Bed of Iron

by Mystic25

Tag to: "The Man Who Knew Too Much." The immediate aftermath of Sam's crumbled Wall. RATED M, for imagery.

"Bed of Iron"

Mystic25

Summary: Tag to: "The Man Who Knew Too Much." The immediate aftermath of Sam's crumbled Wall. RATED M, for imagery.

Rating: M for language, and violent imagery, of well, Hell…I did the highest rating to be safe.

A/N: I seriously doubt we'll get anything dealing with "the moment after" in Season Seven. Most likely it will be bits and pieces of Dean trying to help, and Sam trying to be stoic. So I am creating that moment now, because I needed it. But, be warned, writing it made me cry. But, I can't just leave it at "Sam woke up, end scene, the end."

A/N #2: This is not a slash fic. This is about Sam AND Dean, and about all that their relationship means without trying to create something else. Also, Lucifer is in this, and he isn't nice…so don't expect me to "reform the Devil." Expect me to explain how he likes to torture. You have been warned.

A/N #3: Having warned about the above mentioned thing, this isn't just a torture fic, I'm not a masochist. This is about….this is about feeling.

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"It is astonishing just how much of what we are can be tied to the beds we wake up in in the morning, and it is astonishing how fragile that can be."

-Neil Gaiman Coralline

"Hear me sing: 'Swim to me, swim to me, let me enfold you." Here I am, here I am, waiting to hold you."

-This Mortal Coil "Song to the Siren"

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Dean never liked sleeping on the ground.

He did it, more times than he could even remember; and more times that he cared to remember.

Few people knew the real gift of a mattress with clean sheets; the softness of it being able to lap and you like a wave. Letting you slide under into a world that only existed in dreams.

But, the ground was a harsher thing, like some angry lover who would let you lie with them; but then make you endure all the pain their temperament presented.

No, it was a proven fact, Dean Winchester hated sleeping on the ground. It made his muscles scream, made his spine creak like the old boards of a water warped floor. But, he was sitting here, on a floor made of solid iron, bunching up his wool jacket for use as a pillow, preparing to sleep on the ground yet again.

Because there were levels of hate.

Yes, he hated the hard, unyielding iron ground to try and use for a bed. But, he hated something else more. Trying to force his brother to join him in this pain. Because, he had enough pain to deal with. Enough for 12 lifetimes.

And this hate, trumped his own.

"Dean," Bobby stood above him, holding out a bundled gray blanket.

Dean pushed aside the offering. "I improvised already Bobby, give it to Sam."

"Don't be a martyr boy!" Bobby snapped. "Sam's already got a full set up." He pressed the bundle at Dean again. "I ain't askin'" He kept the blanket at Dean's chest level; watching the defiance of the 32-year-old man who was squatting against a wall in his panic room. The white markings of angel proofing signs were drawn above Dean's head; and all over the rest of the walls. They resembled a child's crayoned drawings. Drawn by heaven's dubbed: "Children of God" to keep out God himself. At least the new, crazy self proclaimed God.

"And I'm not accepting Bobby," Dean retaliated. "It's a freakin' icebox in here." He shoved the offending blanket away. He was cold, but he was also an older brother. "Give it to Sam; he's got enough going on without adding pneumonia to the list."

"Will you quit bein' a idjit about this Dean-"

"Guys-" The voice was barely above a whisper, and laced with a combination of pain and weariness.

Dean pulled himself upright, using the wall for support. He grabbed the blanket out of Bobby's hand, and walked to the center of the Panic Room, to the cot that sat there.

Sam was sitting on the edge of it, long body hunched over, his face in his hands.

The three of them had arrived in this room not half an hour ago. Half an hour proceeding long hours of driving in a stolen Winnebago. Bobby at the wheel, Dean in the passenger seat, his Colt .45 aimed out the rolled down window. And Sam in the back, barely able to see through a haze of blinding pain and flashes from the Cage. But, he kept trying to push it away like it was nothing but a tension headache, and kept aim out the window with his black handgun Dean had left for him, backing up his brother as best he could.

They made it back to Bobby's without incident, angelic, Godly or otherwise. Bobby and Dean had scooped Sam up between them and hauled him down the stairs to the Panic Room. Their need to get Sam someplace where at least they had a shot of a moment to collect themselves outweighed their concern for complete carefulness in moving the youngest man. But, Sam kept his complaints to himself, because he too felt too exposed out in the salvage yard. And, he tried to move as much under his own steam as he could in order to get them all out the night.

"How ya feelin'?" Dean could see Sam's skin, sweat covered, almost the color of new milk. His brother looked awful. But, he asked, because he needed to hear how Sam felt from Sam himself.

