Lucifer's Dreamwalking

[endoftheverse]

 

Comment here with your character in the middle of a dream while sleeping at night, and Lucifer will appear.

(He will be appearing at random to new CR, just looking around for company...!

But can also be summoned into dreams after any praying that is directed to 'angels' or to Lucifer directly.)

Comments

[frogfear]

Since arriving in Deerington, Willow's dreams seem to have moved away from nightmares about Glory, and Buffy's death, and the pressure of trying to help keep things in Sunnydale in order back more towards her mind's usual way of working things out.

Tonight, she's trying to find her way out of a hedge maze. The maze itself is brightly lit, the sky is blue, sun shining. The hedges themselves are tall, and green, and covered with thorns and a variety of flowers. Willow is following a bright blue butterfly that seems to be consistently getting distracted by the flowers.

"Ooh, look! A yellow one! I like the yellow ones!" The butterfly exclaims cheerfully as it lands for a drink.

She's trying to be patient, and she can't help but smile at the little creature's enthusiasm, but there's still an attempt to stay on task. "You're supposed to be helping me find a way out of here, remember? You just had a yellow one."

"We'll get there, we'll get there," the butterfly assures her. It drinks its fill from the flower, and takes off, heading back in the direction they just came from.

"Butterfly!" She's exasperated now, and gestures down the path in their original direction. "You said it was this way? You really don't know where you're going do you?"

The butterfly returns to her and lands on her shoulder, gently opening and closing its wings and settles in to clean its antennae. "Oops. I got a little turned around. I know where we're going now. We're going this way," it declares decidedly, pointing with one of its legs. There's a moment of hesitation. "I... just don't remember if that's where the exit is. Sorry, Willow."

[endoftheverse]

Dreamwalking is... an interesting little venture. Sometimes he's looking for very specific minds to peer into. Sometimes it's just a matter of random chance, which is also a bit of a fun game on its own. Well, it is when you're essentially on lockdown... much like a prisoner allowed out onto the yard for a time. He's very, very cross with Sam Winchester. Very disappointed in his choices.

But anyway.

Dreamwalking.

"Looking for the exit?" he asks it from up high, sitting on top of the hedges with his feet dangling over the edge. He's got an easy, casual way about him, much like a big cat lounging in sun. "I'm not so sure listening to a distracted little bug would be the way to find it. No offense to it and its very lovely markings."

He loves butterflies. Much more aesthetically pleasing and useful than human beings. Much more reliable, much less wretched.

[frogfear]

Willow's head jerks up in Lucifer's direction, with a bit of a start. As far as she knew, it was just her and the little butterfly she had been following. She's polite enough though to offer a small, friendly wave and a smile. "Oh, hey. I, uh, didn't see you there."

"She," the butterfly corrects him immediately. "And I'm trying my best, okay?"

"It's okay, I know you're trying," Willow assures the little creature on her shoulder. She looks to Lucifer. "Hey, can you see which way to go from up there?"

[endoftheverse]

"Oh, hmm. Let me take a gander."

He looks around, a bit passive, like someone who is just trying to enjoy sunbathing. Whistling, he glances back down at Willow with all of the personality of an alley cat spying on passer-bys. "Goodness... Looks a little never-ending, sorry. But that's just how dreams tend to be, right? Feeling like they never stop, until you finally wake up."

He shrugs, lips thin. Is he telling the truth? Maybe. Maybe not.

"Is this a typical sight for you? Endless hedges?"

[possessum]

[ To dream is a sort of freedom.

But it is also a sort of cage.

Paimon's dreams are often of his existence here in Deerington, and those are generally welcomed ones. He dreams of the people he's met here, the bonds he's formed with others. His experiences in this place, absorbing and growing and learning. Often, these dreams are blended with Peter's time here too; they've experienced everything in this place together, after all. Waking up in Deerington marks the beginning of their life together, however convoluted and fretful it may be. He enjoys dreaming with Peter. It lets the demon feel.... things he hasn't quite been able to feel.

But then there are the dreams of existences before Peter. And these are...... confusing. These are strange; he doesn't understand. Tonight, Paimon is in one of those dreams, and it feels like being in the memory of someone.... else. Someone he doesn't quite recognise, but knows deep in his spirit.

He sits on the floor of a room. The door to the room is closed, and he doesn't know where it leads, but try as he might to open it, he cannot. Not from the inside, but someone else may open the door from their end.....

