Every rose has its thorn

The deconstruction of Sam Winchester

Sam was soaked in not just blood, but sweat too. Dismantling a fully grown man organ by organ, limb by limb, over and over again, took a lot of physical effort.

When Lucifer finally gave him back control of his body, Sam dropped to his knees shivering. He threw the knife to the other side of the room and rubbed the palm of his hand hard against his jeans, trying to remove the imprint of the warm, sticky metal.

Closing his eyes didn't stop him seeing the carnage. Wrapping his arms around himself didn't make him warm. Crying didn't let it all out.

Sam had been through a lot in his life, and seen a lot of terrible things. But he wasn't sure he had ever been this traumatised. He could rationally tell himself that it wasn't actually Dean that he had cut up, that the real Dean was somewhere else, safe and happy. But the sensation of the knife tearing through flesh felt so real, so authentic – and he knew Dean had actually been through this torture during his time in hell.

Lucifer tried to speak to him, but Sam was too emotionally drained, too mentally and physically exhausted to respond.

It was only when Dean's battered face turned towards him and spoke, that Sam broke down and sobbed hysterically.

"My brother is going to find you Alaistair." Blood bubbled out the side of Dean's mouth. "He's going to find you, and kill you. He will make you pay for this..."

Lucifer snapped his fingers, and the pulped meat on the table that looked like Dean vanished.

"Aww boo-hoo Sam." Lucifer pretended to wipe his fists against his face, mocking him. "Come on, enough of this pity party, your blubbing is getting a little dull."

Sam looked away from Lucifer, not seeing him, not seeing anything except for Dean's green eyes pleading, begging, screaming for the never-ending pain to stop.

He didn't notice the room fading around him.

Hours, days, weeks? later, Sam slowly became aware of the sound of birds singing. He felt groggy, like he had overslept.

He blearily opened his eyes, and recognised the gentle waft of the lace curtains above the open window. The air smelled sweet, the breeze was cool and pleasant, but all Sam could taste was hot blood.

He didn't get out of bed, didn't move. He knew where he was and couldn't face it.

Anxiety had lived in his belly for so long, he knew it intimately, like an old friend. He could feel it maxing out at the thought of going down those stairs, and he knew he would have to go down them eventually. Lucifer wouldn't just let him lie here in bed drowning in his own misery. Lucifer would want him where he could watch him drowning in misery.

He was just a puppet on a string, being electrocuted over and over again to make it dance.

Anxiety and black depression threatened to overwhelm him, defeat him.

He couldn't let that happen. He was stronger than that, surely? But how could he fight against despair? He had nothing to live for, no hope, no joy, not even the eventual release of death to look forward to.

He closed his eyes, wishing that they never had to open again. Rubbed the palms of his hands against them till he saw stars.

He thought of Castiel for some reason. Remembered obliterating him with a snap of the fingers. Remembered killing Bobby.

Time passed, and all Sam could think about was blood and death.

He began to hear voices. His dad's, often. Sometimes Jess. Mostly Dean though. Christ, Dean was bossy, even as a hallucination. 'Come on little brother, get your act together... Come on Sam, move your lazy ass out of bed... Come on Sam, at least put some damn clothes on...'

I can do that, he thought to himself. Even if its just that.

Sam forced himself to push the comforter aside, and swung his legs out of bed. He stood up, wobbly like a new-born foal, and stumbled over to the wardrobe. As he passed the mirror on the dressing table he saw that this time he looked as ill as he felt. His eyes...they just didn't look like his anymore.

Sam could faintly smell perfume on the scarves draped over the doors. He opened the wardrobe and found jeans, a shirt, socks and his boots.

It seemed to take forever to get dressed and he was sweating by the time the boots had been pulled on. Exhausted, he lay back down on the bed, gathering himself for the next step.

Lucifer would want a decision from him. As if it even was a decision, Sam thought bitterly. Lucifer could dress it up all he liked by saying that Sam could choose where he wanted to spend his time in the cage, but he knew there was no actual choice to be made. How could Sam possibly say he would prefer go back to that...abattoir? No one in their right mind would.

He lay on the bed for a long time, gazing out of the window with a thousand yard stare in his eyes.

The smell of perfume suddenly grew stronger, and he looked round to see Lucifer standing by the door. He hadn't even heard her open it. She was back in female form, wearing a plain cream shift dress, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail.

He turned back to the blue sky, not acknowledging her at all.

She walked over to him and sat on the edge of the bed. "Sam. I realise I may have pushed you a little too far. You're a lot more fragile than I thought." She sighed and went to brush a lock of hair away from his face. "I can't believe I damaged you so soon into our engagement."

He jerked his head away, not wanting her touch on his skin. She smiled. "Well, at least I haven't broken you completely." She stood up. "Come on, come downstairs with me and have some coffee and something to eat. I'm making scrambled eggs..."

Nausea rose in Sam's throat.

"Come on, Sam, you really should eat. Look, I promise I will be on best behaviour today. No games, tricks or any blood-soaked fun. Cross my heart..." She made a crossing sign on her chest with a finger.

He couldn't do it. Couldn't do anything except continue to stare blankly out the window.

"Fine, have it your way. Sulky child, come down when you are ready." She huffed, and left the room, slamming the door shut behind her.