I'm so sorry I haven't posted anything for this in such a long time. I just had nothing to offer this story even when I tried to force it. I'm not totally content with this chapter, but I think I need to move on and get to the parts I am interested in writing. This chapter is kind of weird; part of it is based off a nightmare I had. And for anyone reading 'A Prison of One's Own Making', the idea for that story came out of the first part of this chapter with Sam and very much delayed progress on this fic!

Please review and suggest anything you'd like to see happen. I could use the prompts and inspiration right now!

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Day 11

Dean stared at the roof of the cabin, listening to the pouring rain and pondering his next move. It was almost 5 in the morning. He hadn't been able to fall asleep after he'd found Sam sobbing like a child outside. The slide back to the terrified kid he'd practically raised filled him with dread. The confusion on Sam's face, the plea in his eyes, the desperate need for Dean to make it all better… He tried to push away the thought stalking him but ultimately succumbed to its lumbering attack: If it didn't get better, if they couldn't fix him, was this it for Sam? Is this what Sam would become? Would he break under the weight of his — Dean's brain shied away from the word "insanity" — Hell vision and regress to a toddler?

Perversely, Dean thought that might not be such a bad thing. Sure, Dean would lose his brother as he knew him and his hunting partner, but the idea of Sam being tortured by an imaginary Lucifer who undermined Sam's sense of reality for the rest of his life? It was unacceptable. He'd rather Sam be dead. His panicked voicemail to Bobby that goddam night ran through his mind. "You cannot be in that crater back there. I can't – If you're gone, I swear I am going to strap my 'Beautiful Mind' brother into the car, and I'm gonna drive us off the pier. You asked me how I was doing? Well, not good. Now you said you'd be here. Where are you?"

Bobby hadn't brought it up and Dean was immensely grateful for that. Whether it was because Bobby hadn't gotten the message or because Bobby didn't want to discuss it, he wasn't sure. Dean hoped they never spoke of it again; it was evidence of his complete and utter resignation. Without Bobby, he was willing to kill himself and Sam. Dean rubbed his hands over his face as he shuddered, trying to disperse both the shame he felt at admitting such a thing and the unsettling feeling that there was nothing wrong with his impulsive plan.

Dean flinched as lightning struck a tree nearby. The blinding flash and the deafening roar of thunder assaulted his senses. He heard a strangled cry and lifted himself to look over the couch. After his shower, Sam had fallen into a deep sleep almost immediately, but every flash of lightning and the accompanying crack of thunder elicited a violent jerk from Sam. Still he slept.

Dean sighed. His heart just felt so tired. He wasn't sure he could keep the pieces of his brother together much longer. He knew sleep was a nightly return to torture for Sam, but he didn't know what he could do at the moment. The kid needed to sleep. He reminded himself to call Bobby and ask for anything that could help. Even if it didn't work for Sam, fuck, maybe it would work for him. His drunken sleep had not been restful, punctuated by remembered screams and images that made him regret existing. He tried to drown the sorrows threatening to bury him but they were learning to swim. He leaned forward and took another swig of whiskey. It was the only thing that dulled the violent dance of memories blazing inside his head. He could barely look at Sam without seeing his eyes missing or blood pouring from… everywhere, or Sam being ra— Dean shut his eyes and bit his tongue as hard as he could, welcoming the warm burst of copper.

He grabbed his crutches and made his was slowly to the door. Awkwardly swinging it open, a fierce breeze greeted him, carrying with it the distinct scent of a thunderstorm. He breathed in deeply and let the tension out of his body. He took a few steps forward and closed the door. He went to the edge of the porch, silently pleading for the rain to wash away his pain.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Sam blinked awake to complete darkness and instantly regretted his return to consciousness. Something freezing was splashing on his forehead and oozing down his face.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

He couldn't remember the last thing he had been doing. Everything seemed hidden behind a hazy fog. He tried to move his head but his muscles felt like stone. His rigid limbs similarly failed to respond. Realizing struggling was useless, he relaxed his body and scanned his senses for clues. Darkness. No sound but the constant drip. He felt like he was on something soft with smooth fabric… A bed? He concentrated and became aware of fine silk against his skin. All his skin. Where the hell were his clothes?! Suppressing the thought in search of more information, he scanned his remaining senses. Subconsciously he surveyed the area with his psychic abilities but they had long been dormant. He sniffed the air and detected an oddly familiar mix of women's perfume and telltale scent of blood. Was he injured? He couldn't detect any pain… And then the taste registered in his waking mind. The metallic tang of blood. Demon blood. He willed his muscles to break free of their restraint as panic spiked his psyche.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

He felt the drops trickle down his face in tiny rivulets, some making their leisurely way into his open mouth.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip.