But as far as he knows, he is stuck here. Around him are various knickknacks and art projects — odd bits and bobbles of things pieced together, many unfinished. He sits at the desk for awhile, examining the items, feeling them in his hands. After an unknown amount of time, he moves to the bed, where he sits with long legs draped over the side, feet on the wooden floorboards. He stares at the wall, unmoving, unblinking. Every so often, he utters a soft sound — one of those odd cluck-sounds. When he manifests in dreams, he sometimes looks the way he does now: a bandage across his face from when he'd broken his vessel's nose, purple bruises beneath his eyes. And lately.... the crown he's acquired here, recently. It's an odd-looking thing, made of some sort of stretched leather, with bumps along the outside. It sits atop locks of messy, tangled curls.

He is here, trapped in a dream, in a memory that isn't quite his but belongs to some part of him, some..... past self. This place is something Peter doesn't dream about; it's not one of his memories, and on some level the demon is aware of that fact. Though this is technically some part of Peter's mind, the place Paimon inhabits, Peter is not here with him. Paimon is all alone, and something in him aches, softly. He is so very lost. ]

[endoftheverse]

[How macabre an atmosphere. Something about it just reeks of a sadder tale; Lucifer doesn't much care for empathy, not really. Maybe he did a very long time ago; millennia ago, but no more. It was overly complicated and weak and just a good waste of his efforts and time... but whatever this place was built up from, there's a morose story under the layers. And so he appears in the corner of the room, standing as still as a ghost, a finger pressed against his chin as he ponders.

This is the energy he'd been trailing after since the thrift store, yes. A familiar kind, in an unfamiliar way — there's that boy. 'Peter'. But it's not Peter now, is it? Poor corrupt little creature, so teeming with a certain energy that reminds Lucifer of 'home'. Somewhere deep, dark, under the earth. A Hell that he had no want to be in, but created an empire all the same.

He smiles, casual, relaxed. Like he belonged there.]

Having a rough early morning, are we?

[possessum]

[ Paimon doesn't notice the man in the corner until he speaks — and his head moves upwards, eyes vexed widely, startled. But his movements are weirdly slow, lethargic. Even in this dreamscape where the usual limits of him aren't quite so pressing, he's something so strange.

Some part of him remembers seeing.... strangers, before Deerington. People watching him from the shadows, smiling at him. There was a hunger to those smiles, but a happiness, too. They were his... followers, swarming Peter like insects on a dying animal, welcoming Paimon in. Is this man.. one of them?

But something's... different to him. And yet familiar. Paimon slowly begins to stand up from the bed, turning to face where the man is. The... feeling of him, whatever remnants exist even in this dream space, seem to draw him closer. He....... has felt this before, hasn't he? (A coldness, something in him whispers and shudders, but it isn't unpleasant.) ]

Why are you here? [ It isn't accusatory, more shyly voiced than anything. And then he wonders, because maybe this man is one of the cult, somehow— ] Are you here for me?

[endoftheverse]

[Such a strange little being in this room. A very big, very little being. Lucifer steps closer, his posture relaxed, friendly even. Because this aura is so very familiar... reminds him of someone he'd had under his thumb, so very long ago. In fact, it clicks in the moment, looking into watery eyes on a shy expression. So obedient; he'd always admired his most loyal, like Yellow Eyes, like Meg (even if the two were just demons; one can have exceptions, can't they?)]

... Of course I'm here for you. [Without a moment of hesitation, he reaches out, moving to grasp the boy's face in two cool hands.] How could I forget the essence of one of my most gracious and loyal followers?

[And as if a reminder, the room cools — and then, like an inverted shadow, bright shapes like wings grow out from behind him, so large that they crawl across all the walls of the room. The man seems pleased, and smiles.]

A King of Hell, commander of 200 legions.

[A being Lucifer had, long ago, twisted to suit his purposes.

Ah, yes. He remembers now.]

Paimon.

[creidim]

[ When Luna dreams, there's often terrible things. She dreams of running along the deck of a huge ship as it falls apart around her; of hoping she can change things concerning her death, and still is struck all the same — feeling wholly as she's impaled by the mast of the crow's nest. Other times, she dreams of being in the dark depths of a dungeon — cold and alone and hungry; or the searing pain of a terrible curse and the high-pitched screams of a dishevelled Dark witch in her ear as she grips at her hair, demands answers. Sometimes it's blood and flowers and white dresses, the swing of a mallet and the cracking of skulls.

