#is a creeper as usual | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dr3amofagame · 2 years

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a quick fic for c!dream hybrid day !! involving creeper hybrids c!dream and c!sam (what will they do)

tws: abuse, torture and death mentions, lots of Weirdness about hybrid traits bc c!sam has Issues (tm)

The cell is hot.

It cuts through even the coolant running through the insides of Sam’s armor, the residual effects of the fire resistance he downed before pearling through the lava. The air shimmers and warps next to the lava, and he turns away from the overwhelming brightness with a tight frown, fist tightening over Warden’s Will as he surveys the cell. It’s relatively clean for one of Quackity’s visits, not that that means very much. Dream has managed to pull himself upright against the back wall, eyes blank.

“Dream,” Sam rolls his eyes, rapping his sword against the floor until his gaze swivels over to focus on him. His pupils are pinpricks, shining gold.

“Sam,” Dream mutters, his voice hoarse. He blinks, shakes his head, blinks again. “Sorry.”

The apology is tacked on like an afterthought, and Sam sighs again.

“Get up.” He surveys the damage as Dream struggles up to his feet; there’s another series of bleeding gashes carved into his back, some sort of large, amorphous burn that’s ruined one pant leg and covers most of his shin, his hair stringy and wet - if Sam were to guess, from being dunked in the cauldron again. Manageable enough, even without potions, but he’ll use one anyway for his back just to ensure he won’t bleed out. Dream’s legs wobble underneath him, his ear flicking back and forth, and Sam pushes him away from the back wall of the cell with the flat of his sword, handing over a change of clothes and a health potion as he does.

“Don’t take too long,” he warns, watching carefully as Dream cradles the glass bottle with two hands. “And don’t drop the potion. You’re not getting a second one.”

“Okay.”

Sam turns away from him, looking at the blood and grime on the ground and internally lamenting the mess; no matter how many times he tells Quackity to be more careful, he never manages to listen quite as well as Sam would like. This is supposed to be better than the last few days, which - if Sam is to be fair - it is. But better doesn’t mean he’s not going to be here for the next thirty minutes mopping the obsidian, nor does it mean that Quackity hasn’t ruined yet another prison uniform that Sam will inevitably end up having to find the materials to replace. He lets his sword fall back into his inventory, pulling out a bucket of water and a mop with a frustrated sigh that barely skirts around becoming a low hiss, starting at the leftmost wall of the cell in silence.

It’s barely five minutes later when the hissing begins: an almost inaudible low hum of noise at his back that he stubbornly ignores. The mop splashes loudly as he dunks it in the water, scrubbing grit and grime from the cracks in the stone and staining the head of it red-brown, and the hissing grows in volume like it’s trying to drown it out. His fists tighten on the mop handle. There’s a puddle of dried blood and vomit in the corner he has to scrub at for a solid minute and a half. He adjusts how his mask sits on his face with one hand, a spark of a rising headache pulsing brighter against the front of his skull-

“Will you stop that?”

The hissing cuts off. Dream stares back at him, wide-eyed, the points of his eyes impossibly small and bright. Smoke curls from the corner of his lips, mouth barely open. Sam notes, with no small measure of irritation, that he has yet to put on his new shirt.

Dream looks away first. “Sorry.”

“Hurry up. And stay quiet.”

Sam turns back, mop clutched tightly in his hands until the joints of his gauntlets creak against each other, headache worsening despite the silence from the man behind him. With new vigor, he scrubs at the floor along the back of the cell, determined to leave as soon as possible.

“Sam-”

“What, Dream.”

“I- my shirt.” Sam looks back at him; with how sickly pale he’s become, the embarrassed flush that settles over his face and neck is impossible to ignore, the darker, blocky patches of green over his cheeks and shoulders much like Sam’s own fading into the rest of his skin. “I can’t-”

Sam bites back a flash of burning anger, startled momentarily at the ferocity of it even in his own head. “Figure it out, Dream. I’m not your butler.”

“Please, Sam.” Behind the words, the hissing builds, then stops. “I-”

The cell is sweltering; heat gathers at Sam’s collar, the fire resistance long having worn off. He sets his jaw and looks over at Dream, who - admittedly - looks a little pathetic. He’s tangled up in his shirt, one sleeve dangling loosely, beads of sweat gathering at his hairline from the heat or exertion. His eyes have brightened to a piercing orange, pinpricks of brilliant light in his dark eyes, and Sam feels the hairs of his neck stand on end.