Despite himself, despite his mental protests, the tainted fluid continued to slip between his cracked lips and seep into his body. Despite himself, the part of himself he thought he had locked away welcomed the slowly increasing thrum of power that pulsed through his veins. Despite himself, he felt energized by the return of psychic fluency. His mind warred with itself, fighting to reject what he despised yet begging for the release of his gift. He knew it was evil, it was what made him unclean, inhuman, abhorrent. But at the same time, if he used it for good, to kill demons, wasn't that a worthy sacrifice? As if you're doing it for the good of others, a voice whispered. You know why you're doing this, because you feel strong. Pushed around your whole life by your dad, by Dean, by demons, by the devil. No one's going to push you around once you blossom into the psychic juggernaut you were born to be. You just need more practice…

Another voice slashed through the seductive allure of that train of thought. No, you know this is wrong. A demon poisoned you for you to have these abilities. How can that be anything but bad? What would Dean think? He'd be so disappointed in you! To know that you gave in again. Do you really want to surrender yourself to the evil festering inside you?

It's not like you asked for this, the other side countered. You're making the best of a hopeless, fucked up situation. I think that's admirable.

Don't do this. It will only end in sorrow and pain.

Because the rest of your life has totally been rainbows and fluffy kittens.

Distracted by his internal struggle, he didn't notice the drip had stopped. His first thought was a pained No!, followed very quickly by a surge of relief.

A laugh, not the one he was expecting to hear (who was he expecting?), a feminine laugh sliced through the stillness of the room. A warm body, devoid of much clothing, straddled his. The lace of soft panties tickled his skin and it confused him. A hand trailed up his thigh before jumping up to his chest.

"What, Sam, you don't wanna? C'mon, I even juiced you up…"

"Ruby?" Sam gasped.

"Duh, who else would it be?" She leaned forward and placed her lips on his, her tongue slipping into his mouth and running along his clenched teeth. "Sam, don't pout," she whined.

His brow creased. "I – I'm not pouting!"

"Then what's your problem?" She couldn't keep the irritation from the question.

"I, I just, something's not right… And why the hell am I tied up?"

"I thought it might be a nice change of pace." He could hear the smirk in her voice.

"Untie me," Sam ordered, even though he knew he was completely powerless.

Ruby ground her hips seductively against his. "Where would be the fun in that?" she chided. "I got you right where I want. Now, you can either cooperate, or this could get ugly for you." Suddenly the weight grew heavier and a roughish hand grabbed his chin. "And you know it's never very pretty to begin with…" that familiar voice crooned.

His breath fled his body and starved his brain of the oxygen he so desperately needed to process the situation. Pinned under Lucifer and completely exposed, he felt shamefully vulnerable He felt… he felt like a–

"Victim, Sam, you're a victim."

"Why?" Sam croaked out, though he wasn't sure of his intended target.

Familiar with every iteration of this conversation, Lucifer didn't need to ask for clarification. "Maybe sometimes I want us both to enjoy ourselves. At least for a little bit. Once upon a time you really trusted her, you know. Oh, you played right into the palm of her hand," he mused. "C'mon, Sammy, indulge me, just this once." As if Sam ever had a choice in the matter. "I won't even use the gag this time," Ruby's voice chimed sweetly.

Ruby leaned down to kiss him but Sam turned his head away.

"Fine, you don't wanna? Then let's play the game. Either you continue to drain this sweet little high school student," they both looked up and gentle light illuminated the young dark-haired girl with beautiful braids pinned to the ceiling of their room, blood dripping out of her abdomen. Terror seized Sam and he writhed against his bonds, desperate not to relive that torture again. "Or you can try your hand at detoxing and hope you survive. You won't have an angel to help you through this time."

Castiel had helped him survive the detox process after he succumbed to Famine's draw. It had been touch and go for a while, but he'd made it through. He wasn't sure he even cared about surviving now. "And if I do nothing?" Sam weakly challenged.

