2010

Sometimes Dean thinks of this guy who looks like his brother as "Sam." Sam with air quotes. Sam who doesn't give a shit.

Sam who still wakes up screaming. And that scares Dean more than anything, because someone who's not his brother, who's completely hollow and soulless inside, shouldn't scream like that.

He tries not to think too hard about what it means. He tries not to hear it, because it sounds like Sam, and it makes him think about Sam screaming. And he knows his Sam is screaming. He is.

This Sam jerks awake, the scream cut-off and half-trapped in his throat, eyes wild and disoriented until the coldness slams back into place. He looks across the room at Dean, silently assessing him, then flips over and apparently goes back to sleep.

After the third night it happens, when the stifled scream wakes him up again, Dean grits his teeth and gets out of bed to go searching for the supply of sleeping pills, thinking okay, this is his life now. A brother trapped in Hell and a dead-inside soulless robot that has nightmares. Probably about some kitten he never got a chance to drown. So now Dean is just going to be that guy who drinks too much and then drugs himself into unconsciousness at night, and the universe can suck it.

He finds the pills at the bottom of the duffle, where Sam – his Sam – left them, and he's not sure what to do with the surge of feelings that brings up in him. He's half tempted to try and kill them with alcohol.

Behind him, he hears RoboSam abruptly throw the blankets off his bed and head into the bathroom.

Awesome, Dean thinks, wondering how long he'll have to fucking wait now to get a drink of water to take a goddamn pill. He considers washing it down with booze. Also considers just dry swallowing it.

Through the door, he hears the sink running. Then the sound of his brother retching. And that's new.

It makes his chest hurt. He wishes it didn't sound so goddamn much like Sam.

He gets up and walks over to the bathroom door. He stands outside of it, awkwardly hesitating for a moment, not sure if he's listening or checking or what. Finally, he knocks once. "Sam? You… you okay in there?"

There's no answer. Then a shaky voice that's trying not to waver. "Fine, Dean."

"What happened?"

No answer again. Then he hears Sam throwing up, and he can't just stand there. He says, "Sam, I'm coming in, okay?"

He turns the knob and pushes the door in cautiously, and finds the guy who looks like his brother holding himself up against the sink and leaning over the toilet, and his arm is trembling. He looks up at Dean, his eyes glassy, and then quickly glances back down.

"Sam? What's going on?"

Sam shakes his head and draws the back of his hand over his mouth. "Nothing you need to worry about, Dean. Go on back to bed. Sorry I woke you."

Dean stands in the doorway uncertainly. It's uncanny, really. The words, the voice, the attitude are all wrong, especially the way he says Dean's name, it's not Sam. But pieces of him are. And caught in this rare, moment of vulnerability, the lines are drawn so close that this Sam could actually be his brother. Dean could let himself pretend, just for a few minutes. The temptation to do so is almost completely overwhelming.

"Bad dream?" Dean ventures, coming over to the sink beside Sam.

Sam is looking down, his long hair hiding his eyes, eyes that might very well show cold, calculating precision, but Dean pretends they're Sam's warm hazel eyes filled with need and feeling. Sam doesn't look up, just remains there, clutching the edge of the sink to steady himself. "Yeah," he says. "Really bad dream. I get them. Sometimes. Not a big deal."

"Right," Dean says, sarcastically. "Clearly."

Sam huffs a laugh. "Sucks, actually. It's the only time I can't-"

He looks up at Dean suddenly, and there's a flicker of something across his face before he looks away again. Dean saw it, it was unmistakable. Fear. But that can't be right. Not from this Sam.

Dean puts a hand on his elbow. "Sam? Talk to me." Be there. Be something there. Be my Sam.

Sam tries to lock it down, get his control back. He straightens his back, his shoulders, takes a breath, even smiles that false smile, but his eyes are haunted like Dean's never seen before. "Hell," he says at last. "It's Hell, Dean. I dream about Hell. And it's really bad. Worse than I'm sure it was for you."

I'm sure, he's tempted to cut in bitterly, bluntly, to cut him down. But this is Sam without empathy. He can't help it, so Dean just listens.

"During the day, you know, I can tell myself it's over. That it doesn't matter. And that works. But I can't control it at night. It's literally like being right back there. In the cage. With him."

"Lucifer."

A look of actual pain crosses Sam's face, and he looks away.

"You remember Hell. Being tortured." Dean hates himself a little for pushing it, but the novelty of seeing vulnerability and emotion of any kind from this Sam makes him want to keep prodding, almost out of curiosity, just to see if he'll keep reacting.

Sam looks up and meets Dean's eyes, and his are locked-down precision cold again. "At night," he says flatly, "I can see everything he's doing to the other Sam. And it's beyond horrifying."

Oh god. Sammy.

Dean's breath catches. He stumbles backward through the open bathroom door, grasping for the handle and missing it. There's not enough air in the entire room all of a sudden, and he has to get out.

His fingers fumble to unscrew the cap of the flask in the cold night air, leaning against the railing outside their hotel room, and he takes a long pull of the strong liquid. Tears sting the backs of his eyes. "Fuck," he whispers. "Sammy, fuck. I'm so sorry. I'm going to get you out. I swear, I'll get you out, man. I'll find a way."

He doesn't go back inside until he's sure, completely sure, that the thing that's not his brother is asleep again.