Phew. It's been a helluva month since I last updated. Well, five-six weeks. Whatever. My stupid manuscript got rejected again, so that sucks. Pushes my defense/graduation ever further back. But on the plus side, my boyfriend proposed and I said yes! He meant to say this sweet thing about us being two halves made whole, but his brain shorted out because he was so nervous. We had just speed-climbed this fire tower in Duluth to catch the sunset so instead he said "Like the stairs, you take my breath away. Will you marry me?" Haha, such a dork. Love him though.

I struggled a lot with this chapter and decided to just post what I have. The next chapter is partially written with the following two almost completed. Hope to update soon.

Thanks so much to shewriteswords, Pie Love Luci, Souless666, SnackHouse, and caitlin oconnor for your reviews. I know I've been bad about responding but I will try to do so over the next few days. Your reviews really do help, especially when my scientific writing keeps getting rejected. (hugs)

This time, Bobby heard the grumble of the Impala in his driveway long before the elder Winchester entered his home. He waited as he heard the engine shut off, a mix of eagerness and dread filling his gut. He was eager to see his youngest but he dreaded the state he'd be in. Minutes went by and no one came in. Confused, Bobby rolled to the front door and opened it, cursing the awkward maneuvers necessary. He went out onto the porch and saw the Impala. He didn't miss the large dent marring the hood.

Inside sat Dean, hunched against the steering wheel, his shoulders jerking in the telltale movements of sobs. Bobby felt his throat constrict and he pounded his legs, resentful of his disability, frustrated that it prevented him from comforting his surrogate son. All he could do was wait until Dean collected himself and came inside. Bobby returned to the kitchen, willing to give Dean some privacy. He pulled out two tumblers and filled them with whiskey, having no doubt they would be filled and emptied many more times today.

Almost twenty minutes later, Dean carried his blanket-wrapped brother up the stairs and into the house.

"Dean!" Bobby called out urgently and followed him to the couch. Dean deposited his burden and greedily snatched the glass Bobby held out. "How is he?"

Dean downed the entire glass before looking back to Bobby. His red-rimmed eyes did not go unnoticed. "Bad. It's really bad."

"What do you mean? I thought Lucifer would resurrect him?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, he did. But it's not instantaneous. It takes time for his wounds to heal." He carefully peeled back the blanket to reveal Sam's bloody and battered corpse. His face was still crushed, though his jaw seemed to have righted itself.

Bobby averted his gaze as fast as he could, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. "Jesus, Dean! Warn a guy next time! I thought you said you shot him! What'd you use, heavy artillery?!"

Dean looked down at his shoes. "I had to run him over. I had to hit him with my Baby, Bobby!" He put a fist to his mouth, trying to hold back another round of tears.

"What happened?" Bobby tried to glance back at Sam but couldn't bear it. "Please Dean, cover 'im up."

Dean flipped the blanket back over Sam. "He woke up while I was driving. He punched me in the nose when I turned 'round to check on him. Still had black eyes. He got out, wanted to leave. I tried to talk him back into the car but he used his new psychic mojo or whatever to strangle me."

"Hold up. His powers didn't work on people before."

"I know, but they fucking do now! Not only that, he nearly stopped the Impala from driving. It was literally kill or be killed, Bobby, and I knew he'd come back, so I did it, I killed my brother, again."

Bobby gulped against the painful tension in his throat then let his head fall into his hand. "Dammit Dean, I can't even imagine what that was like."

"Was the worst thing I've ever done," Dean choked out.

A minute's silence encased them, each man coming to grips with the situation. "Bobby," Dean rasped, "there's something—I think we should, uh, do something before he wakes up."

The older hunter looked up at Dean. "What's that?"

"We need to pump his stomach."

"Come again?"

"He— When I found him, he'd drank at least four or five demons. Maybe that's why he was so damn strong. We need to detox him. It'll probably go quicker if he has less blood in his system."

Bobby's stomach balked at the idea but he knew Dean was right. "Well, as long as he's… incapacitated, it should be fairly easy to siphon it out. I have an oil pump we could use."

