Blemishes

When Sam saw the dark red fingerprints on his face for the first time, he wanted to cry. They didn't hurt, they weren't from any burn of injury, it was the thought of them that made his stomach curl.

The memory of Lucifer's hands gently cupping his face, even in a dream, was sickening. He told himself the warmth he felt was from being able to see Jess, to hear her, feel her. But it was all Lucifer. It was intoxicating, something he had never felt before, and he felt that every time they met.

He had been so excited as a kid to get his soul marks, thinking maybe his mate would brush past him on the street, giving them matching shoulder marks, or their fingers would bump reaching for scattered papers, giving them small finger marks and a sweet story to tell their kids. When he was with Jess, he didn't think he believed in soul marks, they were perfect for eachother.

They were both bare, but in love, ready to spend their lives with each other, soul mark or no. Needless to say, those dreams crashed and burned.

Sam remembered when Dean got his mark, a baby blue hand print across his arm, tinted purple by the red of his burn, where castiel had saved him from hell. He had quietly wished that he would get his soon, too. He hoped, silently but so desperately, that his soulmate would be a hunter or an angel. Sam couldn't imagine getting another loved one killed, or worse if he had to kill them himself. Now he was regretting that wish.

He couldn't look in the mirror without having to face the reality of the situation. Every time he saw Lucifer, his eyes were drawn to the dark green covering his fingertips, screaming their connection to anyone who looked.

He had taken to wearing concealer over his marks, pointedly ignoring the cashier's sad look when he bought it, and hoping Dean wouldn't bring it up. He hated his marks, he hated who gave them to him, he hated this fucking destiny. But most of all, he hated how much his heart ached thinking of him.

He ignored Dean's probing about them, his painfully forced jokes about him wearing makeup, in favor of burying himself into research; first for the demons and monsters and usual fodder and then, when he had a few beers and time to be impulsive, soulmarks. How to get rid of them, the best ways to hide them, experimental surgeries that burned into your skin, attempting to sear off the mark or chemically peeling back the layers of skin until the skin was bare (assuming your mark didn’t reach down to the bone).

He hated it. He hated him. He hated himself, mostly because a little part of him couldn’t hate him.

The more he learned about Lucifer, the more they fought, the more he was forced to look him in the eyes, the more he saw the connection between them. They were predestined to be perfect for eachother, soulmates or not. Rebel little brothers with struck down dreams, fates sealed in fire and blood and brimstone and fantasy destiny bullshit.

Just thinking about it brought a phantom touch across his cheek.

Cold, gentle fingers on his skin. Soft, sad words, all Lucifer even with Jess’s voice. The little pearl of truth in everything he said, the spark he tried so hard to ignore so his chest didn’t ache when they rode off to find the colt. He felt sick. He must be sick.

So he pushed it down. He ignored it. He fought and researched and hunted and killed and drank and drank and drank. He kept moving and waved off any questions from Dean or Castiel like either of them could understand as wrapped in each other as they were. He wasn’t jealous. He didn’t want that, couldn’t want it.

He didn’t dream about it. It wasn’t his fault.

“I wish there was another way.”

Sam never asked him to come back, to hold him and whisper horrible, sweet little things in his ear like they were lovers. He sure as hell didn't ask him to be funny. He didn’t ask him to stay, to ease the pain and tension in his body, to act like he was fragile and special and needed him somehow. He never asked him to wipe his stupid tears away when he couldn’t hold them back, even in his dreams.

“I know you didn’t ask for this,” He said so quietly, and Sam couldn’t even blame the ache in his chest on Jess’ body. Lucifer’s hands (Nick’s hands?) held him close, not letting him move, even if he wanted to. “But I’m glad I got you.”

What the fuck does he say to that?