Many thanks to those who have reviewed, favorited, and followed this story. I promise I won't give up on it. It's just that life gets in the way sometimes.

Warning for some gore. And angst. I definitely never thought I'd be writing this much from Dean's POV and it's really pushing me as a writer.

Time jumps around a lot in this chapter. Apologies if it's confusing.

Dean gave his brother fifteen minutes to get dressed before he went to check on him. Unsurprisingly, Sam was sitting still on the bed, fingers splayed out across his thighs, waiting. Just waiting. That's all Sam seemed to do. Dean wanted, no, needed, to change that. He needed to get them both out of the confines of this house. Sam had spent far too long in either a kennel or a prison cell.

"Alright, get up, now. We're going for a walk. Outside," he snarled, wishing more than anything he could wrap his brother up in a tight hug and ease his suffering instead.

Sam stood and moved briskly, silently padding down the stairs, Dean one much louder step behind him.

Bobby looked up from the table as soon as their feet came into view, a tight smile on his face as he tried to catch Sam's gaze. "Hey Sam, it's good to see you up and about." Sam made no indication he'd heard Bobby and Dean just shook his head sadly.

"I'm gonna take him for some fresh air," Dean informed the older hunter flatly. Bobby nodded and let the two of them leave without further conversation.

Dean regretted his decision to go outside almost instantly. From where he stood on the porch, he could see the damage his hit-and-not-run had done to his Baby. A large dent on the hood was decorated with blood. As the two moved closer to reach the road, he could see strands of Sam's hair tangled in the grill, glued there by dried blood. The memories inundated his mind's eye and he fought to keep his stomach under control.

Sam, unseeing, was not fazed by this home-turned-murder-weapon. He walked past the Impala without hesitation, without so much as a glance, and Dean's heart sunk a little further. He had hoped the car might spark something in his brother, trigger some warm memory that would allow him to surface, if even just for a little bit. But Sam marched past, emotionless, and Dean scurried to keep up with him.

"Turn right," Dean said firmly and Sam spun on his heel and completed the turn, eyes still downcast. They turned onto the road and began to follow it out towards one of the many crop fields that surrounded Bobby's property. Despite his failed attempt to reach Sam via the Impala, a walk was still warranted. The gauntness of Sam's frame suggested he had little muscle mass left and that would need to be rebuilt. Walking was the lowest impact exercise he could think of, and it didn't require ordering Sam around except for the initial command to go outside and move.

The irony of the situation almost made Dean laugh, if only to stop from crying. All his life, Sam had challenged orders and disregarded commands. Whether out of innocent lack of understanding, teenage rebellion, or angry spite, Sam's refusal to just do what he was told had frequently exhausted the limited patience of both their father and himself. Tempers always simmered just below a calm façade and Sam was an expert at punching holes in anything he didn't agree with or believe in.

Now, here he was with a Sam that wouldn't do anything but follow orders, and Dean hated it. Granted, the rest of Sam's personality had been stripped away as well, but the way Sam would literally do whatever he said was unnerving and unnatural. Morbidly, the thought crossed his mind to try out how far this obedience went.

"Sam, stop," he ordered. Instantly, his brother's feet stopped moving. "Go." He began walking again. "Pick up that rock for me," Dean pointed ahead of him. Sam bent down and retrieved the smooth stone. "Throw it at that tree." Sam looked up and weakly tossed the rock in the direction of the tree but it was too far for him to hit. His head tucked down again. Dean stepped forward so he was back standing next to Sam. "Slap yourself softly on the face." Sam did it and Dean couldn't help think stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself in an annoying kid voice. "Punch me." Sam froze and made no attempt to hit Dean. "I said, punch me!" No response. "Goddamit, if I say punch me, you better fucking do it!" Sam started to tremble slightly and fell to his knees in front of Dean, clearly a sign of submission.

A car came up over the hill in front of them and a perverted idea crept into his head. "Stand up," he commanded and Sam rose. "Step in front of the car," he hissed. Just as Sam moved forward, Dean grabbed his wrist and yanked him back with all his might. The moment his fingers touched Sam's skin, a disembodied voice screaming "Obey!" rattled his brain and caught him off guard. Unprepared for the mental assault, Dean lost his balance and the two fell backward into the ditch by the side of the road. Sam moved to break Dean's fall and twisted so that he landed under Dean. Dean groaned as he shook his head to dispel his disorientation then rolled off of Sam, who was barely moving.

"Sammy, you alright?" Dean asked, momentarily forgetting that humane voice inflections got him nowhere. "Sam, get up!" he spat and his brother slowly arranged his limbs to press himself up off the ground. He pushed himself up to kneeling and Dean fought to suppress his recoil when his eyes landed on the blood pouring from Sam's chest. Looking down, he saw a sharp rock jutting out of the ground painted with wet redness. "Holy shit, we need to get you patched up. Come on, back to the house." Dean took off his flannel and pressed it against the wound. "Hold that there." Sam appeared completely unbothered and Dean found himself wishing to hear Sam whine.

They dashed back to the house and Dean ordered Sam to lay on the couch. He grabbed the first aid kit, warm water, and a clean rag. "Take off your shirts," Dean requested firmly and Sam did it, not even so much as a wince of pain crossing his features. The bleeding had slowed significantly, but Dean didn't want to leave this for Lucifer to fix. He had the feeling that Lucifer only healed Sam when he died, and Dean wasn't planning on allowing that to happen anytime soon.

