Two uploads within a day? I know, right? I needed a break from Volition to regather my thoughts, and I figured I'd go ahead and finish this request! I'm so, so sorry for the waits with my commissions, I just never have much time. At least I get them done.

This is a Hurt!Sam request by sg. sanita.

They requested a story in which takes place after Sam is rescued from the BMOL, and is emotionally damaged. I may have strayed a tiny bit from the prompt, but I still hope it meets what you wanted! There is no Mary in this story, nor Cas.

Warning: Mentions of Suicide, Graphic Depictions of Violence.

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, blah, blah, blah.

Please review if you have the time! Also, if you have a Hurt!Sam prompt, PM me and I'll try my best to fill it! Enjoy!

Sam would like to say that the bunker is silent, but he knows that's not true. The bunker is never silent. Whether it be the electricity working, or coffee being made in the kitchen, something is always moving, always working, always making noise.

Before his kidnapping, courtesy of the British Men of Letters, sure. He might have considered this silence, because if you weren't really listening, then you couldn't hear a single thing.

But silence was one of Bevell's favorite weapons.

Aside from the occasional questions of names (always names) then he really couldn't hear anything. There was no light, so there was no sound of electricity. There was no coffee, so there was no sound of the drip drip drip.

Sam honestly didn't believe there was a time when he would be missing the sound of coffee, of all things, but when you were left alone to nothing but your thoughts, then you started to change the way you think. It was lonesome.

He understands now how people in solitary go crazy from lack of socialization. He only experienced a fraction of that, yet it felt like a lifetime—apart from the moments he was passed out in that chair or on the stairs due to the exhaustion of screaming. Throughout his life he's discovered that screaming takes a lot out of you, though he's able to work through most of it; because, well, after centuries in the Cage, there was no time for sleep. Sam laughs about how a few years ago, he went a week without rest and nearly died, when he's suffered years without it before. It was almost comical how insignificant they were side-by-side. At least in that basement, he was allowed to pass out. ("No passing out, Sammy. It's not fun when you're not awake for it, kiddo!" Lucifer smiled.)

The cattle prod was one of the worst things, however. It reminded him so very much of the sensation of being burned alive. The skin blistering and swelling under the current, the extensive pain that came with it. It was almost as though he could hear Lucifer's boasting laugh in the background of his mind. The humiliation. The shame. Yet also the pride in himself.

Even in the Cage, he knew he deserved to be there. Sure, some of it was penance. He had began all of this, hadn't he? But the other, more large part of it, was the fact that he had saved millions upon millions of lives by doing what he did. Throughout the flames, throughout the hooks, throughout the chains tearing and disemboweling him everyday, the one thing he held onto was the fact that so many other people would be alive because of his sacrifice.

He knew one day he'd break. After all, it was Hell's Archangels he was neighbored with. The Serpent, of the biblical sense, and the righteous son of the Lord. A mere human he was, an infinitesimal enigma. He held no power down there, while the Angels grasped and consumed and bathed in every bit of it. When would he finally give in? He wasn't sure, but he had plenty of time, he guessed. ("Don't you understand, Sam? You locked us down here for eternity. Do you not know what that means? We have all the time in, I mean, forever.")

Now, at least he could maybe do one, miniscule thing to contribute to his original scheme, as inconsequential as it is. Telling the British the underground railroad of hunters in America would have only made things worse. Controlled, leashed, and made into loyal attack hounds, giving their owners full control over who lives and who dies. Judge, jury, and executioner seemed very relatable right about then.

But he had held out. In the end, things had been fine. Dean had pulled through for him, just like he always did. On the one escape attempt he had tried, he thinks back to how he almost thought, what if I really did end my life with this piece of glass? and shudders. Too many times he had thought that way, and every time it made him feel guilty. Bevell was different.

