Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

Dean knocked on the bathroom door a few more times. "Sam? Sammy?"

He didn't hear much noise coming from Sam, but he figured it was a good sign that he seemed to have calmed down enough to stop gagging.

John and Bobby joined him in the hall.

"What's going on, Dean?" John asked.

"I don't know, Dad," Dean said. "He practically fell out of his bed in his rush to the bathroom and said that he remembered everything."

"Everything?" John echoed.

Dean nodded, and he swore that John grew a little paler in the dim light of Bobby's hallway.

"Dad?" Dean asked. "Something wrong?"

He felt like more secrets were being kept from him, and they probably had to do with Sam once again.

"Dad, if you're hiding something that has to do with Sam, tell me," Dean said.

John shook his head. "If Sam wants you to know, he'll tell you."

Bobby stepped into Sam and Dean's room and came back out a matter of minutes later. "Think you're both gonna wanna see this," he said.

They looked and saw the dreamcatcher in Bobby's hands, or what was left of it.

The woven web in the center was gone and the willow hoop that held it was scorched black. Even the feathers that dangled down from the hoop's base were not spared, half of them burnt away until a string was the only sign they existed in the first place.

"Sam told me that something was haunting his dreams. He asked what sort of creatures out there were capable of such a thing," Bobby said. "But I thought it was just his mind running rampant after all he's been through. Guess I should've listened to him."

"What the hell can do something like that?" Dean asked.

He should've stayed up and watched over Sam. He knew he should've, but Sam made it sound so simple when he explained it wasn't necessary. So logical when he said that if a nightmare were bad enough, he'd end up waking Dean anyway.

Why did it seem like he could never make the right choices anymore when it came to taking care of Sam?

"I asked myself that same question. I gave Sam a few examples of the things that had the power, but I thought pinning down which one it was would be tricky. Then, I saw the sulfur sprinkled on the headboard of Sam's bed. Looks like he's got a demon stalking his dreams," Bobby said. He looked at the closed bathroom door. "I'm guessing it's one nasty son of a bitch, too."

Dean looked at his dad, who had his arms crossed and glared at the dreamcatcher with his face set in hard lines, like it was the cause of all his son's suffering.

And maybe it wasn't the direct cause, but it was proof that Sam was suffering more than they originally believed.

Dean knocked on the door again. "Sammy," he said. "Let me in, please."

There was so much more he wanted to say, but if he could even get Sam to open the door first, that would be an accomplishment. John and Bobby watched carefully, waiting for him to be able to break through to Sam, but he wasn't entirely sure that they should have that much trust in him.

He didn't deserve that much trust.

"Your ribs must be killing you, right?" Dean asked. "I know what it's like to throw up with broken ribs, man. I can get you something for the pain."

Dean heard Sam grunt and soft shuffles behind the door, then the knob turned and it opened just an inch or two. One of Sam's eyes peeked out into the hallway and at Dean, its sclera dyed bright red.

Dean didn't wait to give Sam the chance to close the door on him. He shoved his foot into the opening and slowly pushed his way into the room. With each step he took forward, Sam took a step back. He was hunched over with his arms wrapped protectively around his ribs. His breaths were a little too shallow for Dean's liking, especially with his occasional hitches and hisses. He was beyond relieved when Sam sat on the closed toilet lid. He didn't look like he could handle standing for much longer before he collapsed.

Sam stared down at the bathroom tiles, so Dean took a seat on the edge of the bathtub, his feet on the outskirt of Sam's line of sight. Close enough that he would know Dean was there, but far enough away that Dean wasn't crowding him.

"You wanna take your meds and get back to sleep?" Dean asked.

Sam shook his head.

Dean clasped his hands together, pressing them against each other until it hurt, but it was better than letting his frustration escape when Sam was particularly fragile.

And they were about to throw him right back into what hurt him in the first place. If anything, Dean hoped that this would make Sam change his mind about playing bait. Dean hoped he would back down and let them find a different plan.

"Do you want to get comfy on Bobby's couch and we can watch some movies?" Dean asked. "It'll be like old times. Remember how many nights we spent camped out on that couch watching the handful of movies in Bobby's collection over and over when Dad left us here?"