They're not always so terrible. There's dreams of happiness, too. She dreams of meetings with Dumbledore's Army in the Room of Requirement; of visiting Honeydukes and stuffing her face with various wizarding candy; of spending time with her father as she paints murals in their home — small snippets of joy in her life, of magic. More recently, there's shy romantic dreams replaying her first kiss, or simply cuddled up close with a certain demon-possessed boy exchanging soft words and kisses like secrets.

Fortunately for Lucifer, it's... not that dream in particular. No teenage romance tonight. Instead, Luna finds herself in the Forbidden Forest, the light through the trees illuminating an ethereal blue. She walks alone, quiet — the dream slowly sewing itself together. She comes across a small group of Thestrals, the huge skeletal horses coming to meet her — snorting softly in greeting.

This is a simple joy, something from her very core — her love of magical creatures. She reaches to pet one softly, smilingly dreamily at the creature. As frightening and strange as they may be, as much as they appear to come from an outright nightmare, Luna isn't scared. She never has been. ]

Hello. [ She breaths it out softly, utterly delighted. ] It's good to see you again.

[endoftheverse]

[It is a particularly beautiful place.

A lot of people misjudge the devil in situations like these... in assuming all he enjoys is the smell of sulfur and the rot of humanity — that all he wants is to see everything burn and crumble and fall to pieces. But really, he loves nature. Loves the exotic and unknown. This sort of sight is not usual to the Earth that God had formed, but it is no less captivating, and he takes a moment to breathe it all in.

Impeccably created, this place. The gnarled branches and creatures that would appear more evil than not to humankind are a nice touch, and as he approaches the Thestrals, he's rather patient and kind in their company.

The devil can be very agreeable, you see.

He can be quite a lover of animals.

... The human child is an unfortunate addition, but he'll work with it; it's her dream, after all. He could perhaps play nice, just for easing his boredom for the time being.]

Usual companions, are they?

[creidim]

[ It's rare people turn up when she dreams of this. Usually it's just her and the Thestrals — a scene almost reoccuring in her dreams. She spends a little time with them, just as she would back home, back at Hogwarts. The arrival of a person surprises her, but she goes along with it. It's just a dream, after all. ]

... Oh, hello. [ Her lip purses and then she smiles breezily. ] They're friends, yes. They're called Thestrals, creatures who can only be seen by those who've seen death.

[ It feels like an automated response, of sorts. As if she's not quite aware that there's someone else here in her dream with her. The replaying of a conversation providing her with words. She pets the Thestral fondly for a few moments.

But there's a long pause and she frowns a little — somewhat disorientated. She's... not sure where she can place the man, where his face comes from. Something is... not right here. ]

Have we... met?

[endoftheverse]

Ah... Well. I've seen my share of death.

[He says it with a regretful sort of smile — or at least he hopes it's convincing enough. He's never much lingered on death, especially since most of his victims had been just a bunch of worthless demons and unworthy humans. He observes the creatures with a more genuine wonder, though.]

What magnificent creatures.

[She asks him a question, and he has to peel himself away from giving the creatures his full attention.]

Likely not. I'm wandering to pass the time.

What better way to keep a dreamless being like myself occupied, than to walk among everyone else's dreams?

[nottheonlytraveler]

[Dean doesn't really understand how dreaming works in Deerington, if they are already in a dream, but, hey, it's not as if dreams within dreams would be the strangest happening in his life.

For his part, Dean dreams of a lake, quiet and nearly still, surrounded by trees and mountains; birdsong lingers in the air, and everywhere smells like it's just rained. He's walking along the edge of the water, glancing out at the sky, covered in shades of purple and gray. Off to his right, a log cabin sits, just the right size to be cozy, but not confining, and further ahead, to his left, a dock stretches out into the water, covered in chairs, fishing poles, coolers, and a collection of empty beer bottles like the aftermath of some beachside party.

Dean feels almost at peace, except for the fact that there seems to be a presence nearby. He turns, trying to seek out the source, and trying not to jump at every shifting shadow.]

Hello?

:))))

[endoftheverse]

[Sam looks at the beer bottles with a slight scowl and roll of his eyes as he approaches.]

Really, Dean?

[The comment is so very Sam-like, that it could deceive, in the moment. Fool the ears of maybe even Dean himself. But then the man in the white suit with his carefully kept hair and pocketed hands stops, looks out over the water — and adds:]

Sam's subconscious was right, though. It told me to look for a large body of water... some fishing poles. A few opened beers. It's good to know your brother still has such a clear picture of you, even after everything.

What could possibly go wrong?

