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apocalypsosO HAI LOOK WHAT I DID.
With my luck there's something horribly terribly wrong with it that I'm missing, but can I tell you how much I don't care right now? \o/
(I kid because I love, you guys. Hee.)
Title: It Was A Dark And Stormy Life
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
apocalypsos
Fandom: Supernatural
Spoilers: "Lucifer Rising," plus some of the SDCC spoilers
Rating: PG-13, mostly for bad words and sexual references (mostly to Wincest)
Word Count: 3500 words
Summary: Sam joins the game because he is, in all honesty, bored out of his mind.
Author's note: So the Comic-Con spoilers came out, and everybody was all, "But what about Sam?!", and after my initial silly thought of, "Oh, he'll be sitting alone in their motel room playing WoW and eating Cheetos while Dean and Castiel have all the fun," I did this. I also blamebaileytc, because I was scrambling for direction before that "You Should Write ..." meme. Heh. :)
It Was A Dark And Stormy Life
*
Sam joins the game because he is, in all honesty, bored out of his mind.
Well, okay, maybe “bored” is a little bit of a misnomer, and it doesn't really begin to encompass how he feels for the weeks and months after he and Dean run out of an old Maryland convent with a bare minimum of screaming and arm-flailing. He moves quickly through the stages of grief, if the stages of grief have recently been pared down to swapping between idiocy and depression depending on the weather, and that's right about the time that the boredom, or something that sort of resembles it, kicks in.
It's not that he hasn't been doing anything since he released Lucifer from Hell, but his schedule's definitely cleared up some. It isn't until Sam's sitting in the corner of their current motel room, desperately trying to pay attention to what Castiel and Dean are arguing with Zachariah about and mostly just ignoring it as he attempts to beat his all-time best score at Minesweeper, that he realizes he hasn't been this relaxed in years.
No, seriously.
Oh, he's not entirely without his problems, of course. Winchesters never are. Lucifer's a pretty major fucking problem, and that's not changing anytime soon, but the bright side seems to be that the big guy is mostly concerned with moping around being depressed that God broke up with him, breaking stuff, and sending Sam increasingly expensive thank-you gifts for getting him out of Hell. Dean almost cried when they had to send back the deed to the Mustang Ranch.
Aside from that, though, Sam's actually having a relatively slow year. He's spent the past four years either in mourning, preparing to be in mourning, killing people he probably shouldn't have, not killing people he definitely should have, or getting soundly trounced by his older brother in the early-death department, although not for a lack of trying. He's been busy, damn it, and not a particularly enjoyable kind of busy, a fact that doesn't really sink in until he zones out watching Dean call the archangels fucking cock-knockers for the five thousandth time and starts contemplating if anyone would even notice if he took up knitting.
In fact, the worst situation Sam's suffered through lately have been a gross fuckton of abductions, usually by demons wanting to use him as bait to lure in Dean Winchester, destroyer of worlds or master of angel-thumping or whatever moronic melodramatic name the demonic masses have graced him with this week. Seriously, it's like most of them burned off brain cells on re-entry into this plane of existence, considering how many of the demons who attempt to jump Sam in alleyways and drag him off to blood-soaked temporary lairs casually forget he can fucking rip them out of their host bodies with his brain, demon blood or no demon blood. God knows he's got enough free time these days to practice. I mean, really.
He almost cheers when Meg shows up out of nowhere and abducts him. He's so happy to be taken by someone with a viable brain for a change he almost kisses her. Well, you know, before he knocks her out, siphons her out of her host body, and leaves. But hey, at least she's smart enough to put a few safeguards in place to keep him from yanking her out of her meatsuit. They don't work but, hey, it's the thought that counts.
It's frankly a little pathetic. He gets a message on his voicemail that he's pretty sure is from Lucifer himself one morning after a particularly sad excuse for a kidnapping, but he deletes it before he can find out whether or not it's the Morningstar apologizing profusely for having some disturbingly inept fallen angels at his beck and call.