"I don't want to watch that one," eight-year-old Sam complained. "We always watch that one."

Dean ignored him and put the VHS in the VCR anyway.

"Dean," Sam whined, "let me choose for once."

"Too late," Dean said, already settling himself back on the couch with a bowl of fresh popcorn lathered in butter (courtesy of Bobby). "It's already playing. I'll let you choose the next one."

"No, you won't. You never do." Sam sunk into the couch, nearly swallowed by its cushions.

Dean flicked a piece of popcorn at Sam, and grinned when Sam pouted at him. "Maybe I will this time."

"You always say that."

Sam sat still for a long time, but finally nodded.

"I'll even let you choose the movie this time," Dean said.

He got up and moved to help Sam stand, but Sam recoiled away from him anytime he came too close. Dean backed up with his hands raised in surrender. "Alright," he said. "I'm not gonna touch you, Sammy."

He wanted to promise Sam that he wouldn't hurt him instead, but he didn't think that it was what Sam was looking for at the moment. Whatever he remembered, touching was going too far for now, regardless of the intent to help.

Dean froze after he opened the door and the light in the hallway illuminated the scene before him. Those were Sam's eyes looking over at him, neon lights of his room reflected in them, but they weren't bright in the way he remembered. There was a distance in them. A fogginess that Dean knew wasn't natural. He'd seen Sam on medication before on hunts gone wrong. He knew the signs of detached confusion of a drugged Sam.

But his attention was drawn to the fact that there was a man on top of Sam. Added to the fact that the hem of Sam's shirt was pushed up to his armpits revealing his chest and stomach. And the fact that his wrists were chained to the bed high over his head. And that the man, who now looked at Dean like a deer caught in headlights, had had his mouth on Sam's just a second ago.

Maybe the worst of it all, was that Dean saw that one of the man's hands was in Sam's boxers.

The memory was still enough to make Dean's stomach churn and bile crawl up the back of his throat, but it was a reminder that he only saw one moment of what Sam had to endure. He could understand his unwillingness to be touched after having to remember all of what he went through.

Whichever demon it was who did this to Sam, well, Dean was going to make them wish they never crawled out of Hell.

Sam stood on his own, each wobble making Dean wish that he could do something, anything, to help. Instead, he was left hovering around Sam, being so careful not to touch him, and watching him nearly pop a lung with one of his broken ribs as he made his way to Bobby's couch.

John and Bobby must have heard their plan, because the couch was already covered with a mound of pillows to keep Sam upright and another mound of blankets to keep him warm, and Dean could smell and hear popcorn being made over the stove top in the kitchen. A bottle of water sat on the end table between the couch and the recliner with a bottle of pills on either side. All of it left completely in Sam's hands.

Dean bit his tongue, keeping himself from asking his dad what the hell he was thinking. Didn't he remember that pills should not be left for Sam because he always took far too many?

As Sam settled on the couch, Dean took the pills off of the table and put them on one of the many bookshelves Bobby had. No way Sam would be able to reach them with his ribs.

Sam's ribs healed to the point where he could move around a bit easier, but he still needed a cast on his arm for another week or two. That wasn't enough to stop him from trying to elude Dean and hide away constantly.

Worst days and bad days both returned. Good days became the rare ones, and the ones where Sam couldn't stand anyone being too close to him. At least on the bad and worst days, he was too far gone to even realize another person's presence. He could still be easily maneuvered through his nonsensical ramblings (to which Dean paid close attention just in case Sam's rattled mind spewed out something useful).

Dean wanted to crack open Sam's skull and figure out the damage that was done by the demon stirring up his memories. He wanted to yell and pin down Sam until he told him what to do to fix it.

This time, Sam locked himself in the bathroom. Dean heard the shower running, but that never meant much anymore. Sam had locked himself in the bathroom before with the water on, then walked out later completely dry.

Dean sat on the ground with his back against the bathroom door. Bobby walked up the stairs and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Sam's in the shower," Dean said. "I'm waiting for him."

"You know," Bobby said, "maybe what he needs is a little bit of space."

"Not happening."