As he cleaned, sanitized, and sewed up the deep gash across Sam's right pectoral muscle, he reran the incident in his head. Sam had willingly (as much as Dean harshly ordering him to do something constituted 'will') hit himself, but refused to punch Dean. He had stepped in front of a moving car but also injured himself to spare Dean. The elder Winchester found himself puzzling over whether Sam had been trained to protect his abusers or whether this was somehow Sam recognizing Dean. The uncertainty bothered him the more he thought about it. Was this reflex or resurfacing? He didn't know how to find out and he cursed his ignorance.

Maybe Bobby would have an idea…

The screen flicked on and revealed Sam bound to a chair, his head resting limply against his chest. It was unclear if he was asleep or unconscious. Though it was difficult to assess his health, the way his dirty, blood-soaked clothes hung off his body was evidence enough of his poor treatment. A cage rattled off screen and angry snarls echoed around the empty room. A door slammed shut and Sam flinched, head rising to peer about his surroundings. His gaze landed on something beyond the scope of the camera and he began to frantically test his bonds. Slowly the source of his terror sauntered into view and it was a sight to behold. It vaguely resembled a white goat except it walked on feet sporting gleaming talons, it had huge, bulbous, murky eyes beneath its horns, and a long, slender tail like a lion. At last the creature brought itself up to Sam's head and nuzzled his face until it found his ear. It let out what could only be a squeal of delight before opening its mouth and plunging a serrated spike into his ear, through his brain, and out the other side. The scream that ripped from Sam's throat was guttural and primal, the sound of pure biological obliteration and collapse. The creature yanked its spear out and chunks of Sam's brain spilled out of the gaping and bloody hole. The thing leaned in to start lapping up the spattered tissue and—

Bobby slammed the laptop shut and tried to brush away the tears escaping his eyes. There was a time when he'd been afraid of the boy, maybe even wanted him punished for his stupid decisions concerning demon blood and the Apocalypse. He remembered all too clearly how strung out Sam was when he'd escaped from the panic room prior to killing Lilith. The look of soul-deep misery in his eyes when he brought the barrel of the shotgun over his heart and asked Bobby to blast him away. The split-second flash of regret as the young man had ripped the shotgun from his arms and bashed it into his skull. Yeah, he'd been angry about what Sam had done. But he never wanted this for Sam, never in a million years. He'd do anything to save Sam from the last seven months. But it was too late to save him, the best he could do now was help him recover, and that wasn't nearly as satisfying. He felt he had failed as a father and anything he did now was way too little, way too late.

"Bobby?" Dean called from a few rooms away.

The hunter tried to reply but his throat was far too focused on controlling the convulsions threatening to evolve into sobs.

"Bobby?" Dean's voice was tinged with concern now. Kid's a damned worrywart.

"In my room," he managed to say, before realizing he needed to hide the stack of DVDs. Dean would go berserk if he saw these videos. He grabbed the cases and threw them behind his dirty laundry just as Dean opened the door.

"You alright?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, just trying to collect my laundry together," he lied.

Dean took a step into the room. "Here, let me help you."

Bobby waved Dean away. "I got it, I got it. My arms still work, you know."

Dean smirked and stepped back. "Okay, fine, Ironsides."

Bobby threw a glare at his eldest surrogate son. "Don't you even start."

Dean looked pleased with himself. "Anyway, you got any soup or something?" Bobby looked at him blankly, trying to remember the last time Dean Winchester had eaten soup. After a moment, Dean clarified, "for Sam."

"Ah," Bobby nodded and pivoted the wheelchair. "Laundry can wait. I'll show ya where the cans are." As he rolled out the room following Dean, he made a mental note to put the damn discs in his safe. "How was your walk?" he asked, hoping to distract Dean.

"Fucked up," Dean replied as he strode into the kitchen.

"It was a walk. How fucked up could it be?" Bobby asked as he entered the room.

Sam sat stock still at the table, his hands hidden from view but undoubtedly clenched into tight, anxious fists. A new undershirt covered the wound but Bobby didn't miss the first aid kit and the bloody rag on the counter.

His eyes flicked between the rag and the two brothers. "Dean? What happened?"

Dean kept his back to Bobby as he searched the drawers and cabinets for a spoon, bowl, and can opener. "I was being dumb and seeing how far Sam's conditioning went. I asked him to hit me and he wouldn't do it. I had him play chicken with a car and I pulled him back at the last minute…" Dean debated whether to share the weird screaming voice he heard when he touched Sam but decided to leave it out. "And we fell and I'd probably be in pretty bad shape if he hadn't made sure he landed under me. Fucking South Dakota likes to line its roads with spiky-ass rocks and I'd probably have an extra hole if it wasn't for Sam."

Bobby ground his teeth. Yeah, that was stupid of Dean to do, but he couldn't deny he'd been wondering the same thing. "How bad?"

Dean put his hands on the counter and leaned into it. "Not too bad. Nothing I couldn't fix. He doesn't seem to be in pain. I just don't get it, though. Do you think he's been trained to protect whoever's commanding him? Or was that actually Sam in control for once?"

Fleeting hope danced through Bobby's heart for a moment before he tamped it down. "Uh, I have no idea, Dean. I've never dealt with something like this before."

Dean sighed and turned around, his arms hugged tightly to himself. "Is there any way we could find out?"

"You mean like experimenting on him?" Bobby sounded extremely uneasy.

"Well, not experimenting. Just, I don't know… I just want to know if he's in there or not!"

Bobby gulped at the apprehension in his throat, Sam's screams from the video reverberating in his ears. "I hear you… But it's anyone's guess what's going on in there. Could Castiel help?"

