"Sammy."

The familiar voice sang, drifting through the room lazily.

"Sammy."

Cold air kissed his neck; he knew who he'd find, mere inches away, if he turned. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his hands into fists.

"Sammy!"

His eyes shot open at the sudden change in tone, urgency and irritation lacing the single word.

"A little help?" Dean gritted out. He was wrestling with the rugaru, gripping his flamethrower with locked arms to keep the creature from clawing out his throat. Hot drool dripped in slobbering globs from its parted jaws, landing heavily on Dean's face and chest.

Sam wrung his head, but his vision was still hazy, his thoughts still foggy. With limbs made of lead, he fumbled for his flamethrower, fingers slipping along the barrel.

"Anytime now!" Dean shouted, with barely a few inches separating him from the rugaru's snapping fangs.

Struggling to force himself up to his knees, his hands clamped around the still-warm metal and instinct took over. Though the world still spun, he managed to find his footing, and he kicked the monster in the side, immediately unleashing a burst of flames once it cleared Dean's body.

Dean scrambled away, turning his own flamethrower to add to the roiling, shrieking, burning mass. The smell was awful—Sam tried not to think about it, and the memories it prodded.

Once the corpse slumped, unmoving and thoroughly charred, the two lowered their weapons, breathing heavily.

"You good?" Sam looked over his brother, who wrung drool from his face with a disgusted expression. Sam stepped back as Dean flung it to the ground, his lip curling.

"Better after a shower," Dean muttered, then his gaze turned to Sam, eyes narrowed, "You?"

"Yeah, fine." He ran a hand along the back of his head but pulled it away clean. He'd probably end up with a welt. Hopefully, though, not a concussion—his mind was already drawn thin enough.

"So that wasn't…?"

"No," Sam shook his head—a bad idea, sending spots to cloud his vision. Not a great sign. "Just hit my head."

"Good." Dean noted, prodding the rugaru's body with his toe. "We got any leads on a wendigo?" He asked, bouncing the flamethrower in his hand, "I'd love to take these babies for another spin before we give 'em back to Bobby."

Sam chuckled, shaking his head and slinging the weapon over his shoulder. His mood sobered as his gaze fell on the half-eaten, decomposing bodies in the living room.

"Salt and burn?" Dean stepped to Sam's side, glancing at him.

Sam nodded, "Probably safest."

"I'll start a pyre out back." Dean headed for the glass door, kindly leaving Sam to drag the bodies outside. Dean pulled his phone from his pocket, and it rang twice before the call went through. "Bobby? Yeah, it was here…" The conversation faded out as Dean disappeared outside.

Victims of violent or unjust deaths had a tendency to return as ghosts. Surely sudden death by a family member or friend turned monster qualified. True, burning the bodies might confuse local law enforcement, but unbeknownst to the police, their killer had now already been caught and taken care of. It was better—or safer, at least—to put any lingering spirits to rest now. Else, in a few months or years, they or another hunter might have to come back and put down a ghost driven mad in death. Of course, by that time, it might have already killed an innocent civilian in a mistaken pursuit of revenge.

Sam sighed, approaching the bodies splayed throughout the room. He knelt beside the first, the most eaten and furthest decomposed. Its guts were gone, leaving an empty cavity in place of its abdomen. One leg had been gnawed to bone in sections, and a few chunks were missing from its pale, swollen face, including an eye. Flies flitted about it, eager for a feast.

"You've been there."

Sam's gaze darted to a familiar figure crouching on the other side of the body.

"Remember that? Evisceration?" Lucifer cocked his head, a gleaming knife in his hands and a glint in his eyes, "Good times. Maybe you could use a refresher?" Lucifer shrugged, twirling the knife, then extending the hilt toward Sam, "Or we could show Dean what you've learned—the kind of stuff Alastair could've never even dreamed of."

Heartrate accelerating, Sam tried to ignore him, turning back to the body. But as soon as his eyes landed on it, he scrambled backward, breath catching.

It was Dean—pale, gutted, half-eaten, decomposing. Dead.

