Title: Fields of Paper Flowers

Chapter: 7

~~~~~~~~~~

He didn’t stop at invading her dreams just that once. No, he did it continually over the first weeks of the new year, sometimes observing and sometimes reshaping those nocturnal images to suit that story he’d taken from Sam and embellished for her. She’d accused him of creating fiction for his human followers, so he continued to create fiction for her, elaborating on the story, changing details in slow degrees until her waking and dreaming landscapes were the same. The only difference was Sam.

How long before her two worlds converged and Jo began to lose herself between them?

Lying beside her, he stroked his fingers along her forehead, temples, and cheeks, forcing himself into her current dream. For long moments, he surveyed her dream setting, then twisted, turned, and flipped it until it became his construct and not hers.

To be fair to Jo, she did have a strong will. She had to to have lasted as long as she had without breaking. It wasn’t effortless to manipulate her dreams, for she fought it every step of the way, her mind aware of his invasion and countering it even as her sleeping self was unaware. However, neither was it difficult, only a few seconds to fully take over her dreams when with a lesser-willed person it would be instantaneous.

Sam had had a strong will in that area as well. That was one reason it had taken as long as it had to break him down into acceptance.

It amused him how hard Jo’s mind fought before letting his changes flow.

Jo shifted position, head rolling on the pillow as though protesting.

He took her back to Philadelphia, to that scene of Dean’s betrayal -- the one he’d written just for her.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sam.

He came awake to another dream scene, not one in that fantasy he’d had. This scene was one in Lucifer’s story for them, convincing mostly because Dean really could be that much of an ass. He could get on that high horse and parade around. The two were toe to toe screaming at each other, Jo in disbelief and growing anger and Dean in righteous belief he was doing the right thing. Her head was tipped back, long hair trailing down her back. Sam recalled Dean’s initial disbelief that Jo could live the hunting life.

“You’re getting on a plane and going back home, Jo.”

“You can’t make me.”

“Oh, you want to bet on that?” Dean leaned down to really get in her face.

Jo moved closer so that they were nearly nose to nose. “You try to put me on a plane and I’ll cry kidnapping and rape.”

“You really going to play that way, Jo? Go for it. I’m game. Let’s play.”

Sam watched himself interrupt the argument, taking Jo’s side of it, trying to get Dean to back down, to acknowledge her views.

“I won’t forgive you for this,” she spat at Dean, shaking her head, body stiff with ire as she backed away.

“You’ll get over it.” Dean turned to him. “It’s for her own good, Sam. You know that. You know just how much it’s for her good.”

The bitch of it was that Lucifer was right. If Philadelphia had played out as he put forth, Jo’s choices might not have taken her to this point. Maybe Sam’s wouldn’t have taken him here either. It all boiled down to those choices they made along the way, didn’t it?

Over a series of nights, Lucifer unfolded that part of their dream history to the both of them. He showed them a love story, a love that slowly grew and seemed to soothe some part of Jo. Sam watched them travel slowly across the U.S. towards Nebraska, getting to know each other deeper than they had. Lucifer used details he’d discovered about Jo during the months she’d been his, the dream Sam asking the right questions to make Jo open up.

He showed Ellen’s relief at Jo home safe and Jo’s anger at Ellen’s continued interference in her life. The fights Lucifer created between the two rivaled the real one Sam and Dean had witnessed. After Jo had stormed off, Ellen turned to him, frown dissolving into a cocky grin.

“How am I doin’, Sam? Have I got the knack for playing Ellen? She’s fun. Almost as much fun as it was to play Dean.”

“Can’t Jo hear you?”

“Not if I don’t wish her to. This right here,” One hand gestured between them, “is between us. She’s off in the next scenario, getting ready for the big sex scene. You get to comfort her, tell her how much you understand her frustration with her mother. It’s a bond between you, that frustration. Her and Ellen, you and John. Or maybe we’ll save that for tomorrow night. What do you think?”

“You don’t care what I think.”

“You’re right. I think we’ll save it for tomorrow. Let her anticipation, and yours, grow.”

As time marched on, Lucifer brought them to present day, dragging in Marta and Meg until they all had a dream history along with the real one.

Sam considered the two women Jo saw on a daily basis. Marta and Meg. He wondered, not for the first time, if Meg’s host was still in that body or if she’d managed to escape into death before Meg’s invasion. He hoped she’d escaped. It’d be far kinder if she had. He tried not to think about the host if he could help it, not ever letting himself dwell on her. She’d been pulled into this because of him. Just like Jo. The knowledge was a bitter twisting in his mind, one more thing Lucifer used to continue hurting him. What woman he’d ever met in his life was safe? Not a one. He’d been toxic to each one in some way. A poison. Eventually. And so he refused to think about Meg’s host. He focused only on Jo. It was easier for him that way.

He watched Marta and thought the woman was not long for this world. When Lucifer decided he was done with Jo, he’d be done with Marta. Did she understand that? Did anyone understand that it was only a matter of time?

How was it possible to effectively fight an enemy that had eternity to wait you out?

