TW: Implied/Referenced Rape; Implied/Referenced Self-Harm; Graphic Description of Violence

Dean takes a look at the unconscious Angel then at the rest of the room. The room that Cas had claimed as his own was bland and practically unlived in and appeared to still be dusty, similar to Sam's except for the dust since his brother was such a clean freak. He vacates the doorway closing the door softly behind him. Leaning his back onto the door he brings a hand down his face and lets out a tired sigh. Despite how shitty he may feel he knows it wasn't from hauling Cas's ass back here, that task had been fairly easy. Instead what's wearing down his bones and body is the entire situation that they've managed to get themselves into, again. The main thing though was the guilt, the guilt for in a way starting this whole thing.

It was guilt for being an ass to Sam for not searching for him, for not being happy that he had managed to get out of the life. For being so much of an asshole that he made him think he had to die to make up for whatever crimes Dean had blamed him for. Then for giving him a half-ass speech that never even fixed anything in the end.

He takes a breath. Can't freak out now.

Going back to the previous events, from what he could tell Cas was simply exhausted from the amount of energy he exerted. Then again he isn't an expert when it comes to Angel powers, but maybe a good rest would have him back in one piece? 'Yeah like anything would start going in our favor,' he muses cynically.

He straightens himself up while stretching out his back with a satisfying pop! He does this before beginning his walk down the hall to the infirmary since it's likely that in the time Sam's been left alone his fever has risen. Especially since the temperature in the dungeon had returned to normal after Cas's little mind journey.

As he walks, he attempts to make his steps as silent as possible, similar to when on a hunt. This is to not make any unnecessary noise that may wake his unconscious brother or the sleeping Angel. He does not wanna know what power would be unleashed if they were to be startled awake, well if Sam was startled awake that is. His and Cas's last exchange still ingrained in his mind:

'-"It's the trials… I'm sure of it." He says, sounding weak. "The power or energy has attached itself to him…"

"And, what does that mean?" Dean asks incredulously.

"It means that there's no telling of what he's capable of now..." And then Cas's eyes roll to the back of his head, and he's out for the count. -'

Sam hadn't exactly woken up after Cas attempted to search his head for a sign of this so-called energy. Instead, he was just unconscious with a fever and no longer muttering his deplorable pleas. As he mentioned previously, the temperature had returned to normal so no more blankets. Overall, this was a relief for Dean since this likely meant his brother wouldn't have to go through whatever tortures had provoked his prayers. Hopefully, he would even rest dreamlessly.

Despite the fact Cas had been knocked unconscious, the little head trip had been a success given they now knew the origin of the energy. The trials. It was pretty obvious given the past circumstances when he stops and truly thinks about it. He had been the one to tell Sam to simply, let is go. He scoffs when he looks back at his foolish words. Yeah, simply let go and forget about the energy inside you that has enough strength to close the gates of hell. Yeah right.

-'I'm such a fucking dumbass. Now once again Sammy is the one getting hurt by my choices, just because I wanted to move forward and forget all about the trials and everything in that goddamn church. I should've realized… I failed again. Now everything has gone to shit and is continuing to go to shit. It's my responsibility. How could I not realize?...'- Unwillingly, his thoughts begin to increase in speed.

Feeling his breathing beginning to speed up, he stops his descent toward the infirmary and places his hand on the wall in an attempt to slow his racing thoughts and now blurring vision. His chest is beginning to tighten now, the breaths shallow. And he recognizes what this is, so he does what he's been taught.

He takes a deep breath through his nose while relaxing his shoulders and after a few seconds letting it out through his mouth to calm his rising emotions. It's something he learned from Sam back when he'd just returned from his trip downstairs. Back when he could barely get a good night's rest without waking up calling Sam's name or hearing the cries of tortured souls. It had been a technique for anxiety, Sam had told 'im. Though he never elaborated on how he knew it. Now it was more used as an attempt to simply keep his emotions and stress in check, although the past year has shown how ineffective it had become. However, now it was all he had because now isn't the right time to have a freaking breakdown or a fucking pity party because his little brother is once again detoxing from a lethal substance and has more freaky powers and the only other person that could help is passed out and at half power and… and…

Shit. It isn't working.