That said, Sam gets a fairly perverse thrill over the fact that for the first time in four years, everything is actually not about him. Which, okay, is admittedly a self-centered thing to think, but since every evil thing on the planet has apparently been steering him towards accidentally releasing the Devil from Hell since birth, his destiny – as depressing as it might have been – is now well and done, as far as they're concerned.
Meaning now he's got plenty of time to wind down and decidedly not get stabbed, prematurely widowed or orphaned, or hooked on demon blood for a change.
It makes him happier than he probably should be, the ongoing apocalypse notwithstanding.
It strikes Sam sometime in the middle of July that he's been smiling for a week straight and he didn't even notice. So, yeah, that's a little weird.
*
Sam blames Chuck for what comes next.
See, Sam is perfectly content at the moment to let Dean fill the great-big-pile-of-destiny position in the family for a while. Oh, he's sure that eventually he'll crack and research a way to stop the apocalypse and save Dean the trouble of having to kill Lucifer by doing it himself because … well, that's what the two of them do. Azazel kills their mom and Jess, and Dean's the one who bumps him off. Lilith sends Dean to Hell, and Sam's the one who kills her.
They really just have a bad habit to stealing the other's followthrough, is what Sam's saying.
But for right now, Sam's still wallowing in the tail end of a quality months-long bitchface. Quite frankly, he feels he's owed at least that much, and Dean's response to Sam's response to Dean's attempts to get him to lighten up is usually to step back with his hands raised in surrender. At least he doesn't turn to Castiel and tell him to let the big baby sulk a little longer, which is a good thing. Sam's always a little afraid Dean thinks so little of him as a person these days that he really expects to come back to their motel room one day to find Sam curled up in the corner, clutching a pillow to his chest and sobbing like an infant, possibly with the back of his hand pressed dramatically to his forehead in operatic feminine anguish.
Sam has had a ton of time to feel bad for himself, if you couldn't already tell.
Things begin to change the day there's a knock at the motel room door, followed a moment later by a tiny woman in a black trenchcoat storming in with Chuck slinking in behind her with a look of abject mortification on his face. Then there's this whole big production where Castiel freaks out and gets all protective of Dean and Dean stands there all confused and Sam … well, Sam settles more comfortably into the chair he's occupied for the most of the day while he window-shopped on ThinkGeek and waves Chuck over to the empty chair next to him.
“Hey,” Chuck says, slumping down in his chair. He looks as if he just rolled out of bed after a three-day bender with four enthusiastic hookers who wouldn't let him bathe, but that's standard, as far as Sam has seen.
Sam nods a greeting, then tilts his head towards the woman who came with Chuck. “Who's that?”
“She's … uh, my babysitter, I guess.” Chuck forces a weak smile, turning an even brighter shade as she says something to Dean that makes him snap something back at her. “She's nicer than she looks, really.”
Then she punches Dean. Hard.
“O-okay, so maybe she's just nicer to me,” Chuck says, and while Sam clearly can't decide whether to haul a hundred pounds of irritated pummeling archangel off his brother or let him handle it on his own, Chuck peeks at his computer screen. “Oh, hey, have you checked out their tauntaun sleeping bag? The intestinal lining is impressive, I've got to give them that much.”
Sam perks up. “Really?”
*
It turns out that Chuck's a fucking expert in being a lazy procrastinating slacker. According to him, his schedule even now involves waking up, enjoying a breakfast of Coors and cold Hawaiian pizza, jerking off in the shower, trolling gaming websites, and making funny macros from screencaps of Saturday morning cartoons from the '80s, right up until his head starts to throb and he begins his daily ritual of typing while swilling Jack Daniels on his way to a nightly alcoholic coma.
It's not fancy or classy, but hey, it's a lifestyle.
And while Sam can sift primo supernatural research out of any website short of Stuff White People Like, he'll freely admit that he's never been very good at killing time on the internet. Hell, how can he be when he could be always doing more valuable things on the communal Winchester laptop like clearing out all the big-breasted Asian pornography and returning emails to guys on dating websites to inform them that no, Dean Winchester does not actually have a hot brunette sister who really just needs a hug? Shit like that needs taking care of ASAP.