Ruby's image shimmered and Lucifer took her place, the light softening his face. Lucifer's lips curled into a very, very familiar smile. "Now, why would you want to do something like that? You just like teasing me, don't you?" Lucifer cocked his head to the side. "You're just so sweet, Sammy." He rubbed his hands together, thinking. "Okay, how about this? If you don't decide in the next thirty seconds, we'll find out what Robo-Sam hopped up on demon blood would do."

The memories of his soullessness resurfaced and Sam paled. That wasn't a combination he had considered before. The thought made his stomach churn. "Y-you can't make that happen," Sam stated, hoping his denial was based in truth.

Lucifer scoffed. "You really think I just let Castiel take your body?" He rolled his eyes. "No way I was letting my bunk buddy off the hook that easily! Nah, I just carved your delicious little soul out of that exquisite body. Castiel got what he needed, I got what I wanted, it was a win-win! Well, for everyone except you, of course. And all the people you killed topside…" His smile was twisted as he put his hand on Sam's chest and wiggled his fingers against his bare skin.

The serious threat of getting his soul pulled out was incentive enough to decide. He would go to great lengths to avoid detoxing, but killing an innocent broke the cardinal rule of his moral code. He just couldn't do it. He just couldn't handle another death on his hands.

"Sam, after the millions you've already obliterated, what's one more?" Lucifer asked casually.

That decided it. He definitely couldn't do it. He wasn't sure he would survive the detox considering how juiced up he was, but he'd rather at least try to die a noble death.

"I won't let her die. I'd rather detox. But if I don't make it, please don't let Dean find me. Just let him go on thinking I'm missing or whatever…"

"Or whatever," Lucifer grinned, a malicious gleam in his eye. He snapped his fingers and the girl disappeared. He patted Sam on the cheek and vanished, leaving Sam strapped to a bed with only an eerie, sourceless ambient light for company.

Untold hours passed as hunger for both food and blood infiltrated. Beads of sweat formed on his face and minute tremors toyed with his nerves. It wasn't long before the shadows took on a life of their own and began taunting him. At first they just whispered hateful things into his ear. "Loser." "Weakling." "Idiot." "Murderer." "Diseased." Then they poked and pinched him, mocking his immobility.

Then the claws came out – literally. Hundreds of thin razors danced upon skin, crisscrossing his shivering body. They sliced off his eyelids and allowed blood to seep in and obscure his vision. Without sight, he felt even more at their mercy. The voices shifted into those he loved, people whom he'd betrayed by even existing. Jess snarled her hate for his role in her death. Mary joined her in pulling his nerves out one by one, setting each one alight with the flames that still licked up and down their bodies. John hissed his contempt, disgusted he allowed the charade of Sam as human, as good, as worthwhile, to go on for as long as he did. What a mistake that had been! At one point Sam heard Dean's disappointed sigh, then the door creak open and slam. He knew he wasn't worth Dean's time; he's not sure why he'd ever thought differently.

Even Lucifer showed up to excoriate him. The Lucifer that Sam had freed from Hell, the Lucifer that trusted him, that believed in him. "You deceived me, Sam. In the moment that really mattered, you were not loyal to me. Shall we revisit it?"

Punch after punch landed on his brother's face, blood escaping from new wounds each time. Lucifer's rage coiled around him, suffocating him, draining his will to fight. "Sam, it's okay. It's okay. I'm here. I'm here. I'm not gonna leave you," Dean assured, even as Lucifer was pummeling the life out of him. Agony and guilt surging through the younger Winchester, he drew upon every moment of affection, heartache, fear, beauty, love – all the things Lucifer couldn't understand, and ignited the thorny bonds crushing his will. Light exploded outwards as the balance of power shifted and Sam once again controlled his body. He gasped for air, desperate to be alive, desperate to save Dean. He knew what he had to do. Returning Lucifer to the cage was the only thing that mattered now.

Dean pushed the door open and staggered in, his limbs aching from the discomfort of the crutches and from standing for so long. The early morning light streaming through the windows did not illuminate his brother. The beds and the couch were empty; the bathroom door was open.

"Sammy?" Dean called out.

