Chapter Text
A shrill screech leaves him when two sharp fingers were jammed into his soul without warning. Oh god it hurt. It hurt. With only 1HP, it was a miracle that didn't kill him. "P-P-Pa..... Boss...!" In the position he was in, he'd like to keep from provoking him further. He stiffens when his brother's hand wraps around his spine. He knows that he could break him right then and there, just dust him without any trouble. But... He wouldn't do that. He hurt him, but he'd never go as far as killing him. "Boss." He croaks out again and the grip on his spine tightens.
"Shut the fuck up." He hisses through jagged teeth. Sans smells the faint scent of whiskey on his breath and cringes. It must've been a bad day. Bad days weren't a good thing for him, especially not bad days that ended in alcohol. Those days usually resulted in a broken rib or finger if he was lucky. He said goodbye to the use of his magic for the rest of the week. He needed a lot of rest after healing himself from things like that; so much that he could barely summon a simple bone attack afterwards. And Papyrus wondered why he slept all the goddamn time.
"Stop stop stop...!" He screams again when the fingers in his soul curl downwards, the fingertips pushing a small hole into the gelatin-like heart. The only thing keeping him from doubling over was the hand wrapped around his vertebrae. He sees a red liquid dripping down his face and assumes that he's crying. Or Papyrus is crying, and leaning so far over him is causing the tears to drop onto Sans' cheeks. He thinks the former is more likely, and the humiliation starts sinking in. He sighs with uncensored relief when the foreign feeling in his soul leaves, only a phantom echo of the pain is left.
But the relief is short lived. This time Papyrus' entire hand grasps his soul, giving it a light squeeze. He chuckles when Sans lets out another cry. He knew Papyrus would never go so far as to kill him when he was sober. But... He was drunk off his ass right now. There was no telling what he would or wouldn't do.
Oh, god, Papyrus was going to kill him. He was going to get dusted, right here, right now, by his own brother. He'd be lying if he denied having nightmares about this. Hell, it went beyond nightmares. Anytime he was struck, the thought popped into his head. What if Papyrus gets so angry he murders me.
Apparently satisfied with his brother's response, he squeezes the red soul again. Sans whimpers and pleads for him to stop but he never lets go. He waits for the pain to stop. It just keeps getting worse, as the pressure keeps increasing. Papyrus keeps tightening his grip, and Sans thinks he might burst. His soul might explode any second---Fuck---This is how he dies. This is where his life ends. He wails. He didn't know how he was surviving this.
White specks resembling flour fall in small numbers when he's shoved further against the wall by his spine. Was that... Dust...? It was dust. He was literally falling apart. In a last attempt to save himself, he bangs his fists against the wall so hard the drywall caves in on itself where the impact hit. "Papyrus!" His voice is so loud and that he feels his jaw vibrate as the scream passes through. His arm is grabbed by the hand that was previously wrapped around his spine. He hears an unsettling crunch. "Papyrus! Stop!" He lets himself cry. The pressure on his soul releases and the hand on his arm is gone - did Papyrus actually... Listen? He hears a loud thump behind him. He jumps and cautiously turns his head to look. Oh. Papyrus hadn't listened. He passed out.
He slid down to the floor and examined the damage. Slowly, he lifts his shirt and tries his best to look at his soul, even if it is a little too high up to get a proper glance. it's indented in two places. It's deep enough for him to see that, at least. But it's not cracked, so he should be fine. He investigates the source of the god-awful crunch, next. He holds his arm in front of himself and shivers. Cracked. It's nothing too deep, but it covers a good deal of the surface and looks worse than it really is. He lifts himself off of the floor and stumbles into his room. He reaches to lock the door - but decides against it. The last thing he wanted was to get in trouble for 'hiding things'. The hole in the wall would be problematic enough.
He didn't even bother to change before he pathetically crawled underneath the covers of his bed. He prayed that he could get a good nights sleep for once, but insomnia or the dull pain would probably cut that short. He could only hope Boss would stay passed out for the whole night.
Three hours later, he was woken by screaming and swearing about the hole in the wall.
His luck always ran dry, didn't it?