So, yeah. Chuck gets a little excited about introducing Sam to the fun of watching British panel shows on YouTube and reading through old Dawson's Creek recaps on Television Without Pity. Somewhere between that time Dean drags Sam and Castiel off to a whorehouse to relax and ends up wandering off with Castiel in tow for parts Sam would definitely rather not know about and the weekend the archangel Michael shows up and takes Dean to some super-secret lair somewhere to learn how to juggle flaming swords or whatever, Chuck introduces Sam to Supernatural fandom.
“Uh, we've actually already been introduced,” Sam says, pointedly not mentioning that he'd rather not be re-introduced to the fandom and, for that matter, would very much like not to have to shake its hand, as he has no idea where it might have been last. “But thanks.”
Chuck gives him a long hard look and takes a determined bite of one of the chocolate oranges from the gift basket. They've finally stopped turning down the gifts Lucifer sends Sam since Castiel pointed out that perhaps it might be a bad idea to reject presents from the Lord of Hell which, after careful consideration, all present agreed was an excellent point. They've still turned away a few things, of course – the sacrificial virgin wasn't actually as interested in sacrificing her virginity as one would expect considering that neither Winchester was that unattractive, and the pony was clearly part of some misunderstanding about Sam's age and gender – but the clothes, video games, weaponry, and gift baskets remained piled in the motel room's bathroom. As a group they'd defiled the most recent gift basket to the bare bones, and last night Lucifer surprised them by ordering them Chinese food, which was far nicer than any of them were willing to give him credit for.
“Well, if you want my honest opinion –”
“Not about this, I don't.” Sam pushes the laptop away from him pointedly.
“Treat it like a sociological study,” Chuck blurts out. He shuffles his chair closer and says, “Okay, look. They're … weird, and I get that. But they're a happy kind of weird. Even when they're calling me a sexist egotistical douchebag who's probably never been laid by anyone I didn't have to pay, which is not true … for the most part, they're still having a good time. It's hypnotic.”
“They think I'm fucking my brother.”
“All right, all right, some of them have some weird kinks, but let's just remember one important thing.”
Sam cocks an eyebrow.
“I've seen your sex life in my brain,” Chuck declares.
Sam frowns.
“And besides,” Chuck hurriedly adds, “aren't you just a little curious? It is your life. I'd be curious if someone were talking about me on the internet.”
Sam hesitates to point out that there are people talking about Chuck on the internet, and at least they're not writing him into stories where he gets cursed by witches and impregnated with his older brother's incestuous ass-baby, but considering the look on Chuck's face, not only have people on the internet written that story about “Carver Edlund,” but Chuck's read it and quite possibly nominated it for a fanfic award. He's that sort of a guy.
“Okay, fine,” he says. “Fine, whatever.”
*
Did I mention that Sam is really, really bored?
So, yeah, somewhere along the line Sam starts secretly researching how to get rid of Lucifer all on his own so that Dean doesn't have to, because that's sort of their schtick. Even when they'd really just like to snap on one other and hit each other over the head with sticks for being galactically stupid, they both have a nasty habit of tripping over themselves to make sure the other one doesn't suffer. The results are varied, if by “varied” you mean including options like raising the dead, selling your soul, and releasing Lucifer from Hell so he can pay all your college loans off out of gratitude.
Oh, there was no way on earth Sam was turning down that one.
Anyway, that last huge mistake Sam made where he let Ruby lead him by his cock for a while and then started the apocalypse is definitely something he does not plan on repeating. This time, he's going to plan shit out, and then double-check his shit, and then triple-check his shit, and then maybe there might be a whole mock-killing-Lucifer rehearsal, if he can manage to convince Lucifer to stop moping long enough to come practice with him.
This, you might understand, is highly unlikely.
That's when he starts thinking about the websites Chuck showed him.
*
Two days later Sam slams his laptop shut as Dean throws open the door to the motel room, stomping in with Castiel on his heels and bitching about some angelic happy-hour meeting where Dean absolutely did not throw a bottle of ketchup at Zachariah's head even though he totally fucking deserved it, goddamn it.