"Dean, you know your brother. That's how he deals with things. He likes to sit and think them through on his own," Bobby said.

"These aren't the normal things that he sits and thinks through. These are worse, and the last time I let him out of my sight didn't exactly go well."

"I'm not sure that your hovering is going to be what he needs right now."

"That's just it, Bobby," Dean said. "I don't know what Sam needs right now. He won't tell me. He won't give me any indication that I'm doing anything right or wrong. So, what am I supposed to do? Huh? How am I supposed to fix him if he keeps breaking?"

Bobby sighed and crouched down. He clapped his hand on Dean's shoulder. "He needs to fix himself. You just need to be there to give him the tools for it," Bobby said.

Bobby left, and Sam stepped out of the bathroom. His skin was reddish.

"I think you scrubbed your skin a little too hard, Sammy," Dean said.

"Then, why do I still feel so dirty?" Sam asked.

Dean hadn't an expected a reply at all. Sam finally gave him something to work with, but he was too speechless to take the opportunity.

Everything hurt, but his physical injuries were minor now, nearly healed. It was the memories that hurt. He could still feel it all like it was happening in present time, but he knew that it had to be something the demon did. People weren't supposed to recover their memories with help from something supernatural. It wasn't normal, but Sam hadn't been normal in a long time. He wasn't sure he ever was.

The flames flickering inside of him made him suspect that he was never normal. He had these powers, and he just needed to unlock them first. Set them free. Only now they wouldn't leave him alone, and his own family wouldn't leave him alone for long enough to use them.

Dean followed him. Dean was like his second shadow, but he wanted to be alone. He wanted Dean to give up because the answers he needed from Sam were the secrets that he never needed to find out.

Sam sat and watched TV, Dean right beside him on Bobby's couch and asking a dozen questions to try and figure out how to make Sam more comfortable ("Do you need anything, Sammy?" "Are you feeling okay?" "How are your ribs doing? Your head? Your wrist?"). It was a nice gesture, and Sam understood he was being difficult, but his thoughts were so loud and he just wanted a moment of peace.

"I think I killed them," he said, without really meaning to say anything at all, but that's what kept playing through his mind that day. He killed people. He killed humans. Bathed them in fire while they wailed and writhed in agony. He could almost smell their melting flesh and the incense that intertwined with it.

"Killed who?" Dean asked.

"At the club," Sam said, "I think I killed them."

"Some of the customers?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded.

"Good. They weren't human. The people who went there were more monstrous than the things we usually hunt. But I saw you at the club, Sammy. You were way too out of it to hurt anyone," Dean said. "Maybe the demon was messing with you and showing you false memories. They lie, Sam."

"It wasn't a lie," Sam said. "I know it wasn't, Dean."

"Okay, Sammy. I believe you."

The news anchor on the TV screen moved onto the next story while Sam and Dean sat in silence. A picture of a young boy appeared on the screen under the word "Missing". The picture was obviously taken on school picture day (which was every other week for Sam with how often they moved and how every school insisted on taking a new one for their own records). The boy's smile was strained, a little uncomfortable, and he was looking off to the side instead of at the camera. The photo background was the classic blue that every parent checked off on the photo package order.

Dean grabbed the remote and switched the channel before the anchor could say a single word of the story, but Sam was grateful. The boy probably wasn't trafficked. Not all missing children were. Sometimes, they just went to the wrong place at the wrong time in the most innocuous of ways. Sometimes it was just a misunderstanding. Maybe his parents told him he could stay with a friend, but forgot and panicked when he didn't come home.

Still, Sam really didn't want the reminder. Not right now. Not when he could see his own face from a school picture in an article that Amy printed out.

"Really need to stop watching the news, huh?" Dean asked. "Way too depressing, right, Sam?"

Dean forced out a laugh, but Sam wasn't buying it. He supposed that he wasn't the only one affected by what happened to him.

Sometimes, he thought that it all hurt Dean more in the end.

Sam watched John pace across Bobby's living room while Dean helped Bobby in the garage. John was on the phone, trying to find an in with the traffickers so they could go ahead and put their plan into motion.