"Give me a minute, and I'll be able to Riverdance," Sam said through his hands, trying to make a joke. But, the grittiness and the 'dragged through the dirt' sound of his voice whitewashed his attempt.

Dean laid a hand on the back of Sam's neck; feeling sweat there as thick as maple syrup. He felt as Sam trembled under his hand, and felt how cold his skin was.

"Any requests?" Sam lifted his head revealing bloodshot hazel-green eyes, and sweat soaked hair. The joke was attempted again; but, it never made it past the agony Dean could see there.

Dean knelt down so that he was at eye level with Sam and touched his forehead, then the side of his face. "Damn man, you're freezing." He unfolded the blanket that was resting on his knees and draped it over Sam's shoulders.

"No," Sam pushed the blanket off of him. "Dean, I'm not cold."

"Sam, you're shivering," Dean argued, replacing the blanket. "We need to get you warm-"

"No!" Sam's outcry was louder. He shoved the blanket away like it was a live grenade. "Dean, no, please, it's – hot – so fucking hot - I – can't – I-"

"Sam?" Dean laid his hands on Sam's shoulders. He could hear the babbling in Sam's words and it was scaring him.

"I'm burning Dean!" Sam broke off in a gasp and grasped at his head, holding it like it would explode. "Fire, there's fire everywhere! Lucifer, he's slicing my skin off, he's gagging me with it – oh god!-" a crying whimper tore at his throat. "I can taste it-"

"You're not there!" Dean grabbed Sam's face in his hands. "Sam, it isn't real!" Hearing Sam recant his memories of hell; it was worse than being there. Because, Dean had to see it through Sam's terrified eyes, and his own. Because, Sam's pain was his pain too.

"Dean," Sam's voice was something torn apart, like paper in a rainstorm. "He's moving my arms like a puppet, oh god – he's making me kill you, there's so much blood! You're dying Dean – I killed you – I killed you-"

"I'm here!" Dean was shouting, shaking Sam's head, trying to pull him out of those memories, those nightmares. "Sammy I'm here, look at me!"

Sam's eyes pulled open. "Dean-" seeing Dean there, real and alive and breathing made Sam choke on a breath like he had been drowning. He could hear Lucifer's maniacal laughter in his ears, ripping him apart. Screeching with such happy glee. That sound was its own torture. "Why is this happening?" Sam was choking again on such a weight of pain he could feel it snapping him like dry twigs. Tears began to fall down his face like rain; one, two, six.

Dean's hand moved to the back of Sam's neck, grabbing it, and pulling his brother to him, his other arm going across Sam's shoulders. He rubbed Sam's neck and rocked him, rubbed and rocked, rubbed and rocked. "It's okay Sammy," Dean felt Sam's hot tears soaking the fabric of his black T-shirt. "I'm gonna get you through this man, that's a promise. Alright?" Dean felt his own tears threatening, felt a sob wanting to tear away from his throat. But, he didn't give into it because if he fell apart, then Sam would have nothing left to hold onto.

From over Sam's shoulder Dean met Bobby's eyes. The look shared between them was soul crushing. Because, neither man knew if what they were doing would be enough. And, it was a terrifying thought. That Sam would live the rest of his days in such brutal agony, because he had ensured that everyone else could live the rest of theirs.

Sam's head was buried in the center of Dean's chest, his hands digging into Dean's arms. He was clinging to his brother like he had done when he was 5 and scared of monsters under the bed. But, he wasn't 5 anymore, he was 28, and it wasn't monsters that scared him anymore.

It was the image of Lucifer. His face a horror of fire, and fangs, and blood, and blackness. Remembering being inches from that nightmare for 180 years, and screaming every minute of every hour of it.

His soulless self was right, this piece, this tortured brokenness, it was the worst part. It made reality a literal hell. Sam could smell the sulfur and copper of blood, leaking from hundreds of screaming souls into a hideous demon made lake. He could hear those screams as the demons tore them apart on the racks.

/ Lucifer's talon tippedfingers clawed at him, forcing his eyes open so that he could see the suffering of thousands.

Bodies writhed and screamed under demons flaying them with rusted spike Cat-O' Nine tailed whips. The smell of blood hung in the air like a sickening perfume.

"Your brother was well acquainted with this form of torture. Both on, and OFF the rack."

Hearing Lucifer's voice, a grating nail scrapping, rancid sound, blowing molten fire by his ear- hearing him talk about Dean. It was agony for Sam. It made a thousand, a million, memoires of his brother flash through him.

