driftfleet | Glitch | "Who wants to remember all that hell?"

Entry tags:

Glitch | "Who wants to remember all that hell?" | OTA

Who: Sam and you. Also Hell!Sam.
Broadcast: N/A
Action: Iskaulit
When: 1/25/17 and onward as he glitches.

WARNING for Supernatural being awful, so you'll find stuff here that will be very mental health oriented. Mentions of torture/abuse, potentially graphic in narrative, talk of hallucinations, hell, the devil, etc. Sam'll also be reacting as someone who has endured said things listed so if that sort of thing bothers you don't mind me (or if you're close CR lemme know and we can work around it). Sam's a hot mess 'de-aged' for a week to season 6 (~5 years ago in canon), where he hasn't been resurrected yet and thinks he's still trapped in hell. Your character may think he's canon updated into the future but it's quite the opposite! Luckily!

WEDNESDAY/THURSDAY. AFTERMATH, CONTINUED. Space Bar/Garden/Iskaulit. (aka anything you wanna do before he glitches)

[Sam has busied himself with helping with repairs; luckily things aren't quite so awful looking, and the debris and blood's been relatively cleaned away. The garden is one of his top priorities, actually, other than helping re-open the bar (which congrats, guys, we did it! just need some replacements but...), and he can be found carefully replanting and plucking dead leaves and sadly pulling any of his herbs that were too damaged to salvage. He also helps with the library and works on any damage the Bloodsport sustained. Everything seems to at least be getting back to normal. That's good. Really good. And as much as he wishes they'd been spared the attack — Aria's still out, even if she's not dead from her injuries — he at least finds a shitty silver lining in being too occupied to think.]

FRIDAY. LIBRARY. "who wants to remember all that hell?"

[And on schedule, per Sam's luck, he glitches.

He's in the middle of quietly reading in the library when it happens, like a punch. His eyes roll back and he's out for the count, slumping forward, unconscious — for a short while. Images dance behind his eyes, voices teasing him from afar. If you happen to find him here, practically comatose against handwritten accounts of what happened during the raider attack, you'll find he looks — bad. Pale pink scars have formed on his arms and neck and face, and he twitches in the throes of terrible images, eyelashes clumped and wet. Despite what it looks like, he hasn't updated to a new point; he hasn't gone to the future.

No, he's gone to the past. Down below, trapped with the devil himself in a cage. De-aged years back, before he was resurrected, plucked from hell by Death himself. An attempt to rouse him will give the visitor a surprise: Sam jerks like he's been burned, shuddering like he's been struck by lightning before he throws himself back from the chair, toppling it with him, a strangled NO flying from his lips as he blindly crawls back and away. He's terrified and confused, utterly confused.

... Good luck.]

GLITCH. Iskaulit. Garden.

[After he wakes up from the library, anyone who expected him throughout the day will find he'll absolutely miss any appointments. He can be found wandering the Iskaulit, actually. He's not all there — actually, he's trying to figure out where this hallucination begins and ends. Nothing makes any sense, but there's no way he's going to think he's out of hell. No, this must be some elaborate prank by the devil. He's just... waiting for the whole thing to fall apart. Sure, he hasn't seen any familiar faces, and usually things would have gotten violent by now, but... you know. You can't trust Lucifer and his new tricks. Always, new tricks. You can't torment someone for eighteen decades without mixing things up a bit.

The nervous figure rubs his hand along his burn-marked skin, over rough scarring, and looks nothing like the usually confident and good-natured man Sam usually is; he's flighty, and his eyes dart to any little noise like it may very well be the death of him. Er. Well. He's pretty sure he's dead anyway, but the... mutilation and reconstruction of his soul, if you will. He doesn't want to be found, but it's inevitable. His teeth chatter behind his lips and he passes like a ghost, gray-rimmed eyes and disheveled appearance unnatural on his figure.

Sometimes if he hears someone approaching, he finds a place to hide and wait it out. Whether or not the person in question doesn't find him is another matter entirely, but regardless, he'll look at you as if you're aiming to behead him and squeeze into the smallest hiding space he can in order to evade your destructive hands. Because you're probably Morning star, you know? Probably.

He revisits the garden, temporarily eased by the plant-life growing there. Lucifer always did love nature. One of the few pleasures he was allowed was to witness exquisite scenery sometimes, when the devil was feeling generous. It was always accompanied with some sort of terrible double-edged sword, but at least Sam could enjoy that much. He sits with his legs pulled up, long fingers awkwardly plucking at someone's plant — he's a bit confused, because even though he's completely sure he's in hell and has been and never will get out... there's just. Something off. Something different. When he breathes, it doesn't hurt his lungs. And his bones don't crunch when he walks. And there aren't any hooks, aren't any flames (yet, Sam, yet, don't assume anything).