After ten minutes or so of venting about how Lucifer's managed to be nicer to them since he rose than the entire angelic chorus save Castiel and Anna have ever been and Dean would probably be a little more receptive to their requests if they gave him a million dollars and a pony, too, Dean flops down into the chair across from Sam with an irritated huff.
“I think I hate my life,” Dean groans.
Sam plasters on an almost manic smile and thinks that Dean can't possibly hate his life nearly as much as he would if he knew what metallicutie and fuckmeanddie have been pretending they're doing in between hunts.
*
Okay, so.
He can't play Sam, because somebody else is already playing Sam. Somebody else is playing Sam as a weepy man-child who always needs a cuddle when he isn't smashing demons with his Hulk-fists in between cursing women with the power of his medically impossible erection, but hey, dibs are dibs.
And he can't play Dean, because that's just weird. It's also another case of someone else getting there first, and Sam already feels defensive about Dean being portrayed as a angst-ridden nymphomaniac midget.
And he can't play his dad, although not for lack of trying. Two hours of playing his dad has shown Sam not only that he maybe does it a bit too well, but that there clearly aren't enough people who thought so because they're too busy believing he can't play a good John without smacking Sam and Dean around and allowing the nameless creeper in the next motel room to babysit them and also making fun of their haircuts while he's at it.
And he can't play Castiel, because … well, for one thing, nobody in the fandom knows who he is, and nobody will know unless Chuck gets published again in the next five minutes, and even if they did know him as a character, playing Castiel's a little too much like playing an occasionally grumbly lamppost.
Which is how Sam ends up playing Lucifer in a Supernatural role-playing game.
*
A few days later, Lucifer sends Sam a bottle of wine, a case of Red Bull, and a box of tissues.
Sam really hopes the Lord of Hell has not been tracing his internet usage.
*
Operation RPG does not work out quite the way Sam hoped it would.
For one thing, organizing hunts with people when you're playing Lucifer is like juggling epileptic porcupines. It doesn't help that he's apparently picked the horniest group of Supernatural fans on the planet to role-play with, not to mention how many of the resident players will respond to questions like, “How do you think Sam and Dean would defeat Lucifer?” with such diverse answers as, “Set Bela on fire and throw her at his head,” “Set Lilith on fire and throw her at his head,” and, “Set Ruby on fire and throw her at his head.”
Occasionally they really make him worry about running into them in a dark alley, and for fuck's sake, he's got goddamn Lucifer overnighting him care packages full of chocolate chip cookies that he may or may not have actually baked himself.
That said, the other fans in the RPG aren't as strange as he'd been afraid of. Oh, sure, he wouldn't stand within flamethrowing distance of them if he possessed a vagina and it were well-known he'd touched Dean for longer than five seconds, but they're not so bad. They're actually pretty inventive, all things considered.
The woman who's playing Sam has a degree in American folklore and three published gay paranormal romances to her name, and practically trips over herself to help him come up with a battle to take down Lucifer,
It almost makes up for the fact that she thinks his idea of a good time is making Dean put on gold eyeliner and an elaborate lion costume and then completely ruining the whole look with his medically impossible erection.
Almost.
*
Sam knows that maybe he needs to step away from the laptop when he nearly dislocates his shoulder trying to kill a demon just a little bit faster during a real hunt, all so that he can get back to the motel room and his laptop in plenty of time for hellinagiftbasket to participate in a fictional hunt with metallicutie and fuckmeanddie.
*
It all comes down to this, to Lucifer underfoot writhing at the end of a flaming sword, to Dean clutching his bleeding shoulder while Sam cuts down the fallen angel he let out of Hell in the first place as he manfully resists thanking him for all the cookies.
And afterward, as the Winchesters stand over the shattered remains of the leader of Hell, Sam barely resists cringing when Dean says, “Care to tell me how the hell you pulled that off?”
Sam checks his watch. He has about three hours to get back to their motel room and dash off a thousand words of non-con mpreg slash wingfic for cantstanduidjits after she dug up the ancient, intricate, and remarkably well-hidden spell needed to take down Lucifer.