His fingers are starting to numb, and he can't feel them no matter how hard his grip is on the wall. The world feels as if it's spinning, it's like he's on a merry-go-round and he can't get off no matter how hard he tries. His breaths are beginning to quicken because he can't get any goddamn air! He could feel his heart racing, hear its escalating rhythm in his ears. He's falling, he thinks, he's sinking because he can't hold himself up and no one is there to catch him. No one is there because the one person who has always been there is suffering because of him, because of the things he did and forced on him. That one person may die again because of everything that he put into motion, they may lose their minds again or their control over their body again. And he closes his eyes because everything is becoming too much.

'My fault. My fault. My fault. My fault. My fault. My fault. My fault. My fault. My fault. My fault. My fault. My fault. My fault. My fault. My…' His thoughts play on loop.

That's all that fills his mind for what seems like forever until something new pops up. Something from a time before the apocalypse. Before so much blame, and anger, and so much death.

-"Inhale through your nose for a count of four; Relax your shoulders; Hold your breath for a count of seven; Exhale through your mouth for a count of eight; Repeat. Trust me, dude it works, just do it until you feel yourself calm down. And if it doesn't work, well I'll be there, because you're my big brother and there's nothing I wouldn't do for you jerk."-

Sammy.

Sammy's counting on him.

He repeats the memory in his mind, listens to the words of a younger brother much forgotten. One filled with hope, and anger. One without so much guilt and trauma. One who hadn't been tortured for centuries by Lucifer. One who had never stopped fighting, or had never become tired. One who is still counting on him after everything.

-'Inhale through your nose for a count of four'-

-'Relax your shoulders'-

-'Hold your breath for a count of seven'-

-'Exhale through your mouth for a count of eight'-

-'Repeat.'-

He repeats this inside his head like a mantra until he could finally feel everything beginning to slow back to normal. He could now feel how firm his grip is on the wall. His chest feels less compressed, his breaths at a normal pace and not shallow. Heart rate not speeding, not throbbing in his ears. He opens his eyes and the world has stopped spinning and he realizes he's on the floor.

He's okay. He's finally calmed down.

Quickly he checks his watch to determine the time he wasted having his so-called panic attack as Sam had called it. 'Three minutes… could've been worse.' He stands up slowly ensuring he doesn't become dizzy since doing so wouldn't help Sam. Then he dusts himself off because there is no time to wallow in self-pity. Taking a few breaths to reassure himself of his normal breathing he continues down the hall because as a big brother there's one thing he could- should do.

And that is to take care of his little brother, Sammy.

-"But don't worry, I always listen to my favorite pet… Now, let's get started shall we?"-

His body sways like fruit in the breeze from the roof (tar, flesh, blood) of the cage. His wrists are bloody and raw and stripped to the bone, they keep his feet that are boney and charred from touching the ground (quicksand, lava, ice-cold). He's back, he's really back. He knew there was no way he had gotten out.

He should've realized that sooner before he allowed himself to indulge in a false world.

The curtain has finally been pulled back and isn't that just hilarious. Another punchline in what is his life. Another part of this cosmic joke.

A laugh is bubbling in what is left of his throat, if it weren't for the blood and torn flesh and muscle he's sure it would sound hysterical. The gurgling causes blood to cascade down his body, slick and dark. Possibly filled with sulfur, similar to the very things he killed. Maybe being in hell would make it easier to see, since it hadn't shown itself before. Instead, it had hidden, and no matter how many cuts he had made it wouldn't reveal itself it would simply camouflage. No wonder his family had never suspected anything when they stitched him up. Maybe now being where he belongs he would be able to see his taint.

He was so, so, so stupid. He would never let him leave, never let him leave without him at least. Because he owns him. No matter how many times he had tried to deny it. He always had and always will. He was the one to orchestrate everything in his life, the one who persuaded him toward his destiny. It was absurd to run from it. The odds were always against him.