Dean shook his head as he stared at the floor. "He already tried. He can't even touch Sam due to the warding." His head snapped up as he met Bobby's eyes. "The warding! We need to look through the notes they sent to see how to reverse them! Then maybe Cas can do something!" He pushed himself off the counter and went to the living room, eyes frantic for the box. "Where is it?"

Bobby spun around in the wheelchair to face Dean. "I hid it."

"You what?!" Dean spat, his voice betraying his confusion and anger.

"I hid it while you were out for your walk. It's not good for you to look at that stuff. It's just gonna mess you up."

"I have to know, Bobby. I have to. It's Sam."

"Trust me, Dean, you don't want to know." Bobby's voice betrayed more emotion than he'd anticipated, but he didn't regret it.

Dean looked crestfallen. "But… how can I take care of him if I don't know what happened? I can do this, for Sam."

Bobby shook his head firmly. "I'll do it and tell you what you need. I'll look for how to break the warding first. But you'd do better by Sam if you took care of him and got some meat back on his bones. Let me show you where the soup cans are and you can get started on that."

"That's not enough!" Dean protested.

"Dean!" Bobby snapped, slapping his hands down on his useless legs. "I'm trying to do what's best for both of you boys so you better shut up and listen. Get your brother some food, we'll draw the sigils, and then you gotta get him to bed!"

"Fine," Dean relented, stalking back to the kitchen. Bobby ran his hands over his face and pushed down the feelings of dread sliding up his throat.

After Dean had force fed Sam half a can of beef broth and half a can of chicken soup, he brought Sam into the living room where Bobby was waiting. He sat Sam down on the couch and instructed him to take his shirt off. He obeyed silently, his gaze glued to the floor.

Bobby grimaced as his eyes took in the myriad marks littering Sam's torso. His voice was uncharacteristically tight when he asked Dean to remove the bandage. He quickly sketched the sigils over Sam's heart and going down his midline. "Where else?"

"His back and his feet," Dean answered quietly. "Turn the fuck around and kneel on the couch," Dean commanded.

Sam obeyed, tucking his legs beneath him so both his back and feet were exposed. Dean peeled the socks off. Intricate red and white scars swirled under the calloused skin and both hunters seemed to be holding their breath as they imagined the agony Sam must have experienced as these sigils were applied.

"Have you ever seen anything like that?" Dean asked softly, almost afraid to know the answer.

Bobby shook his head minutely. "I haven't. But then again, I've never had to ward against an angel."

Dean sighed and scrubbed his face. "You done being Bob Ross?"

Bobby nodded and set the notebook down. "You need anything else for him?"

"Don't think so. Gonna put him to bed then help you research."

"Dean," Bobby growled dangerously.

"What? You can look through the notes and I'll look in your books. Fair?"

Bobby pondered it for a moment before relenting. "Okay, deal. But you try anything sneaky and I'll make you regret it."

Dean mustered up a half smile. "I'd like to see you try."

Bobby rolled his eyes and picked up the notebook. "Get outta here," he commanded, but his own weak smile communicated his affection.

Dean manhandled his brother off the couch and murmured an order into his ear. Sam moved up the stairs and Dean followed him up, allowing Bobby the privacy he needed to retrieve the diaries of Sam's suffering from their hiding place.

Dean rubbed his eyes for the fifth time in as many minutes. It didn't escape Bobby's notice.

"Go to bed. This'll be here in the morning."

Dean checked his watch. "Yeah, and the morning will be here in three hours."

"Don't make me drug you, 'cause I'll do it."

"You'd have to catch me first," Dean teased.

"Or maybe you'll have to be real careful about which whiskey you drink."

Dean's expression became one of mock horror. "You wouldn't dare!"

"I'll do what I have to do. And what you need to do is rest so you can take care of Sam. I can't exactly get up the stairs to wake him up, so you have to. Get some sleep, Dean. Nothing's gonna change while you're out."

In all honesty, Bobby was waiting for Dean to leave so he could make some calls. He'd found the pages in the journals describing how Sam got his warding and what each sigil meant, but there was nothing about how to inactivate them. Seeing as Dean hadn't found the sigils described anywhere, Bobby doubted he'd find the answer in a book. Mostly he didn't want Dean knowing the amount of violence necessary to embed these sigils on and in Sam. Once Dean was upstairs, he went back to the paragraph describing the sigil over Sam's heart and how it was activated. He noted that the handwriting was different from both Tim and Reggie's, suggesting there was a third person involved in Sam's warding. He wanted to read it and his own notes one more time before phoning his contacts.

We modified a more conventional, but powerful, warding spell with additional incantations to target Lucifer.

Next there was a string of Enochian symbols followed by:

Pronunciation: Gon-Ceph-Gon-Ceph-Med-Mals Veh-Na-hath-Gon Mals-Un-Ur-Ged-Graph-Na-hath Med-Ged-Gon Gisa-Graph-Ur-Med-Veh-Na-hath Med-Gal Med-Ged-Gon Veh-Na-hath-Gon-Ur-Gal-Un-Med Gisa-Mals-Don-Gal-Graph-Tal-Un-Na-hath. Gon-Med-Ur-Veh-Un-Tal Pe-Drun-Ged Gal-Graph Un-Na-hath. Mals-Na-hath-Un-Don Med-Gal Graph-Un-Ur-Mals-Med-Drun Orth-Tal. Med-Gon-Gisa Med-Ur-Drun Pe-Don-Gon-Fam-Orth-Med-Ged.