~~~~~~~~~~

It was easier to cave in to her dreams than to fight them. Why? Because, he was relentless, never giving her a moment to rebuild her defenses. Just when Jo thought she could gain some ground, he kicked it out from under her, leaving her sprawled once more. It was as though the start of the new year boosted his determination. Either that or she was worn down enough that it seemed that way.

As a fantasy boyfriend, Sam was great. He was thoughtful, considerate, kind, passionate, and always put the toilet seat back down -- until Lucifer changed that detail and the only way Jo could tell between dream Sam and real Lucifer was to watch his face. It was the eyes that gave it away. Sam’s eyes were kind but Lucifer couldn’t quite recreate that kindness. As good as he was at mimicking, she could tell her waking moments by that single detail. Jo had learned what to look for -- she thought.

By July 2012, reality and fantasy began to collide, confusing her.

Jo endured, like she had the past months, taking Meg with her on a trip to the nearest pharmacies. She’d done her homework and had something specific in mind. Sleeping pills. She hoped they’d put her out deep enough that she wouldn’t register her dreams. Or maybe they could put her out period. If it didn’t work one way or another, Jo wasn’t sure what she’d do. Her hold on sanity was starting to slip. That was the most frightening thing lately; that she could see herself falling deeper and deeper, teetering on the edge with no lifeline to pull her back should she slip over that edge.

Meg got them inside and prowled the aisles while Jo shopped. “It won’t work, you know,” she called out.

“What won’t?” Jo searched the shelves. There wasn’t much left, but there, in the very back, she found what she was looking for.

“The drugs.” She appeared at the counter. “He’ll just force you out of the stupor and make you puke it all up. Or he’ll purge it from your system while you sleep.” Her smile was sly. “You’re welcome to try though. It’ll be a nice experiment for you since you haven’t tried it yet. See what happens. Maybe you won’t wake up at all.”

That night was her first suicide attempt.

Jo prepared herself for it like she would a date. She took a bath, soaking in soothing lavender scented water that had lots of bubbles. When she got out, she rubbed Neutrogena sesame oil all over herself and dabbed on perfume. Not the perfume Lucifer wanted her to wear, but rather her favorite scent -- the one she’d caught Dean taking sniffs of one time. Jo recalled him leaning close, ostensibly to talk to her without anyone else hearing their discussion. He’d taken an awfully deep breath before saying anything. It had been clear to her he’d been sniffing her perfume, because he’d done that a few more times during their conversation. With a smile at the memory, Jo picked out her clothes. She put on a pretty blouse with a clean pair of jeans, then swallowed the pills one by one with water. One, two, three…the whole bottle of pills. Pills taken, she laid down on the bed, arranging herself with care and closing her eyes, waiting patiently for oblivion.

Jo hoped it would come quickly.

