A/N: Ever think about doing something, and then thinking you've done something because you thought it, but it turns out you never did it at all, outside of your own head? That is this update. Heh. Enjoy!

Deja Vu All Over Again
Chapter Five

The amount of time in his life that Sam Winchester felt like he was barely holding it together versus the amount of time he was just fine was hopelessly unbalanced. It wasn't fair, but he'd learned to live with the fact that barely holding it together was his normal. Considering all he'd been through in the last year alone, barely holding on was actually an advancement of situations. Lately, the only thing he had that was even remotely steady was Dean. And Bobby. If he were going to be honest, that didn't seem to mean as much as it used to, as far as Dean went. Not that it was Dean's fault – he'd been through a wringer of his own, and so much of it felt like it was Sam's fault, actually. Hell. Having Lisa and then losing Lisa. Dealing with a brother with soulless sociopathic tendencies. The list could go on, all valid reasons for Dean to withdraw, not his support, just … emotional withdrawal.

And then there was the thing with Amy. It wasn't that Dean deemed her a threat and killed her that upset Sam the most, and he didn't want to think what that meant about him. No, it was that in doing so Dean was wordlessly stating with great finality how little he trusted Sam to be able to handle the truth. Sam got it. He wasn't sure he trusted himself, either, so why would Dean? It stung, but it wasn't like there weren't grounds for it. He hoped, one day, that Dean and he would be able to have a more honest relationship. After years of not, he wasn't sure how to get them there. He was sure things were getting better. Still, thinking about all of that didn't matter right now.

What he needed most right at this moment was his brother, who had always been there when it counted the most. Of course it wasn't going to happen because Dean was probably having his face eaten off as Sam was stuck there, trying to keep his brain focused, the wall up and memories of Hell at bay. He couldn't afford to zone out, have a seizure or succumb to a hallucination, because he wasn't sure of anything anymore. He had no idea if Dean was in the same situation as him, if Dean was looking for him, if anything. He couldn't remember, which meant he'd had a blackout at some point. He'd been doing great blocking out the endless reruns of I Love Lucifer, or he had been until he'd walked away from Dean. It wasn't a shining moment, but he'd needed the space.

It totally sucked that in getting the space to breathe, Sam had realized how much he needed Dean despite the anger on his part and lack of trust on Dean's. Sam was a walking, talking contradiction of terms. He wanted to be fine; he wasn't fine. He loved Dean; he hated Dean. He didn't see fire everywhere, except everything he looked at burned. He rolled onto his back and bit back a groan. He was doing it. Dwelling only led to one thing: stronger flashbacks, more intense interactions with the devil in his head. And the devil was only in his head. Whatever this was, wherever he was, it was a cakewalk.

As long as he could keep himself sane.

Sam took another inventory of his surroundings, as if anything had changed since he'd woken. It was dim, diffused light came from somewhere and allowed him to see slick walls. He'd figured someplace wet before his eyes had opened. A constant drip, drip, that dripped hollowly through his prison was a meager counterpoint to the flames and screams in his head. He shivered. The cold seeped into his bones through his clothes. He had no real idea how long he'd been there, but from muscle stiffness guessed it had been several hours at minimum. He shifted to his side; the chains prevented much movement. He could lie, sit, and stand, all of it close to the dank wall. It was disconcerting to think about what might have the strength to get him incapacitated like this. There, at the corner of his abused mind, was the answer but he couldn't quite reach it.

"Sam. Sa-am," the voice was whispered, but so loud. "You know there's nothing in here but me."

"Shut up, shut up," Sam mumbled and pressed a thumb into scar tissue that never hurt anymore, only itched. It was a focus point, had worked when Dean did it. Illogical, but all he had.

He willed Lucifer's voice away, like he always did. It wasn't real, and neither was the crackle of flames. He was okay. He was fine. He was freezing and clammy and his stomach ached with hunger. Though Sam acknowledged that it was somewhat ironic, he thought a fire, a real one, would be as close to heaven as he was ever going to get. His clothes remained damp, barely dried out from the state they'd been when he'd first come to his senses – soaking wet. The walls appeared sloping, uneven. If he had to guess, he'd say nature made rather than man made. He was in a cave, maybe.

The chain wasn't natural, though. Sam peered down at his left foot. The manacle was rusted, but extremely thick. He wasn't strong enough to break it, and if he'd had weapons before he ended up slightly amnesiac and stuck in a cave, they were gone now. He sat, the rotation time between positions increasing as his muscles stiffened. He wanted to stay as limber as he could, in case Dean wasn't in the same situation as him and would come barreling in any moment. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back and tried to sift through the memories of Hell for memories of where he'd been yesterday.

He stood at a distance, watching. He couldn't approach without calling attention to himself, but he needed access to the body to make sure he was right. He thought he had it. He fingered the cell, deciding whether or not to call his brother. In the end, he didn't, not yet. He was having a difficult time with his brother these days. He wanted to be absolutely certain he knew what was going on.

New people arrived on the scene, handful of gawkers pushed further back. He was a gawker, he supposed. He frowned at the big van, letters NCIS scrolled across the side. He'd run into them before, a lifetime or two ago. He frowned. The increase from regular cops to federal agency wasn't good. He didn't think he was up for so much heavy lifting. Not alone.

He skirted around, giving the scene and the NCIS crew a wide berth. He recognized them. In a time when his memories were mostly fog, the clarity of the older man's face was astonishing, the sound of his voice warning him and Dean to never come to DC again was gruff.

"Hey, remember him, Sam? Let's go say hi."

