2011 (Post-shift)

"Sammy," he whispers.

He can feel hands, cold hands on his hair, his face, in a way that's too intimate, too familiar. Owning, touching, hurting. Sam draws into himself, retreating as far as possible.

"You have such a beautiful soul, you know that Sammy?"

The scream claws at his throat, the one he doesn't dare let out because it's never been worth it, not once.

Lucifer's breath is hot against his neck, his frigid hands possessive and taking.

"Made for me. Mine to break," he hisses in Sam's ear. "Say it."

Cas buries his head in the hospital-issued pillow, his fist pressed against his mouth to muffle the scream, but nothing stops the barrage of memories playing through his mind.

Miles away, Sam wakes up screaming from the same echo of Lucifer's form looming over him, bearing down on him.

"Hey! Sam. Sammy!"

He's sitting up, he doesn't remember sitting up, but he exhales and clutches Dean's arms and lets Dean steady him. Dean pulls him close, and an irrational wave of emotion washes over Sam, a sense of being so very grateful for Dean, the way Dean feels and smells and sounds and moves and is always, always there when he wakes up unable to breathe in those first few moment of incoherent terror.

Without understanding why, Sam bursts into tears. Dean doesn't say anything, he waits it out, rubbing his brother's back in reassuring circles.

"You were screaming," Dean observes, his voice gentle.

"Sorry," Sam says, suddenly embarrassed, leaning back and bringing his shoulder up to wipe his nose against the arm of his tee. "Sorry, I didn't mean to."

"No, It's good. I mean compared to… It's okay, Sam. Bad one?"

Sam stiffens almost imperceptibly. "I don't remember."

"Hey, you don't have to tell me. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Right?"

Sam snorts. "Vegas." His eyes drift to the opposite wall.

Dean ducks his head and catches Sam's gaze. "Hey. You seeing him?"

"What? No. No, whatever Cas did, it worked." He gives Dean a halfhearted smile. "All my marbles are back in the bag. Crazy train's in the station."

Dean looks like he doesn't quite buy it.

"Really. He's gone."

"And so, the nightmares? We're just going to pretend like those aren't happening?"

"Dean."

"Look, I understand denial. If that's the game, by all means deal me in so I can play along."

"Dean, it's over. Lucifer has left the building. My brain's not trying to kill me anymore."

"Okay, so can we maybe dial it back a notch then? Your life's not in danger, great. So let's just… take a minute here."

"Meaning what?"

"We don't ever stop, Sam. Nothing ever lets up for us. I mean, you're back, man. From Hell."

"Yeah. Great. So, we move on."

"Did it ever occur to you that might not exactly be normal?"

Sam frowns and shakes his head, not understanding. "What the hell is normal with us?"

"Normal would be," Dean waves a hand, "I don't know, maybe to have nightmares. To be scared shitless of all the crap Lucifer put you through."

Sam looks at him blankly. Then he shoves the blankets off the bed and pushes past Dean, muttering, "Gonna go take a shower."

Dean watches the door click shut between them. "Well, that's just swell."

"Doctor Alvin Leaky," Dean reads from the piece of torn notebook paper before sliding it across the table to Sam. "How great is that name? Specializes in trauma, PTSD, panic disorders, and a bunch of other head crap, but plus – bonus—" he grins at Sam who is looking at the scrap of paper skeptically, "dude's a hunter. Or, well, was anyway. I think he's like a hundred and eighty by now or something, but the point is, you can talk to him."

Sam's eyes are closed off, his expression guarded. "And why exactly would I do that?"

Dean looks a little taken aback. "Be…cause he can help you, dumbass."

"Help with what, Dean? The fact that I went to Hell?"

"Sam, it doesn't hurt to talk to the guy." He pulls the paper back toward himself and picks up a pen, adding the man's address below his phone number and underscoring it twice. "It's on the way to follow up with our lead on Dick, so you might as well stop in."

Sam takes an uneasy breath. "Thanks for… checking into that, Dean. I appreciate it. What you're trying to do. But I really don't think it's our kind of scene."

"Well why can't it be? Huh? This is actually right up your alley, this whole talking and sharing thing."

"Maybe that's not me anymore. Maybe… you actually had the right idea, you know. What did you say, shove it all down and let it come out in spurts of anger and alcoholism?"

"Yeah, Sam, that sounds even less healthy coming out of your mouth. Listen man, I just want you to be okay."

"I am okay."

"I don't think you are. I think you're pretending, and you're doing a piss-poor job of it."

"Dean, I'm fine. And even if I weren't, nothing's ever been done to me that I didn't deserve. So just let it go."

Dean opens his mouth, but nothing comes out, and as he watches Sam step away from the table and walk out of the room, leaving him sitting there speechless and dumbfounded, he has to actually work at closing it again.

Running gives him control over how fast his heart beats, how hard he breathes. He jogs to a stop in front of the cabin, feeling the muscle pounding against his ribs and the blood rushing furiously through the artery at his throat. Sweat makes his shirt cling to his chest, cooling fast in the early morning air.

The sun will be up soon. He should go in before Dean wakes up and finds him gone, makes him worry. He bites the inside of his cheek. Dean's worried. Dean knows. Dean will have that look. He can't face it, not yet.

Heart hammering, Sam draws in another breath. And runs.