Lucifer's talons caressed Sam's hair, his nails clotted with centuries of human blood. The filthy claws tore gashes through Sam's scalp, and rained Sam's own blood down him.

Sam's chest heaved on a horrifying repulsion, on the agony that would never stop. He beat his manacled fists against the obsidian blackness that forged Lucifer's Cage. His tears burned like lava, scorching his skin, melting it off, but then, like magic, he was whole in an instant, to feel that scorching pain again. But, it wasn't the PHYSICAL pain that hurt the most. It was the agony of knowing that memories of Dean were all he had left.

He would never see him for real again.

"De-" His brother's name was cut off as a pool of blood filled his mouth, gagging him. It dribbled down his lips as Lucifer gripped his chin in all five curled death black talons.

The Devil turned Sam's face towards him. "Shh," he placed a long, sinewy finger to Sam's mouth. "No one here but us kiddo."/

"De-" a gasp, a heaving.

"I'm here Sam," Dean repeated his earlier calling. He dug his nails into Sam's back, dug hard to make Sam feel it, so that he could feel him. "I'm here."

Sam swayed dangerously to the side. Dean grabbed him before he could topple over, but his body was too heavy for Dean to grab securely. And, Sam was three seconds away from falling off of the cot and cracking his skull on the solid iron floor.

Dean turned to Bobby, his eyes scared, but he let that look vanish almost instantly, and replaced it with something that he hoped was stronger. "Help me!"

Bobby went quickly to Dean's side; drawing one of Sam's arms up over his shoulder.

The movement raised Sam's head up in a frenzied terror; and he both cried out and jerked away from Bobby like he was being attacked. One of his flailing hands back lashed into Bobby's face, sending the older man's head reeling back painfully.

"Damnit!" Dean's curse was said as he attempted to grab Sam's flailing left arm that was up in a defensive 'swing at anything that moves' stance. The posture of someone caged, scared to death of the torture that would come from what had been caged with them.

"Sam-!" Dean used all of his weight to pin Sam's arm down; but he did it by grasping both his wrists. He knew that this wasn't as secure of a hold as pinning down his arms. But, Sam was living through Hell Memories. And, Dean knew all too well, and all too painfully, that you were tied down in hell for torture. And, he didn't want t add another sensation to his brother's nightmare.

"Sammy!" Dean said Sam's name as a demand. Trying to get his brother's terrified eyes – so dilated that his green irises were only thin rings around blackness – to see him.

Sam's pupils contracted at hearing his name called in only the way that Dean could. The blackness began to recede to green. But, his breathing was erratic, on the verge of hyperventilation. "Dean-"

"Stay with me Sam," Dean grabbed his little brother's face in his hands again. "Eyes on me, okay?" He called out over his shoulder: "Bobby, you okay?"

"Nothin' broken," came Bobby's gruff reply as he rubbed and flexed his jaw from where Sam's hand had connected with his face. He approached Sam again, reaching down to take his arm and place it up over his shoulder. "We're trying this again son, okay?"

This time Sam was lucid enough to recognize Bobby's touch; his head broke away from Dean's hold, shifting to Bobby's face. "Bobby—I'm sorry—" the words were low, trembling with the effort it took to say them.

"Don't you apologize boy, not for one second, ya hear me?" Bobby spoke so rapidly that the agonizing choking feeling couldn't be repressed fast enough before a heavy tear fell down his face; becoming tangled up in his beard. "This ain't your doin'."

"Come on Sammy," Dean said, taking his brother's other arm, and placing it over his shoulder. "We gotcha." He and Bobby pulled, hauling Sam slowly to his feet.

They walked with Sam supported between them; Sam doing his best to hold himself upright to keep his weight as much off of Bobby and Dean as he could. "Guys no—I'm too heavy—I can walk-"

"You're not that all fire convincing right now Sam," Bobby argued. He and Dean were taking small, shuffling steps to keep from jostling Sam as much as they could. "Your brother and I got this; just hold on to us."

Each step was a progression of centimeters. Walking for a fraction, checking Sam's face to see how he was tolerating it, then walking again.

"God, I miss when you were lanky Sam," Dean said this with a low grunt. "Muscle weighing more than fat ain't no damn lie."

"Been checking me out again?" The attempt at banter was said through gritted teeth; but Sam said it anyway. Because, if he couldn't lessen the physical weight, then he would try to lessen the weight of the mood.

"Yeah, you're might ultimate fantasy Sam," Dean threw back.

"Knew it-" Sam's words were cut off in a garbled cry.

"Sam!" Dean felt Sam's weight drop out from under him, and he and Bobby pulled to keep Sam upright.

