Sam Winchester wakes up Monday night, drenched in cold sweat, his wrists stinging painfully. He tiredly stumbles his way into the bathroom, flicks the light on and shuts the door behind him. His wrists are raw and red, and every movement brings more itching, stinging pain. It was a nightmare that woke him; he can see the bruises beneath his eyes in his reflection as he shoves his hands in the sink, hoping the tepid water will soothe the aching skin. The water does little to calm the pain, and he stands in the bathroom for a few moments, looking at the raw, rope burn like marks marring his skin. The imagined Lucifer stands behind him, smirks at Sam's reflection. Sam thinks he might deserve the pain, for the wretched thing he's done. He turns off the tap, the light, and leaves the bathroom. As he crawls beneath the blankets, the pains in his wrists grow, and throb dully. Sam closes his eyes.

Tuesday morning, Sam hides the raw welts with a long sleeve shirt, rather than have Dean ask questions he couldn't answer. Dean leaves to pick up breakfast, Sam asks for a salad; when Dean returns, Sam throws it away when he isn't looking. They visit a small town. They salt and burn the bones of a man who died in an unfortunate car accident. Dean celebrates with a visit to the local bar, Sam sits on the bathroom floor and clutches ice in his fists, swallowing aspirin dry. It's a pain he's never felt, an emotion he's never touched. Behind him, Lucifer sits and whispers in his ear. Tears slip down his cheeks, drop to the dingy tile floor. The ice melts, and Lucifer laughs. Sam slowly, so slowly, makes his make to his bed, and buries his head in the pillow. He wakes again to the smell of rust, and the sight of red streaks on linen. Sam shoves the pillow out of sight, and scrubs the blood from his face with sore hands. From his dark corner of the motel room, Lucifer whispers dirty things. Sam lays back down on the bed, his feet feel as if hot pokers are slowly being pushed through. Of all the things his mind has done, Sam thinks, this is surely the worst. Lucifer chuckles, and Sam tries to sleep.

Sam begs off a hunt in Wisconsin, feigning sickness. The marks on his hands hurt more and more every hour, they begin to bleed as Sam searches through religious miracles on his computer. Lucifer laughs at him, tells Sam he's wicked for even thinking such a divine thing could happen to him. That God would bless such a blasphemous soul. Sam reads, and Sam prays. He prays that this isn't a hallucination, a tortured remnant of hell. When his finger become slick with blood, he still isn't sure that he isn't imagining it. Sam wrenches the drawer out of the motel's nightstand, clutches the Bible between warm, wet fingers. He drops to his knees, presses his face to the dirty, musty carpet. The Bible's pages become soggy between his fingers, but he holds it tighter, whispers more fiercely into the carpet. Lucifer hisses at him, at times unintelligible. He is angry that Sam could think God would love him this way. Sam's body shudders, his hands bleed. Occasionally he has to stop praying, bite his fist to keep from screaming. The room becomes sickly sweet with the smell of rust, and flowers. Lucifer is angry, he screams at Sam, but Sam prays.

When Dean comes back to the hotel, early Thursday afternoon, he shouts. He runs to Sam, attempts to wipe the blood from his face, screams questions at him, tries to drag him to the car. Sam pulls away. He looks down at the wounds in his hands, the welts on his wrists. He touches the blood on his forehead, his scalp. Trembling fingers wipe blood from his eyes, and he cries. He looks up at his brother, his terrified, broken brother. He looks, and he cries. Dean can see the blood on his skin, the holes in his flesh. He can smell the copper, laced with sweet perfume. Dean can see his pain, his suffering. Lucifer can hear is agony, his relief. Sam closes his eyes, and he cries. He cries, he smiles. Sam presses his face to the carpet, he whispers thank you and I love you. He worships.

He is forgiven.

He is loved.

He is blessed.

Whoop, saw Stigmata!Sam art on tumblr, and it was everything I never knew I wanted. So there's this now. Common 'symptoms' of stigmata (aside from bleeding and wounds of the hands, feet, and wrist): little or no eating, and sweet smelling blood. Often called Odour of Sanctity. Wounds also tend to bleed without clotting. It usually begins on a Thursday, and ends on a Friday. Obviously I stretched it out in this fic, but you know, creative liberties and all that jazz. Stigmata is seen as a Divine blessing, a sign from God that you are loved and blessed. Forgiven. Many stigmatics feel ecstasy, so overwhelmed are they by their emotions after receiving such a blessing from the Lord himself.