arch up, lips forming one word—
"Sam—" And—
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Lucifer sits far, far away from Sam, the next time he dreams of the archangel, the distance between them aching with guilt and shame and disgust and self-hatred.
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He keeps his back to Lucifer now, refuses to let himself look or think or feel, keeps his back to the Devil. Sam can feel his eyes trailing across his silhouette, from the archangel's usual perch by the window.
The floor creaks with each footfall and something heated and acidic and burning builds up low in his gut. There's a pause, as though the Morningstar hesitates. Sam waits for the next creak and scrape, prays for it, because it lets him know that Lucifer is sat on the floor as he always does, but it doesn't come.
Oh God.
Instead, the small space on his bed dips and his heart rate rockets.
Heat radiates from the space Lucifer occupies, so much heat and then there are tentative fingers carding through Sam's hair, barely there, moving across his neck, his shoulders. They trace across each bump on his spine before pausing again, near the base. Sam isn't breathing, hasn't been breathing right for a while now really, and his cheeks are flushed and he knows that. He lights up, blood rushing around in the confines of his body, wherever Lucifer touches him and he seems determined to touch Sam everywhere. His hand slides up under the hem of Sam's shirt, to grip his hip, using that to move Sam, so they are facing each other, so that Lucifer can see.
If Sam were to admit it, Lucifer doesn't really have to do anything but gently tug and Sam follows, unsure of the reason why. He doesn't though. Sam's eyes avoid him, looking at the ceiling (momjess), at the floor (dean) before sliding shut completely, breathing pattern shot. Oh God, oh God, oh God.
Lucifer's hand trails up lightning from his hip to his side, shirt catching and lifting to expose more skin, bunching up around his chest. Sam can't stop it, can't move, so engulfed in sensation and just trying not to show it, trying not to let all the half-animal noises tumble from the column of his throat. Lucifer's fingertips trail all over Sam's skin, heat and fluttering and Sam still can't look, still can't watch, chest rising and falling rapidly as blood rushes and he fills, unable to resist.
"Sam," Lucifer says, quietly, and it's enough to drag Sam's eyes to Lucifer's, then flickering to his mouth. It's half open, just above his, so close Sam can almost taste him already. Lucifer's hands are still wandering, brushing and tugging and tracing Sam's skin, until it closes over his other hip, firm and possessive. "Sam."
Something flashes in Sam's mind and he flushes with dark heat, the images of him spread out and him arching to meet Lucifer's mouth and hips moving flow from one mind to the next, until Sam's almost gasping and visibly shaking with it.
Lucifer's thumb slides under Sam's waistband, slow and self-assured, catching on the hot skin there, and Sam wants, so much, an almost-noise spilling from his throat. The archangel leans in, almost there, and something unravels in Sam's mind, falls away.
"Luc—"
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—He's inexplicably furious and he shoves at Lucifer a little, blood pounding with it, wanting the confrontation. And god, Sam wants, so badly, so badly, and he shouldn't because Sam really should've learnt his lesson by now but he can't help it and he doesn't even know what he wants anymore.
They're already pressed so close he can't breathe, all skin and flesh pressing together so tight, so tight, and Sam wants, suddenly, to see Lucifer flushed and split open and raw underneath him, wants to fuck him and see him unravel, so completely and know that it was him that did it.
Sam chases Lucifer's mouth with his own, pulling back just as he's almost there,can'tcan'tcan'tcan'tcan'tcan't, except Lucifer's already leaning forward, leaning away when he sees Sam pull back and he just wants to cry, goddamnit, he just wants, so much, this one time, just one time and he'll stop, never again, Sam promises, just—
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The next time Sam dreams, he doesn't even have time to say anything, to get angry, before Lucifer is pulling him close, hard, and then shoving both of them backwards until they're pressed together so tight it's like there's no room to breathe anything but each other. Sam's mind unravels again, edges blurring, but then Lucifer's hands dig into his shoulders, hissing, no, and everything comes back into focus, sharper and heated.
Lucifer surges up to meet Sam's mouth, but Sam holds his head back, hands threading through his hair and pulling tight, so tight, as though he can break it all apart with enough effort. Want and need and now are burning through to his fingertips until they're shaking, and Sam can't breathe, mouth open and gasping for breath and he just can't.
His grip softens, Sam pulls their foreheads together, already so close, lips almost trailing over the skin of Lucifer's face, eyes shut, "I can't, I can't, I can't—"
because you're still Lucifer and I'm still Sam and there's still an Apocalypse and
And it feels a little like slipping on rooftiles, all the sensations coalescing and meshing and he's trying to stop, he is, he is—
"I would give up all the world, Sam, all the world for this, for you," Lucifer says, fervently and Sam makes a broken noise as Lucifer's mouth is finally pressed against his own, open and willing and wet and a thousand degrees.
Sam's jaw splits open filthy wide, as Lucifer's tongue slides in, flickering against his own, behind his teeth and across the ridges of his roof. He gasps and groans and pulls Lucifer that much closer, one hand bunched in his hair, the other in his shirt.
Lucifer tastes like elusive sunlight and fire and, surprisingly, peppermint, and Sam chases that, across his tongue and his lips, drinking him in. It's good, it's so good and he aches with it, and Lucifer shoves him further back, pushes himself even closer, as though the particles worth of distance between them was already outrageous.
He threads his own hands into Sam's hair, brushes across his jaw, his neck, his chest and sides, like Lucifer can't stop himself, like he's tasting Sam's skin through his palms. Sam's hands are bracketing his face, pushing himself against Lucifer, trying and failing to press him into a wall, the archangel just pressing back insistently, with his hands and mouth and legs.
"Mine—only you, just you—mine—want you—mine—" Sam doesn't even know who's whispering what anymore, in between messy kisses, tongues and teeth and hands. Sam takes and takes and takes from the one person in all the world who probably doesn't have much to give, but he takes anyway, takes everything Lucifer offers and returns it, tenfold, until Lucifer gives a low sob under the intensity, sliding their hips together like he needs it more than anything. Sam's hands tighten in his hair as he makes a low noise, realising they needed to stop, now before things got any worse.
They pull away from each other reluctantly; Sam still unable to resist pressing smaller, close-mouthed kisses against his lips, and just try to breathe. In, out, in, out. He opens his eyes and finds Lucifer's just as close and the blue is enough to ruin Sam, completely.
"I don't want an apocalypse. I don't want to say yes. I don't want to hurt Dean. I just want you." Sam says, quietly, voice a little unstable, eyes downcast. He hopes – prays for the first time since this whole mess – that he doesn't have to explain why, that he doesn't have to ever explain because he doesn't really know how to. Lucifer's hand comes up to brush against Sam's jaw, feather-like, before becoming so real, gripping him and forcing him to look up.
Lucifer hisses, voice and eyes wrecked and intense and calm, "Yes."