“Watch it, Dream,” he mutters, waving away a curling fog of smoke and gunpowder. Dream hesitates, then nods, shoulders tight as Sam reaches for his shirt, careful not to touch him. The lava glitters at the edges of his vision, hair sticking to the skin of his neck. It’s awkward, maneuvering his arm into the sleeve, and Sam backs away immediately after with a roll of his shoulders.

“Thank you,” Dream says, voice almost a whisper. He pulls at the shirt awkwardly, wincing every so often from the strain at his back, and Sam turns his gaze back to the cell after he starts fumbling with the buttons. There’s a dull ache in his head that he tamps down, clearing his throat awkwardly as he returns to the mop.

He finishes cleaning the rest of the cell without any more interruptions, finally looking back at Dream clutching the bloody rags of his old uniform and an empty potion bottle. Sam picks up the bucket of water from the ground and returns it and the mop to his inventory.

“Sam,” Dream says, voice pitched hesitantly, and Sam feels his jaw jump.

“What now, Dream!”

Dream stares back at him, silent. His expression is unreadable, eyes an even darker orange, a dull, inconsistent buzzing making Sam’s ears ring. Inside his own ribcage, there’s something hot and bright and sharp, begging to tear loose. To swell into light and aching heat, to set the world aflame, and Sam swallows a gulp of air that’s not cool enough to do anything more than fan the flames.

“It’s hot in here, Sam,” Dream says, looking away. His eyebrows are furrowed in inscrutable thought. “It’s too hot. You know that.”

“You should’ve thought of that earlier then,” Sam says, clipped. “This cell was your design-”

“I know, I know-” Dream mutters, dismissive, and Sam forces down the hiss building in his own lungs. “But- with Quackity-”

“I don’t see how this has to do with Quackity.”

“The- the gunpowder, Sam! And the lava!” Sam’s ear flicks irritably, and he runs his hand through his hair beside it, remembering Dream’s doing the same. “It’s not- you know it’s not-”

“Quackity has been supplied a mask and appropriate precautionary equipment.” Sam’s voice comes out more guttural than he intends, and he forces himself to take a deep breath. He has to leave. The searing brightness at his sternum presses against the cool metal of his chestplate.

“You mean- a bucket of ice water and a shield? Yeah, because that’s going to do so much when I literally explode and kill us both, Sam! Don’t you remember-”

“He’s been informed with what to do in case-”

“-what happened to Tommy!”

Sam whirls around. Dream’s eyes are wide, eyes glittering in the lava’s light, lips still slightly parted as Sam stares down at him. There’s a seething rattle to the air, steam in a kettle, rising to a fever pitch as Sam feels himself move forward towards where Dream is still standing in the middle of the cell.

“Tommy? You killed Tommy, Dream! You ruined his life! You wanted to put him in here!” The mask digs into his face, knocking against his chin as his mouth moves.

“Sam-”

“You’re the reason why the cell is like this. You’re the reason why Quackity has to visit. Stop trying to- use all of these things to convince me- you know what? You’re right! You’re right, I do know what’s necessary for the cell. I know better than anyone, and you know that. So don’t try and threaten me, Dream!”

“Sam, please-”

“You deserve this, Dream-”

“SAM!”

Sam’s hand clamps around Dream’s wrist only to wrench away - the cell is hot, and Dream’s skin burns. Dream’s eyes are wide as saucers, the smoke spilling from his mouth blurring the image of his face with a hazy sheet of translucent grey, and Sam only barely registers himself pulling out a pearl and launching himself into the lava, forcing himself through over to the opposite side with his heart pounding in his chest.

He waits; one second passes, then two. His breathing is harsh and heavy and loud through the mask, hissing ringing in his ears. From Dream’s cell, there’s no sudden swell of sound, no harsh crack of an explosion tempered through the lava curtain. He forces his breathing to steady with his shoulders pressed against the atrium wall, waiting for a detonation that never comes.

Finally, relatively confident that the danger zone has passed, Sam peels himself from the wall, feeling strangely heavy on his feet, almost disoriented. He ignores the levers on the wall - Dream is fine, surely, he didn’t hear anything from the cell - and heads for the bathroom. Some cold water on his face sounds amazing right now.

(A few minutes later, he hesitates as he leans over the sink, focusing on his reflection.)

(The eyes in the mirror glow bright orange as they stare back.)