"Great, where is it? I'll go get it and clean it up."

"Second shelf on the left in the workshop."

Dean was up in a flash and gone before Bobby could say anything else. He couldn't blame the kid. He'd been honest when he said he couldn't imagine what this was like for Dean. Yeah, he'd had to kill his wife, but as horrible as that had been, it'd only been once. Flashes of Karen's possessed face flickered through his mind, mixing with memories of Sam's black eyes when he was possessed by Meg. He shook his head vigorously to dispel the images and went to the kitchen for a bucket.

Dean returned and scrubbed the tubing and hand pump to within an inch of its life, the task obviously distracting him from his woes. He rinsed everything thoroughly, even though he consciously knew a little dish soap wouldn't hurt Sam, hell, he probably wouldn't even notice it once he woke up, but it didn't stop Dean from doing his best to take care of his little brother.

He strode into the living room and looked at Bobby apprehensively. "Ready to do this?"

Bobby held up the bucket and a kitchen towel. "As ready as I'll ever be."

Dean shifted the blanketed bundle so that Sam's back and head were flat on the cushions and his legs were dangling over the arm of the couch. He braced himself as he unwrapped the blanket to reveal the garish scene of injuries slowly being knit back together. Bobby whimpered in sympathy as he came closer. "God…" he murmured.

"You shoulda seen it when it first happened. He's had like three hours to recover at this point."

"It's still awful," Bobby said quietly and Dean nodded in agreement.

"What's the best way to do this?" Dean asked, his hands anxiously playing with the stiff tubing.

"Honestly, just stick it in and try to follow his esophagus down. You'll probably feel some pushback from the esophageal sphincter but since he's—" Bobby didn't want to say the word, even if it was a temporary condition for Sam, "you know, there shouldn't be too much resistance."

Dean swallowed hard then knelt on the floor by Sam's head. He opened Sam's mouth and carefully threaded the tubing in, using a flashlight to guide him down Sam's throat. About a foot and a half in, he felt the tube hit something. He rearranged his position so he was now over the arm of the couch. He titled Sam's head back as far as it would go, did his best to ignore the coolness of Sam's skin, and kept pushing straight towards Sam's stomach. He felt the pressure give and fed in a few more inches until he was sure he was in the right spot.

He motioned for Bobby to set the bucket down next to the couch. Dean started pumping the siphon and within a few seconds, an almost black liquid gurgled into the hose. It sloshed down into the white bucket and revealed itself to be a dark red. Dean crushed the pump a few more times to eliminate any air and let the siphon run. The sickening aroma of blood and stomach acid permeated the room as the bucket steadily filled. Both Dean and Bobby watched with horror as at least two gallons flowed out of Sam's stomach.

A storm of emotions raged in Dean. He was angry that this had happened to his brother, but also angry that Sam had allowed this to happen. If he hadn't been so arrogant in the first place, thinking drinking demon blood was a good idea, this never would have occurred. If he hadn't been so weak as to let himself become addicted, this would not have happened. If he'd gotten his act together and stuffed down his emotions after he released Lucifer, the two of them never would have separated and Sam wouldn't have been captured. Fucking stupid Sam, always getting into the worst shit.

But Dean also knew a large part of this wasn't actually Sam's fault. They'd all been played for fools, everything in their life leading up to the Apocalypse. He sincerely doubted they would have been able to change any of the outcomes. Maybe the routes, but not the destination.

The sputtering of the siphon drew him back to reality and he looked down. Air had entered the tube, allowing some of the blood to slide back into Sam's stomach. He quickly withdrew the tubing and let it all fall into the bucket. He looked up at Bobby, who tilted his head toward the yard, indicating Dean should dump it outside. Wordlessly, Dean grabbed the handle and walked out.

Dean returned after rinsing the bucket with the hose. Bobby was trying to wash Sam's face but the accumulated grime wasn't easy to remove. Dean looked at Sam and sighed. "I should bring him down the panic room before he wakes up. He's gonna need to detox, same as before."

