"The Man Who Knew Too Much" - Coda
Sam could remember a fleeting moment of whole. Just for a second, still dreaming, there had been a sensation of unity where he had felt his fractured self reconnect. But just as quickly as it had come, it had shuddered apart.
Like a window broken on impact, the union of his memories had been the undoing of his mind. He felt fragile, like his mind was a broken body held together by mere sinew, and every time the pieces rattled against each other pain would shoot through every inch. Each time it did, Sam felt as if his body wasn't big enough to hold so much agony, that the trauma was too great for one soul.
Every passing moment was saturated by the strain of recognising who he was. Although pieced back together, the bonds were tenuous at best. At times he would slip into one piece, and he would forget it wasn't who he truly was. His condemned self would remember Hell and ache, while his heartless self would mock such weakness. Likewise he would recall past escapades with cold satisfaction, and then shrink back from such an idea of himself. He judged and feared himself. He was so many things, and in the end he didn't know what he was.
Sam would wake some mornings robotically, feeling free before suddenly weighted by reams of consciousness. Some days he would wake in a fire and feel it simmer down. He waited it out, hoped for equilibrium, but he was only ever unstable at best. Like sweating dynamite, he was just waiting to detonate.
Dean watched his brother suffer day in, day out, watched him blur between selves and crumble under the pressure of being a complete Sam. He wanted to reach into Sam's mind and break the pieces apart for good. He wanted his brother whole, but he wanted his brother well.
There were times when Sam would slide back into the soulless automaton with ease, and Dean would be thrown into frightening flashbacks. And then there were times when he would have to pull over and pull Sam into his arms to convince him the flames were gone. Sam twisted in his sleep as if rolling in and out of different selves. Dean would lie still and listen, wishing for his brother's peace.
In the stark motel darkness Dean looked up blankly, knowing he looked to no one. Only one could help, but Dean knew he no longer would.