When spoken during the creation of the sigil, it should enact an extremely powerful ward.

The sigil itself is a simple one to create but one which requires particular circumstances. Best done by a surgeon or if the subject is immortal or has fast-acting healing abilities. Luckily we have one of those circumstances. The sigil must be burned on with intense heat and then the 'diamond' embedded in his heart. Lucifer should not be able to touch or interact with him as long as he has his soul. For that reason, it's not an eternal spell, but should last long enough. Effects may extend to other angels as well.

The part that had concerned Bobby the most was "as long as he has his soul. For that reason, not an eternal spell, but should last long enough." Weren't souls eternal? What was happening with Sam's soul that would affect the length of the spell's efficacy?

His eyes flicked down to his rough translation: Vessel of the Son of Light, thou are separated with this death and with this diamond of darkness. Bring forth the guardian of innermost self. Surrender and burn that which you have within yourself. This is made with the eclipse.

Bobby understood it to mean that Sam's death and some diamond had somehow separated him from Lucifer. But in order to keep them separated, Sam had to surrender and burn off his soul to keep the ward active. He figured the last part meant the spell had to be enacted during an eclipse. The date in the log book matched a lunar eclipse. He hoped it wouldn't require another eclipse to deactivate the spell, but that's usually how these things went.

What Bobby didn't know was what 'diamond of darkness' meant. Was it a literal diamond? Figurative? It might make all the difference when it came to reversing the warding. Confident Dean was out of earshot, he dialed several contacts and left messages inquiring about the mysterious diamond of darkness, with a request for any information to be sent to his encrypted email address. Last thing he needed was Dean finding out Sam's soul was at risk and having no solution to offer him.

Dean slept as much as his body would allow, which wasn't more than five fitful hours. Sam remained in pretty much the same position as earlier: a tight fetal ball hunched against the wall. Dean sighed and started shaking Sam to wake him up. He needed food and water and Dean wasn't about to try and force that down his throat while he was asleep. The shaking failed to rouse Sam so he escalated to slapping his face, which, to his dismay, worked like a charm. Sam was up and alert instantly.

"Get dressed then get your ass down to the kitchen table," Dean commanded and left the room. By the time he'd opened up a can of chicken noodle soup, Sam was downstairs. While he warmed up the bowl, he crushed up a vitamin tablet. The microwave dinged merrily and he grabbed the bowl, ignoring how hot it was against his skin. He sprinkled the vitamins into the soup and stirred them in. He placed it before Sam with a spoon. "Eat all of this. You cannot leave the table until you do, capiche?"

Sam merely picked up the spoon and slowly began eating. Dean couldn't help but watch his little brother as he struggled to coordinate scooping up the food and bringing it to his mouth. He wondered how long it had been since Sam had eaten real food instead of just being fed by an IV. He marveled at how such a fucked up thought passed through his brain without any fanfare. That in itself was a testament to just how messed up everything had gotten.

"Dean," Bobby called from the other room.

"What?"

"Stop watchin' your brother eat like a weirdo. Why don't you come here and do something useful?"

Dean went to the doorway and crossed his arms. "Like what?"

Bobby laid his hand down on a pile of books. "Like use your eyeballs and maybe your brain will pitch in, too."

Dean made a face but pushed himself off the doorframe and picked up the top book once he crossed the room. "'Healing and Cleansing Rituals'? What am I looking for?"

"Anything that might have the power to counteract an Enochian spell. At least one of the sigils was activated with Enochian, so we're looking for old magic."

"Goddam angels," Dean muttered under his breath.

"What about your angel friend? Any word?"

"I called him three days ago and told him to call me back once he got back to earth."

"Maybe try again? He's probably not used to checking his phone."

"Alright." He pulled his phone out and dialed the wayward angel. It went directly to voicemail. "Cas… It's Dean. Call me back."

"Well aren't you sunshine and rainbows?" Bobby accused lightly, a surly undertone causing irritation to spike within Dean.

"What do you want me to say? 'Castiel, please call me back, I'm so worried about you.'? Don't you think I'm all filled to the top with worry?"

Bobby put his hands up. "All I'm saying is it wouldn't hurt to show a little more interest in how he's doing considering he's saved our asses a number of times, yours most recently."

"Okay, message received, Dr. Phil."

Bobby threw a crumpled-up piece of paper at Dean, who dodged it readily. But it had worked to ease the tension and both hunters settled down to read. But Dean couldn't help focus his attention on the almost-rhythmic clink of the spoon on the ceramic bowl. It meant that Sam was eating and that's what he cared about most right now. He tried sifting through the archaic words on the pages in front of him but his mind drifted elsewhere. His body began to manifest his anxiety, his knee bouncing and his index finger tapping against the hardcover book.

After several minutes of trying to ignore the annoying sounds, Bobby slammed his book down on the table. "Dean!" he shouted, causing the younger man to startle. "I get it. This reading thing isn't for you. How about you go do something else, anything else. Fix up your car or something. I can't concentrate with you in here!"

Dean's eyes went wide at Bobby's outburst but he couldn't ignore the nervous energy coursing through him. "Uh, yeah, okay, I can do that, but what about Sam?"

"Put him on the couch or put him to bed. Not like he's gonna be able to help you much."

Dean frowned as he thought about how Sam had made no voluntary movements except the rare wringing of his hands and the singular clap he used to indicate he needed to relieve himself. He was only in motion when commanded to be. He also made no sound except for the occasional whine emitted while he was asleep. Dean was convinced the deep burn scars on his neck, undoubtedly from that fucking shock collar, were the cause of Sam's muteness.

