endoftheverse | Lucifer's Dreamwalking

[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?

[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.

[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.]

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.

Uh huh. Sure, dude.

[Dean looks at him, skeptical, his eyes narrowed and his mouth pinched. Although, if this supposedly really is the Devil, he doesn't have much use for wealth, does he? He doesn't need it, not with all of his power, according to myths, legends, demon gossip, etc. And that just makes Dean even more on edge, even more like a cat with its hackles raised; he feels seconds away from hissing and letting his claws come out, which, admittedly, also feels like absolute stupidity all at once.

He has to admit, too, that the choice of a white suit is...interesting. Opposite of what he would expect from Satan.

And now he's talking about their glowing personalities?! Dean frowns, his expression souring further.]

I'll take my shitty fashion choices over being some dick angel's meat suit, thanks.

Speaking of, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that asking you to leave my brother the hell alone isn't going to work? Just a hunch.

[Doesn't stop him from trying, regardless. Story of Dean Winchester's life.]

[His lips twitch into a wavering smile, like someone trying not to laugh at someone else tripping over their own feet; and though he says nothing, it goes unspoken but just as easily read: you strange little creature, so amusing.]

Sam apparently chose differently, it seems. Maybe the flannel was wearing on him.

[That, or other traumatic things. Whose to say, hmm?

Lucifer will contest none of that is blame for him to take.]

... It's good to know you're not completely useless, with those hunches of yours. Sam gave me this body — betted a fiddle of gold and didn't come out on top. You should know more than anyone that a gambling man'll have to accept when he loses the pot.

[Clearly Sam is being the illogical child about this whole mess, love him as Lucifer so very much does.]

[Dean hates that expression on Sam's face; he hates that it's both Sam's face and not, the passenger along for the ride pulling all of the strings, using his brother like a puppet. He itches to throw a punch; he settles for a scowl, only just barely containing the depths of his irritation.]

I think it would be something more than flannel that would get Sam to let some...thing like you in.

[He can't actually hurt the Devil; Dean knows this, and so does old Satan there. Yet that doesn't stop Dean from attempting, using his words if he can't use any actual weapons. He wonders if it's possible for a dream to leave someone tired; he's exhausted and he's still goddamn asleep.

Dean hates the way that sounds, like Sam risked taking on Lucifer to...what, save the world, and not expect to get screwed over in the end? Since when has that ever worked out well for either of them?]

Or, and hear me out on this, you're just being the biggest bag of dicks.

[He rolls his eyes, very much like Sam.]

... You say it would need to be something more for Sam to let something like me in, and you're absolutely right. His own people betrayed him, wore him down with blame, judgement, a need for revenge... just for him doing what everyone thought was right —

[He fans his hands out, full of pompousness.]

Why wouldn't he end up in my loving embrace?

Our families looked down their nose at us — threw us in the gutter.

[And, because he knows it's a barb in the thumb (a lance in the side) to Dean's very nature-]

We needed each other. We're the real family.

Edited 2020-12-11 02:38 (UTC)

[He rolls Sam's eyes, and the gesture is so familiar to Dean, so very much like the eye rolling Sam does in his general direction; he feels ill, watching it, and the frown on his face deepens.]

Or, you know, his family tried to save him from whatever dark path he was heading down. But sure, spin that anyway you need to in order to make yourself feel better. You're good at that, right? According to Milton, at least.

[Dean wants to shudder, revulsion running deep within him, but he swallows that urge down, the same way he swallows down a lot of words he could be saying right now.

His hands clench into fists at his sides, knuckles going bone white, when Lucifer says some shit about being "real family," and it's damn lucky some of Dean's survival instincts have gotten a kick in the teeth lately about not giving up entirely.]

Real family, huh? Real family would let Sam go, and be his own person, not use him as his own tool and weapon, douchebag!

[There's so much fear and anger, a noxious, fraught combination, like the ingredients to a ticking time bomb, lurking beneath his skin. All Dean wants is the satisfaction of violence; all he wants is to wipe off that damn expression with his own two hands.]

I'm not one for lying; the truth hurts so much more.

[Patient eyes flick to look at Dean's balled up fists.]

... You're so angry, Dean. I had always been told Sam had that darkness and fire within him — that anger. But now... I see it's a family trait. Anger and darkness and guilt.

[He smiles so pleasantly.]

Didn't your older self tell you, though? You're going to leave Sammy to the wolves, Dean. The same way you left him to the wolves when you died and left him to clean up the messes — all while you soiled the Winchester name in Hell, carving up and maiming souls.

[Oh shit. Oh fuck. Dean might not want to believe in the Devil, but in one twist in the conversation, he finally finds he really does have to accept that Lucifer is a real and viable being simply from the way Lucifer goes right for the jugular, poking at the most vulnerable and raw of all the exposed nerves that make up Dean's inner core.

