Hello my friends. New year, new fanfiction. God will I ever finish anything I start? The answer is probably not.
Summary: Lucifer burned cold; he froze him to the bone. So why was he not aching? The truth was Sam felt more comfortable with Lucifer in his skin than he ever felt in his life, a fact he would never admit to Dean. He was disgusted by how his skin didn't crawl whenever he felt that icy presence come near. But then, maybe that was how messed up he really was. Introspective character study.
Rating: T, because it's Supernatural.
Timeline/Spoilers: Set between the beginning of season 7 and episode 7x17. Lotsa spoilers for season 3 through 5.
Warning: Eh, it's not too bad. Blood mentions, plus some pretty bad self—loathing and victim blaming. Sexual references, but only very vague.
Until he was possessed, no…until he was violated by Lucifer, he never really noticed how warm he always was. Even in the cold months of December, he'd always feel uncomfortable. When one Christmas in his childhood Dean asked him why he wasn't wearing his coat, he hastily put it on and never explained – and also never not wore a coat again. Thus, the problem got worse – and now looking back, it was just a symptom of his nature. Of him being a freak. And that warmth was just magnified by the demon blood. Oh god, the demon blood. That alone got his blood pumping until he was sweating in even the coldest weather. But although it made his skin itch, and his blood burn, he felt good. No. Not good. He felt alive.
In fact, he never felt home in his body, not really. When he unexpectedly shot up into his height as a giant, he was crouching for weeks, bones aching from trying to blend in. He thought it was normal. But well, he thought he was normal.
When he was a teenager, he'd wake up numb; his whole body feeling like it didn't belong to him. He told John, but he just snapped, saying that he'd probably just been sleeping in the one place for two long. He stopped complaining about it soon after that. And when he got the headaches from those visions, it just made everything worse. It felt as if there were flies in his skull, and worms under his skin; his whole body rotten and inhabited by parasites clinging on to his still-moving corpse. He didn't tell Dean that, of course. He'd seem insane, well more insane.
So with insects in his head, he focused on the hunt. On finding that thing that killed Jess, on working the case. On sticking to the mission.
But then John was dead.
And the worms threatened to burst out of his flesh, showing his rotten insides to all.
And then Dean told him.
Save or kill. A pretty black and white ultimatum, but a sensible one. And finally he knew that the rotten thing inside him was real. So he pushed it to the back of his mind, despite his body screaming wrong, wrong, wrong. The headaches got worse, the pounding in his brain bursting, and Dean staring at him like he could see the parasite-ridden flesh just under his skin, and his burning blood.
But then he got a terrible taste of what it is like to truly not be in his own body. Meg was an invader in his own head – the one place he felt safe from the ever terrifying dissonance he felt between his body and soul. She laughed as she killed, taunting him with his own blood stained hands. It was something he vowed to never feel again. Although he felt strange and uncomfortable in his own body, it was still his.
But then he died.
And then Dean did.
Nothing was worse. Because although his body felt wrong, he knew it was his. He was his brother's brother, but his brother was gone. He felt like he was breaking into a thousand pieces. But he wasn't. He wasn't shattering like ice, because he was still too warm. In the drunken stupors of his most restless nights there was nothing but his white hot guilt and the ghost of Dean telling him he failed over and over again. But Ruby saved him, and although she was cold, she wasn't cold enough. Her blood was like wonderful rivers of ice, but it always turned to magma as soon as it hit his lips. It set his body on fire even as she sent shivers down his chest with her icy fingers. The dichotomy sent his mind and body into ectasty; unified in her presence, and her presence alone. Perhaps, he really did love her and her him. He was never sure what he felt anymore.
But then Dean was back.
And the emptiness crept back.
After all, he was a freak who drank down demon blood. So he stopped Ruby from pressing her cold body against his, and he refused her burning blood.
Because Dean was back
But the emptiness crept back.
But he ignored that boiling in his stomach. Dean was back, and there were demons to hunt. Seals to protect. Cases to solve. And he was good, ignoring how whenever Ruby would smile at him he would remember those nights when his world revolved around her. He ignored the emptiness. He ignored his anger when he knew they could solve a case if he had that power at his fingertips once more.
He was good. But Dean wasn't, so he made a choice. It didn't make a difference if he had that power to those around him. The Angels, the warriors and heralds of the powers he had prayed to and worshipped for so many years called him abomination with or without him actively using it. So he made a choice.
And he was good. He ignored the scared look of a broken man that Dean sent him when he used his powers on Samhain. Because it was his power. And as much as he would excuse it because it was helping people – and it was; he only wanted to help, always wanted to help – the power of sending those bastards – the ones that kept and broke Dean for decades – made him feel home in his body. Because it was his power.
(Except when he found out it wasn't)
He was terrified when Dean locked him up. When Dean looked at him; so tired, so disappointed. But then he was angry. Dean should know that he was doing it to save everyone. But he was wrong, and those ugly powers that made him feel safe in his body brought about the starting of the end of the world. And killing Lilith felt so good, and as power flooded his veins, he didn't feel too hot. For a split second, he felt a euphoric sense of self. It disgusts him about how he felt on that day.
But then Ruby laughed, and the ground cracked open, and Dean was there. He knew, in his bones, in his entire body what was happening.
"He's coming." He said it too calmly, and he was terrified. The Big Bad. Lucifer. But as light engulfed his body, he barely registered that it wasn't warm – despite the appearance of the piercing light. It filled every orifice of his body. And his body was calm as his mind was screaming.
Because Lucifer burned cold; he froze Sam. And it was wrong. From that hotel room, he was paralyzed, as even non-corporeal, the Devil emanated power. Beautiful, ugly, power. It was a power that he recognized. It was his power, burning coldly and so much stronger than he ever knew when he used it. He wanted to vomit, he wanted to scream. But he just sat there as the Devil smiled.
Because the truth was that Sam felt more comfortable with Lucifer in his skin than he ever felt in his life, a fact he would never admit. Ever. Lucifer violated him, tore his soul apart for millennia, and Sam hated him, hated it. But he felt like he belonged. He wasn't hot, wasn't frozen. He was fine. And that terrified him more than any torture that the Morning Star devised. Not Dean taunting, not Adam screaming, not Lucifer ripping and scalping and tearing apart his being.
So when his skinned and broken soul was shoved back into his body after once again not belonging in his own body – literally this time – and the wall was torn down by Castiel, he saw Lucifer, power shining and the biggest grin on his face. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. Because the cold aura of the Devil made his body calm.
But maybe that's just how messed up he was.
"So Sammy, remembering the good times with little ol' me?"
Sam closed his eyes, focused on the pain in his hand. Because pain made him human, just for a little while. He opened his eyes. He wasn't there, and the emptiness crept in. He embraced it.