Please?

~~~~~~~~~~

Dean still thought about Jo as, one by one over the weeks, survivors found them. It took less time than he’d thought it could to amass a good-sized group and scout out a good location. Chuck found them first, explaining that the angels had pulled camp, leaving Castiel behind. He’d stopped having visions, but theorized that when the decision had been made was when Cas lost his powers, not when the last of the angels had gone.

Why had they left Cas? Why not take him with them? The anguish on Castiel’s face when Chuck told them that had been terrible, as though he’d never realized his brethren could be so cold in the end as to abandon him completely. Dean could have told him that, but he didn’t. There were no hints of ‘could have told you so’ between them. If Castiel hadn’t figured it out on his own by then, there was nothing Dean could say anyway. After Uriel’s behavior and Zachariah’s, he should have had a pretty good idea what the rest of his brethren were really like in Dean’s opinion.

Why leave in the first place? Was Lucifer that scary to them that they’d just roll over and let him run roughshod over the earth at leisure? Couldn’t they try thinking of some better plan than Michael burning through Dean’s body? There had to be another way. Had to be.

The angels had given up, but Dean Winchester couldn’t. He’d fight the good fight even if they were too cowardly to do it.

Rufus showed up, with Bobby, the two not staying very long. Just enough to see the camp was growing. They drove off together after two months to make their way back to Bobby’s house with a plan of setting up a camp there so people wouldn’t have to travel so far. One month later, a group of survivors brought a severely injured Rufus into the camp. He’d been trying to get to them, he explained. Scavengers were thick around Bobby’s and Rufus could no longer get in by himself. He’d needed help to pull Bobby out to relative safety.

Dean sat with Rufus as he choked to death, his lungs filling up with blood. There’d been nothing anyone could do about it and once he was gone, Dean made sure his body was burned. A proper send off.

He took a team to get Bobby, only to discover his early prediction to Castiel was half correct. It hadn’t been the infected who’d come for him. His body had been ripped apart by bullets. The scavengers had found him and trashed his house.

Too late to save Bobby.

Another burning, another send-off, another funeral.

It tore at him like talons along his flesh that gripped, dug deep, and drew blood. The man who’d been like a second father to him was gone and, in his grief, Dean screamed his acceptance of Michael to the heavens. He’d stood outside Bobby’s house on the withered brown grass of the lawn with his head tipped back, eyes scanning the sky. All he’d wanted was for it all to end and be over. Please, God, let it just be over. Jimmy had said it was like being chained to a comet, so chain him already. Let his consciousness of everything that was going on be seared away so he couldn’t comprehend any of it. Let him have numbness. Let him have sleep. Dean didn’t want to keep feeling all the things he kept having to over and over again. A body shouldn’t have to deal with the sort of levels of grief he’d had to in his life.

“No more,” he’d pleaded. “Take me, do it. Isn’t this what you wanted Michael, you son-of-a-bitch? I’m here! I accept! I’ll do it!”

He’d screamed until his throat hurt and all he could manage was a strained whisper. Until exhaustion had sent him to his knees in the dewy grass and the truth of his choice was clear.

No one answered. No one was going to answer. It was too little, too late. The angels were gone, as in really gone, not listening anymore.

His weakness in grief passed. If any of the men who’d gone with him had heard his cries to the heavens, they didn’t mention it. Maybe they’d put it down to grief. Just as well. He had no intention of explaining what it had really been about.

Try as he might, Dean couldn’t lie down and let the end roll over him like the angels were doing. He couldn’t choose apathy, not really. It wasn’t in him to truly give up.

Slowly, they began to put together a cohesive camp and for some reason, they all looked to Dean for leadership. Why him? What made him so different from the other men who’d joined the group? The last thing he wanted to do was be responsible for all those people, so he did the only thing he could -- he accepted it and kept on doing what he’d been doing: hunting and killing. If that made him a leader, then so be it.

He organized scouting parties to search for survivors and for necessities. Chuck took charge of the endless lists involved in keeping a stockpile of goods, handwritten pages he kept on a clipboard, but it was Dean who decided when and where the parties would search, figuring out how many miles they could go and get back in relative safety.

He put together hunting parties, men and women good with weapons who knew what they all had to do to survive this new world they lived in.

His nightmares were nightly and vivid, violent images of pain and horror. In them, he had to put a bullet in Jo’s brain like he would a rabid dog. Sometimes it was Sam he shot. And sometimes, he dreamed he’d never left hell at all. The idea that all of this -- Castiel’s pulling him from hell and the following months -- was another of Alastair’s tortures terrified him. Dean would wake, sweating and shaking, tasting the salt of tears on his tongue and bile in the back of his throat as he tried to scream. Luckily, he couldn’t ever seem to actually loose his screams, his throat frozen and unable to loose even a whimper.

It wouldn’t be good for any of his people to see that their leader suffered from crippling nightmares.

Dean tried to behave as normally as he could, telling no one -- not even Cas -- of his dreams and the fears that remained beneath the surface of him, fears that they were fighting a losing battle. Each time they went out of the camp, they lost at least one person. Maybe they were able to bring more back, but was it worth it? A life for a life? Was any of it worth anything?

He joked and gave all the right speeches to the people in the camp, yet when he looked at himself in the mirror, he nearly couldn’t recognize the man staring back. In his eyes was something different, a wild desperation taking root that could easily eclipse everything he was if he didn’t hold it in check. Where was the man he’d once been? Was he still in there somewhere? Dean would spend long minutes each morning staring at his reflection, searching for some sign of his old self and failing to detect even a faint hint.

I have to keep it together, he told himself repeatedly. If not for myself, for them. For those people out there. For Jo when I find her. Keep it together.

2012. What a crap year of crap realizations.

It had become quickly apparent that Castiel was not cut out to be fully human. Dean had never seen anyone as clumsy in his life. Cas managed to break his own fingers, a couple toes, and sprain one ankle. He tripped over his feet and anything else in the way of walking and generally seemed to have lost that part of the control of Jimmy’s body as time went on. His body now apparently. The only time he could move with any grace was when he was half-drunk or high. Probably not the best state for Castiel to be in as he slipped into crushing depression from being left behind by his angel brethren, but as Chuck reminded Dean, Cas was an adult male and fully grown former angel. As long as he didn’t endanger anyone else, let him deal with it the way he wanted.

And so Dean lost Castiel too, only not to death. Cas went the way of debauchery -- women and drugs --, amassing a harem of young, pretty women too scared to go out and fight on the front lines. He immersed himself in that life, spending much of his time drunk or high, usually high.

So the count was now…what? Lucifer 5, Dean 0. The suckage just didn’t seem to end. He refused to count Jo in that number until he actually found her dead. A few times he’d thought a hunting party had brought her back as a woman her height and build emerged from a vehicle, but no, it wasn’t her.

To his extreme sorrow, it was never Jo.