Sam's head flung back, and he grunted a pain filled, guttural scream.

"Sam!" Bobby cried. "Keep with us!" He hauled the younger man up.

/ Lucifer's face was a miasma. A knitting together of darkness and fire. A constant shifting of humanity's worse nightmares that the Devil could control at will to torture the souls that were trapped with him.

The face morphed, changed until it became human, but horribly wrong. Blood leaking out of a mouth full of broken teeth. Eyes almost swollen shut, brown hair dried with blood from oozing lacerations.

"Remember this?" Lucifer wore Dean's face like a cast off masquerade mask, found trampled and shattered on the floor. "Remember feeling these bones breaking Sammy? Remember all the screaming you did inside your own head when we did this?"

Lucifer's breath burned Sam's eyes like acid; sending a rainstorm of tears down his face. Both from the agonizing pain, and seeing the Devil wearing his brother's face. Broken and shattered the way it was in Stull cemetery.

The Devil made a 'tsking' sound, caressing Sam's with a filthy claw. A trickle of blood broke down Sam's skin under that coal black talon. The inventor of Sadism smiled with lips so bloody that anything that made up his form underneath has hidden under centuries of matted redness.

Lucifer kissed Sam, still wearing Dean's face. A grating tearing laughter emitting from that terrifying mouth at feeling Sam's horrid repulsion, and gut wrenching longing to feel his brother for real.

Dean's face melted away, and Lucifer's true visage stared at Sam with burning red eyes, void of any pupils. "Poor little insignificant human boy – you loved him so much didn't you?"/

Sam started to convulse; his entire body arching, wracked in spasms, mouth set in a silent scream.

"Dean, we gotta lay him down!" Bobby cried. "Now, before he hurts himself!"

Dean hooked his arm underneath Sam's right knee, and began to half carry, half drag his seizing brother over to the iron walls of the Panic Room.

"What the hell are you doing Dean!" Bobby yelled. He knew that Dean was trying to help. But, he was afraid that the younger man was so high on adrenaline that he wouldn't remember to avoid hurting his brother in his effort to move him. "We hafta tie him down, for his own protection!"

"No we don't!" Dean shouted back. "No one is tying down my brother!"

What Bobby saw in Dean's face a moment later; it was a look that was nothing but one of saving, and it made his look melt away. He helped Dean shuffle and slide, shuffle and slide Sam over to the iron wall on the right side of the room, to a place clear from his table piled with books and the old radio.

Dean reached the wall first, back pressed against it. "Slide him down-"

"Get on down there first Dean," Bobby said. "Get your footing."

Dean didn't look happy at all at Bobby's suggestion. But, Sam's weight was too precarious; racked with seizures; he could drop him. Dean removed Sam's arm from him, and gave it over to Bobby. "Hold on to him." It wasn't a request.

"I got him Dean," Bobby reassured. He felt Sam spasms under his arms. His eyes were starting to roll back into his head. And, Bobby was trying so damn hard not to lose it; because there was not a chance in hell that he was breaking on Sam.

Dean dropped in a crouch, holding out his arms to receive his brother's weight.

Sam's eyes suddenly snapped opened all the way; and there was nothing but pain in them. "DEAN!" the scream was breaking, shattering.

"Give him to me!" Dean grasped the air frantically, fists opening and closing in desperation.

Bobby could not lower Sam fast enough into Dean's reaching arms.

Sam fell into his brother's body, crashing into his lap in a heap. "Dean please! – Help me! PLEASE!" Sam did not cry for God in his darkest agony. He cried for Dean. A wounded, heart rendering cry to the only one he wanted to stop it.

"I'm here Sam!" Dean repeated the only thing he could think of to say, pulling his brother more securely into his lap. He threw his arms around Sam, holding him down, feeing Sam's tremors wrack both their bodies. "Sammy, I'm here! I'm not gonna leave you!"

Sam's hand was a vise grip on Dean's shirt. His forehead pressed into Dean's abdomen. "Please, please, help me—please-!"

"Dean's got a hold of you Sam," Bobby crouched down beside Sam; laying a strong hand on Sam's shoulder. The touch a conduit, to give his surrogate son all of his strength. "You're not alone son."

The next sound Sam made wasn't agonizing, wasn't a scream. It was pain, a sad, crumbling pain that made him whimper like something beaten. "Why did he do this to me? –I don't understand-" the whimper fell away into the thickness the human voice made when it was crying.

Dean didn't know if Sam meant Lucifer, who had tortured him for all those endless decades, or Castiel, who had broken through the Dam and released that torrent of memories. But, it didn't matter, because, Cas or the Devil- the end result was his brother screaming on such insurmountable agony, breaking apart in his arms. While Dean broke apart above him, because: 'I don't understand' was the most haunting thing Dean had ever heard Sam say.