Bobby nodded. "Make sure to lock him up. Who knows what we'll be dealing with." Once he saw Dean bob his head in agreement, Bobby rolled away to another room, acutely aware he could offer Dean no assistance, either physically or emotionally.

Dean rubbed his eyes, whether out of exhaustion or disbelief, he wasn't sure. The healing was almost too slow to watch in real time, but if he looked away for a few minutes and then checked, he could see the differences in Sam's body. He was grateful Sam's regeneration progressed so quickly. Continually watching the repair of Sam's body diluted the more grotesque images plaguing his mind whenever he closed his eyes.

By now, the broken bones had been corrected and the major lacerations had closed. All that remained were the smaller cuts and for Sam to start breathing again. Dean had attempted to clean the blood off but it felt too much like preparing a body for a funeral. He just couldn't do it. Sam wasn't dead. He wasn't. He couldn't be.

"Dean?" Bobby bellowed down the stairs.

Dean set his glass of bourbon aside and pushed himself out of the chair. He cracked open the heavy iron door. "What?"

"You've been down there for almost five hours! Why don't you take a break? Get some grub?"

He shook his head even though Bobby couldn't see him. "No, I think he'll come back soon. Most of the injuries are gone. I wanna be here when he wakes up."

"Dean…" the older hunter implored.

"Bobby, leave it," Dean urged, trying to temper the heat in his voice. He really didn't want to get into it with Bobby right now.

"Fine, suit yourself..." Bobby grumbled and closed the basement door.

Dean sighed. He wasn't trying to piss off Bobby. He just wanted to do what was best for his brother. He pulled the door shut and resumed his post.

About an hour later, Sam gasped for breath and tried to sit up. The way his hands were cuffed limited his movement, so instead he opened his eyes and lifted his head. He slowly scanned the room, a small smile gracing his lips. Glistening black met Dean's gaze and it made the older Winchester want to shudder with revulsion. Sam blinked and cocked his head to the side.

"Is this any way to treat your battered little brother?"

"You're not Sam," Dean said firmly before looking away.

"Yes, I am, you just don't want to accept it. Am I all of Sam?" He shrugged. "Probably not. But I'm the only functional part. I'm keeping the rest of him, of us, safe. Don't you think this is a better state of affairs? I have some freedom, control. I occasionally even have fun! That's way more than you can say for him."

Dean forced himself to look at the black eyes scarring the most familiar face in his life. "How did you even… happen?"

Demon-Sam scoffed. "Bastards injected me with demon blood when I was too unresponsive to swallow it. Mixing the blood directly must somehow make it more potent. I don't know. Do I look like an expert?"

"Well, you do seem to know how to use it!"

"Practice makes perfect, and they forced me through a lot of practice."

Dean did not like the sound of that! He schooled his expression to one of strict interrogation. "What can you do now?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Sam sassed in response, his coy smile indicating Dean wouldn't be getting any further information.

Dean sighed. "Alright, well, um, how long is this," he gestured to the eyes, "gonna last?"

Sam shrugged and let his head fall back against the cot. "You that eager to get rid of them? Think about it, Dean, if you kept me around, we would make a kickass hunting team. Winchester and Winchester Plus. Between us, there'd be very little that could stop us."

Dean narrowed his eyes as he assessed the creature before him. Was it trying to negotiate with him? Trying to strike a deal where it could stay and Sam, the real Sam, would stay buried?

Dean shook his head. "No. No way. One, you're way too dangerous to be out and about. Two, I don't trust you not to run off the first chance you get. Three, if it came down to it, I'd prefer Sam were dead than be you."

Demon-Sam snorted at that. "Same old story then. It's always about what you want, not what's best for me. Don't know why I expected anything different. And, unfortunately for one of us, though it remains to be seen which one, death isn't an option here. But, there are lots of options for death!" He lifted his head up and found Dean's gaze. "Should I list off the ways we died, Dean? Would you prefer it in alphabetical or chronological order? Or maybe least to most painful? Or which took the longest?"