No response. The fatigue in his arms and legs evaporated as panic began to simmer. He flicked on the lights and began checking any obscure places Sam could be hiding. The side entrance was locked, Dean would have noticed if he came out the front, the basement door was locked, the tarp covering the broken window was intact… Where the hell could he be?!

A barely audible gasp tipped him off. Looking away from the window and towards the sound, Dean realized it could only be coming from one place: under the bed. With a rather colorful barrage of curses, he managed to get himself down to the floor and on his stomach. He could see Sam's dark form pushed up against the wall. How someone so big could fit in a space so excruciatingly small would never cease to amaze him. Fishing his phone from his pocket, he turned on the light. Sam's arms were folded protectively across his chest and his legs were tight to his stomach. His open eyes stared back at Dean, his pupils blown to the point of almost eliminating the iris. Dean noted with dismay that they did not respond to the bright light. He doubted Sam would respond either, but he had to try.

"Sam?" he called gently, trying to coax Sam from his nightmare. "Sammy, c'mon, wake up. I know you can do it. Follow the sound of my voice."

Unexpectedly, Sam replied. "It's okay. It's gonna be okay."

"I know it is. We'll figure this out."

"It's gonna be okay," he repeated. "Dean, I got him."

Dean scrunched his face in confusion. Sam's pupils hadn't changed so he was probably still dreaming… "I know you do, Sam. You got me. Come back to me."

Sam shook his head slightly. "I can't. I won't be coming back, Dean. You know that. You knew that when we agreed to this."

"Agreed to what?"

"To the plan to save the world? You're supposed to go and be happy without your fuck-up of a little brother to weigh you down. You promised me, you promised! Please," his voice cracked, "I can't hold on much longer."

"You're not my fuck-up — Sam, c'mon, keep fighting, you can do it!" he cried, reflecting the urgency in Sam's voice even if he didn't understand what was happening.

Lines of pain and effort etched themselves on Sam's face. "I need you to promise, Dean!" he said firmly, clearly trying to hide the shake in his voice.

"I promise!" With that, Sam closed his eyes and his face became peaceful. All tension drained from his muscles and his head clunked unceremoniously to the floor. If Dean didn't know any better, he'd say Sam was sleeping. But he did know better, and he knew Sam was likely just in the next part of his nightmare.

Dean laid on the floor a while, watching and waiting for something to happen. Sam began to murmur quietly, his voice a bit muffled. Dean watched as Sam's mouth hung open in between the incoherent noises, a small drop of drool starting to form. He smirked and turned on the phone camera, not one to miss an opportunity for blackmail. However, as he brought his finger towards the screen, he heard a phrase that stopped him dead in his tracks.

"Bvtmon tabges babalon."

Some of the last words he thought he'd ever hear from Sam. Before Dean could even recognize what was happening, the scene flashed through his mind, fresh as the day it happened. Pain erupted over his face as Lucifer made his rage known. Sam standing before a gaping hole in the ground, the screeching howl of Hell beckoning him towards his eternal prison. The absolute despair he felt as the earth sealed itself shut, its growing maw now sated with the lives of a pair of brothers.

"Bvtmon tabges babalon," Sam mumbled again. Dean thought back to Sam's should-have-been last words and almost laughed. The three parts actually summed up his brother perfectly. "It's okay, Dean. It's gonna be okay. I've got him." Caring Sam, the man who would literally give his everything to make the world a better place. Sam comforting Dean, the little brother protecting the big brother. Sam looking out for Dean just as Dean had done his entire life. "Bvtmon tabges babalon." The nerd, the intellectual, his goddam genius baby brother. "You're gonna have to make me!" One final act of defiance, as if rebelling against Lucifer, the original renegade, wasn't enough for the sassy kid. He had to take on Michael, too…

He frowned and slid his phone back in his pocket, unwilling to humiliate Sam in such a moment of extreme vulnerability. He rolled out from under the bed and heaved himself up. His eye caught a bottle of whiskey and he considered it, knowing how easy it would be to drown his grief and remorse. But the sounds of Sam's soft whimpers drew him from temptation. He couldn't look out for his brother if he was plastered. After all Sam had been through, Dean could suffer a little longer.

He hobbled over to the couch and turned on the TV, idling flicking through the channels. There was nothing interesting on, but one of the señoritas on the Spanish soap opera sure was eye catching. He contented himself that and a bag of chips, one ear tuned to Sam incase his brother required rescue.