~~~~~~~~~~

Attempt number two was a bit less passive than the first one. Jo dug her dad’s knife from the wall and used it, feeling some camaraderie with dead Sarah in her choice of spots to wait for her death. This time she didn’t bother preparing. She chose to slit her wrists in front of the fireplace, her blood flowing onto that white carpet Marta had replaced once already. She imagined Sarah with her, imagined her looking a lot like Meg, wearing a brightly colored blouse and jeans, her long dark hair loose and a sad expression upon her pretty face. Her feet were bare, toenails painted a bright pink. When Jo laid down, imaginary Sarah did too, staying with her.

Jo slipped into death….

And woke the next morning to the morning sunlight on her face. She was in bed with not even a trace of the lines she’d cut into her arms. He’d healed her, brought her back again. Lucifer sat on the end of the bed waiting for her to wake.

“If you’re this unhappy, Jo, you should have talked to me.”

She started to cry, curling up on her side. When she’d woken from taking the sleeping pills, she’d thought she hadn’t taken enough of them, though she’d swallowed the whole damn bottle. He wasn’t going to let her die.

He joined her, chest to her back, wrapping one arm around her in a parody of comfort. It was his favorite pose when with her in the bed. “I understand how hard this is for you. Really, I do, but I can’t let you go, Jo. I can’t. You mean too much.”

She wasn’t comforted. He said she meant too much? Right. It’d been made perfectly clear she was nothing to him over and over. Still, he continued to tell her that lie. Why pretend?

Jo took to keeping her Dad’s knife with her at all times, digging the point into her skin whenever she wasn’t sure she dreamed. It did help to hold off the sensation of slipping into fantasy land. He let her keep the knife because, as he told her, she now knew he’d bring her back no matter what she did. The knife meant nothing. She could carve herself to pieces and he’d make sure she woke whole the next day.

The days slid into each other and without a calendar, Jo had no idea what month it was. The weather got colder, then warmer again. Another turning of seasons. All she knew was that nothing about her circumstances would change. There would never be a day when Dean would come to her rescue and carry her away from Lucifer. Jo cried at that, at the stark realization that the man she thought of as her lifeline wasn’t coming for her. He wasn’t going to find her after all and that knowledge broke one more piece inside her away. Her despair and depression rolled over her like waves on the shore, in and back out. One of these times, she was sure they’d drag her under completely and carry her out into their ocean depths.