Even so. He huffs tiredly, head rolling on his shoulders, and plucks off a small fruit, unsure if he's even capable of eating it.

It's not real, it's not real. It's not. It'll probably turn into razors in his mouth.]

... This cage isn't very hot.

[Or frostbite-cold.

It's quite... pleasant, this temperature.

Everything is different. The devil is probably enjoying his owl-eyed confusion.]

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[He surfaces with a nightmare hours later, which is... closer to what he's used to, at least. Small mercies — he at least had some rest. But now, he tosses and turns in the sheet, ugly images playing behind his eyelids. The blanket ends up tangled up in his legs as they start thrashing, his head thrown back and hands curled like claws against his stomach. Darkness and pain and hot irons — faces inches from his, an overwhelming celestial light jingling with the screaming souls outside — Something in his head hisses, just in his head, metal against skin.]

No — no, no, no. Please —

No!!

[It's a punch out of him before he yells at the ceiling like he's being mutilated.

... Hope you had a good rest, Nami.]

[A terrible one, actually. He catches her mid-doze, but to be honest Nami had been expecting this for while. She's dazed and a little disoriented (and a little bedheaded) but that doesn't stop the door being flung open, the lights going on.]

Sam, you're dreaming--!

[She's not sure whether touching him is the greatest idea, so let's yank the blanket away from his legs to stop the tangle adding to the panic. Please don't kick me, Sam.]

[He springs to sit up, scrabbling backwards against the floor until he hits the furniture in her room; he sits with wide, terrified eyes, panting as though breathing isn't coming easily to him. Dreaming? He looks around the room, eyes rolling, pupils pinpricks. Dreaming? He doesn't dream, he can't dream, can't sleep.

The old burns pulse angrily, and he wraps his arms around his legs, pulling them in close. He looks at Nami. The game. His mind returns to him, slowly.]

... The — the game, it's still going, right?

[The game's been more restful than most of his days in Hell.

He almost sounds hopeful about it.]

[There was that tiny (and admittedly ridiculous) sliver of hope that sleeping would somehow reset him, but she can hardly say she's surprised that it didn't. Nami rocks back on her heels, hands still up in that kind of don't-spook-the-horse kind of way with a corner of the blanket caught in her fingers, and can't help but feel disappointed anyway. But.]

Yeah. It's still going. Just.

[Just what? She fumbles for something to say.]

Do you want something to help you sleep? Without the nightmares, I mean.

[He wrinkles his brow, disheveled and breathing roughly still.]

... Nightmares?

[He shakes his head. He feels a little light-headed, and his stomach is doing some things he hasn't felt in a long time.]

... No, that's not right...

What's not right?

[She looks at him warily. She has a few ideas, but unless he spells them out she doesn't really want to jump the wrong way.]

[Something about the question intimidates him -- scares him, makes the core of his heart icy as it beats. Cold, cold all over. He shakes his head, breathing a shaky but calming breath as he slumps and lets his tangled hair fall back into his face.]

... Nothing. Sorry. Everything's fine.

[... He may be planning on just sitting here again for the whole day.

Clearly healthy, clearly the best choice.]

[Nami isn't going to worry too much about a natural desire to hide in here all day-- not yet, not so soon. That face, that response, on the other hand... she rubs a hand over her face, speaking tiredly.]

Don't lie to me, Sam. It's not a trick question. You aren't gonna get punished for the response.

[He flinches back. Don't lie to me.

It's not quite the right tone, but it's familiar enough. He squeezes his eyes shut.]

It just... feels wrong.

[He picks at his arm, looking at the space between them. He knows it's been different since he appeared here, on this 'fleet'. He knows. He's far gone, but he knows something isn't functioning the same.

The arm burns under his fingers. He grips it, feeling a dull sensation that he's not really used to anymore. It's so hard to explain. The differences in a soul being burned and torn and the raw visceral pain of that versus the feeling of human nerve endings screaming in protest... God.]

It just -- it hurts differently.

Things are different.

[She expected the flinch, to be honest. It hadn't stopped her asking-- honest to god, most of what she's ever going to have to say will probably be the wrong thing, but she needs to know.

And he's hurting himself. She hesitates, wondering if trying to pull his hand away is the right thing. It's just worrying at an injury, isn't it? The less she touches him the better. So her hand goes up briefly, before it drops to her side.]

Yeah, they are. I know you're kind of-- dead. In hell. But here, you're not. You've gotta feel hungry by now, right?

...

[He goes silent, putting a hand on his stomach.

He is. It hurts something awful, his stomach, and not like blades or hooks or needles in skin.]

I — Maybe.

[That's progress, huh.]

[It's something. She watches him a moment, then holds a hand out to him, hopeful smile and all.]

Come with me and I'll take you to the kitchen. You can try some food. That'll give you a more definitive answer, hopefully.