Sam felt like he spent his days just watching ever since they came to Bobby's. He was barely allowed to do anything and had to be constantly watched himself (babysat) so they could make sure he didn't run off and get into more trouble. Like that was his entire plan all along. Like that was the reason he ditched school in Austin and landed himself (and Amy) in a trap.

John had a pattern to his pacing, meticulous and never changing.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Turn on his heel.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Turn.

Over and over, until he finally hung up the phone and tossed it on the coffee table, taking a seat in the recliner. He dragged his hand down his face before he looked towards Sam.

"Sam," he said, "it's not too late to change your mind about being bait. I know I was hard on you at the hospital, but I was angry and I wasn't thinking straight. I just hate that you keep getting hurt and I can't stop it."

"I have to do it," Sam said. His throat tightened as he spoke, making his voice raspy and crack at random, but he forced the words out anyway.

He brought his fingers up to graze against the scarring on his neck. He knew that his collar was gone, only leaving a necklace of electrical burn scars, and he wouldn't get shocked for speaking, but his body still had a bit of trouble believing his mind's logic.

"Sam, you don't have to do anything," John said. "I don't think you should be putting yourself in the line of fire after everything that's happened lately."

Sam shrugged. He didn't think it was a great idea either, but at least he could be useful if they went through with it. He killed humans with his mind. He was a monster. Using a monster for bait seemed like the natural option.

"We're going to wait a few weeks longer, at the very least," John said. "You can claim you're ready all you want, and I know you're almost physically healed, but you still aren't alright."

Sam felt exhausted, even if his sleep was dreamless and deep. When he was forced to take pills every night, he never woke up feeling rested. It may have been necessary in his family's eyes, but he couldn't live the rest of his life relying on medication to get any sleep at all. They might not realize it, but the demon in his dreams couldn't do much more damage than he'd already done.

What could hurt him more than being shown the truth that broke him in the first place?

"You feel up to eating something?" John asked.

Sam shook his head, wrapping the blankets left on the couch around himself, like it would hide him from the world.

"Sam… you can't live on sleeping pills and fruit smoothies."

"I'm not hungry."

"Sam…"

"I can't," Sam said.

If he tried to eat, he'd throw it up before he made it past two bites. Even the smell left him nauseated and teleported him back to a room hidden within a club, kept healthy and docile for the pleasure of others. Reeking of incense, alcohol, and cheap cologne.

It made him glad that Dean didn't go to bars anymore and come back smelling like alcohol, cigarettes, and sour perfume. He wasn't sure that he'd be able to handle any flashbacks it could bring back.

"Sam, you have to try," John said. "You're going to waste away at this rate."

Sam burrowed himself deeper in his cloth cocoon, turning to face the back of the couch and letting his own back face the world. He thought of the poor excuse for a bed that he had at the factory, and he remembered having to lay on it for an entire day after he was whipped until his back was left in shreds.

The memories stayed at the edge of his mind, ready to throw him into flashbacks if given the chance. If given the tiny, tiny push they needed.

"We just want to help you," John said.

He knew that. He knew that, but he didn't want to slip and make them see the monster they rescued. They'd realize they made a mistake and that the Sam they wanted died a long time ago. If the demon made anything clear, it was that.

He wasn't going to try to sleep, and even if he wanted to, Bobby's heavy footsteps rushing through the house would have woken him up.

"Bobby? What's going on?" John asked.

"Injured hunter on his way," Bobby said. "Sounds like he got his research wrong and paid a hefty price for it. Luckily, he was working with another hunter, otherwise that woulda been the end of him. Now, since you're staying here, make yourself useful and help me prepare to deal with some bad injuries."

Sam heard them moving from room to room, then he heard the backdoor open and close before Dean asked, "Whoa, Sammy okay?"

"Your brother's, well, this isn't for him," John said.

Sam rolled his eyes and huffed out a small breath. Of course, John couldn't answer if he was okay. No one thought he was okay, and he knew he wasn't. He just didn't like hearing it. He especially didn't like it being said like he wasn't there at all.

He felt Dean's eyes on him before he looked over and saw him hovering above him.

"Sammy? You awake?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded.

"You doing okay?"