Sam jabbed his thumb into the scar on his left hand. Obligingly, Lucifer vanished, and relief bloomed in Sam's chest when the body snapped back to the stranger's corpse. Sam released a slow, shaky exhale, then gingerly grabbed the corpse by the ankles. The limbs were cold, but rigor had already come and passed. Sam pressed his nose against his shoulder, trying not to breathe the awful, rotting stench.

The body was the rugaru's wife. She'd had no idea who—or what, rather—she'd married. In fairness to the rugaru, he probably didn't know what he was either. He might have loved her dotingly—right up until he couldn't resist the tantalizing smell of her flesh.

The next was an older woman. Her legs were scored with bite marks and had decomposed enough that Sam dragged her out by her arms instead. Her head lolled loosely, barely clinging to her body by the skin, as her neck had been snapped.

The body was a family friend and neighbor. Probably coming over to check on the family. Maybe they'd planned a dinner together. Not knowing they'd become the entrees themselves.

Then, an older man. One arm was broken, and he bore scratches across his face, arms, and chest. A deep gouge in his throat revealed his likely cause of death.

The body was the friend's husband. He'd tried to fight back, but he had no idea what he was dealing with. No idea that fire was the only sure way to kill it.

The last was a smaller corpse. Sam was slow to drag this one out, and he tried not to look at it closely, tried not to see the teeth marks along the flesh.

The body was the rugaru's stepson. Maybe thirteen, maybe fourteen years old.

The Winchesters had been just a couple days late. Forty-eight hours earlier, and all of them would still be alive. Twenty-four, and at least the neighbors would be. Sam's jaw clenched. He knew the guilt weighed heavily on his brother too, especially given the glance he had given the boy. Sam wondered if he saw Ben.

There was nothing more we could've done, he tried to counter. They'd gotten the tip from a hunter who contacted Bobby, saying that the rugaru he'd just killed apparently had a twin brother in Nebraska. He figured if one had started to turn, the other might be due for the same, and the Winchesters were closer.

But by the time they got the tip, the rugaru's family was already dead.

Still, it didn't really help the guilt. Didn't help the feeling of futility.

The grumble of a car engine sounded outside, and soon, footsteps crunched along the side of the house.

"Hey, Bobby," Sam greeted, dragging the last body in line before straightening.

Bobby nodded in reply, his gaze on the row of bodies. Dean, having finished constructing a rough pyre from loose wood piled near the ranch's utility shed, shuffled to join the two. Bobby glanced between the Winchesters, "Nothing more you boys could've done."

Neither responded. Instead, the brothers wordlessly lifted each body onto the stack. Sam had found a few IDs among the corpses and the house to help identify the bodies faster, and Bobby arranged them on the ground a few feet from the pyre as Dean scattered salt across the corpses.

With a glance at Sam, who nodded, Dean tossed a match onto the lighter fluid, and the pyre quickly erupted in flames.

The three stood in silence, watching the fire curl over each silhouetted body as smoke climbed steadily into the sky.

After a handful of seconds, the wretched stench of burning flesh and hair returned in force. Sam tried to ignore it.

They'd smelled burning bodies plenty of times. They'd done this plenty of times. It shouldn't be a problem. He could handle it. He could handle it before. Surely he could now.

Another minute passed, and he tried to focus on steadying his accelerating breaths, closing his eyes. I'm fine.

Sudden pain shot up his arms, and he flinched, looking down to find flames dancing up his skin. He gritted his teeth against the agony. It isn't real. It isn't real. I'm not in Hell. I'm out. But it felt real. It felt exactly how he remembered it. And he could smell his own flesh burning as it melted off his bones.

"Sammy?" Dean had turned to him, concern creasing his brow.

Bobby turned with a frown. "Sam? You alright there?"

Sam's eyes snapped up, twisted in agony, and Sam held out his arms, showing them the fire as he dropped to his knees in torment. The flames climbed higher, kissing his chin and enveloping his shoulders. Like hot oil, it slid down his back in a quick, easy glide, wrapping around his legs before climbing back up to meet the tendrils working down his chest.