Dean tried to look away but found he was unable to move. Panic spiked through him.

"That last one must be a world record. Took 39 hours for a djinn to bleed me dry. Damn venom only worked as a paralytic, so I was basically awake the whole time, slowly dying. Sam's personal best was 33 hours and change when some hunters beat him so bad with crowbars and golf clubs that his broken ribs perforated his lungs and he eventually suffocated. Tim and Reggie thought it would be fun to use him as a human dart board while he was nailed to a wall, gasping for air. They played 901 but I can't remember who won… It was probab—"

"Stop!" Dean mustered, the single word requiring all his energy and focus. "How?"

"How what, how am I restricting you?"

"Yes!"

Sam chuckled darkly and let his head fall back again. "I'm so much stronger than you know. Yeah, you got me tied down pretty well, devil's trap stings, but you can't control me entirely. You can try, but you'll fail. Every time."

Dean sent all his intent towards his feet and found he was slowly able to move those forward. The smug expression on demon-Sam's face faltered slightly and Dean could move more, though it felt like swimming through syrup. He pulled a knife from his back pocket and put it to Sam's throat. He felt his freedom return entirely.

"Give me back my brother, you black-eyed bitch!"

Demon-Sam didn't seem at all fazed by the threat. He even rolled his eyes. "I'm not possessed, Dean. This is who I am. I've always been here. I've just been asleep, dormant, waiting. This power has been in me since I was six months old! One drop of blood was all it took, and voila! I was meant to be, Dean. Stop denying this. Stop denying me."

Dean's face crumpled a bit as he withdrew the knife and flung it across the room. "No, no!" He turned and ran his hands through his hair. "I can't—I just can't." He spun and pointed an angry finger at Sam. "Look, I know you're gonna dry out at some point and—"

"You sure about that?" demon-Sam queried, lifting his head to peer at Dean.

"You always have before."

"This isn't before."

Dean felt his skin start to crawl the longer he remained under the midnight stare. "Whatever. I think you'll turn back. And no matter what state you're in, we'll fix it."

"Your optimism is inspiring, really. Or you'll let him resurface with the memories of indescribable torture ripping apart what's left of his mind. So many things Dean, things you couldn't even imagine, not even as Alastair's best. Demons lack the vengeance necessary for truly destructive torment. If only you could see what's left inside. Maybe Castiel could help with that?" he offered generously with a smirk.

Dean looked down. "He, uh, already tried. After I shot you."

Sam looked surprised but he nodded. "And how did that work out for him?"

Dean gulped. "Not well. He couldn't even touch you."

"Yep. Tim and Reggie did their research. And then some. You're out of your depth here. Stop trying to fix me and let me live. It's what's best. Or else, misery will be your constant soundtrack. You'll never escape all his gruesome persecutions, from being werewolf chow, to being thrown from a ninth story window by a poltergeist, to suffering repeated deaths at the hands of hunters who would still fight by your side, Dean. The Sam you want is dead, gone, broken. I'm all that's left."

Dean shook his head vigorously. "No, I don't believe you!"

"Believe what you want. It's the truth."

"No," Dean whispered and strode out of the room, slamming the heavy door. He paused long enough to make sure it was locked before fleeing upstairs.

Dean sat staring at the mailbox waiting for the hunters' package, trying to ignore demon-Sam's taunts. They ranged from personal to annoying to downright weird, Sam sometimes seeming to talk in Latin as if trying to curse Dean or cast a spell. He continued to try to convince Dean that Sam was too far gone to be worth saving. His voice started to grate on Dean's nerves, forcing Dean to turn on the TV about an hour ago. He hoped to drown out the cruel words, but he didn't want to obscure Sam's voice completely in case his actual brother needed him.

Demon-Sam had been quiet for some time now, prompting Dean to turn the volume down. He was tempted to go check on him, but a much larger part of Dean wanted to stay as far away as possible from that thing wearing Sam's body. The power demon-Sam had terrified him and he had no desire to experience it again.