Lucifer was right. He wasn't real, but he was right. He remembered himself, possessed, knocking out the man who was headed toward the end of the pier. This was not good. He did not want to go say hi. He turned so hair covered most of his face, got a little closer to the medical examiner and the body, heard partial words and phrases.

"…no way to tell … drowning … eyes and fingers gone…"

There was no way to know if the victim was like the others, or if any of them had died in the water. Water was the only true link, so he figured it was no coincidence. He was going to have to regroup, get in touch with Dean, have an actual conversation with him. He slipped away. He noticed the agent on the pier had started moving away, scaling the barrier. Curiosity got the better of him. He checked over his shoulder, saw no one notice him.

It took him a bare glance to realize something was not right. The agent had a glazed look on his face. Someone else was there, a man who looked ordinary enough. But wasn't. Wet shoes and cuffs of his pants. He knew this. The agent walked toward the water, gait stilted.

"Hey," Sam said. "Stop."

The Nix turned to him, then, and his brain started misfiring in a different way to usual. Lucifer laughed, and murmured sweet nothings in his ear.

"Oh, hello," the Nix said. "I didn't see you there, hunter. Come on in, the water's fine."

Sam wanted to go for a swim. He didn't want to go for a swim at all. His fingers, clumsy, tried to call Dean, then text him. Stupid, he thought he might be the biggest idiot on the planet. Lucifer agreed. Sam's feet were wet, then his knees.

The cold sucked him under, numbed him.

Sam jerked awake. He'd slumped over, awkward, and now had a painful kink in his neck. So much for staying limber, but that was really the least of his problems. A Nix had him, who knew where, and he had a sinking feeling that he hadn't been able to get the information to Dean.

"Aw, Deanie isn't gonna come save his damsel brother," Lucifer cooed. "I has a sad. It's about time you two make up. I've been in the mood for a little romance after all this dwama."

Lucifer was getting chattier, something he hadn't figured out how to bring up to Dean yet. He had to at some point. He owed Dean that. He had to survive long enough to make that happen. When squeezing his scarred hand didn't work, Sam flipped his hand and took the skin between his thumb and pointer finger and applied a lot of pressure. The pain was enough to fade Lucifer out, though as he went away it was with an echoing laugh that seemed to bounce around the cavern. Sam blinked. He was in a small cavern. The light was brighter now, and growing more so. A shuffling sound he had heard somewhere behind the ever present cacophony grew louder, realer. He squinted toward the sound.

He'd thought he was in an enclosed space, but as the light grew, so did his perspective. The light, in fact, was coming from a vaguely rectangular fissure in the stone walls. A way out. Or, in. He also realized he wasn't alone. A medium sized human, male, was lying face down. Sam couldn't tell if the guy was breathing. He hadn't heard a sound, but then, sometimes it was difficult to sift out real sounds from imaginary ones. Stress seemed to make it worse, and he counted himself lucky the hallucinations remained auditory. As the light approached, he thought flashlight, the other prisoner became clearer along with everything else. White lettering on the back of his jacket. Of course, the NCIS guy he'd followed right into the water. He couldn't tell if the agent was asleep, or dead.

"Hunter is awake, I see. Humans are so fragile, even you. You are different, but still flimsy."

It was a mild voice, soothing. Sam glanced away from his prison mate, and saw a figure in the room now, holding a lantern rather than flashlight. He could have been a janitor, someone nondescript and in the background. Like so many of the worst of 'em, he didn't look supernatural. The Nix looked like everyone's neighbor, preacher or best friend.

"You have no idea," Sam said.

"I do, though. He's delicate of the body," Nix said. "You are delicate of the mind. I can sense it; it hangs around your head like a swarm of gnats. I can't wait to see how different you taste."

Sam scowled. He didn't remember seeing anything in Nix lore to indicate they did anything except lure people to a watery grave. With the number of deviations to mythology they'd encountered over the years, a flesh-eating Nix wasn't a terrible surprise. It wasn't happy news, though. He really, really wished he could remember if he'd told Dean what they were dealing with before succumbing to the Nix's powerful power of suggestion. He trusted Dean. Dean, after everything, would still come for him no matter what.

"If you're trying to impress or scare me, try again." Sam shifted, tried to contain his shiver. He doubted he was any less fragile than the NCIS agent when it came down to it. "I've survived worse things than you."

Nix said nothing, but smiled, then turned his attention away from Sam. He seemed to glide rather than walk, made no discernible sound. With something to focus on besides cold and dark and confused, Hellsounds were quieter, constant, soft background music. The drip, drip, drip was as loud as ever and as Sam tracked Nix he realized he'd been wrong about it being water. On the far side of the cavern hung a man from crudely installed meathooks jammed under his armpits. Not alive, not by a long shot, but soaked with congealing blood and stained water which dripped into a puddle of blood and piss and shit.

Sam couldn't smell any of it, and for a moment that meant it couldn't be real. Early torture had involved Lucifer mutilating other souls and making Sam watch. Kid stuff. It wasn't until Nix carelessly hacked off a thumb and popped it in his mouth did he realize it wasn't Hell. In spite of all he'd seen and heard and done in his lifetime, flesh eating always made him gag. Closer to him, the rustling sounds of someone waking from a long sleep. The NCIS agent moaned.

"Buddy, you do not want to see this," Sam muttered. "Stay out of it."

Nix grinned at him with obscene, bloody teeth. The NCIS agent rolled over, eyes open but bleary. They fixed on the corpse and Nix for a second, recoiled, but it wasn't until he tracked to Sam that clarity shone in his eyes and he let out a hoarse, awful cry.