"I don't know-" Dean's words were lost, desperate. But, he swallowed heavily, clinging to the side of him that had to be strong, because he couldn't fall. Not, if Sam needed to lean on him. "I said I'm gonna get you through this Sam okay? You're still my little brother-" Dean's words broke off in a tremble, tears falling down his face.

Sam's grip tightened on Dean when he heard this. His fingers clawed at his brother's shirt, desperate to feel his heartbeat. The pulsating of it under his palm sent a warm current through him. He dug his hand deeper like he wanted to weld it there. To hold onto the place he knew Dean kept an opening for him – his soul.

There was a choking, desperate cry from Sam; a need to get out air past swallowing down and forcing away sobs. His shoulders were no longer shaking from a seizure, but from this. These sounds almost blotted out Sam's words; something that Dean had to pick apart from the agony. But, something that he heard still.

A gasping, aching: "Love you Dean."

Bobby stood back up hastily from where he was stooped over to grab the fallen blankets sitting by the cot. He turned around to straighten out his bundle; but in reality it was so that Sam and Dean wouldn't see the sudden, brutal rush of tears coming down his face. He couldn't take much more; but, these two had become his boys a long time ago; and he wasn't going to let them do this alone.

It was like a hand was physically squeezing Dean's heart when he heard Sam's words. He always knew that Sam loved him. Knew since the moment his brother was born. But, they never spoke these words out loud, rather they conveyed it in actions, gestures.

To hear it out loud now, it throbbed like a wound; it thumped the soul against Dean's ribs. "I know you do Sammy—I—" Dean raised his eyes to the ceiling, choking on the pain that rushed up to meet him, to undo him. He slammed the back of his head against the iron wall, eyes squeezing closed, as a wave of new tears shook down his face, and scorched his skin. He opened his eyes, and looked down at his brother, seeing nothing but Sam, so lost, so hurt. "Me too." Two small words that held such big meaning. His hand was pressed into Sam's head, like an embrace."So fucking much."

Bobby bit his lip, forcing more tears back before he turned back around with the blanket, his stoic look on his face; or at least he hoped it was. "Are you two idjits trying to kill me with melodrama?" He threw the blanket and a pillow down beside Dean's feet. "Here, guess we're having a little slumber party tonight."

Dean took the pillow and placed it in his lap; coaxing Sam's head down onto it.

"God, I must be a mess. You're not even joking about this-" Sam's voice shook like the roots of a tree, clinging to a crumbling cliff side with everything it had to remain standing there.

Dean's hand was back on the nape of Sam's neck, resting there, warm and alive. "You gonna be okay?" His question was too heavy to hold any real strength. But, he couldn't un-ask it once the words left his mouth.

"No," Sam laughed, weak and dry. He sighed like some tremendous weight was crushing him. "Just—don't'—stay—" his hand scrabbled out, locking on Dean's knee, fingers gripping tightly. "Stay with me, please."

Dean's hand on Sam's neck tightened, and began a fierce rubbing. Sam had clung to him as a child countless times; when it was dark; when thunderstorms happened; when he had scrapped both knees riding his new bike when he was six. But, this wasn't the same. This wasn't a child wanting sating from his great big brother. This was a grown man, shattered; holding onto the only thing keeping him alive and breathing; pleading for him to stay; because it hurt too damn much.

"Where else am I gonna go Sam?" Dean's hand was still rubbing Sam's neck when Bobby held something out in front of him; his pearl handled Colt .45.

"I got first watch." Bobby patted the .25 caliber sawed off shotgun in his hand.

Dean grasped the handle of his gun, feeling Bobby release it into his hand; an agreement made between the two of them at that gesture.

Sam pushed himself on one arm, turning his head up to Bobby. Old Spice and whiskey; that's what Sam had smelled when he was locked away in his own head. How he knew he was at Bobby's; and that's what he smelled now. It was a familiar, comforting scent, because it came from Bobby himself.

"Bobby-" Sam didn't know what to say. Noting would ever be enough. Not when Bobby looked like the only thing that was keeping him from crying was sheer will power. "Thank you." He didn't know what to say' so he said the only thing he hoped would matter. "I wish you didn't have to do this-"

"Don't think that, not for one moment, Sam Winchester—" Bobby's looked so tired; but his voice betrayed none of it. "Savin' people ain't pretty; it's messy and bloody; but I don't give a damn about style! It's what you do for family. You and Dean – you've been my boys, my family for a long time; and I'd save you in a heartbeat, until the last breath left my body—"

"Yes Sir," Sam's quiet whisper of a comment cut off Bobby's ramble; leaving a burning in its wake. Both in Sam and in Bobby.