"Dean?" the voice of his-almost-brother called from the panic room. He couldn't help but instinctively switch his attention to Sam. "Do you have any idea what it's like to be eaten by a naga?"

What?! Dean thought to himself. Did he say 'eaten'?

"Yeah, you heard me right, I said eaten. By a naga. You even know what that is? It's a seven-headed serpent from the Hindu and Buddhist traditions. They're demigods, you know. Funny how most texts don't mention that they're real into eating people. I, well, Sam, got used as bait for one. The bastards treated him with some paralyzing drug and left him on a swampy beach in Louisiana. A literal sitting duck. He could hear the damn thing slither up to him but couldn't move a muscle."

Dean wished he could avert his attention but he had promised himself to learn every detail he could about what Sam went through. He failed to suppress a shiver as he thought of a snake sliding up to him but being unable to escape. He was sure the flicker of panic he was currently experiencing would have been dwarfed by Sam's.

"It thought he was sleeping so it bit his leg to poison him. Little did it know, the hunters were counting on that and had injected Sam with some anti-venom that would become toxic for the naga when mixed with its own poison. Of course, it would have to eat Sam first to be exposed. But your brother played the part unwillingly, as he had so many times before and so many times after. The naga started at his feet and slowly swallowed him whole, inch by inch, absolute terror consuming him just as he was being consumed. If only you could have felt the dread he felt when the mouth closed and all the light was shut out. He couldn't even struggle. All he could do was wait as he was sloshed feet-first into a pool of acid while the oxygen ran out. Can you imagine the warm, slimy walls pressing in on you while liquid fire begins to tear away your flesh, filling your mouth and scorching your lungs?"

Despite himself, Dean was all too vividly imagining the scene. He'd passed high school biology. He knew how stomachs worked. Claustrophobia was breathing hot down his neck and phantom pain flittered around his body. He couldn't take it anymore. This couldn't be true. He ran down the stairs and opened the metal flap. "You're lying," he spat accusingly.

Steady black eyes blinked back at him. "I'm not. You can come check my leg for the bite mark. It's there, I promise you."

Against his better judgement, he opened the door and walked in. "Which leg?"

"Right one, on the calf muscle." He wiggled the supposedly afflicted limb.

Dean put one hand on his booted foot and slid the jeans out from under the handcuff securing Sam's ankle. After he pushed the fabric up, he scanned Sam's leg for the wound. Underneath the grime, blood, and other scars, he could make out two circular blackened patches of skin.

"I'm assuming the hunters cut him out before he could be entirely digested, but who knows. Sometimes they liked to do that sort of shit for fun. They liked to time it to see how quickly we'd come back."

Dean pulled the fabric back down then turned away, his eyes closed. But his mind still supplied the horrible image of a giant snake creature with a Sam-sized lump in it.

"Dean, I know you think you're helping me here, but you just don't get it. All of these experiences have ruined your brother. Why put Sam through this? Torture is torture, no matter where you are. You of all people should understand that! Why are you so set on making him relive this Hell when you know the damage from yours is irreparable?"

Suddenly, vivid flashes of Hell lashed his mind.

His own hands drenched in the blood of a hundred bodies, a thousand bodies, so many he lost count. His blades never dulled, regardless of whether he slashed through skin, muscle, or bone. He didn't even see them as separate anymore, rather they were extensions of his own body.

The smile on his face as he threaded a needle through a hazel eye, the man's screams of agony so well-warranted.

The delicious aroma of dissolving flesh as he poured acid into a gaping abdominal wound.

The feeling of warmth that spread in his chest as the dying gurgle of an elderly woman escaped around the violence of his fist in her throat.

Demons laughing and spurring him on, urging him to ever deeper depths of depravity. He felt it like a spreading stain on his soul but he didn't care, all that mattered was how good this felt, how much he needed this, how this is what he was meant to be doing.

