trigger warning for very brief mention of body horror and torture, as well as swearing.

word count: 495

notes: 1/infinite: Times Supernatural Just Bowled Over Sam and His Issues Like Seriously Is This Kid Okay? He Needs A Hug. I just. I feel bad for him. having to team up with your torturer who is possessing one of your best friends and won't leave your room because he's fighting with his Father, GOD whom you've been praying to for years because you've gotta have something good, right? who, by the way, is dying because you and your brother let out the Big Chungus of Evil Things. that's gotta suck and if you don't think it was hard for him to process that, you're either lying or Andrew Dabb.

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Many, many, many unusual things have occurred in the life of Sam Winchester.

Though, this had to take the cake. God, who likes to be called Chuck, was sitting in the map room watching Dean's porn and eating takeout as He dies. Lucifer was in his room, throwing a fit and listening to his music too loudly. He, Sam, was sitting in the library and making his best attempt to not absolutely lose his fucking mind. By all means, any reasonable person would say he would be justified in having a nervous breakdown, but unfortunately Sam is not an at all reasonable person and as such was currently trying to do anything but that.

Everytime he flipped a page, he was reminded of the Devil undoubtedly flicking through his stuff, which gave him a strange feeling of being violated. Why, he could not say. Lucifer had been the one to tear him apart, piece by piece and put him back together for what felt like thousands of years. He had seen Sam curled on what could almost pass as the floor of the cage, screaming shaking hollow. Lucifer knew every corner of his body, mind, and soul. Nothing was too personal, and certainly not his bedroom drawers.

Realizing he had flipped several pages without understanding anything, shook his head and ripped his fingers through his hair in an attempt to calm his... everything.

calmcalmcalmcalmcalmcalmcalm was a mantra in his head, one so often chanted that there must be tracks in his brain where the words had been repeatedly and desperately thought.

He almost prayed. It had become a sort of quasi-coping mechanism; a way to process difficult things without shouting, crying, or breaking things (none of which he enjoyed, but that didn't change the fact that that's all he'd grown up being taught to do). Before he knew it, his hands were clasped and he realized with a start that the God he was praying to was in the other room and would hear him loud and clear.

It took him another moment to not freak out over this fact, too. While he wasn't devout, not even following a specific denomination, Sam always considered himself religious. It made him feel less slimy, filled the cracks in his being with something other than duct tape and bubble gum. Knowing there was a God was wildly, painfully, different than knowing that God.
Knowing that God never answered prayers, had all but given up on humanity, didn't really care about being good and pure, felt like someone was ripping out something Sam did not know he'd ever had.

Trying not to pray, trying not to scream, trying not hide under the tables like a madman took all restraint he had. A total mental breakdown was around the corner, but there always seemed to be something around the corner, these days; so he did what he did best:
Keep working, try not to hurt anything, and stay calmcalmcalm.

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notes: dunno what the hell kind of style that was. how'd you guys like it?

requests?

thanks for reading ♡