He wanted to curl into the couch cushions and disappear. His only reprieve from his nightmarish memories came when he fell into a medicated sleep. He was not doing okay. He might never do okay again, so why did they always have to ask? Why did they have to make him admit to it?

He turned his head away from Dean as much as he could, waiting until Dean stopped hovering and took a seat on the recliner.

"Right, dumb question," Dean said. "Well, let me know if you need something, Sammy."

The sounds of movement in the house started to die down to simply feet tapping on the wooden floors in impatience. Sam felt like he should be aware, or involved, somehow, but he was too tired. Fighting his own mind and whatever his powers stemmed from was exhausting.

At the same time, he wasn't sure his body had the ability to fall asleep without drugs anymore. He couldn't be positive that it wasn't a forgotten function of his brain.

So, he stared at the back of the couch like his world had been narrowed down to just its worn fabric. No one made him get up and help get ready to treat a wounded hunter. No one expected anything of him anymore, other than being alive. Like breathing and having a beating heart were the greatest feats he could accomplish.

No one even moved him from the couch. No one mentioned moving him. The couch was where the injured were usually set, stairs too difficult to manage in most cases. Yet, they let Sam stay in his own little world on the couch instead.

For awhile, Sam thought that maybe no one was coming. Maybe the hunters changed their minds and went to the hospital. But then the doors burst open and the house was filled with the sounds of motion again.

Sam heard Dean get up, then sit on the floor with his back against the couch. It was the closest he had let Dean come since the demon made him simultaneously relive and spectate his memories of trafficking (because only one or the other wasn't enough for the demon, he guessed). This time, he didn't want to push Dean away. Having his brother so close made him feel safe instead of scared.

He rolled over to face the back of Dean's head instead of the back of the couch. He watched John and another hunter carry a man whose skin was more red than anything else into Bobby's kitchen and onto the table (covered with a few layers of bed sheets, but Sam had even less of an appetite than before).

Sam focused on Dean's head, the blood making him more uncomfortable than it should have. He'd never had a problem with exposure to blood before, every hunter became desensitized to it after their first few hunts gone wrong (or gone right, but at too big of a cost).

"They put a collar on me," Sam whispered, only loud enough for Dean to hear.

Dean looked over his shoulder at Sam, and waited in silence for him to continue.

"At first, it was set up so that they had to use a remote to shock me with it," Sam said. He coughed when his throat constricted at the mere memory. "Then, it was every time I tried to make a noise, but they still used the remote, too. They left it on until I passed out from the pain a couple times. I was just like a dog to them."

Dean was visibly shaking as he sat on the ground, swiping at his eyes before Sam could notice the tears pooling, but Sam saw anyway.

"Sammy…"

Dean sounded like he didn't know what to say after that, but Sam couldn't stop the words from pouring out now that they'd started.

"Some days, I still feel a really deep ache. Like, nerve deep, and I think it's because of that. And then I think, you know, what if it never goes away? What if there will always be days where it hurts just to be alive?"

"I can't wait to find Liu so we can finally kill him," Dean said.

Sam saw the strange hunter walk to the edge of the living room and look at them, his minor wounds taken care of and John and Bobby working to patch up the much more injured hunter.

Dean turned to look at the man, too. No longer shaking. Completely composed, like a switch had been flipped in his brain.

"What's wrong with the kid?" he asked, nodding at Sam.

Dean was on his feet and had the man shoved against the wall within seconds. Dean growled words at the man that Sam couldn't hear.

The man kept his hands up, trying to pacify an angry Dean, who looked to have no intention to calm down soon.

But he wasn't out of place in asking, Sam thought. He didn't know what was wrong with him, either.

He did know that telling Dean about the memory stuck in his head helped a little bit, like he could let it go and move on to the next memory.

It still hurt, but it felt like Dean took some of the pain just through listening. It was unpleasant voicing what happened, solidifying that it happened at all, but maybe that was what they both needed.

Author's Note: Sam is finally giving Dean a little bit to work with and trying to heal, but he's still set on being bait. I'm sure that can't go wrong.

As always, thank you to everyone who reads, reviews, follows, and favorites! I really appreciate the support, especially when life gets a little busy and finding time to write becomes difficult.

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