"No!" Dean screamed, fighting the quickening torrent of memories inundating his mind. "I'm not there anymore! That's not me anymore!" He cried out until his throat was sore and his voice hoarse.

Deep laughter surrounded him and he opened his eyes to pitch blackness. The laughter eventually stopped and a familiar voice—whose voice was that? He knew it, didn't he? He'd stake his life on it that he knew that voice…

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe you never left, that maybe this is all one big illusion custom made to fuck with you?"

His throat seized but he managed to rasp out "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you're still in Hell, Dean. Like an angel would give a shit about you, Dean Winchester."

"But, Sam—"

"Oh, yes, they are very interested in Sam, the boy with the demon blood. He was chosen, at six months old, to change the world. But you? What made you special, Dean? Your good looks and burnishing wit?" A scoff. "Give me a break. The only thing useful about you is all your buried rage. Makes you an artiste with a knife. Never thought I'd see a human soul enjoy torture so much, but then again, as in life, so it shall be in death. You were just a weapon, Daddy's little soldier, Sammy's faithful protector. Kill anything that John told you to or that threatened Sam. Well, thanks for keeping him alive for us, you were the perfect tool, just as he'll be the perfect vessel. He was made for Lucifer and Lucifer shall have him."

He fought the insidious words clawing into his brain and focused on recognizing the voice. The moment he heard 'Lucifer', he realized it was not one voice, but two. Azazel's and Sam's. It didn't make sense for it to be both of them, so one of them must be using the other.

He opened his eyes to find the complete darkness had dissipated due to splinters of light from above. It took him a few moments, but once his eyes adjusted, he saw demon-Sam's smirking face before him, and he understood he'd been duped. Not that the realization did anything to ease the fear and guilt piercing his heart.

Dean swallowed against the memories and emotions swirling around him, pushing down on him, threatening to drown him. "No," he gasped, "Sam and I are much more than just weapons or vessels. You'd know that if you were my brother. But you're not Sam, not really, and I know he can do this. He can get past this."

"Oh really?" More light streamed in as Sam's manipulation faded. "Because you're such a goddam expert on recovering from torture? There's just one thing here that's different, and it's significant enough that even an idiot like you can appreciate the implications. In Hell, you were there out of love. You were there to save your brother. Your suffering was worth something. But Sam?" Demon-Sam scoffed and looked away before returning his gaze to Dean with a twisted smile on his face. "Sam languished in agony knowing he deserved every. goddam. second. Why? Because his own brother rejected him, told him they were better off apart. Sam broke the world, but it was your dismissal that broke him. At some point, when everyone is telling you 'you're nothing', you start to believe it. There is nothing salvageable left of your little brother. You're too late."

"No," Dean whispered, tears threatening his vision. To think he was the reason Sam had given up… It was too much to bear. "You're lying."

"I'm not. Let me show you."

Before Dean had a chance to respond, he was bombarded by rapidly changing scenes of Sam's suffering. A werewolf feasting on his heart. Sam's limp body hanging from a rafter. Heart-stopping terror on his face as he tried to outrun a nest of vampires. The smirking faces of numerous hunters just itching to beat him bloody, caustic vitriol spilling from their mouths. Creatures he didn't even recognize in various stages of pursuing, killing, or eating his brother. Sam falling further and further away, becoming unresponsive, becoming nothing. It was like a greatest hits tape of suffering made just for Dean to drive him mad.

A burning sensation pierced his hand and the unexpected stimulus was enough to distract him. He heard someone calling his name and it snapped him out of the vicious hellscape. Looking down, he saw Bobby holding a lighter to the back of his hand.

He snapped his hand back and rubbed it with his left. "Bobby?"

The older hunter sighed with relief and let his hand fall to the floor.

Demon-Sam just started laughing and goosebumps spread over the two men.

"You alright, Dean?" Bobby managed.

"I'm breathing. How'd you even get down here?!"

"Very. Slowly." Bobby jutted his thumb behind him, indicating the crutches laying on the floor.