Dean chewed on his lip, debating leaving his brother, but ultimately decided that Bobby was right. Fixing up his Baby would take his mind off Sam and it's not like Bobby wasn't capable of watching his brother. He put the book down and stood up. "Right. I'll go out and do that. Holler if you need me."

"Uh-huh," Bobby replied drolly, doubting he'd need Dean for anything.

Dean poked his head into the kitchen and was pleased to see Sam had finished all the soup. "Go sit on the fucking couch and sleep if you can." Sam stood up and practically tiptoed around Dean, moving swiftly to the couch and planting himself there. Dean sighed and grabbed a beer out of the fridge.

"Really?" Bobby called.

"It's five o'clock somewhere," Dean answered and walked out the front door.

Dean spent the majority of the day cleaning the car to within an inch of its life and making sure there wasn't a single mark left from its encounter with demon-Sam. The dent proved more difficult than he expected to hammer out, but his perseverance had been rewarded with success. The time alone doing menial labor had also given him lots of time to think.

When Dean came back into the house, he was happy to see that Sam had at least shifted position and was now laying down on the couch.

"Any change?" Dean asked as he shuffled towards the kitchen.

"Nope."

"Find anything useful?"

"Nope."

"You want a beer?"

"Nope."

Dean rolled his eyes as he opened the fridge and snagged a beer for himself. He came back and sat down. After taking a long swig, he took a deep breath and asked a question that had long been on his mind.

"Do you think, maybe, uh, asking Lindsey to visit would help? Maybe someone not associated with hunting could get through to him?"

Bobby put down the book he was reading, revealing a thoughtful face. "Not a bad idea. At the minimum, it'd be another person to help watch Sam while you get some sleep."

"I'm fine," Dean growled.

"Yeah, sure you are," he drawled. "But I'm guessing she'd like to see him."

"She wanted to come over after I texted her saying we found him, but I wanted to get through detox first." Bobby nodded in agreement. "You got another spare room where she can stay?"

"Yeah, two doors down from yours, but you'll have to clean it out and put fresh sheets on the bed."

"Easy enough." He looked over to Sam as he stood. "You better perk up, Sam, your girlfriend might be coming over!"

Dean went out onto the porch and slipped his phone from his pocket. His finger hovered over her name for a moment, unsure, before he dispelled his hesitation and pressed call.

It rang three times before she picked up. "Dean! How are you? How is Sam?"

"Hey Lindsey, I'm alright. How are you?"

"Ah, the usual. How is Sam?" she repeated, more forceful this time.

"He's actually why I'm calling. He's not doing so hot and I was thinking having you around might help. He doesn't really respond to me or Bobby, but, uh, maybe a feminine touch could bring him 'round."

"I can absolutely do that! I'll have to okay it with Ellen, but I'm betting I can be there by 11 am tomorrow. Does that work?"

Dean couldn't help but smile; her positive attitude was infectious. "Yeah, that sounds great."

"Should I bring anything? Do you guys need anything?"

"Nope, just bring yourself. Thanks, Linds."

"Don't even mention it. See you tomorrow!"

"Yeah, see ya."

He ended the call and allowed the smile to live on his face just that little bit longer.

"It's a go," Dean said as he closed the front door. I'll set some more soup on the counter if you can take care of Sam and I'll go get the room ready."

"Copy that," Bobby replied and Dean hurried upstairs.

Even though she'd told Dean she expected to get there around 11 in the morning, Dean was up at 7 and been watching the driveway ever since.

Eight minutes to 11, she pulled in and basically sprinted towards the house. Dean quickly swung the door open as Lindsey approached. She stepped in and gave Dean a tight hug.

"So good to see you!" she murmured in his ear.

"You too, Linds," Dean replied, hoping his voice wouldn't betray his despair.

She withdrew from the embrace and looked Dean in the eye. "How is he?"

Dean dropped his gaze to the floor. "It's not great… We don't even know if he's in there anymore."

"Can I see him?"

"Sure, but I'm warning you, he's not the same."

She nodded in understanding and stepped forward to close the door. She waved a hello to Bobby as Dean led her upstairs to the brothers' shared room. Sam had not shifted from his fetal position amid a nest of rumpled blankets.

An audible gasp escaped Lindsey as she laid eyes on her once-handsome coworker. She put a hand to her mouth in a weak attempt to hide her horror. "N-no," she stuttered as she looked between Dean and the thin frame shivering on the bed. "That can't be him!" Her eyes were wild with denial and desperation.

Dean sighed and ran his hand over the back of his head. "It's him. Yeah, he's lost a shitton of weight and is pretty much unresponsive, but it's him."

"Sam?" she called quietly. She crept towards him as if her footsteps alone might sever whatever tenuous grip on sanity Sam had.

"He only responds if you yell at him or curse at him," Dean offered sadly.

She sat down on the bed and reached for a hand, expecting him to flinch or otherwise react to her touch. Instead she was able to grab his hand and his limp arm enabled her to bring his hand into her lap. She immediately noticed the large circular scar on his wrist.

"What happened here?"

Dean swallowed roughly. "Uh, you're probably better off not knowing."

Her features hardened into a scowl and she stared at the elder Winchester. "Don't do that. What happened?"

He let out a breath through pursed lips and braced himself. "Best we can tell, based on the other scars on his body, he got those when he was crucified."

All the color drained out of her face. "Crucified? Like Jesus-on-the-cross crucified?"

Dean nodded solemnly.