He let himself fall into the furious, gaping maw in the earth, relieved to be saving Dean from death through his sacrifice. He expected Lucifer to fight for control and was surprised when his memory was not recreated. Instead, he slammed into something solid after falling about thirty feet. A low grinding sound made him open his eyes and he scoured the small room for the source. It took him a few seconds to realize the sound was coming from the walls, as they moved slowly towards him. Salt-soaked iron walls. He was in Bobby's panic room. Where he had detoxed the previous two times… He shivered at the thought.

The panic room was getting smaller and smaller, the shifting contents of the room adding to the steadily growing cacophony. Sam stood on the cot, looking for any way to escape, but it was pointless. The smooth iron walls would close in on him and there was no way out. The room seemed to be sealed because the air pressure was starting to increase; he could feel blood trickling out of his nose. The cot started to buckle as the walls neared. Rivets popped out of the iron and the large desk pressed painfully into his legs. He knew it was probably futile but he put his hands on the walls to try to hold them back, only to immediately snap his arms back as his palms smoked and burned upon contact with the salted metal. Distracted by his confusion, he didn't even get to brace himself for the inevitable crush. The sound of splintering furniture accompanied his screams as numerous bones snapped to accommodate the invading walls. He felt blood flowing out of his body in increasing streams until it appeared to drag his very essence down with it too. Blood dribbled down through cracks in the floor, pooling in the near darkness.

His existence felt amorphous, as if in a dream. He was there but could not see his body. The space around him had that familiar, somewhat unnatural smell of old, damp basements that meant nothing but trouble in his experience. Willing himself to move through space, he searched for an exit. A soft scrabbling sound behind him made him freeze, but the sound stopped as soon as he did. Maybe he had imagined it? He continued moving, over time becoming convinced that something was down here with him. Something that was always in the corner of his eye but never to be found when he looked. His pulse (how could he even have a pulse if he didn't have a body?) quickened as he became certain the once barely audible scratches were getting louder. Faster, he had to go faster. Light ebbed and flowed from the cellar-like space, though the sources of light were merely bare bulbs swinging slightly in an unfelt breeze. He stopped to consider how that was possible when—

Oh God, something just touched him. Something hard yet flexible traced along his presence in an exploratory way and he bolted. Urging himself forward, he didn't care where he went as long it was away from whatever the hell that had been. He turned a corner and found a small room off to the side. Peering inside quickly to ensure it was empty, a hand snaked out from his nebulous body to close the door. He hoped the scuttling thing would pass him by.

In the darkness, he focused on calming himself. Was he in a dream? He couldn't remember. He couldn't take the risk. He had to get out and get back to Dean. He didn't want Dean to worry about him being gone too long… How long had it been since he'd seen his brother? He couldn't remember!

A sharp pinch sliced through the Achilles tendon on his left leg and he screamed as he lurched forward, bursting out the door. The unnerving sound was ominously close now and he couldn't escape. He lifted his head to see a grotesque-crab like creature, all shiny slick shell, giant claws, long, searching antenna, and black bile oozing from its mouth. It hissed angrily at him as it launched itself at his face, spraying acidic liquid that began to eat into his flesh. His cries of pain were delayed long enough that he could hear the scrabbling of a thousand other tiny feet coming his way. No, he was not going to die like this!

He ripped off the foul thing and pushed himself up, using a wall to support his useless leg. Looking around, he could tell only one eye functioned. It would have to be enough. He felt along the crumbling stone, praying for a way out. But before long, wispy antenna caressed the back of his legs and he could move no faster. Another pinch disabled him and he crashed to the floor. Stabbing feet began crawling over him and he batted away the vile creatures as best he could. One clamped a giant claw around his forearm and he struggled to remove it. Unable to beat back the surge, more and more lances of pain told him he was done for. He screamed and wept as a hundred hungry mouths tore pieces from his living body until the still embrace of death enveloped him.

