hey guys :D

so, this is my first fic in a few months, the last one i posted...i think it was in june? i'm not sure. but school's starting, and it's the weekend right now, so i figured that i'd write this down.

the prompt comes from my sister, bluecharlotte if you want to look her up on here, she's a destiel shipper and i think she might have published one of the ones she was working on so you can go look at that if your into it ::)

so, this will contain much protective!Dean, hurt!Sam, a bit of Castiel and a healthy dose of Hallucifer. Hold on to your socks, everybody.

Read long and prosper :)

The Devil never lied.

That was perhaps what Sam hated the most about Lucifer, he never once told him a lie. It was said that he'd weave lies with a silver tongue, but he didn't. He had no need to. The truth hurt much worse.

Dean had told him to press on his scar. The pain made Lucifer disappear. He wasn't real as long as he could feel it, real, live pain. It was relieving. It was also how this all started.

Maybe he should blame Dean, then. He didn't. He never could.

This one was all on his shoulders. Just like everything else.

"He's stronger than you," the Devil would whisper in his ear, "A better person, you know. Even I wish you were more like him. He wouldn't be so easy to break."

Sam knows all of those things. He knows them much too well.

"You deserve this, Sammy," and the whisper changed to a hiss, "You brought this on yourself."

He bristles (only Dean can call him that) but he doesn't argue. His words are like a thousand knives, cutting through him like he's made of butter.

Sam presses on his scar. The dull ache distracts him, just for a moment, but Lucifer only grins. "I'm disappointed. I thought we were past that." He tutted loudly.

His finger digs a little deeper. Blood seeps out like water from a leaking faucet and he scoffs at the analogy, because God knows he has a few screws loose.

Lucifer laughs derisively. "It isn't enough, Sam. It won't be quite that easy."

An growl rips from his throat, and he reaches under the pillow of his crappy bed in their crappy motel room and grabs his knife. Face twisting into a grimace, he plunges it forcefully into his palm, reopening the cut and sending a shower of red onto the sweat-soaked sheets.

Dean rolls over in his sleep. Lucifer disappears.

His hand is stinging like a bitch, but he closes his eyes with a smile on his face.

For the first time in weeks, months, even, all he can hear is the tick of the clock and the rush of cars outside the room.

Perhaps that little sting isn't too much to take, if he gets this in return.