"Oh…" Dean said sheepishly and turned to look at Sam. The thing pretending to be his brother had a grin a mile wide on his face. "What the fuck was that?" Dean spat, anger that Bobby could have gotten hurt coming to his rescue making itself known.

The grin closed to a smile but it was somehow even more malicious. "Just a little taste of what Sammy's been through. I'm telling you, Dean, be smart. Think with your head and not your heart, for once. This is what's best for Sam. For your Sam."

"Dean can think however he damn well pleases," Bobby interjected, unwilling to even risk having Dean's opinion swayed by this demonic copycat.

Sam tilted his head to look at Bobby. The dark eyes sank into Bobby's consciousness like lead bricks. "I seem to recall you thinking the exact opposite while Sam's corpse lay rotting after Cold Oak. Dean was determined to find a way to bring him back but you wanted Dean to burn the body. You thought it was stinking up the place like an old tuna sandwich."

Bobby's face hardened but Dean took the chance to punch Sam hard across the cheek.

"Hit a nerve, huh?" Sam winked at Bobby.

Bobby saw Dean clench his fist again so he spoke up. "Dean!" he shouted gruffly. "C'mon. Let's get outta here and let 'im stew."

Dean's jaw twitched but he acquiesced. He got the crutches and helped Bobby up. Sam just snickered to himself as they left the panic room. "Yeah, just run away, you pansies!" Sam spat as Dean closed the door.

Dean moved to open it again but Bobby stopped him. "Leave it, Dean. He's just trying to rile you up."

"It's fucking working," Dean muttered under his breath then focused on Bobby. Painstakingly, moving one leg at a time up each step, Dean helped Bobby back up the stairs and into his wheelchair. "Th-thanks, Bobby," he said quietly as he pushed Bobby into the living room. Dean collapsed into the couch.

"No need to thank me, Dean, but don't make me ever do that again!"

Dean nodded resolutely. "Don't have to tell me twice! I don't ever wanna be in that situation again!"

"What the hell even happened?"

"I, uh, don't know really. I went down to check on him and I guess the devil's trap doesn't block his powers entirely because he could still stop me from moving and get in my head. Made me see different ways Sam was tortured and killed…"

Bobby narrowed his eyes. "I'm not saying that isn't upsetting, because it is. But the way your hands are shaking tell me something else happened, too… Fess up."

Dean held his hands up and Bobby was right, they were shaking. He let his head drop, shame permeating his body. He was quiet for a few moments, but knew he'd never escape Bobby's questioning. "He made me remember Hell. In technicolor," he admitted quietly.

"Balls!" Bobby exclaimed and huffed out a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"Not your fault. Not even that thing's fault…"

"Dean—"

"Bobby, don't," Dean said sharply, lifting his head to spear his surrogate father with his tear-blurred gaze. The feel of blood and organs slipping around his fingers, the sounds of wretched screams and creative pleas for mercy, the smell of decay and the hope-extinguishing weight of fear – it was all his senses could understand at the moment. He briskly walked outside to clear his head, leaving Bobby alone to grieve how wickedly life had treated his boys.

When Dean returned, Bobby was nowhere to be seen. He felt guilty for shutting down Bobby's attempt to help, but in all honesty, there was nothing Bobby could do to ease Dean's burden. What he had done in Hell was his baggage to carry, no one else's. He was fine with that, really. But to be reminded so viscerally of what Hell was like had thrown him devastatingly out of kilter. He'd get it back under lock and key. He just needed some time. And distractions.

Luckily for him, distractions were not in short supply. Demon-Sam was still hollering about something, though Dean didn't pay enough attention to understand the content. Looking around, he saw a book claiming to 'unlock the secrets of angels on earth' on Bobby's desk, probably carefully left out for Dean to notice. Shrugging, he picked it up and started leafing through it.

Something in the timbre of Sam's voice changed, and Dean was moving towards the basement before he even realized it. The taunting monologue was becoming plaintive, almost begging. He opened the metal flap over the peephole to see Sam's head flailing from side to side, blood trailing down his cheeks from his nose.