[He hesitates. Oh, how he hesitates.

Looking at the door, he's as skeptical and worried as ever. Game or not.]

He'll be pissed.

[Illogical. Nami is Lucifer, he knows already. But if she's not him — if this is really... No, it can't be, it can't be real. Is this a test? Not a game, but an actual fucking test, or the moment he's lead into what's really happening here.

He's jittery at the thought.

But hey — when did his hand end up clasping hers?]

[It's on the tip of her tongue to retort. Let him. Fuck Lucifer. He'll never find out. Anything. She bites it all back down, not willing to let that edge of anger be shown. It'll probably do more harm than good.

And he took her hand anyway, so she closes her fingers gently around his-- so gently, let him pull away if he wants-- and tugs him out into the hallway, heading for the kitchen.]

Toast okay? Or I have some fruit, or...

[He nods, letting her grab him. He wouldn't pull away, but at least he seems settled.

Not kicking and screaming bloody murder, at least. Though Nami might want to scream in frustration at how he won't tuck his hair out of his face like he really should... Yeah, because that's the biggest problem here.

His feet shuffle a little.]

... Toast's fine.

[Fruit's slippery-slidey, sticky and tacky and glistening like innards.

... He could do without it.]

[Hair is something she'll tackle if she ever runs out of higher priorities first, to be honest. It's a mildly tetchy thing, but right now she's running on getting food, water, treatment--

Maybe hair will be dealt with if she ever coaxes him into the bath. She'll... cross that hurdle some other time.

Nami leads him into the kitchen, gently ushers him onto the bench by the table, and retreats behind the kitchen counter to fish up some bread and butter. Just butter, she thinks. Nothing fancy here. It'll get him fed.]

I know this is a hard question to answer-- [Also a stupid one--] But how do you feel? Physically. Head ache? Any injuries hurting more than they did last night?

[He sits down. Is usual routine of staggering around tiredly to make some coffee, to scribble details of planets on loose paper, to wander the network with that thoughtful arch in his brow, it's traded in for sitting very still and very quiet.He stares at the table top.]

... I guess everything hurts, yeah.

[It's spoken like someone who's tried on clothes to see if they fit.

Very casually, with a bit of self-reflection as he looks at his arms briefly.]

[...ask a stupid question. She quirks a tired little smile.]

Let's start from the top. Thirsty?

[She's going to pour him a glass of water and set it gently down in front of him anyway-- Nami just wants to know if he can recognise the fact that he actually does have basic human needs right now.]

[He runs his fingers over chapped lips, taking in the sensation.

... Maybe. I don't know.

[His lips twitch, and his eyes seem more lively for just a moment as he revisits his encyclopedia brain.]

Did you know someone survived for eighteen days without a drink? Andreas Mihavecz, in a holding cell in 1979. Same year Dean was born. Police just left him there, and they think he has the world record... Might've cheated a little if there was any condensation in the room, though.

[He quiets, and then drops his hands quietly to his lap.]

I don't know why I remember little details like that after all this time.

... I guess I can relate to him nowadays.

Edited 2017-04-25 06:35 (UTC)

[That's. Very informative, Sam, thank you. She stares at him for a moment, somewhere between dazed and confused and horrified, and pushes the glass a little closer.]

Well, there's no need to relate to him more than you have to. There's as much water as you need, right here. It's never going away.

[He picks up the glass and spends some time emptying the glass — in no time at all, once he feels the cool relief of it. It does feel nice, really nice, and he gulps it down and wipes his mouth, where some had escaped his lips. Something deep down reminds him of upside, where manners are, where it's normal to be embarrassed for being too sloppy.

He smiles sheepishly.]

Sorry.

[He turns the glass in his hand. He's not really sure if he should ask for more, even if she said he could have it. Old habits, Nami. 180 years worth.]

[She'd tell him not to apologise, but it's accompanied by that little smile, and Nami only smiles faintly in response.]

It's okay. I've seen far worse. [And here, let me help with that dilemma:] You want another glass?

... Yes.

[That comes out scratchy and choked, and he clears his sore throat.

He slowly, slowly, slides it over with stiff fingers.]

Yes, please.

[She smiles wider at that, taking the glass back, and taps on the top of the water dispenser with one finger before she refills the glass.]

You don't need to rely on me to get you water. I mean, I'm happy to get you some, but if I'm not around for any reason, this is where it is. Help yourself.

[And here, have your second glass.]

[... Sorry, that all sounds crazy as hell. But alright.

He drinks the second glass just as greedily, wiping his mouth. He still looks — not too great. A bit disheveled, dark lines under his eyes, clearly the haggard appearance of someone who went from miserably dead to miserably alive in a flash. He seems more inclined to sit quietly and watch Nami when he thinks she's not paying attention.

Listening, observing, being outside of the world happening around him.

It seems like a safe bet.]

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