Sure, he may have been able to resist it at one point. But look at where he's at now. Since he had found out about the blood and his abilities he knew he would be here, in hell. Maybe that was always his destiny. His destiny to be punished for defying him, for defying everyone. Just because he thought he knew better. Lucifer wasn't wrong when he had said they were practically the same.

He looks down at what used to be inside his body, or his own personal cage as Lucifer liked to call it, all his insides are now lying under his feet. What's left on the ground are slimy and raw organs, -beautiful art- he had told him. If he tilts his head a certain way, he's able to see where Lucifer's coming from, and it truly is a masterpiece.

A downside to his creation like any other is that his stomach acid continues to drip, drip, drip from the empty cavity of his midsection. It's the only other thing he could hear aside from his own gurgling and the mesmeric voices that keep him company, keep him from going fully insane.

'Little too late for that.' he chuckles darkly, the gurgling being low.

The voices that whisper show him scenes of destruction and creation, show small blurry glimpses at the past and future. Scenes filled with pride, anger, and gluttony. Yet also filled with humility, patience, and temperance. It displays two sides of the same coin, although he doesn't know what the coin is in this scenario.

It reminds him of the flames that burn and scorch but also freeze and numb. Reminds him of hands that tear, stretch, and corrupt, but also attempt to comfort, and viciously purify.

-"This is all for you Sammy… everything I'm doing is because of you."-

Hands that tear him apart, tear him apart to then put him back together. But this time some pieces are missing, or some don't fit exactly, or some pieces are new. And no matter how forcefully you push the pieces together it will never be the way it was before. Now there's something new, a new treasure, a new monstrosity, something not seen before. Something that is a shadow of itself.

The drops are starting to slow, he can tell, he'd been passing time by counting the rate between drops. Yes, he knows it won't make a difference in the long run, nevertheless, it keeps him occupied. It's better than the nothingness, the isolation, the absolution. At least here he could remember that he exists, here he could have a break from the thoughts that plague his mind.

'One… two… three… drop…. One… two… drop… one… drop…'.

The drops finally stop. That means his midsection is finally dried out leaving a cavity that is left to the freezing and burning of the artificial air. That means there's a chance the bottom of his ribs is poking out from the hole if he could still remember his anatomy correctly. Which also means another thing… him.

The atmosphere changes around him, what's left of the hair on his neck rises. Before he could prepare himself a hand that is cold, too cold, grips the back of his neck. And he flinches on contact which causes the pain in his wrists to become even more excruciating as the metal tears at what's left of his wrists. This elicits a whimper that with his open throat causes small drops of blood to cascade and fuck, fuck, fuck. He's not supposed to do that, not yet at least. Not this early.

Nails dig at the back of his neck, which communicates without words to shut the hell up before I start my favorite little session early. And it's a test, he knows it's a test. He can't fail it because if he does it will show that all the torture, the atonement for his sins had been for nothing. So he does just that and shuts the hell up. His eyes remain open no matter how much he wants to close them, he's learned that he's not allowed to, not without permission at least. That rule had been enforced many times.

- "Aww Sammy, whenever I say keep your eyes open… you do that. Unless you would like me to pleasure myself… but then again I don't care what you think, because I own you. I own every filthy part of you, inside and out bunkmate."-

There's an icy breath that cradles around the back of his ear and he should be used to at this point, but he isn't. He attempts to get a hold of his now shaking form, tries to still himself. Tries to make himself appear docile. Fighting wouldn't help, fighting would only make the punishment worse or make it last longer.

He keeps his eyes open, his body still, himself silent until Lucifer finally releases his neck and comes from behind his hanging form, finally revealing himself to his eyes. His face appearing to be filled with satisfaction. "Aw there's my favorite little bitch", he starts while tracking his eyes up and down Sam's body hungrily. "Oh if only your old man and brother could see you now," he says, stopping to make eye contact. "I'm sure they both wished they could've trained you this well".