It was Meg who kept her moving, not letting her curl into a ball of misery like she wanted. She made her get out of bed, physically dragging her when she refused, forcing her to get dressed. One day, she’d taken Jo to the movie theater, popped some popcorn and presented Jo’s favorite Jim Carrey movies the entire day. Meg wouldn’t say where she’d gotten the movies and Jo didn’t press for answers. Nor did Meg say why she bothered trying to shore up Jo’s moods. It made no sense, but she did it anyway.

Another day, Meg took her sailing, just the two of them. When they went past Navy Pier, Jo averted her face, looking the other way rather than think about that day months earlier.

She ate what was put in front of her, ignoring Marta. The woman had been barely civil to her since Jo had sided with Meg’s description of her attempted escape. Not that it mattered. Marta did the job she’d been acquired to do: care for Jo’s physical health. Occasionally, Marta expressed frustration that Jo had yet to get pregnant, though she was careful not to mention her worries where Lucifer would hear her.

“Why are you doing this,” Jo asked Meg. “You could be out there,” she waved a hand at the windows, “enjoying his handiwork. Why are you here with me?”

“Because out of all his handiwork, you’re among the most important at present.” Meg sat beside her on the couch and put an arm around her like a half-hug. It was a friendly gesture, one other humans gave to comfort. Jo couldn’t fathom why Meg bothered.

“But why?” Neither Meg nor Lucifer ever told her why, dancing about the issue until her head would spin. “Just tell me. Please? It’s not like I can do anything about it, right?

Gentle fingers brushed Jo’s hair back from her face. “You’ll see. Soon.”

She started to sob, unable to hold in her tears. Meg held her in the sort of soothing embrace Jo hadn’t had since Sam comforted her after those fights with Dean and her mom….

Wait a minute. That was a dream she’d had. In reality, none of that had happened and Meg was a demon. Jo pulled away, taking the knife out and pressing it to her palm. The mark stung. “Why are you being nice to me,” she demanded.

Meg’s eyes widened and she scooted back on the cushions. “Because we’re friends, Jo. Put the knife down, okay?”

“We’re not friends. You’re a demon bitch he ordered to guard me.”

She held up her hands in a placating gesture. “We are friends. Don’t you remember? Sam introduced us? Sam and I, we go way back. You know that. You and I, we’re best friends. We tell each other everything. I tell you when my boyfriend’s being a dick and you tell me when Sam’s being a bastard, which is not nearly as often as my boyfriend is a dick.”

“You’re lying --”

“It hurts when you say things like that to me. I’ll just come back later. Maybe you’ll be feeling better then.”

Jo watched Meg leave and pressed the tip of the knife into her palm over and over, wondering if she’d been dreaming of putting the knife to her skin. The blood looked real. The pain felt real. But was it?

“Oh God,” she cried out. “Somebody help me!”

~~~~~~~~~~

Jo was changing and not for the better.

Sam watched her pretending to read on the couch, a book open on her lap and eyes staring. She didn’t smile as she once had and when she did, it had a bitter tinge to it. She was tired, mentally and spiritually. Jo was crumbling under the constant pressure of Lucifer’s will upon her.

He counted the months that had gone by. It had been early spring of 2011 when Jo made her deal. It was now 2013. She’d survived two years of his attentions. Would Jo make it even another few months? A few weeks even?

She no longer fought the dreams and sometimes, he could see she’d checked out mentally while awake as well, like now. He wondered…if Lucifer invaded her mind right now, what would they see? Would they see the same scene that was in reality?

With a sigh, Sam slept.

~~~~~~~~~~

The water wouldn’t wash away that foolish bargain. Nothing would make it go away. Jo swayed beneath the spray, thankful that at least Lucifer liked her to be clean and thus made certain the apartment had running water.

That bargain she’d made was forever. There was no expiration. Jo had shackled herself to him willingly. Strange how one didn’t understand what eternity meant until actually looking down that road. Her hope was gone.

Jo washed her body and hair, shaved her legs and underarms and stepped from the shower to dry and finish her toilette. Dropping the towel onto the floor, she padded naked into the bedroom.

A navy dress was hanging where he always put those clothes he wished her to wear. The items she’d taken out were gone. This dress was satin, body hugging to mid-thigh with ruffles on the skirt that swept back to a full train in the back. Tasteful really, with a hint of old Hollywood glamour.