Even though it burned, he couldn't move to put it out. It was like his joints had been welded solid. Like Lucifer had pinned him down. He could almost hear Lucifer's cackling laugh in his ear.

But Dean saw nothing. Nothing but his brother collapsing in pain.

He knelt down beside him, grasping his shoulders, "Hey, what's happening? Talk to me, man."

But the flames were already inside, twirling along his bones, wreaking havoc to his organs—choking him, scorching away his vocal cords so he couldn't even scream. He struggled to breathe as it eagerly claimed his lungs. He couldn't answer; he could barely see—his vision was a haze of red and black with fire and smoke. He could barely hear—the flames raged in his ringing ears. He could barely think. There was only pain. Awful, boiling, unending pain. It was like his nerves wouldn't die. He knew Lucifer must be keeping him alive by a thread, enough so he could feel every atom burn away over and over again.

Dean cursed, snatching up Sam's hand and squeezing the scar. Sam didn't react, and Dean unleashed a string of curses this time. Bobby echoed the sentiment, his eyes scanning their surroundings as though for help.

Dean glanced toward the fire. Faintly, his mind mused that Sam was jerking and gasping for air as if he was the one alight. On a guess, Dean grabbed Sam's arm roughly, slinging it over his shoulders and hoisting him to his feet, "C'mon, Sammy. I need you to work with me, here."

"You sure we should move him?" Bobby asked uneasily, even as he moved to support Sam's other side.

"Got a better idea?"

"Point taken," Bobby grunted, hating how Sam flinched at his touch when Bobby wrapped an arm around the Winchester's back. The kid was trembling violently, eyes squeezing shut and face twisted in torment. "Think it was the fire that triggered it?"

"That's my guess." Dean agreed, then cursed and tightened his grip as Sam tried to yank away. "Sam, just hang on, we'll get you somewhere safe." Dean hazarded a look to Sam's face, trying to gauge if his brother could hear him at all. At the pure agony he saw there, he immediately regretted the glance and fixed his gaze back forward, clenching his jaw.

"In the back," Bobby instructed as they neared the Impala. "I'll drive, you sit with him in case it gets worse."

Not that I could do much about it. Dean thought angrily—helplessly. Still, he was glad for Bobby's offer.

They shoved Sam into the back seat, which took some convincing of his long, twitching limbs, and Dean followed behind him, tossing the keys onto the front bench. Bobby promptly slid into the driver's side, keying the ignition and sending the Impala lurching down the driveway and onto the road.

"How's he doing?" Bobby asked, glancing in the rearview. Dean ignored the question, if he heard it at all.

If it wasn't for his now open—though glazed, unseeing—eyes, Dean would think Sam was just having another nightmare. His arms jerked faintly, and he twisted his head as though trying to escape or distance himself from something. His skin had gone utterly pale, and he was sweating profusely, yet worryingly cold to the touch. He shivered madly. It was like his body couldn't figure out what to do, or how to fix it.

Dean knew the feeling.

"Sammy, you're safe now. See? We're in the Impala. I'm here. Bobby's here. We're real, Sam."

As a kid, Sam could never survive a long ride in the Impala without drifting off to sleep. Now, Dean prayed that the familiarity, the safety, might help wake him up.

After maybe a minute, Sam's eyes started to dart as though in search of something.

Lucifer? Dean wondered, tightening his hands into fists. Though not truly expecting it to work, he reached for Sam's hand again and squeezed the scar.

To his shock and relief, Sam blinked, and his eyes cleared, then slowly landed on Dean.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean laughed weakly, "Welcome back."

Sam straightened in his seat, head swiveling as he tried to gather his bearings. "What—where…?" His voice was shaky, his breath still quick and shallow. His gaze drifted to his arms, and he ran his hands along them as though to assure himself they weren't an illusion.

"Take it easy," Dean advised, "You're safe. It wasn't real."

Sam's hand went to the door handle, causing Dean to quickly reach over Sam to hold the door closed, a second wave of adrenaline-fueled alarm jolting through him. He couldn't help the hurt that speared his chest when Sam jerked away from his touch. Yet, despite Dean leaning halfway over him to grip the door, Sam still tried the handle, forcing Dean to yank it back as the door gave an inch.