Then he snaps his fingers and then Humpty-dumpty is put back together again, but now the yolk is even more scrambled inside. Further, he can't help but chuckle at that thought because isn't that hilarious. It's hilarious how a tainted being could even be compared to a damn personified egg.

And he knows he's not making sense, because nothing that's going on matches up. Everything is and was broken. That being his mind, his body, his soul, his surroundings. He doesn't want to play whatever role he's in anymore.

Lucifer is speaking yet he can't hear the words, and only sees the movement of the celestial's mouth. Now Lucifer is closer, and when did that happen? What's going on? The edges of what he believed to be the cage are starting to become cracked and crumbling. Lucifer or not-Lucifer, just his imagination or something more is in front of his face and he's preparing to do something. He can't move his body, his wrists are still stuck and the metal continues to bite into his flesh.

And Dean? Dean? He's panicking, he's trying to remember the before. Trying to remember before he was thrown into this memory? This prison? This imitation?

Where's his brother? Cas?

-Blood, sulfuric and metallic goes down his throat. He doesn't want it, he doesn't. Abaddon's wrist is fixed to his mouth, and he can't help but suck down more evil. Energy thrums under his skin and begins to increase. Something different, new begins to stir as well. Abaddon's talking, Dean won't look at him.-

Lucifer's hand is suddenly shoved inside his chest and blinding hot energy fills his entire being. The energy seems familiar, and he could feel it grip his very soul. He bucks and writhes as the pain becomes more and more excruciating. He opens his mouth to scream, but nothing comes out. The voices surround him like a blanket speaking a language he cannot decipher at the moment. He closes his eyes to try to ground himself because everything is too overwhelming. Nothing and everything makes sense.

The fingers burrow themselves into his soul as if making room for something more, his body heat is similar to an inferno. He's sure he's being disintegrated, being taken out of existence and he can't help but hope that's the case because he can't handle this. He can't deal with this amount of pain. This is worse than anything he has ever experienced.

It goes on for what feels like an eternity until everything suddenly stops.

There's no more burning.

No more whispers or voices.

No more hands or energy tunneling inside his soul.

Just quiet.

He keeps his eyes close, too afraid that opening them may take him back there. That it may dissolve this new bliss.

He begins to hear shallow breathing in the distance. Then there's a hand that's on his chest and he can't help but flinch because maybe whatever it is is looking to finish the job. Attempting to move himself he feels the hand increase in strength, that's when he realizes he's on an uncomfortable surface. Still, he keeps his eyes close because it could just be Lucifer or whoever- whatever it was pretending to be Lucifer trying to mess with him.

"Sammy?!" He hears his name yelled sharply by… by his brother. By Dean?

"Sammy can you hear me? Can you open your eyes for me, little brother?". What he believes to be his brothers' voice has now softened.

"Please Sammy, please it's okay. Just open your eyes for me. It's just me, it's just Dean." A part of him tells him not to listen because it can be a trick, just another way to hurt him. On the other hand, another part, a bigger part can recognize his older brothers' voice anywhere. So he complies, he slowly opens his eyelids that feel so heavy. While doing so he could hear Dean's word of encouragement.

He's able to lift them enough to meet familiar green eyes that seem hesitant. His mouth feels dry and odd, yet he finds it in himself to say one thing.

"Dean?"

Upon returning to the dungeon with any supplies he may need, he checks on Sam's physical condition. He finds it to be the same way as he left. His skin is still pale and covered with sweat, his body wracked in shivers. Though he's quiet except for the sound of his breathing, there is an absence of whimpers or mumbling.

He brings out the thermometer he grabbed from the infirmary and puts it to his brother's forehead. He holds it there until he hears the beep indicating the temperature has been found. '104.3°… shit definitely time for ice packs'. He concludes.

Grabbing a couple of ice packs from the ice chest he found he places them under his brother's neck, under his arms, etc. Essentially anywhere that Sam's major blood vessels are close to the surface. This isn't the first time he's had to do this, but that doesn't mean it gets any easier.