She dried her hair, put on perfume and reached for the dress. It fit her perfectly, as his choices always did, proportioned for her. Make-up was minimal, jewelry simple. A necklace and bracelet, both of sapphires and white gold. She left her hair down as he preferred, then stepped into four inch heels. They closed the height difference between them just a little. With a last dab of gloss to her lips, she joined him in the living room.

Jo took the hand he proffered, the quick change of locale no longer making her stomach queasy. The were in a park, strolling along a debris strewn path.

“Smile for the camera, Jo,” he told her. “Let them get a good picture of us together.”

She tried to smile, to pretend that being out like this wasn’t disturbing. Who did he show her off to? What camera? Jo assumed he was taunting her. There were none of his human followers left save Marta. They’d all either become infected with the virus or been killed by the infected. One by one they’d discovered the horror of him like she’d known they would.

Who was left to see her with him?

~~~~~~~~~~

When Jo Harvelle had been brought in to the apartment, Marta Everston had liked her. She’d enjoyed coaxing the younger woman to eat proper meals and making certain she remained healthy. She’d liked her a lot more than that Sarah woman, who’d gotten blood all over the floor as she’d died, then gotten up as Meg, and walked away without even trying to clean it up.

She recalled that day. Lucifer had brought Sarah, yet by nightfall it had all fallen apart. Alicia had mortally injured the woman, Marta killed Alicia, and black smoke had dived into Sarah’s body right at that last shuddering breath she’d taken. Sarah had sat up, watched the hole in her chest heal up and announced that she needed “a fucking drink already.”

At least Marta hadn’t had to get rid of a body besides Alicia’s. She’d played the part Lucifer had given her, saying what he told her to and behaving as he wished. It had seemed like such an honor then.

Marta disliked Sarah as Meg even more. If there wouldn’t be harsh consequences, Marta would have gotten rid of Meg a long time ago, but she knew the score on Meg. She wasn’t allowed to harm her.

Jo and Meg had fought to begin with, yet gradually, Meg had begun to influence Jo, taking her drinking and partying to all hours of the night when Jo should be resting. She’d become the confidante Marta had hoped to be.

She watched Jo from the bedroom doorway. Her charge was on the bed, staring at the ceiling. These days she spent much of her time that way, seemingly unaware of things going on around her.

When would the blessing come? Marta had doubts that it ever would. Jo’s periods were regular and she was healthy, so what was the problem? Why had she not gotten pregnant yet? It wasn’t as though Lucifer didn’t visit her because he did. He spent many nights with Jo.

Her faith wavered.

She doubted Lucifer’s supposed plan for Jo Harvelle as she watched her fellow worshippers all meet gruesome ends at the hands of the infected. Only Marta remained and she was very frightened by that turn of events. It was one thing to be on top through your own actions and another to be so by providential fate. Remaining in the apartment to care for Jo had kept her safe. Marta decided it was the only thing that had kept her safe. She was useful.

What would happen when she ceased to be useful and how soon was that day coming? She watched Jo decline and knew it couldn’t be long for her either.

Her master, Lucifer, was a cruel one after all.

~~~~~~~~~~

The iPod resting in the dock on the nightstand turned on, a song beginning to play. ‘The Crystal Ship’ by The Doors.

Jo squeezed her eyes shut tightly as the bed dipped behind her. Did he know that was one of the songs Meg had played in Duluth when she’d possessed Sam? She opened her eyes. Had there been a Duluth? It didn’t seem like it had happened anymore.

Lucifer stretched out against her back, his body warm. The slow caress of his fingertips tracing the line of her spine tickled. Jo swallowed hard. Hand beneath the pillow, hidden from his view, she dug her nails into her palm, tiny bursts of pain that kept her focused in reality. Without them, Jo knew her mind would cease to acknowledge the difference. She’d shift back and forth with no true awareness of reality.

He’d planned this.

This was what he’d been working towards for months. Every last thing he’d subjected her to, from the isolation and Meg, to the lying in circles and changing her dreams, had been for this end. He’d maneuvered her into the slippery slide towards insanity. Even knowing it was happening couldn’t stop it. She was too fragile from his constant attentions.

Jo sobbed, pressing her nails harder.

Keep it together, keep it together, keep it together, she ordered herself.

Reaching over her body, he grasped her hand, placing a gentle kiss on her temple. “Is that all keeping you anchored?” His hand withdrew, fingers wet with blood. She’d pressed so hard she’d made herself bleed.