He gasped awake and hit his head on the bedframe with his waking spasm. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten under the bed, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know. His eyes darted around, searching for those awful little monsters. Instead he saw Dean, who was clearly agitated. Dean withdrew his hand, the hand that had been shaking him violently, and peered at his little brother with concern. Sam waved away Dean's concerned look and scooted out awkwardly. Unsure whether his legs would actually support him, he cautiously stood up then brushed all the dust bunnies and cobwebs off. Dean lifted himself up with a groan but quickly schooled his expression as he looked at Sam. His expression told Sam neither of them had gotten decent sleep. Sam knew he and his nightmares were to blame. Flashes of his ordeal surfaced and he blanched.

"You gonna be alright, Sam?"

Looking around the confines of the cabin, it suddenly felt too small. The walls were closing in on him, just like his nightmare. He looked backed to Dean and set his jaw. He stepped forward and held his brother by the shoulders. He tried to look him squarely in the eye, applying all his effort to keeping the waver out of his voice. "Dean, I just need a few minutes. I'll be okay. I'll be back. Don't worry." He softly squeezed Dean's shoulders and pushed gently to propel himself back. He made a subtle nod then turned to the door and calmly left. He picked up his pace as he strode down the steps, breaking into a jog as he reached the end of the driveway. Space, he needed space. He spotted a clearing in the distance and sprinted for it, desperately needing more than a few feet around him on all sides.

Room to spread your wings, huh? Lucifer murmured in his mind and Sam batted away the thought. He concentrated on breathing and made it to the small field without any further accompaniment. He stopped at the center and allowed himself to collapse to the ground so he could look up at the sky. Wispy cirrus clouds moved imperceptibly slowly, readily outpaced by the bustling cumulonimbus clouds threatening rain. He could still smell the previous night's downpour, feel the dampness soaking into his shirt, the slick blades of grass sliding beneath his fingertips, and he savored it.

They were all such unremarkable sensations, things he would not have even consciously considered before he went to Hell. In the beginning, he had missed obvious things: he missed Dean, he missed Cas and Bobby even though he knew they were dead, he missed the adrenaline of a hunt, he even missed that damn car. He soon began to yearn for more subtle things, like the feel of the sun on his face, the welcome scent of coffee arousing his tired brain, the feel of crisp pages slipping through his fingers, the cool kiss of his gun in his sweaty palm. Slowly, he started to forget what these things felt like. He couldn't remember the texture of a soapy dish sponge or why such a thing would even exist. He couldn't even remember at what point his knowledge of those things faded away; all he knew is that there came a time where the only thing he could remember was telokh, Lucifer, ds tabges,

His psyche wasn't fast enough to withdraw the words before they were readily supplied by his brain. Enochian words. He cringed and forcefully repeated the words in English: death, Lucifer, and the cage. He clenched his eyes closed and begged the earth to swallow him whole. He didn't want to even think about it. It was something he hadn't told Dean and wasn't sure he could ever admit to anyone… Sometimes his thoughts were in Enochian and sometimes he had to search for the word in English before he spoke. In the cage, he could understand Lucifer and Michael's bickering, his comprehension of the unruly phonetics bypassing his brain and coming directly from his invaded soul. Lucifer's possession had imbued him with an innate understanding of Enochian and it scared him. What else had Lucifer altered without his knowledge?

He tried to focus on the blue of the sky, the soft phwoosh of rustling leaves, the pleasant sounds of life all around him. They were all things he had regretted not appreciating more before going to Hell. But now, topside, it was all different. Now, it was almost overstimulating. The wetness, the grass, the gentle breeze through the trees, the birds tweeting, and the crickets chirping. Sun caressed his face and he felt the warmth permeate the ice encasing his soul. But there was a shard implanted deep within him and he wasn't sure it would ever thaw. He thought perhaps it was Lucifer's grace, but even entertaining that thought slashed dangerously at his sanity. If he really had brought back a piece of Lucifer with him, then his torment would never end…

No, I'm getting better, he told himself firmly. And he was. It wasn't so bad when he was awake, he was learning to manage it. But sleeping… He swallowed the terror scratching at this throat. He just had to keep going. It would be okay, eventually.

Or it won't, Lucifer murmured matter-of-factly. Sam shook his head and stood, the sudden urge to be back with his brother overpowering. He made it back to the house in record time, telling himself his quick gait was due to the returning rain clouds and nothing else.

Dean was satisfied to know that Sam had learned his lesson about staying out for hours in the wilderness as the door rattled open and his brother walked in, looking better than when he had left. "You hungry?" Dean asked neutrally as he muted the TV, not pressing Sam for details he knew Sam probably wouldn't share.