Her composure splintered instantly. "Oh my God!" she wailed and threw herself over the huddled form. "I'm so, so sorry! This is all my fault!"

"Lindsey, no, it's not your fault." He stepped over to her and put a hand on her shaking shoulder.

"If he – if he had killed them," she heaved between sobs, "he'd be okay!"

"We don't know that. Plus, I don't think Sam coulda killed 'em anyway, whether you were there or not. Sammy always was a softie."

She sniffled and smiled faintly. "Yeah, he was. You know, sometimes, a little kid would get dragged in with their parents to the bar, and Sam would go out of his way to treat them. He'd cut shapes out of the chicken breasts and make cute little chicken nuggets for them. It was the sweetest thing."

Dean felt his eyes mist up. He used to do that for Sam when they were little and he had never realized Sam remembered it. One time, Sammy wanted the dinosaur shaped nuggets but those always cost extra. Instead, Dean had cut the meat they had into thin sheets and made shapes, leaving the scraps for his own dinner. He recalled with startling clarity the bright toothy grin of four year old Sam when Dean had laid down the plate of uneven stars and malformed dinos. "You're the best, Deanie!" Sammy had announced enthusiastically and wrapped his arms around Dean.

"Dean?" Lindsey's call pulled him back from his warm childhood memory into the harsh reality of now. "Is there anything I can do? For him or you?"

Dean shrugged listlessly. "Like I said, we don't know if he's in there or not. Best bet may be to fix his body up a bit and maybe his mind will come out to play."

"Will he eat?"

"Only gotten him to drink a little beef broth and chicken noodle soup. They had him hooked up to an IV for nutrients and fluids so I'm not sure how long it's been since he's really eaten anything."

"So awful," she murmured. "Do you know where the bastards that took him are?"

"Not at the moment, but once Sam's better, they'll get what's comin' to 'em."

Lindsey nodded firmly. "Damn straight. Now let's see about making him something better than beef broth."

She pushed herself off the bed. Both Dean and Lindsey were disheartened by the fact that Sam had not registered her presence. He remained as he was, shivering, eyes at half-mast, curled in on himself in the smallest ball possible. Not that he would ever admit it out loud, but Dean was starting to lose hope.

Having Lindsey around was slowly but steadily improving the moods of Dean and Bobby, but by the second day, Sam seemed to be nosediving. Despite all the rest and improved diet, he was spiking a fever, he was shivering almost all the time, and he seemed to be getting weaker. Whereas he'd been able to feed himself two days ago, he was now unable to lift the spoon to his mouth. Lindsey sat and patiently fed him, waving away Dean's offers to take over.

Dean worried that he'd perhaps wrongly assumed Sam had finished detoxing; maybe this was some sort of stage two. He felt completely out of his league on this. But it wasn't as if there was someone they could ask or some medical text they could consult. As far as they knew, Sam was the first and only human to get addicted to demon blood. Figures… Stupid, overachieving little brothers. It didn't stop him from googling 'drug withdrawal' and trying to learn anything useful.

Two hours of reading everything from firsthand accounts to medical journals didn't bring him any closer to solving his mystery. He clicked open the next link and started skimming the page. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean noticed a distinct tremor start to travel through Sam's body. He shoved the laptop away and went to Sam. The movement was equal to a violent shiver, but by the time Dean put his fingers on Sam's pulse and found an unsteady, galloping beat, the shaking was racing towards a full-blown seizure. "Lindsey! Bobby!" Dean yelled, doing his best to protect Sam's head and control his limbs.

Lindsey ran in first, her eyes seeking out the source of Dean's panicked cry. "What's happening?"

"I don't know, he just started shaking!"

Dean grabbed his flailing wrists and once again, a voice pierced his consciousness, this time screaming 'Help!' Dean let go in shock and Lindsey did her best to hold him down but after a few more seconds, his back arched and his muscles went rigid, then he collapsed into the couch.

"Dean?" Lindsey asked, tears in her eyes.

"I don't think he's breathing," Bobby whispered, unwilling to shatter the tense silence that encased them as they stared at Sam's still form.

Dean dropped his head to Sam's chest and felt for a pulse. He waited five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen. There was nothing. Sam was dead, again.

This time he didn't even know why.

"What happened, Dean?" Bobby asked carefully.

"His shivering got really bad and when I felt for a pulse, his heart was beating out of rhythm. Then he just started seizing…"

Lindsey swallowed nervously, her eyes shining. "But Lucifer will bring him back, right? He won't stay dead?"

Dean nodded grimly, trying to mask the wetness in his eyes. "It sometimes takes a couple of hours but he'll be back. I'll bring him upstairs." Dean swept up his brother's body and carried him to the bed. He laid him out and tucked him in as if he were only sleeping. In a way, he was. Sam's sleep of death wasn't permanent. He stayed with Sam a long time, grieving for all the times Sam had died scared and alone. Though honestly, this death probably wasn't that much better, if the absolute terror in Sam's cry of help was anything to go by. But maybe that meant Sam was still in there, and that was enough to give Dean some semblance of hope.

"Dean!" Lindsey called from the kitchen. "I think I figured out what happened!"

"How?!" He and Bobby joined her in the kitchen.

"I just googled it. I put in 'malnutrition', 'weakness', and 'seizures' and the second result is something called 'refeeding syndrome.' It happens when someone who hasn't eaten in a while suddenly gets a lot of food. It causes all their electrolytes and stuff to go crazy and they can die from it."

Dean felt his blood turn cold. "So I killed him by trying to help him?!"

"Unless you were a doctor, how could you know this would happen?"

