AN: Not mine. I don't make money from my stories. And that means the boys' angst isn't my fault! I don't like this chapter quite as much as the first, but I eventually had to stop rewriting and put it out there. The lyrics at the beginning are again from Nella Fantasia, English version taken from lyricstranslate.

Such lovely, lovely comments! I love you guys so much! I'm always open for suggestions and comments and ideas and I do my best to honor them all.

Wildfire: Yes, the poor broken boys! I'm thinking about a Cas POV chapter, but I don't know if I have a good handle on how he thinks. But…we'll see. If I do it, I really hope it's not a disappointment.

BitterSweetJoy: Thank you so much. I so appreciate what you have to say!

Sfaulkenberry: I am so so so glad to know you've enjoyed it so far! I get so nervous when I write specifically in response to a request, although I really enjoyed writing it.

Scootersmom: Thank you. I may have cried a little while writing this, but there's no proof…

Immertreu: I hate it too! When watching the eps for the first time, I was known to yell at the TV every time the boys separated. Thank you for your always helpful comments. I don't know why I don't see your PMs. Sorry!

In my fantasy I see a clear world,

Where even at night there is less darkness,

I dream of souls that are always free,

Like the clouds that fly.

Most people dream in two senses: sight and sound. Memories may include smell or taste, but mostly only with one other sense. For Sam Winchester, however, dreams and memories encompassed four, and sometimes all five of his senses. He could also remember in much more detail than most people – he could remember every word of conversations, picture pages of his father's journal down to the uncertain slant of the words.

In many professions, to many people, this would be a blessing. It sounded good on paper, right? But when your memories, and therefore your dreams, involved the sight of the dripping fangs of charging werewolves and the smell of burnt flesh and the taste of blood from biting through your own lip and the sound of screams and gunshots, and sometimes literal Hell…it was truly a curse.

Sam had a bastion against the dreams. A bulwark that was missing right now. Knowing what that meant, Sam turned to his old standby of research to distract himself and ward off sleep. He turned on every single light, drank coffee, and got up to walk at least once an hour. But eventually, he lost the fight.

Lucifer delighted in every sense. He turned them all up as high as he could, reveling in every sensation. The brush of clothing against skin was like steel wool being ground into him, the sound of his own voice like a fire engine siren inside his head, the littlest bit of light like staring into the sun. While Lucifer technically he kept to his promise to not hurt Sam, housing the archangel was a constant burning in his veins, Sam unable to so much as blink away the pain.

All these years later, sometimes the sun in his eyes or a strong smell still made Sam cringe.

And Lucifer would randomly riffle through Sam's memories. Nothing was sacred, nothing was only Sam's. Sometimes he had a purpose in mind, but more often it was simply because he could. A reminder that he owned Sam, that Sam didn't really exist any more.

Sam knew, without a doubt, that with time he'd give in. He'd stop fighting and would retreat back to the back of his consciousness. The terror of being used without even being aware kept Sam fighting until Dean had reached him.

By now, Sam realized he was dreaming, and he fought to wake up, but he knew it wouldn't happen immediately. He took a mental breath, waiting for the Cage to come crashing in.

Instead, he saw Kevin screaming.

Sam barely made it to the bathroom before retching.

He washed his hands three times and brushed his teeth twice before coming out, but Cas was still waiting for him when he came out.

"Are you in pain?" asked the angel, brow creased in concern. Sam shook his head, but noticed Cas didn't look convinced. "You need more healing." He reached for Sam's forehead. Sam couldn't help his flinch. He was immediately embarrassed and annoyed at himself – this was his friend. "Sam?" The gentleness of the question annoyed Sam too, though that wasn't fair.

"Just let me sit down." He turned his back on the expression of concern he knew would be on Cas' face. He didn't want to see it because he wanted to see it on a different face. But it was Cas, and he accepted it, and the healing, and deflected his friend's concern in a way that couldn't have deflected his brother's.