And, that feeling grew when Bobby Singer, the roughneck, iron clad hunter from the Styx of South Dakota, pressed a kiss to the top of Sam's head. It was a gruff, brief, clumsy movement. But, it told Sam everything Bobby dared not say aloud otherwise he'd start to cry. "Lay on back son; you're off watch duty tonight."

Sam's left hand had never let go of Dean's knee, and he used this to lower himself back down. It was onto a pillow; but, it was also onto Dean's lap; and it was the latter that he curled himself into.

Bobby looked to Dean. "You watch your brother."

In response; Dean's hand set down the gun and went again to the back of Sam's neck; tracing the skin with his thumb. "You gonna tell me how to breathe next Bobby?"

The remark was what Bobby expected to hear from Dean. Something very raw and very real. But, after what had happened, so much agony; Bobby needed to hear such things, to know that things like this still existed in a world gone to hell.

That the sawed off double barrel in his hand was solid and loaded. That the breathing from Sam wouldn't stop because Dean wouldn't let it. That Sam would hold on with everything he had because he hadn't fought this hard to abandon his brother now.

It was how Bobby Singer had to steel himself to stand guard; to protect his own. His family that was small in size only. The cocking of his sawed off echoed around the iron room, like its own circle of protection.

With one last glance at his boys, Bobby stood up with his gun. He walked slowly to where a wooden chair sat directly in front of the reinforced iron door. The old wooden chair took his weight with a slight creak. He laid the gun across his lap; right hand poised on the trigger; alert to take aim on anything that dared tried to come through that door.

It was a fool's job to try and kill angel-turned-God with human bullets. But, Bobby's eyes, his stance, everything about him was in no way foolish. Bullets alone couldn't kill the "New Angel God." But, Bobby Singer, deadly angry at hearing his boy screaming on such brutal pain from this God's purposeful doing—He could rip any angel apart, one feather at a time.

"I remember when we were kids," Dean's words were rough, forcing down the tears that were threatening for release. "You couldn't have been more than 7. We were staying at this flea bag apartment in Carson City—you were enrolled in the local elementary school. And one of your little dumpty school mattes told you were still a baby because you never had a slumber party-"

There was a low rumbling running from Sam through Dean's body. Dean looked down, afraid that something he said had triggered another Hell flashback. But, there was no tears or agony. The noise was a low, laughing sound, not as bright or happy as a real one, but trying.

"Timmy Garber," Sam's voice was as rough as his brother's; gutted and bleeding; but wanting to feel something other than pain. "He called me a 'snot head' because I told him that I had plenty of sleepovers—with my brother. Nearly beat the crap out of me. He shoved me hard into the brick wall of the school at recess. I had this huge, bruised cut above my right eye. But, he sported two bigger ones under both eyes after that 'unnamed bully' jumped him the next day." From where he was lying on his side, Sam could see a small angle of his brother's jeans housing warm, solid legs that he was currently lying on. His hand let go of Dean's knee and patted his older brother's leg knowingly. "And you let me bunk with you for two nights straight because I cursed him out before he shoved me."

"You called him a 'ragged ass dickhead,'" Dean felt a slow smile of pride spread across his face. "You didn't have the baritone for that much of a slam; but you delivered it dude. I couldn't let such a good thing go unrewarded." There was a pause, a moment that brought Dean back to where his words had wanted to go all along. "Every time I woke up to take a piss those next two nights; you'd be sprawled out on me like you are now; like some content puppy. Like it was such an awesome thing, like nothing could touch you so long as you were touching me."

"When I was - in the Cage." Sam had been having flashbacks to Hell four hours; but this was the first time that he was speaking of it voluntarily. And it was like trying to pull a knife out of his stomach, by removing it up through his throat. "Lucifer – he would—" a heavy swallow. "He would stick his hand inside my gut, and he taunted me because he couldn't feel anything there –He said it was the best part because he had broken that tie himself when he made me, hurt, when I jumped, and you were—"

There was a gasp that sucked the air out of Sam's lungs. His back arched.

"Sam!" Dean grabbed his shoulders.

Sam's body jumped as if he'd been electrocuted; slamming onto his back; his head half buried in Dean's chest. His pupils were gone, and he screamed.

"Sammy!" Dean screamed too.

/ "Souls are the most WONDEROUS things to torture," Lucifer walked around his tiny cage, forged from what human beings would call 'iron'. But, in reality it was a metal so ancient, that it dated iron by millennia.

