Author's note: Much thanks for the reviews! In answer to the reviewer who wondered what type of feedback I'm looking for, I'm really not picky. Anything that jumps out at you, whether it's something that works or doesn't work, is fair game. If you need a focus, I am a little concerned with my characterizations of Dean and Castiel, since I've had to adjust them so much in light of season 6's finale. I also want to be sure my dialogue for the characters is good. Since I spend a lot of time watching shows like Doctor Who and reading books like Harry Potter, I sometimes have a hard time slipping into Supernatural-mode.

Also, on the off chance the person who reviewed "Apocalypse Soon" is reading this, no, I'm not planning to continue that story. In fact, I'll probably be taking it down soon. Season five started before I really got into writing it and kind of shot down all of my theories. But bits and pieces of what I planned for that story's plot have made their way into this fic, particularly in Sam's interactions with Lucifer.

That said, enjoy.

-o-o-o-

Chapter 2: Detached

Every inch of Sam's body radiated pain from the shallow cuts, too numerous now to count. His rational mind knew why the pain was affecting him so badly: there were no endorphins in Hell. His body did not try to dull his pain because he had no true physical body here.

Lucifer paced a slow line back and forth in front of Sam, the front of his plaid shirt splattered with blood. "You are wondering," he said, "why I am not hurting you more. I won't lie; I did. So did my brother. Oh, we did not bother with masks." He indicated his own face, still an exact replica of Sam's. "We had no need. We flayed every inch of flesh from your bones and dug out the marrow with our fingers. When there was nothing left, we made you whole and started over. A year in, you had forgotten almost everything; another two and you forget yourself. And Dean…oh, you called out Dean's name for seven long years. But eventually, you forgot him too.

"Now, see, my brother was content just to continue as we were. But as you can imagine, I found the brute torture a mite dull. So I let you off the hook for a while. I showed you images of yourself, your family, your brother. I made you remember. And then…" He smirked. "…then the real fun began."

He set the flat edge of the knife's blade against Sam's chin and pressed upward, forcing him to lift his head. Sam felt a warm trickle of blood down his neck. When his eyes settled on Lucifer again, he saw not his own image, but Azazel's staring back at him.

"Let's start at the beginning, shall we?" Lucifer waved a hand and the empty space around them transformed into a dark, familiar room. Beside them was a crib.

Sam felt his pain ease, and he began to regain himself. "So this is it?" he muttered. "We're just gonna watch home videos?"

"Oh this?" Lucifer indicated the room. "This is just scenery. Look." He motioned at the crib.

Sam looked. The crib was empty.

Lucifer shook up his sleeve to uncover his forearm. He drew a thumbnail across his wrist. The scent of blood filled the air, a thousand times stronger than the small trickle should have created. And, beneath that smell, a tang that sent Sam's nerves into overdrive. Demon blood.

Lucifer lifted his hand to Sam's face. With some effort, Sam jerked his head to one side, and Lucifer's wrist scraped the side of his face, leaving a wet trail of blood at the edge of his lips.

Sam let out a strangled gasp, all too aware that the blood was right there, within reach. All he had to do was dart his tongue out and lick the corner of his lips. He clamped his teeth down hard.

Lucifer just smiled and turned his attention to the doorway.

There stood Sam's mother in her white nightgown. Her midsection was soaked dark red, but he could not smell her blood. He could only smell the blood on his face.

Mary approached, a pitying look in her eyes. She rested a hand on his cheek and used her thumb to wipe away the blood.

His lip twitched, another ragged breath of air escaping. "Mom?"

"Shh, Sammy." Mary pressed a finger to Sam's mouth. "It'll be okay."

She shifted her hand and smeared the blood on his lips.

Sam could not say if he broke through the bonds that were holding him or if they released at precisely that moment. He stumbled backwards and crashed into the wall, hitting the floor. He tried as hard as he could to keep his lips pressed together, but the damage was done. His mouth flooded with the taste of metal and with it an electric current that had him teetering on the edge of sanity.

A white shape moved into his vision. He blinked and saw Mary crouched in front of him.

"You're not her." Sam's voice shook.

"No, I'm not." She leaned forward and pressed her cheek against his. "But it sure feels like I am, doesn't it?" Her teeth grazed his ear.

Sam's throat convulsed. He leaned his face away from her, but she had him pinned against the wall and his limbs had locked down again, leaving him powerless to stop her.

The room around them shook as though from an earthquake, the pictures on the walls rattling.

Mary laughed and leaned back. In an instant, she transformed into a mirror image of Sam.

"My turn's over," Lucifer said. "We'll continue this later."

He snapped his fingers and vanished. A split second later, white hot light enveloped the room, and Sam forgot all about his mother and Lucifer. All he knew was pain: piercing, burning, unyielding pain.

-o-o-o-

Dean, who had been watching Sam like a hawk, noticed the change right away. One moment, Sam was sitting upright, returning Dean's stare with about as much intensity as a mannequin. The next, his head slumped forward and his hands clenched in fists, his breath coming out in low, uneven hisses.

"Sam?" Dean stumbled over to Sam. He noticed now the acrid smell of urine and saw, with some guilt, that the front of Sam's jeans was dark. But mostly he was hopeful. Maybe this meant Sam was coming out of it. Maybe it would be like last time: just a brief episode and then he would be fine. "Sammy?" Dean reached out to touch Sam's shoulder.

The effect was immediate. Sam let out an agonized groan and jerked out of Dean's grasp, falling flat on his back and seizing.