"Sam…for what it's worth, Gadreel healed you a great deal, and with skill."

"You can see that? There's evidence left behind of him?" And when Cas nodded, Sam almost puked again.

WINCHESTER * WINCHESTER

Sam supposed he should feel guilty for sending Cas on an errand, but he needed to stop the hovering. Only one person was allowed to hover, and that person couldn't be here now. He'd forgive him, hell, he probably already had, but there was nothing he could do until Dean was ready to hear it. Besides, it would be far better if he could shore himself up a little before facing Dean again. If he looked like shit, Dean would only feel even worse.

Tipping back the bottle of Jack Daniels for another drink, Sam reasoned he was doing a bang-up job of taking care of himself. Kicking out the one person who was looking out for him? Check. Avoiding sleep? Check. Drinking whiskey directly out of the bottle? Check. If he had a fight with a stranger and some meaningless sex, he'd hit all of the Winchester coping mechanisms. At least he wasn't drinking demon blood.

Ah. Cue the self-recrimination. That was another family tradition. Sam chuckled out loud, and the act in itself made him realize just how drunk he was. He was too drunk to avoid falling asleep from the alcohol, but if he kept at it, he could get drunk enough to pass out and avoid the dreams altogether. He just better get to drinking more before he fell asleep…

Nobody expected the rakshasa to climb the tree where an 11-year-old Sam was keeping watch a good 50 yards away from the spot where it preferred to grab drunk college kids. He never would have been parked there, otherwise, but the contrary monster deviated from its well-established pattern, and suddenly it was at Sam's feet. Sam shot it with the shotgun he was holding, which only pissed it off. Then Dad hit it with a hell of a shot from across the clearing, knocking it back and giving Dean time to scale the tree and kill the ugly thing. But not until Sam had scrambled backwards on his chosen branch.

Sam didn't see Dean stab the rakshasa nearly a dozen times for daring to go after his little brother. He was busy falling when his branch cracked beneath him. The impact with the ground stunned Sam, and when feet landed next to him he could only bring up the shotgun blindly. He realized it was Dean half a second before the latter pushed the barrel aside.

"You gonna shoot your only brother?"

But Sam couldn't answer. Because he couldn't breathe. Sure, he'd had the breath knocked out of him before. After all, he regularly sparred with Dad and Dean. But this was different. He couldn't move, couldn't suck in any air. Letting go of the gun, Sam curled up toward his brother, fully in panic mode now. He grabbed Dean's shirt in both hands, mouth working as he tried to talk, breathe, get air, anything.

Dean's face changed, then he put his own hands on Sam's chest. "Sammy. Sammy! Look at me, Sammy. Look at me. You can breathe. You just gotta relax. Breathe, Sammy. You can do it. Just breathe."

And because Dean said it, Sam could. He sucked in sweet, sweet air. And another breath, and another. The pain in his chest eased, and he sat up the rest of the way. And even though they had a Winchester moratorium on hugging after the age of 10, Dean said nothing when Sam wrapped his arms around his brother and scrunched his face against his shoulder. In fact, he hugged back without complaint.

"Leave it, Dean," grumbled Sam when the bottle was pulled from his hands. He didn't remember drinking whiskey after falling from the tree.

"Sam."

Despite how gunky they felt, Sam's eyelids flew open. "Shit. Oh. Cas." Sam shook his head and immediately regretted it. "Sorry." He felt his cheeks color, but whether it was from Cas catching him so unaware, or because of what he'd said, he wasn't sure.

"Sam, you would be more comfortable in your bed."

Sam cast a sad look at the confiscated bottle, then surprised them both by walking almost steadily to the bathroom then to bed. Damn his dreams for reminding him why Dean did the things he did. He would have loved to drink more and seek oblivion, but knew Cas was now on guard. All too soon, he was dreaming again.

It was all darkness, and Sam's stomach clenched. This was one of Lucifer's games. There was no up or down or sense of self at all, just his voice, inescapable.