The Devil's eyes were on Sam, blood red. In his true form; he had half formed wings on his back, ripped apart so that there were mostly long skeletal veins with feathers gone black from old dried blood. These wings scraped along the top of his cage with a horrible wail as he walked.

"My Father believed in granting this precious little gift to you weak abortions. But, he didn't know HOW much I could DO with this birthright down here." A snakelike tongue wet cracked bleeding lips. "Especially in the case of His 'Special Ones' The ones that came like you Sam." Ghastly red eyes were inches from Sam's face, unblinking; eyes clotted with putrid decay and slime.

"Half a soul in your body, and the other half in another." A smile, demented, evil, gleeful. "You have NO idea the pleasure that comes from severing that kind of bond. It's like ripping apart an insect's wings and watching it try to fly away." Lucifer's smile became a hiss, a leer, as his hand plunged into Sam's chest.

The Devil felt around the huge cavernous void. "Empty, empty, empty." Lucifer rooted his hand round the torn, brokenness, where something had severed when Sam had jumped into the pit, jumped so far away from what had filled him.

Sam arched, and screamed; he didn't even have the energy to plea, only scream, a loud, choking, howling sound.

"All gone little Sammy Winchester. Where is the rest of your soul?" When Lucifer taunted, his voice was a terrifying mocking sound; it made even the demons that tortured the endless souls on the endless racks in Hell turn towards the Cage in fear.

"Is it gone from you?" Lucifer said around all of Sam's tortured screams, playing with Sam like he was a toy; plunging his appendage back into Sam'a chest, a scaly elbow deep. "Did you feel when it severed?"

Tears began pooling out of Sam's eyes, blinding him. But, they weren't tears, they were blood, bright red, blood falling down his face, hot and metallic. His screams echoed off the cage; no words, just pain, only pain.

Seeing this redness for himself; Lucifer smiled again, slow and sickening. He wiped a drop of blood away from Sam and sucked the drop from his talon. "Yes." He closed his scaled lined eyes, savoring it. "Yes you did." Those eyes came open again, watching Sam, watching his weakness pouring out of him. Lucifer's laugh echoed off the ancient black obsidian cliffs that surrounded Hell. He threw back his massive head and continued to howl this demented laughter under a cloudless crimson sky./

"Sammy!" Dean slapped his brother hard across the face. Shaking Sam had gotten nothing, nothing except more terrified screaming that made Dean wan to gut himself in the heart if it would make it stop.

Sam's eyes snapped open again, they tore wildly around the room, like he was looking for a nightmare in the dark corners. His eyes found Dean; and the moment they did, a rapid falling of tears leaked from his eyes.

"Sam hey, hey man, you with me?" Dean's hands were on Sam's shoulders, his eyes frantic.

Sam felt the liquid on his face. "My eyes—my eyes!" Sam scrubbed at his eyes in panic. "Is there blood? Do you see blood?"

Dean pulled Sam's hands away from his face, looking. "There's no blood Sammy," he wiped away a hot wet track with his thumb, holding it up. "It's just water, just water Sam."

Sam breathed shakily; with heavy hitches. An almost manic, dry, breathy laugh came from his mouth; something that sounded so lost and crazy to his ears that it scared him. But, it only lasted for seconds before a low, lulling keening tore from his throat, breaking into full on sobs that shook and whiplashed his body.

The insane sound of Sam's laughter freaked out Dean, terrified him to believe that these memories had finally torn apart Sam's mind. But, when it was lost to this gut wrenching, shattered sobbing that shook his little brother against him, Dean wasn't scared anymore, he was broken.

He heaved Sam's body up to his, pressed a kiss to his eyes, and set his forehead to his brother's.

Sam's sobs tore through his body and Dean's body, aching and painful and terrified, as he pressed his own forehead into his brother's.

And, when Dean felt Sam pressing back, he finally felt his own, real tears fall, quiet, but violent ones streams like oceans down his skin, hitting Sam's face.

Sam sobbed like this for minutes, hours, a lonely, aching sound ripping through him, no other noises coming from him but this desperation.

Dean didn't know how long he held Sam to him, how long those minutes or hours really were. Because, his focus was now only two things: the aching sobbing form his brother; and holding him as closely as he could, because he didn't know what else to do.

When they finally stopped it was a tapering, hiccupping sound that only happened because Sam had become spent.

Sam was awake, still consciousness; but he lacked any energy to do anything else. His eyes were horribly bloodshot and he trembled from the exhaustion.