"Sam, stop it," he barked, ready to swat his brother's hand away if he tried again. He wished he'd thought of installing child-safety locks now that Sam had turned into a flight risk.

He almost regretted his tone, worried about the way Sam might react to shouting, yet he didn't even seem to notice. His hand remained on the handle, but he didn't try pulling it again.

"Can we… can we stop?" Sam breathed weakly, his whole body curling toward the door and away from Dean. Dean wondered if he was going to be sick—part of him hoped that was why Sam was trying to open the door.

"Bobby, pull over," Dean relayed louder, but Bobby was already slowing and pulling off the road. The wheels of the Impala flattened a row of yellow-flowered weeds.

Before the car even stopped, Sam shoved open the door and stepped onto the roadside; the Impala's momentum closed the door behind him. After sharing a glance with Bobby in the rearview, Dean followed him out to find Sam was already yards away, moving at a decent clip down the side of the road.

Luckily, the road was vacant—they hadn't seen another car since they left the rugaru's ranch. So Dean allowed Sam space, though watching him closely as he trailed behind.

Then Sam stumbled, collapsing to his knees.

"Sammy!" He yelled, jogging to close the distance.

But Sam held back a hand, palm out, asking him to stop. "Just… give me a second. Please."

Working his jaw, Dean obliged, standing a few feet back.

Sam was still shaking, his breathing heavy. He stared at his arms, strangely whole—unburnt. It wasn't real. He repeated the assurance over and over again in his head. He wanted his uncharred flesh to be proof. But just because he was whole didn't mean it hadn't happened—the Cage proved that.

He dropped a hand to the ground, clutching a fistful of grass and dirt. Grit snuck under his fingernails. He tried to focus on it. On the feeling of the blades of grass crumpling in his hands.

This… this is real.

He tried to fling himself into the belief. But the feeling… it wasn't enough. It was hazy, faint.

He dug his thumb into his scar. It still wasn't enough. He pressed harder, until his nail broke his skin and beads of blood rose up in his palm. The sting of pain was sharp, clear. Clutching his hand in his lap, he closed his eyes.

His breathing finally steadied out, heartrate finally beginning to slow.

The pain was real. That, he believed.

After maybe a minute, Dean asked quietly, "Was it the fire?"

Sam didn't turn, correcting, "The smell."

Dean shook his head faintly, as though he should've thought of it. He'd spent his own time in Hell. He knew what Sam meant.

Not for the first time, he wanted to jump into the Cage himself just to beat the life from Lucifer, to strangle, to carve him up, to burn him to ash. To break him in every way he had broken his brother.

His voice was taut with the strain, the anger, and the inability to do anything about it, "You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah… sorry." Sam glanced down at his bloodied palm, squeezing the hand to conceal the wound as he stood. Turning back toward Dean, he nodded toward Bobby, leaning against the Impala, "We should probably head back."

Dean nodded, waiting for Sam to start walking back before he did the same.

Sam ran his unbloodied hand along the back of his skull at the dull throb, finding the growing, expected welt.

Dean noticed the motion, "Maybe we should get that checked out. Last thing we need is for you to end up with a concussion."

Sam returned with a tired chuckle, "You haven't had enough of hospitals lately?"

Dean snorted a laugh, dropping the issue. Though he was worried about his brother, he wasn't exactly keen on bringing Sam back to a hospital, anyway. Even if they could patch up any physical injuries he might have, if anything in a building full of the sick, wounded, and dying triggered another reality-break, they'd seal the doors with Sam still inside.

As the brothers neared the Impala, Bobby's gaze raked over Sam, "You alright there, Sam?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," he assured, but neither Dean nor Bobby seemed convinced. Perhaps in fairness, he wasn't sure he believed it either.

Bobby, still eyeing Sam, noted slowly, "We'll need to head back and pick up my car and anything else you idjits left lying around up there."

"We can drop him off at a motel first," Dean replied firmly, his gaze hard and fixed on Bobby.