[nottheonlytraveler]

[Dean turns at the sound of the familiar voice, wondering what Sam's doing here before figuring it must be some dream version of his brother, probably trying to teach him an important moral lesson, or however the hell his subconscious works these days.

Except, when Dean sees him, he knows it's not Sam; the white suit, for one, and the hair, for another. He stiffens. Even after older Sam explained how Lucifer was possessing this version of Sam, Dean didn't exactly fully believe him; he remembers, still, all the demons gossiping in the Pit, talking about Lucifer the way human Christians talk about God. And Dean has never believed in God, despite the fact that, according to Cas, God has work for him to do, so why should he believe in the devil, either?]

Let me guess. You're a man of wealth and taste?

[If this has to happen, you're damn right Dean's going to be quoting the Stones.]

[endoftheverse]

Oh, no. That's something we have in common. Me, you. Your brother.

Wealth's never been much use, for who we are.

[He smiles slightly, smoothing a hand over one of his suit lapels — the clothes are so white, it's almost blinding, reflecting so starkly that he almost seems cut and pasted.]

No offense to your brother, but I thought a vessel as perfect as he is desired better than... raggedy hand-me-down flannel and old thrift jeans. [His lips twitch, humored.] Your glowing personalities make up for your terrible fashion.

cw: boddy horror, mentions of substance abuse, orgies, suicidal ideation

[perfectantidote]

[ It's the same. It's always the same.

The Gates of Heaven slam shut, and he falls, endlessly spiralling down as his trueform begins to rot, trapped within his prison of flesh that is too small for everything he once was, and now feels like a hollow labyrinth beneath his ribs. His wings break and shatter as he crashes into the mud and the dirt.

The world goes silent, without his kin - even in exile, he'd always heard them. And now... now there is nothing. Now there is silence, and feelings. And oh, he feels it all. Pain and sorrow, guilt and regret, trauma and fear. It overwhelms him, like mud trying to pull him under, and he tries to drown it out - the constant pain, the way his true form never stops hurting as his shattered wings drag behind his vessel, the way the silence is a constant pressure, the way most of the senses he used to know have been violently, suddenly amputated, the way there's nothing inside of him but an empty, jagged chasm. His existence is pain, and he tries to drown it out, tries to march on towards his inevitable end by numbing himself, trying to make his blood sing and his mind go cotton soft and buzzing, hands upon hands upon hands on his skin just to feel connected, tethered, to something, someone, in ways he was once connected to his kin and is no longer, and those hands turn into claws that tear at his flesh and bone, and he flees into the safety of the wrecked Impala, with the ghostly apparition of Dean's repeating death a vista to the first time he'd cried, utterly broken and beyond any ability to keep going on.

And then, finally, finally...

Out in the mud, Dean putting the colt against his forehead. Behind him, Sam.

His failures. He couldn't save either of them. He's of no use to either of them. He cannot function, not even in this place. He's tried kicking the habit once, and relapsed. He's trying again, but everything is too much, and he wants to do this, but he can't do it, and he knows he's just waiting for them to pull the trigger, when they realize he's a festering disappointment that has long outstayed its welcome.

But the shot doesn't come. Instead the mud drags him under, and then he falls all over again, to repeat the same horror.

His dreams are nightmares - without fail. ]

[endoftheverse]

[Maybe this time it's different, Cas. Maybe this time, Sam and Dean's necks both snap — and they suddenly collapse into a dead heap at your feet. Isn't that so much more tolerable? Sure beats falling over and over and over.

And as the corpses lay there, as still as death provides, Lucifer steps out from the small clearing he'd been calmly (enjoyably) sightseeing through. Looks down at Cas where he's sitting in the mud, well and truly alone.]

Wow, Castiel — your dreams would make any tortured artist tremble at the amount of source material they could paint. [He walks closer, nudges at Dean's limp arm with the toe of his foot, and then looks with some sympathy at the withered 'angel' in front of him.]

Oh, how far you fall. So far that you even fall through the earth itself.

[progeny]

[it's two days after christmas that jack makes his call. that he ends up sat on one side of the table of the bunker kitchen, two plates of christmas dinner and two bottles of beer sitting in wait. sure, this is a dream, and sure, angels may not need to eat. but that isn't really the point. sam had told him that christmas was for family. so alternate reality or not, lucifer still falls under that banner. even if the rest of his family wished otherwise.

so for now, jack waits there in silence, his invitation to lucifer being easily ignored if the archangel chooses to keep his distance. he knows that lucifer has no real reason to speak to him. that even their connections to sam really aren't enough of a reason for him to agree to this meeting.

but he can hope.]