This time when Dean draped the blanket over Sam's body, he only covered the lower half of his brother's legs. He cursed himself for not knowing better earlier. It had taken months when he had returned from Hell to stand anything even remotely warm near him. He had lied and told Sam that it was because he didn't want 'damn sub rate mold infested motel blankets on him.' It had been a cheap lie, because they had slept in motels for almost their whole lives. But, Sam had left it alone, had let Dean have his lie.

Dean tucked the bit of blanket as best he could around Sam, watching his little brother's exhausted face. He wanted to lie down properly next to Sam; to be practically on top of him; not for anything remotely sexual. But, because he needed to feel him. To cocoon his broken other half from the world until he was strong enough to go on.

But, he couldn't abandon his watch. So he stayed where he was, sitting upright, Sam as close to him as this position would allow. His gun resting at his feet within easy reach, as well as the angel slaying knife. He couldn't hold these weapons and hold Sam too; and right now, holding Sam was all that mattered to him.

Neither weapon in Dean's vicinity would be any form of deterrent if Castiel, drunk on millions of souls, decided to come in and ask for any more worshipping in his name. But, his anger at the angel for having dared to lay a hand on his brother, to use him as a goddamn distraction – it was its own weapon. And, it was deadly.

Death had told him two years ago, in that pizzeria in Chicago, that he would reap God in the end. But, if Castiel materialized in the Panic Room right then; it wouldn't be Death who would reap God.

Sam lay on his back; looking up into the face of his exhausted older brother. There were scratches and scrapes on Dean's face from his battle with Crowley, and the turn the Impala took beforehand. Dean's eyes were hard and weary, aged a million years; there was such an ache in them that Sam felt it as his own, and it was a painful feeling. His brother was strong, but he wasn't indestructible. He still had nightmares of his own Hell experience; and now he had Sam's. How long until Dean broke from this weight?

"It's okay Dean; It's gonna be okay." These were the words Sam had spoke two years ago in Stull Cemetery when he had regained control of his body from Lucifer and had jumped into the chasm. And, he spoke them now, because, even without any blood or shattered bones, his brother was a broken man.

And, Sam could never be hurt or in pain too much to not to anything about it.

Dean tried to smile, but it came out like the look in his eyes, painful. "We've been here before man."

Sam felt the hitch in Dean's breath radiate to him. "I'm not going anywhere this time." His voice was still gravely, but he ignored how difficult it was to talk. "Not gonna leave you alone again."

Dean's hand threaded through Sam's damp hair, once. But, it was a resonating touch.

And, Sam heaved a heavy, deep sigh, because he felt everything that touch signified.

"Sleep Sam," Dean told him. "Flashbacks or not, you can't stay awake indefinitely."Sam's eyes flew up to him in protest, but Dean beat him to any vocalization of it: "Can't promise you it'll all be better in the morning anymore. But, I promise, I gotcha, okay?"

Sam felt one warm tear slide down behind his ear, and he was so exhausted, that he didn't wipe it away. "Guess we're having another slumber party."

"Guess so," came Dean's reply. "Just wish I could kick the crap out of Satan for you."

Sam tried to laugh, but it came out more of a choking cough. He reached out to grab a hold of Dean's shirt; holding it like if he let go, he would fall away, and never come back.

"I'm here Sammy," Dean reassured. "I'm not letting go."

Sam's eyes finally closed, his hand holding onto Dean's shirt.

Bobby kept watch on the door, never once allowing the tendrils of sleep to seduce him away. His head turned, his eyes met Dean, who was curved liked a wall around Sam, eyes so battle weary and tired. But, holding on fiercely to Sam. While Sam did the same thing, not letting go of Dean's shirt even when exhaustion had finally pulled him down into unconsciousness.

Dean's eyes never faltered in their lookout; not once, because what he held, he would never stop holding.

Bobby turned his eyes back to the door to resume his watch.

In the quietness of the room, they waited. Through the repressed tears. Through the whimpering, the "I've got you Sammy's." Through the tears that couldn't be repressed no matter how hard they fought them off, falling into beards, and brothers alike, they waited.

On a bed of iron, in pain, broken, but protecting all that gave reason to see the sun rise at all, they waited, for what morning would bring them.

XXXXXXX

End.

The ending took some time to figure out. I went through countless revisions of it. Because, everything I had was too fake, to well tied up. And this wasn't about tying up loose ends. It was about the rawness of the 'right after'. And, crying, yes, making me cry while I wrote was a big factor in this…god, I was a wreck, but I heard "Song to the Siren" and this was what came about.

I didn't try to make Cas evil, like I said, this was the 'right after' what Dean felt seeing Sam breaking from a broken wall.

R/R please.

Peace,

Mystic