“Trust me,” Sam says to Dean in between heaving breaths, “you don't want to know.”
With my luck there's something horribly terribly wrong with it that I'm missing, but can I tell you how much I don't care right now? \o/
(I kid because I love, you guys. Hee.)
Title: It Was A Dark And Stormy Life
Author:
apocalypsosFandom: Supernatural
Spoilers: "Lucifer Rising," plus some of the SDCC spoilers
Rating: PG-13, mostly for bad words and sexual references (mostly to Wincest)
Word Count: 3500 words
Summary: Sam joins the game because he is, in all honesty, bored out of his mind.
Author's note: So the Comic-Con spoilers came out, and everybody was all, "But what about Sam?!", and after my initial silly thought of, "Oh, he'll be sitting alone in their motel room playing WoW and eating Cheetos while Dean and Castiel have all the fun," I did this. I also blame
baileytc, because I was scrambling for direction before that "You Should Write ..." meme. Heh. :)*
Sam joins the game because he is, in all honesty, bored out of his mind.
Well, okay, maybe “bored” is a little bit of a misnomer, and it doesn't really begin to encompass how he feels for the weeks and months after he and Dean run out of an old Maryland convent with a bare minimum of screaming and arm-flailing. He moves quickly through the stages of grief, if the stages of grief have recently been pared down to swapping between idiocy and depression depending on the weather, and that's right about the time that the boredom, or something that sort of resembles it, kicks in.
It's not that he hasn't been doing anything since he released Lucifer from Hell, but his schedule's definitely cleared up some. It isn't until Sam's sitting in the corner of their current motel room, desperately trying to pay attention to what Castiel and Dean are arguing with Zachariah about and mostly just ignoring it as he attempts to beat his all-time best score at Minesweeper, that he realizes he hasn't been this relaxed in years.
No, seriously.
Oh, he's not entirely without his problems, of course. Winchesters never are. Lucifer's a pretty major fucking problem, and that's not changing anytime soon, but the bright side seems to be that the big guy is mostly concerned with moping around being depressed that God broke up with him, breaking stuff, and sending Sam increasingly expensive thank-you gifts for getting him out of Hell. Dean almost cried when they had to send back the deed to the Mustang Ranch.
Aside from that, though, Sam's actually having a relatively slow year. He's spent the past four years either in mourning, preparing to be in mourning, killing people he probably shouldn't have, not killing people he definitely should have, or getting soundly trounced by his older brother in the early-death department, although not for a lack of trying. He's been busy, damn it, and not a particularly enjoyable kind of busy, a fact that doesn't really sink in until he zones out watching Dean call the archangels fucking cock-knockers for the five thousandth time and starts contemplating if anyone would even notice if he took up knitting.
In fact, the worst situation Sam's suffered through lately have been a gross fuckton of abductions, usually by demons wanting to use him as bait to lure in Dean Winchester, destroyer of worlds or master of angel-thumping or whatever moronic melodramatic name the demonic masses have graced him with this week. Seriously, it's like most of them burned off brain cells on re-entry into this plane of existence, considering how many of the demons who attempt to jump Sam in alleyways and drag him off to blood-soaked temporary lairs casually forget he can fucking rip them out of their host bodies with his brain, demon blood or no demon blood. God knows he's got enough free time these days to practice. I mean, really.
He almost cheers when Meg shows up out of nowhere and abducts him. He's so happy to be taken by someone with a viable brain for a change he almost kisses her. Well, you know, before he knocks her out, siphons her out of her host body, and leaves. But hey, at least she's smart enough to put a few safeguards in place to keep him from yanking her out of her meatsuit. They don't work but, hey, it's the thought that counts.
It's frankly a little pathetic. He gets a message on his voicemail that he's pretty sure is from Lucifer himself one morning after a particularly sad excuse for a kidnapping, but he deletes it before he can find out whether or not it's the Morningstar apologizing profusely for having some disturbingly inept fallen angels at his beck and call.
That said, Sam gets a fairly perverse thrill over the fact that for the first time in four years, everything is actually not about him. Which, okay, is admittedly a self-centered thing to think, but since every evil thing on the planet has apparently been steering him towards accidentally releasing the Devil from Hell since birth, his destiny – as depressing as it might have been – is now well and done, as far as they're concerned.