"I should have known! It's my job to know!" He stepped back and paced around the living room. "I've killed Sam three times now! Three!"

"Dean—" Bobby started.

"What can you possibly say to make that okay?" Dean hissed.

"Stop thinking about yourself and your feelings for one goddam second and focus on what matters right now: Sam!"

Dean bit back his retort and turned away from his surrogate father, breathing deeply to collect his thoughts. He pushed down his self-loathing in a well-practiced way. "So, what, we have to feed him with an IV like they did?"

"Just until we get him stabilized, I think," Lindsey offered.

"Dean, I've got some friends at Sioux Falls General. Let me see what they recommend." Bobby went to his phone and made a quiet call. Dean stared out the window and berated himself mentally. Sure, how was he supposed to know, but that wasn't an excuse. Dean was supposed to know everything when it came to Sam. Well, he hadn't known everything about Sam for a long time now, so it was hardly shocking that he missed this, too.

A few minutes later had Bobby explaining what was needed. Lindsey volunteered to go to the hospital and pick up the supplies and instructions. "It's gonna be okay," Lindsey murmured as she gave Dean a hug and left.

Dean sat down on the couch for a while, lost in thought. He felt numb, as if everything going on around him was in slow motion. Sam's cry for help seemed to echo just below the surface of his sanity, tickling his mind.

"Bobby, I need to tell you something," he said abruptly, not even sure if Bobby was in the room with him.

The older hunter was in the kitchen. "You say something, Dean?"

Dean stood up and went to Bobby, inspiration making his words flow fast and excited. "Twice now, when I've grabbed Sam's wrists when he's been upset, I think… I think I heard him, like in my head. The first time he said 'obey', when I was trying to see what commands he would follow. Then when he was seizing, and I was trying to hold him down, I heard him cry for help. I mean, it kinda makes sense, right? If he can move things with his mind, what's to say he can't say things with his mind?"

"You're tellin' me he's telepathic now?"

"It's possible, right? Maybe it only works when he's distressed. When I first caught up to him and he had black eyes, he said he had more powers now. From what I've seen so far, I think it's true. What if there's some way to use his powers in reverse? Like, if he can get into my brain and show me things and say stuff, could it work the other way around? Maybe he's trapped in his own mind and can't get out? I can get in there and help."

Bobby's mustache wiggled side to side as he pondered Dean's suggestion. "I suppose, in theory, it could be done… Honestly, I'll need to do some research and call around."

"It'll go faster if I help," Dean half-offered, half-challenged.

Bobby shook his head. "I got this. I can't take care of Sam near as well as you, and I can't take care of you for you. I know you're worried about your brother, Dean, so am I. But I can't have both of you on bed rest. Go out for a walk or something, blow off some steam."

Dean furrowed his brow, contemplating his degree of resistance. "But if I go, who's gonna watch Sam? Lindsey won't be back for a while."

Bobby withheld an annoyed sigh. "Then bring him down and put him on the couch. Not like he's gonna go anywhere. And when he wakes up, I'll give ya a buzz."

"Okay, fine," Dean conceded. He spun on his heel and went upstairs to the room he and Sam had always shared. To his surprise, his little brother was curled up on the bed, occupying as little space as humanly possible. He was staring straight ahead, unfocused eyes gazing upon nothing. Apparently whatever had caused Sam's death this time was an easy fix.

"Sam," Dean said softly, but got no response, as expected. "Sam, get up." Nothing. He grit his teeth and braced himself. "Hey, freak, get the fuck up," he hissed angrily.

Without hesitation, Sam unfurled his thin gangly limbs, slid off the bed, and stood in front of Dean, his head bowed in submission. Seething fury swept through Dean as he beheld his once fearsome and brilliant brother reduced to this soulless automaton who no longer responded to his name, but only abuse. Though Dean would never admit it, he sometimes wondered whether death was more merciful than this kind of life.

He quickly discharged the thought, knowing he could never follow through on fratricide. His brain reminded him that he already had, twice, kinda-sorta three times, and he fought to suppress the wave of nausea those memories induced. Okay, fine, permanent fratricide.

It felt wrong to speak to Sam in such a harsh tone but he didn't have a choice. "Go downstairs and keep Bobby company. Sit on the couch but get up and help him if he needs anything." He'd learned that he had to directly instruct Sam to sit on the couch or bed or else he would squeeze himself into some uncomfortable, out-of-the-way spot.

Sam moved towards the door, careful to avoid any contact between himself and Dean, as if the latter were electrified. Grimacing, Dean remembered the sparking cattle prod and knew that threat was likely all too real for Sam. He couldn't even hear his brother slink down the steps and he realized just how completely these two hunters had essentially erased Sam from existence. His vibrant, competent, bleeding heart little brother, wiped clean, reduced to nothing. How the fuck had this happened?!

Violent, pulsing anger erupted in his chest and he struck out at the closest thing. His arm sweot over the dresser, flinging everything across the room. Slips of paper, weapons, odds and ends skittered across the floor, a collection of the few objects which held meaning and identity for the Winchesters. Dad's journal, a few photographs, Dean's 1911, the keys to Baby. He'd set them up where Sam could see them, hoping the familiar items would help ground him. So far it hadn't worked.

A picture of Sam and himself laughing from a few years ago was at his feet. He bent down to pick up the photo and his gun. He studied the little piece of glossy paper, trying to recall the sound of Sam's laugh, the gleaming white of his grin, the firmness of a playful slap on the back after a well-landed prank. He found the sensations more difficult to remember than expected, their intensity dulled by flashes of Sam's body crumpled a thousand different ways, begging for a death that would only offer temporary relief.