Before retreating to his specific chair, he gives his brother a word of encouragement despite knowing it likely wouldn't get through to him. He sets the chair closer to his brothers' unconscious form and sits preparing himself to notice any changes in his brother's form. And he waits.

'Two hours… two hours and nothing'. He rests his arm back to his side. In the past few hours, nothing had changed. So he's just been sitting there, occasionally changing out the ice packs in hopes it may help his brother's rising temperature. Sam on the other hand had continued to rest, oblivious to the outside world. No freaky bursts of energy. No noises. No nothing.

That should be a relief, but in his experience, that just means the explosion will be greater. And when that comes to unknown abilities the explosion could be even worse.

Ugh. He hated this feeling.

Hated the feeling of being on edge. Of waiting for a sign for things to go wrong. Of waiting for the thing that may mean it was time to fulfill their father's last words.

-"If you can't save Sam, you'll have to kill him"-

He wasn't the one to save Sam last time, that was all Sam. It hurts to think their father trusted Dean more with his brothers' life than he trusted Sam with his own. However, condoning only him would be extremely hypocritical of him. Especially since he's just as guilty of it. The past year is a prime example of that.

He's going to make this right he decides. Whenever Sam opens his eyes, and he will open them, he's gonna make up for all the shitty things he's done since he came back. Then he's gonna help Sam with whatever new abilities he may obtain, and they're gonna get better and deal with all the other crap that's wrong. And…

He's broken away from his thoughts at the sound of a… of a whimper? A freaking whimper. Crap. Before he knows it he's at his brother's side and not feeling like wasting any more time he simply places the back of his palm on his brother's forehead to check his temperature. He brings his hand away swiftly as if he's been burnt. And since his brother's fever has risen too fucking high that's the case.

Then Sam's body stiffens, and that is never a good sign. So thinking it to possibly be a seizure at a rapid speed he begins to uncuff Sammy's restrained wrists and ankles. He does it just in time to see the youngest Winchester begin to writhe and buck wildly. Thinking back to what he's learned on seizures he knows to place the person on their side to allow them to breathe. But since he was practically burnt last time, that is definitely not going to happen. All he could do is let him ride it out. And that conclusion pains him.

When Sam opens his mouth in what appears to be a silent scream that's when the light bulb overhead goes out along with the rest in the hallway. He covers his head as broken glass cascades down. Whatever was on the metal shelves around them comes crashing down loudly. The air seems to comes to life with what can only be described as electricity.

And as fast as it started, the faster it stops. No more electricity in the air. No more light bulbs being blown. No more items being thrown. Everything is at a standstill.

He gets up from his crouched position on the floor to take in the state of the room and himself. Looking at his arms and hands he could see small tears from the raining glass, but nothing that may cause him to need stitches. The rest of the room appears to have been hit by a tornado with the appearance of broken boxes, items, and glass on the floor. When his eyes reach his brother, he's… he's unharmed and just still. This is because he was practically the eye of the storm.

Seeming to come out of a trance he races into action running to his brothers' side. He places a hand on Sam's chest to feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing. Doing so he could feel Sam's sudden flinch, and that makes his heart clench.

"Sammy?!" he calls hoping to awaken his brother. But when that doesn't work he softens his approach.

"Sammy can you hear me? Can you open your eyes for me, little brother?".

No response, but he won't give up. Whatever was going on in his head likely made him more cautious.

"Please Sammy, please it's okay. Just open your eyes for me. It's just me, it's just Dean.", he attempts again hoping to elicit a response.

Sam's eyes begin to flutter, in response, he gives words of encouragement. And when his brother's eyes open all the way he sees something that wasn't there previously. Something new. Something ancient. Something powerful. Something...

"Dean?". Sam's hazel eyes stare at him eagerly.

With that one word whatever he had seen is gone, as if it was never there. And that worries him. But this time he won't ignore it. This time he won't hide it from him. This time they'll deal with this together.

Now, however, Sam needs to heal.

"Yeah, Sammy… it's me".

TBC