Meaning now he's got plenty of time to wind down and decidedly not get stabbed, prematurely widowed or orphaned, or hooked on demon blood for a change.
It makes him happier than he probably should be, the ongoing apocalypse notwithstanding.
It strikes Sam sometime in the middle of July that he's been smiling for a week straight and he didn't even notice. So, yeah, that's a little weird.
Sam blames Chuck for what comes next.
See, Sam is perfectly content at the moment to let Dean fill the great-big-pile-of-destiny position in the family for a while. Oh, he's sure that eventually he'll crack and research a way to stop the apocalypse and save Dean the trouble of having to kill Lucifer by doing it himself because … well, that's what the two of them do. Azazel kills their mom and Jess, and Dean's the one who bumps him off. Lilith sends Dean to Hell, and Sam's the one who kills her.
They really just have a bad habit to stealing the other's followthrough, is what Sam's saying.
But for right now, Sam's still wallowing in the tail end of a quality months-long bitchface. Quite frankly, he feels he's owed at least that much, and Dean's response to Sam's response to Dean's attempts to get him to lighten up is usually to step back with his hands raised in surrender. At least he doesn't turn to Castiel and tell him to let the big baby sulk a little longer, which is a good thing. Sam's always a little afraid Dean thinks so little of him as a person these days that he really expects to come back to their motel room one day to find Sam curled up in the corner, clutching a pillow to his chest and sobbing like an infant, possibly with the back of his hand pressed dramatically to his forehead in operatic feminine anguish.
Sam has had a ton of time to feel bad for himself, if you couldn't already tell.
Things begin to change the day there's a knock at the motel room door, followed a moment later by a tiny woman in a black trenchcoat storming in with Chuck slinking in behind her with a look of abject mortification on his face. Then there's this whole big production where Castiel freaks out and gets all protective of Dean and Dean stands there all confused and Sam … well, Sam settles more comfortably into the chair he's occupied for the most of the day while he window-shopped on ThinkGeek and waves Chuck over to the empty chair next to him.
“Hey,” Chuck says, slumping down in his chair. He looks as if he just rolled out of bed after a three-day bender with four enthusiastic hookers who wouldn't let him bathe, but that's standard, as far as Sam has seen.
Sam nods a greeting, then tilts his head towards the woman who came with Chuck. “Who's that?”
“She's … uh, my babysitter, I guess.” Chuck forces a weak smile, turning an even brighter shade as she says something to Dean that makes him snap something back at her. “She's nicer than she looks, really.”
Then she punches Dean. Hard.
“O-okay, so maybe she's just nicer to me,” Chuck says, and while Sam clearly can't decide whether to haul a hundred pounds of irritated pummeling archangel off his brother or let him handle it on his own, Chuck peeks at his computer screen. “Oh, hey, have you checked out their tauntaun sleeping bag? The intestinal lining is impressive, I've got to give them that much.”
Sam perks up. “Really?”
It turns out that Chuck's a fucking expert in being a lazy procrastinating slacker. According to him, his schedule even now involves waking up, enjoying a breakfast of Coors and cold Hawaiian pizza, jerking off in the shower, trolling gaming websites, and making funny macros from screencaps of Saturday morning cartoons from the '80s, right up until his head starts to throb and he begins his daily ritual of typing while swilling Jack Daniels on his way to a nightly alcoholic coma.
It's not fancy or classy, but hey, it's a lifestyle.
And while Sam can sift primo supernatural research out of any website short of Stuff White People Like, he'll freely admit that he's never been very good at killing time on the internet. Hell, how can he be when he could be always doing more valuable things on the communal Winchester laptop like clearing out all the big-breasted Asian pornography and returning emails to guys on dating websites to inform them that no, Dean Winchester does not actually have a hot brunette sister who really just needs a hug? Shit like that needs taking care of ASAP.