Sam nodded and said something, but it sounded like gibberish to Dean. He gave Sam a confused look. "What?" Maybe he'd just been watching the Spanish soap opera for too long and his brain had stopped working in English…

Sam gave him an odd look and repeated himself, but the same odd sounding syllables reached Dean's ears. Concern pricked his skin and he rearranged himself to get a better look at Sam. "Uh, you're not making any sense… You feeling okay?"

Sam's face contracted into a semi-bitch face. Even though the long, drawn out sounds were unintelligible to Dean, he could tell by Sam's tone he was annoyed.

"You hit your head on a rock or something? You're not speaking English."

Sam's brow furrowed and Dean understood that Sam wasn't being a brat, he was confused. His contorted expression told Dean that he was puzzled that Dean didn't understand him. Dean sighed and reached into his pocket, searching for his phone. Bobby needed to get back before Dean lost his mind.

Sam watched Dean pull out his cell phone and hobble out of the cabin, apparently desiring to make his call private. Sam went to the door and pressed his ear against it. He could just make out Dean's tired voice.

"Heya, Bobby… Things are okay here… Well, uh, when are you gonna be back? I could really use a hand with Sam… Nothing extreme, but, um, he seems to be speaking in tongues?..."

What?! Sam thought, shocked. I was speaking English earlier! What the hell, Dean?! Maybe you need to get your head checked!

"No, can't tell what language it is. He woke up from a bad nightmare and was fine, went for a walk, then was speaking gibberish when he came back… No, I didn't look for any injuries but there was nothing obvious… Tomorrow? Thank God. I, Bobby, I need a break. I need to sleep. Looking after him is like a full time job and I'm just so goddam tired… Yeah some more food would be great. And anything to keep Sam distracted… Thanks, Bobby. See you soon."

Sam stepped back from the door awash with shame. He was slowly killing his brother and seemed completely unable to do anything to stop it. He was almost certain Dean's exhaustion would turn into resentment, which would morph into anger and possible even hate. Sam didn't want to let it get that far. He wouldn't survive it.

Dean pushed the door open and trudged inside, his tired face painted with a fake smile. "Well, I hope you can understand me. Bobby will be stopping by tomorrow and hopefully we can get this sorted. In the meantime, I guess, uh, do you, and let me know if I can help it all."

Sam nodded and smiled back, this one born from authentic gratitude. For all Dean's flaws and shortcomings, his selflessness was often beyond measure and it continued to surprise even Sam. But his brother needed to rest. Sam pointed at Dean and then towards the bed.

Dean arched an eyebrow and considered it, before glancing back to the TV. "Nah, I wanna finish the soap opera marathon on right now. Gotta find out what happens, you know?" Dean smirked and returned to the couch, unmuting the show and settling in.

Sam turned away and moved toward the kitchen, the previous brief euphoria of his appreciation sobered by the knowledge that he was so damaged, Dean felt he couldn't leave Sam unwatched, even for a little bit. He set about making something for himself and Dean to eat, determined to cause the least amount of trouble possible.

The rest of the day was spent with only the sound of the TV and the occasional snore from Dean disrupting the silence. Sam made himself scarce, burying himself in a Latin book, translating and writing down anything he deemed useful. In the evening, Dean came over to the table to see what Sam was doing, seeming pleased Sam was able to work for so long without interruption. The approval fell from his face when he glanced at Sam's notes and saw the sheet covered in strange, frantic symbols. Pretending not to notice, Sam gestured towards the bed and looked firmly at Dean.

Dean sighed and his shoulders sagged in acquiescence. "Fine, but no walkabouts while I'll asleep." It was meant to be firm but there was no heat in his voice. He was just too tired.

Sam nodded his understanding and returned his attention to the disjointed Latin translation of an ancient Aramaic text describing a time before creation. The amount of concentration required worked well to keep Lucifer at bay, though he had a nagging feeling it had nothing to do with his efforts and everything to do with whatever Lucifer was planning.

The archangel merely sat on the counter with a wan smile decorating his face, his legs swinging slightly out of sync as he watched the Winchesters, pleased with his developing plan to tear the two brothers apart.

.

Please send some fuzzy (or not so fuzzy) plot bunnies my way!