He doesn't see red; he sees green, bright, noxious green, and the rusted iron chains holding him to the rack. Sulfur and brimstone fill his nose, and Dean's nails are digging into his own flesh so hard, he draws blood, and every ounce of color drains from his face.

He stares at the bastard wearing Sam's face for a mask for one long, low moment, and then, without thinking, pulls back his right hand and punches him right in the face.]

[Lucifer's head jerks to the side — in reality, it should have hurt Dean a lot more, should have cracked the bones in his fist, should have left Lucifer's head steady and unflinching after. Lucifer just smiles, though — like it's what he'd expected fully. Like he's more than happy to send Dean over the edge, into that kind of state.

Too easy. He laughs, teeth covered in blood from where the blow had landed.

So much for peaceful dreams, hmm? This scenery betrays the sudden tension, the scent of rot and sulfur that invades from Dean's own subconscious. Lucifer loves it, as he's loved it for many thousands of years now. Lucifer steps closer again, humor crinkling the corners of his eyes. No trace of an adoring or kind or warm brother — it's all cold and calculating, a being who loves to crush bugs under his thumb for fun. Bugs in their houses and on their playgrounds and in their planes, cars, trains-]

Now this is it. The mutilator who abandoned his brother. Who let him come running into my open arms. Why are you so angry, when all I'm doing is repeating what plays in your head over and over, day after day?

[He's taunting, tempting. More than happy with the violent fallout.

He's been a gentleman in almost all of his dreamwalking, okay? He deserves this.

This is fun.]

[The Devil wears Sam's face, and the Devil laughs. At him. Dean growls, both hands curled into fists by his side, but he finds that he can't actually do anything more than dig his own nails into his own skin, both of his arms suddenly weighing him down like a pair of lead pipes attached to his person, a makeshift ragdoll of scrap metal and leftover spare parts.

Dean closes his eyes, tries to grasp for that brief moment of peace that now seems like an eternity away as sulfur and rotting everything fills up his nose, practically chokes him.

He can feel the echoes of every memory from every year he spent down in the Pit. Every carve he made, every slice he stole. And every single act of torture that was done to him, too. He feels like a raw fish, like the first time Alistair flayed him down to his very essence before piecing him back together, just to do it all over again.

This is all you're good for, the darkest parts of himself whisper. The weapon, the blunt instrument, forged now literally in fire. Violence and death and destruction, this is what you've wrought.

He hates the burning sensation of tears filling up the corners of his eyes. He hates that those tears force his eyes open, into the cold, cruel gaze of a monster wearing a familiar face.]

Fuck you.

[His voice cracks, and the words come out like the broken protests of a desolate child, abandoned and forgotten on the playground.]

[Lucifer's eyebrows raise at the insult, but seems more than content to leave it be. He would have been angry in Dean's shoes, too. Angry to be jerked around and used and manipulated, all because he loved his family a little too much.]

You know, Dean, despite everything — I don't particularly hate you. Not like I do all the other unpleasant human-shaped leeches, roaming the earth. In fact, I owe you... You may have come up short for Sam, but you never let me down.

I never would have been here if you didn't break the first seal; if you hadn't undervalued yourself, threw yourself away at the first opportunity to ensure my vessel's survival and picked up that blade—

Well. The devil wouldn't be here.

[He licks his teeth, blood still painting them.

The air is thick with a suffocating warmth, but Lucifer radiates cold; too hot on Dean's back, frigid cold on Dean's front.]

So, you know. That's why I decided to pay a little visit. While everyone loves to give Sam credit for starting an apocalypse — for freeing me... you're an unsung hero. It's a little unfair of me not to appreciate your hard work.

Edited 2020-12-17 23:27 (UTC)

[Dean thinks it's impossible for him to feel worse, and the Devil seems to take that as a personal challenge; his eyes fall shut as Lucifer explains every favor Dean seems to have done for him, how all of his choices and all of the ways in which he thought was fighting to save his brother were actually damning Sammy (and the whole world) instead.

He's caught in the epicenter of a variety of sensations; a brutal cold to the front, a scorching heat to the back, and the lead weight of all the guilt and all the self-loathing that he carries with him, increased tenfold as Satan thanks him for all the good he's done.

He opens his eyes, but he might as well be dead inside for all that they resemble those of an unseeing corpse.

He wants to tell Lucifer that he's wrong; that he's lying. But why would the Devil need or want to lie about something so truly goddamn awful?

Dean chokes on his tears and the words that he wants to say, and then he wakes up in a start.]

Lucifer's Dreamwalking

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cw: violence, descriptions of blood, Dean Winchester's stupidity, etc.

cw: mental/emotional abuse, satan being satan, general horribleness

cw: low self-esteem, anxiety/depression, poor mental health, violence, torture, etc.

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