"No, we can go back. I can handle it." Sam promised again, trying to inject more confidence into his words.

Dean turned incredulously, "I'm sorry, did you miss what just happened? I'm not taking you back there."

"Dean, we're at least an hour out from the nearest motel. Let's just go back, before someone sees the smoke and calls the cops. It'll take two minutes, tops."

Dean crossed his arms, eyes narrowed as he weighed Sam's words. Finally, he turned to Bobby, "Give me your keys; I'll head back and get your car."

"On foot?" Bobby cocked an eyebrow, reaching into his pocket.

"It's half a mile," Dean responded irritably.

"Dean, I'm fine; it'll be faster to just drive back." Sam insisted, his irritation rising with Dean's.

"Yeah, you're fine until you're not." Dean retorted, expression dark, "You're not going back."

Sam shook his head at the absurdity, pacing a few steps away. It would take only a few minutes. He could handle a few minutes.

With a glance toward Sam, Bobby tossed the keys in Dean's direction.

The look Dean shot toward Bobby was just as clear as if he'd spoken aloud. Keep an eye on him.

Bobby nodded once and ducked back into the driver's seat of the Impala, "C'mon, Sam."

Without a word of farewell, Dean started down the road, still bristling.

Sam stared after him, scoffed faintly, then moved to the other side of the car and slid into the passenger's seat.

The Impala roared to a start, and Bobby pulled back onto the road.

He watched as Sam's fingers tapped against his leg while he gazed out the window, mind clearly abuzz.

"Alright, kid, talk to me."

Sam looked back, his tone reflecting his frustration, "I'm fine, Bobby."

"Didn't say you weren't."

Sam again shook his head, turning back to the window.

"You know Dean's just worried about you. Can't help it any more than breathing."

"I know, I just… he's gonna want to sideline me again. He wouldn't even trust me to keep it together for a few minutes, Bobby."

At the older man's silence, Sam breathed a sigh of disbelief, "You agree with him."

"Look, Sam, maybe it ain't such a bad idea. It's only been a few weeks since that wall in your head came down, and you've been going nonstop ever since. Maybe you should take some more time, figure things out."

"Bobby, I can't…" Sam couldn't keep the pleading edge from his voice. He inhaled a slow, deep breath, "It… gets worse when I'm not staying busy."

Bobby cast him a glance, "I get that. But hunting ain't a job you can go in with half your head aboutcha. You do that, you're gonna wind up dead sooner rather than later."

"The monsters aren't going to slow down for me to get my head together. People are still dying."

"People are always going to die, boy. It ain't worth you getting yourself killed."

"I'm not going to just sit around while you and Dean go hunting."

"No one's suggesting that."

Sam lowered his gaze, muttering, "Yeah, because you don't trust me to be alone."

"Do you?"

Sam was silent, staring down at his hand, where the blood had clotted and dried. Quietly, he finally asked, "If you were in my position, Bobby, what would you do?"

The question didn't sound like a challenge. It was sincere—as if Bobby's answer would control his decision.

Bobby didn't respond for a handful of minutes. He wished he could say that he'd sit out, if only to encourage Sam to do the same. But he knew it was a lie. So he responded with what he did know. "Nobody's ever been in your position before, Sam. Not me, not Dean. Frankly, it's a miracle you're even vertical. You're doing better than we ever dared to hope." He looked at Sam, who was still gazing at his hand. His eyes flicked over the blood, before he fixed his attention back on the road.

He exhaled heavily, "Look, none of us know what the right thing to do here is. We're all just guessing at what's best. But you're the only one who knows what's going on in that head of yours. So… if you say it's better keeping busy, I'll back your play with Dean."

Sam's gaze slid upward, meeting his, "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby nodded once, tossing a final glance toward him, "Just don't forget. It took too long, but we got you back, and we want to keep you here. Y'understand, Sam?"

Sam's lips tweaked in a weak smile, but it fell away too fast. He leaned against the car door, absently rubbing the new cut in his hand as he watched the world outside pass in a hazy green blur.