[endoftheverse]

[Lucifer's arrival is as quiet and soft as any angel's, but there is a little sound of fluttering wings, even if his physical body isn't moving at all — and there's a sudden presence about him, and although his grace is weak, it's still overwhelming in this place.

He stands there with his hands in his pockets, looking somewhat pleased.]

Jack.

You're the first person to call to me — I appreciate that.

I knew there was something about you I liked.

[progeny]

[looking up from his plate, jack finds it impossible to contain his smile. as much as he knows that he should be staying away, that both sam and castiel would be angry with him for even considering talking to lucifer again, it's impossible for him to stay away indefinitely. lucifer may not be his father in the same way that castiel is, but he's still a part of him. and any attempts made to ignore that would be futile.

he's lucifer's son, like it or not.]

Sam and Dean both said that...Christmas was for family. They wouldn't have let me invite you, so...

[his words trail off as he turns his gaze back to the table again. to an imitation of the christmas that the four of them had shared only days ago.]

[endoftheverse]

[... Huh.

Lucifer walks closer, not quite sitting down. He puts his hands on the back of the empty chair, looking at Jack with piqued curiosity. And... some small realization.]

Family, huh?

So it's true. You're an angel, aren't you?

[A pause, and he smiles slightly.]

No... No, you're different. You're nephilim.

I have to say — after everyting angels have done to him, I'm surprised Sam Winchester would play house with one and make a little lovechild.

cw; nightmares, alcoholism

[venatoris]

[ Dean rarely sleeps.

When he does, it is fitful and unrewarding; his body twists and turns in sheets that tangle around his arms and legs, pinning him in place, holding him down. He wakes in cold sweats, sheets drenched. The bottle of whiskey sits on the rickety bedside table, and he reaches for it, pours a few fingers and downs it. It's a routine; wake, shiver violently, drink, run missions, drink, repeat. His relationship with alcohol has become less casual friendship and more deeply intimate relationship as the years go by.

Sometimes, back home, he would seek the company of what he knows - rough, survivalist women who wear their hair in ponytails; the ones that go on missions and drive the humvees and argue with him, who give him a run for his money, who are happy with what little he can offer. It's release, but it is never fulfilling.

Mostly though, he spent his nights alone, because the dreams that ravaged his subconscious would spill into his waking moments, paralysis holding him down, breathing ragged and forced, wheezing as he lays there unable to move, eyes darting wildly, the nightmare still tormenting his brain until he comes out of it, into full wakefulness.

It is much the same in Deerington, though he hasn't been here very long. There is no reason to think it'll be much different, though. Different horrors, but still horrors all the same, and Dean does not expect his soul to be healed in a place that many people call hell.

He dreams in blacks and whites and greys of angels and demons, in colors of sticky fingers with popsicles, sammy, sammy it's dripping!, of green army men and fireworks exploding across a starless sky. It's not a nightmare, not yet.

But it could be. ]

:)

[noquests]

[The dream finally seems to land on a particular day — beautiful day, really. Dean might vaguely remember it was somewhere around 1988, maybe later, maybe earlier. He was just a young kid then, anyway. But there's a picnic blanket smoothed out on a grassy hill overlooking a playground that seems all but abandoned. It's behind a hotel somewhere in Utah, and their dad's gone for the day, and it's just the two of them. It's sneaky and wrong and they could get in trouble, but-

Sam is very, very happy. He sits with his legs stretched out in front of him, a pile of dollar store drawing materials all around him; he's drawn what is maybe a rabbit, maybe a dog, maybe a blob with arms and legs. But he's happy, and he smiles over at Dean as he appears, not apparently concerned with the fact that Dean isn't a child.]

What're you shaking for? S'not even cold. Look.

['Sam' motions to the sunny sky with a small hand. It's warm.

Not a cloud in sight.]

B(

[venatoris]

[ Dean's dream world tips a little on its axis as his subconscious flits through memories, some real, some imagined, many deeply personal. He lands here, though, and he remembers this day, remembers Sam's scribbled drawings, remembers his own legs stretched out as the sun beat down on his face. It wasn't hot, it had been just right - warm, comfortable, just the two of them.

He remembers buying those supplies, the notebooks and crayons with cash they were supposed to use for food, but Dean hadn't cared. Sam had wanted to draw, and what Sammy wanted from Dean, he usually got.

It had been a good day, he remembers.

Why, then, is he trembling? He doesn't know. ]

I'm fine. Show me what you drew?