Dean jumped back from the shock and stayed where he was, not wanting to touch Sam again for fear that he might make it worse. He could only stand back and hope that it was short lived.

Seconds passed. Then minutes. Half an hour and Sam's seizure showed no signs of stopping.

Dean sat on the edge of his own bed, covering his mouth with his hand. He felt so lost. Even more lost than either of the times Sam had died. At least then he knew what to do. The first time, he knew he had to make that deal. The second time he had his orders from Sam to go find Lisa. But this time there was no deal, and there was no Lisa to go to. There was only Sam.

But that was not true. There was someone else. He would know what to do.

Dean fumbled in his pocket, never once taking his eyes off Sam. He blindly pushed the buttons on his phone and raised it to his ear.

He did not have to wait long. "What happened?" Bobby's gruff voice asked.

Dean opened his mouth, but no words came out.

"Dean?" Bobby prompted, unease in his voice.

"I…" Dean tried again to speak and failed.

"Were you attacked?"

"N…no."

There was a burst of static on the line as Bobby sighed. "Is Sam okay?"

Dean watched Sam's continued convulsions. "I…I don't…"

"Okay, Dean. Just stay where you are. I'll be there as soon as I can."

The phone clicked to dead air. After several long moments, Dean lowered the phone.

-o-o-o-

Sam forgot everything. He forgot seeing his mother. He forgot the blood smeared on his lips even before they were sliced off. He forgot why he was here and even where "here" was. Near the end, he started to forget who he was. All he remembered was that terrible figure towering over him, slicing, tearing, searing…

And Dean. He remembered Dean. Even after he forgot Dean's name, he remembered him, a vague presence hovering somewhere in his mind, just barely tangible.

He shied away from it. He would rather not remember. It would be so much easier if he did not.

-o-o-o-

Dean did not need the flickering lights to announce the presence in the room nor did he need to turn. He knew who was there. "Get out," he hissed.

"I know it's hard," Castiel said, "seeing him like this."

Dean closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. He could almost feel the waves of power emanating from Castiel and hoped that Castiel could feel the hatred he was sending back.

"You must understand it was never my intention to harm Sam."

Dean's eyes flew open. "Your intention?" he repeated in a slow, deadly calm voice. "Tell me, what was your 'intention?' What is your fucking divine plan?"

Castiel did not respond for a long time. The silence was broken by a groan from Sam, who arched his back and jerked to one side, banging his leg on the bedside table. The impact did not even make him flinch.

"I can put him out," Castiel said, "if you would like."

Dean was on his feet at once, putting himself between Castiel and Sam. "Don't you dare touch him."

"I'm only trying to help you."

"Then find a way to fix him," Dean said, "and maybe I'll let you live."

Castiel returned Dean's gaze with one almost as dead as Sam's. He blinked and vanished, leaving behind a void that seemed to suck all the air from the room.

So shaken was Dean by the sudden departure, he did not even hear the knock at the door. A voice, however, did grab his attention. "Dean, open up. It's me."

Dean forced his feet to move across the room. It took him a couple of tries to remember how to work the doorknob.

Bobby stepped in just far enough to shut the door behind him. He glanced toward Sam's writhing form and paled. "How long has he been like this?"

The stunning clarity that had entered Dean's mind when Castiel was in the room had gone, replaced with the same haze as before. "I…I don't…" He stumbled backwards, ran into the empty bed, and sat down.

"Dean?"

Dean stared down at his hands. "I…"

"Quit stuttering, boy. Look me in the eye and tell me what happened. And don't you dare say, 'I don't know.'"

Dean bit down hard on his tongue to keep from saying just that and forced himself to look up. "Cas," was all he could muster up.

"Did he do this?"

Dean shook his head. "He was here."

Bobby looked away, turning his gaze to Sam. He moved over to the bed with slow, controlled steps and sat down next to Sam, touching his arm. Sam jerked away from him, writhing. Bobby pulled his hand away.

"Has he been like this since you called?"

"Yeah."

Bobby was silent a moment. "Dean, I know this is the last thing you want to hear right now, but I think it's time we started considering alternatives."

"Alternatives?"

"A hospital."

The horror of the idea was enough to shock Dean back to coherence. "A hospital wouldn't know what to do with him."

"No," Bobby agreed, "but tell me this. When's the last time Sam ate anything?"

Dean started. "I…I don't know."

"I can tell you it's been at least a day. How long would it have been if I hadn't said anything? How long would you let him sit here in his own filth before it even occurred to you to change his clothes? And that's not even starting in on the bed sores."

"Do you have a point?" Dean did not try to hide the contempt in his voice.

"My point is you can't handle this. Not by yourself."

"I have to. He's my responsibility."

"Dean—"

"No, Bobby." Dean stood. "I'm not leaving him in some hospital bed waiting to be attacked. This isn't Dad talking; it's me. I can do this. I can take care of him, and I can fix him."

Bobby looked like he wanted to argue further, but he just looked back at Sam. "Well, we can't do anything with him right now. Let's order some food and figure out a plan. But if he's not out of this in an hour, all bets are off. He's going to a hospital."

Dean had no more will to argue either. As Bobby dialed on his cell phone to order food though, Dean hoped that Sam would, if nothing else, go back to the way he had been before.

-o-o-o-

Author's note: Please review. Next chapter: Thirty-nine army men stand on a table. One of them is missing. Sam faces temptations of his past, but a visit from a stranger hurts just as much. Meanwhile, Dean gets an offer of help that reeks of ulterior motive, and a session that promises answers only raises more questions.