So, yeah. Chuck gets a little excited about introducing Sam to the fun of watching British panel shows on YouTube and reading through old Dawson's Creek recaps on Television Without Pity. Somewhere between that time Dean drags Sam and Castiel off to a whorehouse to relax and ends up wandering off with Castiel in tow for parts Sam would definitely rather not know about and the weekend the archangel Michael shows up and takes Dean to some super-secret lair somewhere to learn how to juggle flaming swords or whatever, Chuck introduces Sam to Supernatural fandom.
“Uh, we've actually already been introduced,” Sam says, pointedly not mentioning that he'd rather not be re-introduced to the fandom and, for that matter, would very much like not to have to shake its hand, as he has no idea where it might have been last. “But thanks.”
Chuck gives him a long hard look and takes a determined bite of one of the chocolate oranges from the gift basket. They've finally stopped turning down the gifts Lucifer sends Sam since Castiel pointed out that perhaps it might be a bad idea to reject presents from the Lord of Hell which, after careful consideration, all present agreed was an excellent point. They've still turned away a few things, of course – the sacrificial virgin wasn't actually as interested in sacrificing her virginity as one would expect considering that neither Winchester was that unattractive, and the pony was clearly part of some misunderstanding about Sam's age and gender – but the clothes, video games, weaponry, and gift baskets remained piled in the motel room's bathroom. As a group they'd defiled the most recent gift basket to the bare bones, and last night Lucifer surprised them by ordering them Chinese food, which was far nicer than any of them were willing to give him credit for.
“Well, if you want my honest opinion –”
“Not about this, I don't.” Sam pushes the laptop away from him pointedly.
“Treat it like a sociological study,” Chuck blurts out. He shuffles his chair closer and says, “Okay, look. They're … weird, and I get that. But they're a happy kind of weird. Even when they're calling me a sexist egotistical douchebag who's probably never been laid by anyone I didn't have to pay, which is not true … for the most part, they're still having a good time. It's hypnotic.”
“They think I'm fucking my brother.”
“All right, all right, some of them have some weird kinks, but let's just remember one important thing.”
Sam cocks an eyebrow.
“I've seen your sex life in my brain,” Chuck declares.
Sam frowns.
“And besides,” Chuck hurriedly adds, “aren't you just a little curious? It is your life. I'd be curious if someone were talking about me on the internet.”
Sam hesitates to point out that there are people talking about Chuck on the internet, and at least they're not writing him into stories where he gets cursed by witches and impregnated with his older brother's incestuous ass-baby, but considering the look on Chuck's face, not only have people on the internet written that story about “Carver Edlund,” but Chuck's read it and quite possibly nominated it for a fanfic award. He's that sort of a guy.
“Okay, fine,” he says. “Fine, whatever.”
Did I mention that Sam is really, really bored?
So, yeah, somewhere along the line Sam starts secretly researching how to get rid of Lucifer all on his own so that Dean doesn't have to, because that's sort of their schtick. Even when they'd really just like to snap on one other and hit each other over the head with sticks for being galactically stupid, they both have a nasty habit of tripping over themselves to make sure the other one doesn't suffer. The results are varied, if by “varied” you mean including options like raising the dead, selling your soul, and releasing Lucifer from Hell so he can pay all your college loans off out of gratitude.
Oh, there was no way on earth Sam was turning down that one.
Anyway, that last huge mistake Sam made where he let Ruby lead him by his cock for a while and then started the apocalypse is definitely something he does not plan on repeating. This time, he's going to plan shit out, and then double-check his shit, and then triple-check his shit, and then maybe there might be a whole mock-killing-Lucifer rehearsal, if he can manage to convince Lucifer to stop moping long enough to come practice with him.
This, you might understand, is highly unlikely.
That's when he starts thinking about the websites Chuck showed him.
Two days later Sam slams his laptop shut as Dean throws open the door to the motel room, stomping in with Castiel on his heels and bitching about some angelic happy-hour meeting where Dean absolutely did not throw a bottle of ketchup at Zachariah's head even though he totally fucking deserved it, goddamn it.