Dean knew what that felt like; it was literally the worst part of Hell. Yet somehow, Dean thought what Sam was going through was worse, and not just because it felt like a personal failure on Dean's part. No, Dean knew what he was signing up for when he sold his soul. Sure, he didn't really comprehend it at the time, but it was worth it to save Sam. He knew it was wrong, but in his mind, Sam being dead was a bigger offense to the universe than a demon deal. Furthermore, Dean was tortured by demons who not only innately hated human souls, but were also doing their best to manipulate Dean into breaking the first seal.

But Sam? He had gotten into this because he thought he was doing the right thing. Yeah, he'd gone about it in a fucked up way, but his intent was the opposite of evil. Yet he was being brutally tortured for his accidental crime with his only chance of reprieve being to say 'yes' to a fallen archangel and further doom the world. Worse, his captors were humans, doing this for no other reason than they hated him that much. And in what would have been the final straw for Dean, Sam believed Dean despised him just as much, if not more. In some ways, Dean hoped there was no conscious part left of his brother, if only to free him from the exponential misery he must be experiencing on every level of his being. But at the same time, Dean didn't want to live without his brother any more now than he did after Cold Oak. He would do anything to ensure that Sam's last moments would not be filled with suffering and regret. And from what he could tell, Sam had already died many times and had too many final moments. How could this have happened to his baby brother?!

He snapped back to spatial awareness with tears burning in his eyes and his fingers painfully clenched around his gun. The picture had fallen from his grasp. One glance at the snapshots of brotherly life and love mocking him from the floor was enough to force him to flee from the room, warming metal gripped tight in a sweaty hand. He ran down the stairs and through the living room, unable to look at Sam's statuesque body and unwilling to heed Bobby's concerned shouts.

Bursting onto the porch, his first thought was Baby, followed by the image of a bar, ending with the peaceful oblivion of an alcoholic stupor. That fantasy was dashed as his pockets did not yield the car keys. He cursed himself as he remembered they had been on the now-cleared dresser. He turned and looked back at the house for a moment before deciding it wasn't worth going back inside and face a worried Bobby or the husk of his brother.

Instead, he hid himself among the ruined cars. There was just enough light for the occasional window to reflect his stricken face. Goddammit, Dean! Keep it together! You're no use to anyone crying in a corner! Well, you're not crying yet but at the rate you're going…

It wasn't long before a tear broke free from his control. He didn't fight his initial reaction of shooting out the offending glass, though perhaps he was actually aiming for himself. He quickly ran out of bullets and downgraded to his fists to keep him alone as he wandered aimlessly in the dying light.

Bobby was alone when Dean returned well after darkness had swallowed the house. His battered hands steadily dripped their evidence of Dean's self-mutilation. The older hunter didn't need words to read the agony radiating from the man. He nodded his head towards the kitchen, silently instructing Dean to wash the cuts out so Bobby could clean and wrap them.

Dean quietly accepted Bobby's ministrations, not even making a sound when he wiped the crisscrossed slashes with alcohol. When it was done, Dean stilled for a moment then looked up to meet Bobby's eyes. Dean's lower lip trembled for a split second before Bobby murmured a soft "c'mere" and a sob ripped out of the Winchester's throat. Dean clung to the crippled man as if his very survival depended on it. They stayed linked together as Dean fought not to hyperventilate.

"I miss him," Dean choked out, his whisper barely audible over his harsh gasps.

"I know, I do, too," Bobby replied, his arms tight around his boy's shuddering frame.

"What… what if he's gone? And he's just that shell forever?" A painful spasm wracked his diaphragm and he croaked as he tried to inhale.

"Shh, shh…." Bobby soothed, stroking Dean's back. "We'll figure it out, we'll get him back. Don't give up yet. I'm on to something that might help." Dean pulled back and Bobby almost wept at the sight of hope in Dean's eyes. "But I'm not quite there. Why don't you make sure Sam is tucked in for the night and get a few more hours of sleep yourself. Might need you to drive in the morning."

Dean nodded excitedly as he wiped tears and snot from his face. "That sounds good Bobby. Real good." He extricated himself from Bobby's arms and did his best to put on a brave face. He picked up his gun and headed upstairs.

Dean didn't miss that all his belongings were back on the dresser, undoubtedly placed in their current haphazard arrangement by Lindsey, nor did he miss the small box that sat alongside everything else. A note in Bobby's hand-writing said "Use this if you need it." He opened it to find disposable needles, syringes, and a vial of sedative. Glancing at Sam, he tried to determine if he should drug Sam. His brother was nestled up to the wall and shivering in his sleep, the occasional whimper escaping his clenched jaw. An IV line was taped to his arm, a chemical heat pack wrapped around the bag of fluid to warm it up. Dean quickly changed into a t-shirt and sweatpants, grabbed his gun, his pillow, and blanket, then sat on Sam's bed. The movement garnered no reaction, just one more of Sam's hunter senses that had been stolen away. Dean laid down next to Sam and pulled his blanket over himself, not wanting to disturb Sam by unwrapping him from his cocoon. Dean reloaded his gun and slipped it under his pillow and told himself he was just doing what he could to protect Sam. But the tears that ensued reminded Dean that he had already failed grievously at this task and Sam was the one who had suffered for it. He fell asleep sobbing into his little brother's hair.

By the way, that is actually phonetic Enochian (according to one website). Was kinda fun to figure out translations!

Three more chapters in this book. Reviews are love!