"May 2, 1983, Dean's life was over. He didn't know it yet, but when you were born, all of his choices were gone. You killed his mother. You broke his father. You forced him to take care of poor wittle Sammy instead of live his own life. Anybody else would have hated you, but not Dean, not Heaven's Righteous Man, no. He did something much worse."

"He loved me," whispered Sam.

"That's right. And what did it get him? You left. You ran away to Flagstaff and left him to his punishment. Then you left him completely to go get freaky with the lovely Jessica." He drew her name out as if tasting something delicious. Sam couldn't answer. Couldn't breathe. It was all true.

"Oh, and when you didn't watch your own back, Dean-o went to Hell for you." Lucifer sang the last six words. "He broke in Hell, and it was because he really knew you weren't worth the sacrifice. How did you pay him back for him saving your life, Sammy? Oh, that's right. You drank demon blood and screwed an actual demon and turned yourself into a monster. You chose a demon over big bro, didn't ya? And let me out. Thanks for that, bee tee dubs. The things I did thanks to you!"

The laughter surrounded Sam on all sides. He couldn't escape it, couldn't stop the echoes. When it faded, Lucifer's voice was right in his ear. "How did you repay Dean when you got out of Hell, Sam? Did you drag him away from the first good thing he had going since he was four years old? Oh, and did you try to kill his other Dad? Bad, bad boy, Sammy. Maybe you're more like me than you want to admit."

Please don't bring up Purgatory. Please don't bring up Purgatory.

"And when Dean was in Purgatory, never sleeping, fighting for his life every minute, what did you do, Sam? Did you move Heaven and Hell to find him like he would for you? Nooooooo." He suddenly changed tracks. "Every horrible choice Dean ever had to made is because of you, you know. Every bad dream he has, every reason he hates himself is because of you. You're not his brother. You're his curse."

Curse.

Curse.

Curse.

Sam jerked awake in a cold sweat. He did nothing but shiver for a long time. His hurt was still there. It would be there for a long time. He would choke on the memories that popped up of moments that weren't his, and the fear he'd felt when he lost time and wondered if just maybe he was losing his mind again, maybe for good. Did he wish Dean could trust him as an equal? Always. But he would never deserve it. Never.

Sam couldn't direct his pain and anger at Dean. He just couldn't. So he channeled everything at Gadreel…well, not everything. A good heaping spilled over onto himself for not having the strength to know the angel was there and kick him out. No, it was Gadreel who had used Sam, killed Kevin, and lied to and betrayed Dean.

In very Winchester style, Sam almost gave his life to his pursuit of revenge. But this time, it was Cas who pulled him back, instead of Dean, but not before…

Where am I?

Needles…in my head.

No, in my throat.

Hospital bed.

Crowley in my head.Poughkeepsie.Killing demons.

Kevin burning.

Metatron.

"It's a mess in here."

In physical pain, he admits his mental pain to Cas. "Please. Please, help me do one thing right. Keep going."

Pain. It felt like needles in his head again. Cas' voice, but he couldn't quite make out the words. Where was Dean? The thought brought pain, too, but he was distracted by cool healing.

"Cas? What did you do?"

And the angel who saved his brother and called him an abomination and fell and died and became a god and repented and sacrificed Sam's mind and saved Sam's mind and had his grace stolen and stole grace reminded Sam of what it was to be human.

To be human was to forgive, Sam decided later, staring at his reflection. He had to forgive himself, but first he had to forgive Dean. "Brothers don't keep score," Dean had said once when Sam was feeling the weight of having a brother who was damn near perfect in his loyalty and in his love.

So Sam wouldn't keep score. He would keep on listening to the dreams, then moving past them. He wouldn't deny the pain he felt, the lingering choking in his throat when he thought about possession. He wouldn't even deny the guilt over what he'd done…what Gadreel had done. But he'd breathe through them, and when Dean was ready to come back, he would let him know that he'd forgiven everything. Everything. Because maybe Cas was right, and maybe even a Winchester can change.