Jo was turned onto her back, her clenched fist brought from beneath the pillow to rest beside her head. “Please,” she whispered. “Don’t.”

Pity mingled with the cruelty in his eyes. “You ask me for mercy?” Her left hand was raised as well, his fingers threading with hers, keeping that hand flat.

“Please,” she pleaded.

“Oh Jo. It’s God who grants mercy. I don’t. You know that.” His smile was gentle and almost loving.

In one quick movement, he’d pried her fist open, stopping that press of her nails. Jo fought in a last ditch effort to hang on. She bucked and twisted, but he was too strong, straddling her body, hands gripping hers to keep her from giving herself the clarity of pain. She felt her mind whirling, losing the battle.

“No, no, no, no, no, no….”

“Sshhh.” Cheek against hers, he held her down. “Let it come. This moment has such beauty in it, Jo. Feel it all.”

He was milking every bit of suffering he could from her, wringing her out as he would a water-soaked cloth. Every last drop.

Jo shook her head, gaze searching for something, anything to anchor her….

And failed. There was nothing in reality that wasn’t also in her dreams.

Her chin was grasped, head turned until her attention was caught by his eyes. It was Sam who looked down at her. Warm, loving, kind Sam.

“You mean so much to me, Jo.”

No, oh no! She gasped for air once, twice…and let herself fall into madness. It didn’t take long for the last full remnants of Jo Harvelle to break into pieces.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sam was forced to watch Jo splinter apart, to see the clarity in her eyes fade away. He felt the struggles of her body as she tried to buck him off, watched the desperation take her when she couldn’t, her eyes searching for something to focus her.

Lucifer had been careful with her, making certain that when this moment came, Jo had nowhere to go to escape him, not even in her own mind, ensuring he could topple her emotional supports. All the details of this real world he’d created for her, from furniture and knick-knacks to the people she saw, were the same both waking and dreaming. He’d made Meg her friend, a buddy to pass the time with when ‘Sam’ wasn’t there, and Marta was a bit of help because ‘Sam’ loved her just that much.

It hurt to watch her fall.

He remembered that first sight of her, gun at Dean, and that punch she’d socked Dean with. She had been strong. Determined. He recalled little memories, moments he’d stored away. Jo smiling, laughing at a raunchy joke, dancing a little to music as she cleaned tables at the Roadhouse, her hips swaying. He thought about how she liked her coffee and that expression she used when she wanted to make a point. There were memories of her in Philadelphia, telling him in not so many words that the good of what they did outweighed the terror.

What good was there now out of all this terror she’d experienced?

Sam saw none. He wept for the old Jo, the woman who’d fought Lucifer to this end. She hadn’t given up, not really. She’d fought his plan for her until she had no way left to fight. Sometimes, even the most determined soldier couldn’t defeat the enemy. Her efforts had, ultimately, been ineffectual. He’d watched Jo move from strength to weakness, all of her anchors smashed, the tether of her cut, much like his had been.

Little remained of Jo save a ruined shell. They were the same now in that way. Broken down, tired, aching….

He let himself descend into that fantasy life they now shared, not even noticing when he slipped into sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

He was kind to her in those last moments of her sanity. He could have let her fall alone. Instead, he held her, cradled her, experienced it with her.

Such deep shudders her mind gave before breaking!

So sweet her release into his will!

He was nearly done with her on this plane of existence. There’d be more later, as eternity stretched out before them, but for now, she’d nearly achieved her first, immediate purpose.

Lucifer raised up and sat back, crouching over her. Jo Harvelle was limp beneath him, staring off to one side. Getting up, he dragged the covers from her the rest of the way. “It’s time to get dressed, Jo.”

Rolling onto her side, she pushed to a sitting position. Jo climbed from the bed to stand before him. Her eyelids fluttered, tongue wetting her lips. “Are we going somewhere, Sam?”

“We are.” He cupped her face in his hands, thumbs rubbing along her cheeks.

“Where?”

“To meet Dean. We’re going to meet Dean.” He smiled again, releasing her. “It’s time.”

A confused expression crossed her face, but she nodded and moved to the closet, picking her clothes with care. Jeans, shirt, jacket, boots. Soon, Jo was dressed and ready.

Dean, Dean, Dean, he thought. Meet the new Jo. I do hope you like her as well as the old one. I prepared her especially for you.