After ten minutes or so of venting about how Lucifer's managed to be nicer to them since he rose than the entire angelic chorus save Castiel and Anna have ever been and Dean would probably be a little more receptive to their requests if they gave him a million dollars and a pony, too, Dean flops down into the chair across from Sam with an irritated huff.
“I think I hate my life,” Dean groans.
Sam plasters on an almost manic smile and thinks that Dean can't possibly hate his life nearly as much as he would if he knew what metallicutie and fuckmeanddie have been pretending they're doing in between hunts.
Okay, so.
He can't play Sam, because somebody else is already playing Sam. Somebody else is playing Sam as a weepy man-child who always needs a cuddle when he isn't smashing demons with his Hulk-fists in between cursing women with the power of his medically impossible erection, but hey, dibs are dibs.
And he can't play Dean, because that's just weird. It's also another case of someone else getting there first, and Sam already feels defensive about Dean being portrayed as a angst-ridden nymphomaniac midget.
And he can't play his dad, although not for lack of trying. Two hours of playing his dad has shown Sam not only that he maybe does it a bit too well, but that there clearly aren't enough people who thought so because they're too busy believing he can't play a good John without smacking Sam and Dean around and allowing the nameless creeper in the next motel room to babysit them and also making fun of their haircuts while he's at it.
And he can't play Castiel, because … well, for one thing, nobody in the fandom knows who he is, and nobody will know unless Chuck gets published again in the next five minutes, and even if they did know him as a character, playing Castiel's a little too much like playing an occasionally grumbly lamppost.
Which is how Sam ends up playing Lucifer in a Supernatural role-playing game.
A few days later, Lucifer sends Sam a bottle of wine, a case of Red Bull, and a box of tissues.
Sam really hopes the Lord of Hell has not been tracing his internet usage.
Operation RPG does not work out quite the way Sam hoped it would.
For one thing, organizing hunts with people when you're playing Lucifer is like juggling epileptic porcupines. It doesn't help that he's apparently picked the horniest group of Supernatural fans on the planet to role-play with, not to mention how many of the resident players will respond to questions like, “How do you think Sam and Dean would defeat Lucifer?” with such diverse answers as, “Set Bela on fire and throw her at his head,” “Set Lilith on fire and throw her at his head,” and, “Set Ruby on fire and throw her at his head.”
Occasionally they really make him worry about running into them in a dark alley, and for fuck's sake, he's got goddamn Lucifer overnighting him care packages full of chocolate chip cookies that he may or may not have actually baked himself.
That said, the other fans in the RPG aren't as strange as he'd been afraid of. Oh, sure, he wouldn't stand within flamethrowing distance of them if he possessed a vagina and it were well-known he'd touched Dean for longer than five seconds, but they're not so bad. They're actually pretty inventive, all things considered.
The woman who's playing Sam has a degree in American folklore and three published gay paranormal romances to her name, and practically trips over herself to help him come up with a battle to take down Lucifer,
It almost makes up for the fact that she thinks his idea of a good time is making Dean put on gold eyeliner and an elaborate lion costume and then completely ruining the whole look with his medically impossible erection.
Almost.
Sam knows that maybe he needs to step away from the laptop when he nearly dislocates his shoulder trying to kill a demon just a little bit faster during a real hunt, all so that he can get back to the motel room and his laptop in plenty of time for hellinagiftbasket to participate in a fictional hunt with metallicutie and fuckmeanddie.
It all comes down to this, to Lucifer underfoot writhing at the end of a flaming sword, to Dean clutching his bleeding shoulder while Sam cuts down the fallen angel he let out of Hell in the first place as he manfully resists thanking him for all the cookies.
And afterward, as the Winchesters stand over the shattered remains of the leader of Hell, Sam barely resists cringing when Dean says, “Care to tell me how the hell you pulled that off?”
Sam checks his watch. He has about three hours to get back to their motel room and dash off a thousand words of non-con mpreg slash wingfic for cantstanduidjits after she dug up the ancient, intricate, and remarkably well-hidden spell needed to take down Lucifer.
“Trust me,” Sam says to Dean in between heaving breaths, “you don't want to know.”
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Date: 2009-08-03 07:04 pm (UTC)