Dean woke tied to the chair—again? But he wasn't on the train. And he could see his arms.
"What the fuck?" he said.
Sam didn't even turn around. A small flashlight in hand, he rifled through the file cabinet.
"You tied me up in my own head?"
"You kept attacking me."
"Yeah. 'Cause you're in my head."
Sam stood up and sighed. "Dean, it's me. Don't you trust me?"
"Not this far! Jesus Christ, Sam! What's not to understand about this?"
There was a ruffling of papers on the desk as a new, clean sheet with lines on it fell from nowhere onto the top of the pile. Sam picked it up—ignoring Dean's protests—and read it.
"I'm scaring you?"
"What? No! Shit—I just—"
"It's right here on this paper, Dean. Don't lie to me."
True to form, a new piece of paper flickered on the desk, resting only a moment before it rose into the air, flitting anxiously over to the largest of the filing cabinets, this one labeled Lies.
"Oh, Christ," Dean groaned. Sam advanced on it. "Sam! Sam! Don't go in there! Sam, I swear to God—"
"They're alphabetized? Dean. What the hell, Dean?" Sam flipped through the categories, Cops, Dad, Girls…
"Sam, stop it!" Completely unable to help himself, Dean felt tears springing to his eyes.
Suddenly curious, Sam flipped toward the end: Teachers—no, too far:
Sam gulped, hurt at the discovery. The folder labeled Sam in the Lies cabinet had to be the fattest one, comparable to the one labeled Girls. He looked up only long enough to frown at Dean, who knew exactly what the nosey little bugger had found. Dean broke into a cold sweat as Sam flicked through the file. On top was the sheet of paper which had only just taken up residence there: I'm not scared. The next one looked very heavily used, worn and yellowed and falling apart. It was spattered with blood and crumpled, almost illegible: I'm fine.
"Jesus, Dean," Sam sighed, looking up at his brother, as if for the first time—ever. He seemed about to say something, but cocked his head at Dean. "Holy crap, Dean, what happened to you?"
"Nothing, I'm fine."
Sam held up the folder of Lies as evidence before kneeling beside the bleeding shoulder.
"Sam, you can't do anything about that in here."
"You've got a spike through your chest? Jesus Christ, Dean!"
"No—not anymore, I don't think. She took it out." He smiled darkly, his voice heavy with sarcasm: "I'm probably just bleeding out, now," as if this was better.
Sam frowned. "Seriously, Dean. Are you okay out there? Really?"
"I'm fine, Sammy, just—"
The Lies to Sam folder, lying for the moment forgotten on the desk, flickered as the I'm fine lie shifted itself so that it was now on top of the pile. Sam glared at him.
"Well, what is this, anyway, the fucking Spanish Inquisition? No, wait, you know what this is?" Dean tried, deciding the guilt-trip route had the best chance of success, "It's rape. You are mentally raping me, Sam."
Sam looked incredulous. "Aren't you being a little overdramatic?"
"I said 'no,' didn't I? That was the definition of rape last time I checked." Dean was livid. Leave it to Sam to be heartless at a time like this. With no agency left to him but sarcasm, Dean assumed the snarkiest, cattiest tone he could manage without puking: "Oh, sorry. You're right. I guess I was asking for it with that short skirt I was wearing."
"Dean, stop saying that! I'm trying to save you."
"Sam, you're not gonna find anything! This telepathy thing is great 'cause I can talk to you, but you're not gonna find anything I don't already know! I've been on a train, okay? I'm a prisoner. I've been unconscious. I'm fucking blind."
"You're what?"
"Blind, shortbus. She, I dunno, did something. Your best bet is to come get me from the outside. I don't know anything, and you're not gonna find it here no matter how hard you rape me."
"Dean, stop using that word. And I'm sure you know in here, somewhere. Some part of you knows. I just have to find it."