Dean had been dead. His last family member had been gone. What would he have had to live for? When he found out he was Lucifer's vessel, well after Dean had told him to pick a hemisphere, he recalls thinking, why would he stay here when he'd just get so many people murdered? It was the logical thing; the good of the many over the good of the one. It would be selfish to think otherwise, and Sam had screwed up one too many times to not.

("You brought me back?"

A maniacal chuckle.

"I told you I would.")

Sam remembers breaking down in the motel alone, wishing somehow for his brother to come and comfort him, come pick him up from where he collapsed down to. He remembers the feeling of being unable to breathe, struggling for breath that was there in copious amounts but not respiring throughout his lungs correctly. He remembers the shaking of his body, the numbness in his hands of feet. The trying to not let tears fall, but failing miserably when it started to rain. The panic. The fear.

He remembers watching the blood flow down his wrists and staring at it as though it were the most miraculous thing in the world, a thing to be observed and gazed at in awe. He remembers feeling lightheaded and dizzy; he remembers the black spots dancing around his peripheral vision; he remembers being unable to keep awake.

He remembers resurfacing to the world, good as new.

Dean would've killed him (again) had he found out what Sam had done when he was away. He had taken the coward's way out, not that that had mattered when everything was said and done.

But in the basement? Dean maly be dead, but Sam would not disappoint him again. ("You can't win this one, Sam. You're not strong enough.") Letting him go to Hell, releasing the Devil, losing his soul, going crazy, not looking for Dean in Purgatory, not finishing the trials, freeing the Darkness. It seemed as though every time Sam did something, it was always the absolute wrong thing. Why was making the right choice so hard? Why was his life always a given pathway of crisscrossing and intertwining roads that got so confusing he couldn't tell which way was up and which way was down? ("A fiddle of gold against your soul says I'm better than you.")

Sam rubbed his hands over the faded-out scar on his palm. To be fair, there were a lot of everlasting marks there, but the white, stitched, and deepest one would always be a stunningly bright reminder to his past. ("Stone number one, little brother. Stone number one.")

Blinking, he stood up from the main room and gently closed his laptop. With the only light in the room now gone, it was scarily dark, but he pushed the lingering thoughts behind his mental wall. Silently, he navigated his way down the hallway, and stopped at one specific door. He sucked in a breath, opening it quietly.

His brother lay on the bedspread, headphones over his ears and looking at pictures with a bottle of Jack Daniel's to accompany him. At the sight of Sam, Dean's brows furrowed and he removed his music. Straightening up, he asked slowly, "Sammy? You okay?"

Sam shook his head, and stumbled into the room. Cas may have healed his physical injuries, but he didn't heal the most important ones. Just like he may have taken away the insanity, but not the Cage memories.

Dean was instantly up and out of his sheets, walking to his little brother as he collapsed into the comforting embrace of a hug. Sam felt a tear cascade down his cheek, and shunned himself for letting his weakness show. ("It's hard to believe you were the guy who saved the world once.) Dean must've caught on though, because he was then saying, "Hey, hey. It's okay. You're okay. Sammy, look at me."

Sam shifted his eyes to Dean's own, and took in the forest green eyes—the color of life, renewal, nature, and energy.

He shakily nodded, and began constructing his emotional defenses again. He could see Dean's sadness as he realized what he was doing, but continued on.

He gripped Sam tighter.

("Believe me, okay? You gotta believe me. You gotta make it stone number one, and build on it. You understand me?")

"You good, Sammy?"

Sam sniffed, and wiped his eyes.

"Y-Yeah. I'm good."

("You can't torture something that has nothing left to take away.")

"Hey, Dean?" Sam whispered. "Thank you."

Dean looked confused. "For what?"

"For rescuing me. Like you always do."

The older brother snorted, and the little brother gave a shy smile. "You got that right. I'll always rescue you, bitch."

Together they held onto each other, and only parted when Sam fell asleep in Dean's arms. Together they survived. Together they kept each other sane.

Together they lived.