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It’s a full thirty-six hours after finding himself facing Lucifer instead of Cas across the map room table before Sam even thinks about sleep. He and Dean killed several of those hours driving to the pier, neither of them particularly wanting to stay in the bunker at the moment; and then they took a detour into town on the way back so that Dean could buy more coffee. Dean raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything, when Sam added a second bag to their usual bulk-size purchase, and as soon as they got back Sam busied himself with making a dent in it, spending several more hours in a caffeine-fueled frenzy of research.
He tells himself that it’s important to get as much work done as he can, as quickly as he can, because now he’s looking for a way to save Cas, as well as a way to defeat Amara. Really, though, he just doesn’t want to face the nightmares lurking behind his eyelids.
Because Sam’s body still aches with the blunt, burning pain of Lucifer forcing a hand between his ribs, pushing aside his organs, reaching down into his most secret, tender places to touch his soul, and it feels like failure. Sam should have seen it, he should have known—after two hundred years in the Cage with the bastard, you’d think Sam would be able to recognize him—but he didn’t. He failed, and he offered himself willingly to Lucifer. He asked for it.
Dean finds him crouched in a dusty corner of the archive, flipping dazedly through a box of files. The one he wants is here, he knows it, though he can’t quite remember exactly what it is he’s looking for, and his hands are shaking so badly he probably wouldn’t be able to dig it out anyway.
“What the hell are you doing still up?” Dean asks him, sounding appalled. “I thought you went to bed hours ago.”
Sam blinks up at him, rubbing his forehead. There’s a headache forming deep inside his skull, whether from eye strain or the caffeine he isn’t sure. He has no idea what time it is; judging by the frown Dean is giving him, it must be pretty late. “I’ve been working,” he mumbles.
“Yeah, well, right now you should be sleeping,” says Dean firmly. “Come on.”
He offers a hand to help Sam up, and Sam has to force himself not to back away, even though he knows it’s only Dean, it’s definitely Dean because the first thing they did upon returning to the bunker (after starting a fresh pot of coffee) was to ward the entire place against angels so that Lucifer wouldn’t be able to get back in. Still, the image of a hand extending towards him isn’t a particularly good one for Sam right now. He stands up obediently, though, because Dean looks ready to drag him bodily from the archive if he doesn’t.
Dean follows him all the way back to his room, and hovers in the doorway until Sam sits down on the bed. “You gonna be okay?” he asks.
“Yeah,” says Sam. And he will be, as long as he doesn’t fall asleep.
Dean nods and shuts the door. Sam knows he should get up off the bed, and go to his desk, but the mattress is much more comfortable than the desk chair would be, and he can’t seem to summon the energy. He supposes it won’t do any harm to just sit here for a few minutes. His head is still hurting, and even the soft light of his desk lamp is aggravating. Without thinking, he lets his eyes slip closed….
The next thing he knows, he’s back in the map room, and Cas is standing next to him, wearing that slightly-softer-than-normal expression that passes for a smile. Sam smiles back eagerly, reaching out, but finds he can’t touch him—this is a dream, and Cas is as insubstantial as a mirage in the desert. That’s okay, though, because if Cas is here, in Sam’s dream, that must mean it isn’t a nightmare.
No sooner has this thought crossed his mind than Cas’s face changes, a familiar smirk twisting his features.
Gotcha, Lucifer giggles, and suddenly he’s not insubstantial at all—he’s pushing Sam back against the wall, pinning him there, grabbing at him with hands that burn with searing grace, and Sam is paralyzed, can’t do anything but witness it happening and scream—
“Sam. Sammy.”
There are still hands on him, shaking his shoulder, but Sam finds he can move again, and he lashes out before his eyes are even open, desperate to fight back, to get away, to do something. His fists connect with soft flesh, and he hears a curse.
“Ow, dammit. Stop it, Sam, stop, it’s me! It’s okay, it was just a nightmare.”
Sam finally registers the face staring down at him—not Lucifer, or even Cas. Just Dean. He’s paler than normal, and there are tired shadows under his eyes, but his gaze is sharp and alert as he watches Sam, his expression tight with worry, and yeah, it’s definitely Dean.
Sam lets out a shaky sigh, relaxing slightly. Dean relaxes, too, and moves towards him again, obviously intending to get into bed with him, the way they’ve been doing recently when one of them needs comfort.
It’s by no means a threatening gesture, but Sam can’t prevent himself from flinching back. “Don’t touch me,” he gasps out, because right now the thought of anyone’s hands on him, even Dean’s, makes him want to claw right out of his skin.
Dean freezes, and Sam sees a flash of hurt in his eyes, but before he can say anything to apologize Dean murmurs a quiet, “Okay.” He lowers himself down onto the floor, leaning his back against the side of the bed. “I’ll be right here if you need me. Okay?”
“Okay,” Sam whispers back. He’s aching again, somewhere deep inside, but it’s a sweet ache that has nothing to do with Lucifer. “Thanks.”
“Go to sleep,” says Dean.
Sam does. This time, he doesn’t dream.
*S*P*N*
Dean doesn’t sleep. He’s so exhausted, he thinks he probably could drift off even in his uncomfortable position, but he said he would be there if Sam needed him, and that means both in body and mind, so he has to stay awake. He doesn’t move from his spot, either, not even when his legs go numb and the bed frame starts digging into his back. He wants Sam to know where he is if he wakes up.
It’s difficult, though. Dean feels heavy, sagging, like a sack full of useless old junk, and it would be a blessing to be able to slip into unconsciousness so he wouldn’t have to feel the sting of Sam telling him to stay away. He might not have been able to save Delphine and the crew of the Bluefin, and he might not be able to kill Amara, but it never occurred to Dean that he would ever be unable to comfort his brother.
Dean doesn’t know what Lucifer did to make Sam scream like that, but he knows the Cage is too good a place for him. Not that Dean can do much about Lucifer, either.
So Dean does the only thing he can do, and keeps his vigil at Sam’s bedside until he hears movement above him, the bedclothes rustling as Sam sits up. Dean turns to look at him, wincing because his neck has gone stiff during the night. He looks calm, so he didn’t wake up from a nightmare, but his face is still haggard and grim and far too tired-looking, and Dean just wants to make him feel better, dammit.
“You okay?” he asks.
Sam gives a half-hearted shrug in reply, which Dean takes to mean No.
“Tell me how to help,” he says, desperately, because he doesn’t think he can sit here any longer, witnessing Sam’s suffering and not doing anything about it.
But Sam just blinks at him, as though he doesn’t understand the request. “You are helping,” he says.