"No, not again, please, don't make me do this again… It will be so much worse this time, no, please, no…"

"Sammy?" Dean called out.

Sam's head snapped up and their gazes met. The once-solid black of Sam's eyes was wavering; patches of white and hazel appearing momentarily before washing away.

"Don't do this to your brother, Dean," Sam cried out. "If you really care about him, you'll keep me here, or find a way to put him out of his misery. Save me or kill him. It's the humane thing to do."

Dean suddenly realized that beneath all of demon-Sam's snide comments, cruel tricks, and hateful words, he was scared. Not just scared, terrified. Terrified of being weak, of being at the mercy of his memories, of feeling. Access to demon blood was not only a way to hold on to power, it was a way to hold on to sanity, to survival. What the hell was he supposed to do? He couldn't let his brother remain a demon, but he didn't want to lose Sam entirely, either. Was having a demon for a brother better than no brother at all? No, he shook his head, Sam would pull through, he could do this. Probably.

Dean's hesitation ended up costing him his choice in the matter. By the time he had convinced himself to let Sam go through withdrawal, the cloudy blackness was nearly gone from Sam's eyes. Dean opened the door and stood on the threshold, unsure what to do. Sam blinked once and then his eyes were completely normal. He took a deep breath and seemed to relax.

Until he saw Dean.

Fear painted Sam's face as he brought his handcuffed hands up defensively. "No, please, no, don't do this, anyone but him, please."

Dean was frozen, unsure whether to go to Sam or if that would make the situation worse. "Sammy, it's me. You don't have to be scared of me, man."

Sam shook his head, his dirty, oily hair flopping about. "Don't lie to me. You promised me you didn't lie."

Dean didn't recall making such a promise but he gave Sam the benefit of the doubt. "You're right, I did. And I'm not lying. You can trust me." Dean had his hands up in a non-threatening pose.

"Trust?" Sam said slowly, questioning the sound, as if saying the word for the first time in his life.

"Yeah," Dean replied, "You can trust me. I won't hurt you." He took the chance to step forward. And immediately regretted it.

Sam flinched forcefully and moved back on the cot as far as his chains would allow. He brought his hands to his head and started tearing at his scalp with his fingernails. His chest was heaving and he seemed to be on the verge of hyperventilating.

"Sammy," Dean said calmly, hoping to soothe Sam's nerves, "it's okay. Calm down. You're safe now."

"Never safe, never safe," he murmured to himself. "Always hurts. Need to hide… need to hide!" Sam mumbled urgently. Before Dean could react, Sam flung his chains in the air and maneuvered them around his neck. Dean didn't understand what was happening until Sam began to pull on each side.

"No, you don't!" Dean shouted and rushed into the panic room. Sam's face was already turning red as the chains dug into his neck, cutting off his airflow. Dean tried to pry Sam's hands off the chain but it was no use. Next he tried to slip his fingers under the chain and get it away from Sam's neck but it seemed like the damn thing was held in place by some supernatural force.

His realization came a second too slow.

Sam's eyes flashed black and a grin splashed across his face as a hand came up to grab Dean's throat. Dean saw double for a moment as demon-Sam dug up one of Dean's most hated memories, and for a few seconds, he couldn't remember which scene was happening in real time. A trashed honeymoon suite, Sam on top of him, both hands wrapped around his neck after Dean called him a monster. The panic room, Sam beneath him, one hand placed perfectly to cut off blood flow as the monster claiming to be his brother fought for freedom.

"I can't go back. I can't be anyone's bitch, not ever again. Don't make me do that!" Sam growled through clenched teeth. He pressed harder and Dean felt his vision start to cut out and his brain was screaming at him for oxygen.

Castiel! Dean mentally shouted. Sam—demon-Sam— is trying to kill me! Bobby's panic room…

The last thing Dean knew before he passed out was the flutter of angel wings, Sam's shocked yelp, and a blinding light.