Archive of Our Own

Sam would like to think, all things considered, he’s doing pretty well. 

Well enough for someone who sometimes wakes up to Lucifer singing in his ear. It’s a near daily occurrence now, nothing that should surprise him anymore but still, every morning he wakes up gasping, wakes up wondering why Lucifer allowed him to sleep and what trick or punishment was planned for him before fully remembering where he was now.

That he’s out, probably (he is. He’s out. Dean told him so, he swore). 

He’s out. (He is. He’s out he’s out he’s out) Lucifer’s not.

He’s here. (Real. This is real) Lucifer isn’t.

Not the real Lucifer at least. Not the Lucifer that can hurt the people he loves. So what if this Lucifer, the one who whispers horrific memories like they’re sweet nothings in his ear, the one who plays side-commentator to his every waking moment, the who scream-sings because he has nothing better to do, is hurting him? He’s not real (he’s not he’s not he’s not) and he can’t hurt anyone.
So it doesn’t matter. 

And all things considered, Sam thinks he’s handling it pretty well.

But honestly, he should’ve known that was just his own futile attempt to lessen the pain (pain? You know real pain, this isn’t it Sammy—) of what’s happening to him right now (—need a reminder?)

They were between hunts, still trying to lay low from the Leviathans and Bobby’s house had become the place they retreat to in times like this.

It was nice, having a place beside the impala they knew they could go back to. Sam wonders when Bobby’s place became their go-to. When post hunt drives would have an unspoken final destination filled with junkyard cars, dusty lore books and beer. When it became an expectation to return to Bobby’s rather than a request. 

It had been a bad day. Not in the sense that they almost died due to some supernatural monster, no. 

It had been a bad day for Sam. Lucifer hadn’t let up from the moment he opened his eyes. 

He could’ve guessed how the day would go when he woke up to someone gently playing with his hair.

The worst days (nights? Times? There’s no such thing in The Cage, just eternity) always began with gentle hands, kind words. Softness meant he was winding up to something. It wasn’t real, his delicate touches, his almost apologetic smiles, it was never real, its purpose was make him believe, even for a moment, that he was safe.

Sam, his greatest strength, and weakness, was his hope. It was never something he could control and Lucifer took full advantage of it (after years of anger trying and failing to squander it, he mastered using every part of Sam against himself).

He’d let Sam hope again, erase some (never all, it— he would always be there, lingering) of the damage he’d caused, because then he’d have something new to play with.

Something new to twist and snap and break and destroy (he wouldn’t think about how he’d lean into the softness anyways despite knowing what was going to happen, the faux love, because real or not it was something other than violence. A temporary escape from the pain that was supposed to be forever, he wouldn’t think about that).

Normally, he can hide how bad the hallucinations can get from Dean and Bobby. Pointedly staring at either of them, or the tv or his phone or a book or anything other than whatever Lucifer was doing in that moment.
Or ripping open the cut on his hand again and again and again (Lucifer would be so proud). 

Unfortunately, today he’d caught both of them casting worried glances at him on several occasions.

Bobby would look at him with pity, worry and sorrow (don’t feel guilty Bobby, I did this to myself after all). He’d never say anything, just try to redirect Sam from whatever spiral he was drowning in (cheap floaties in an ocean).

Dean’s reaction was always worse though. He would have this look in his eyes, the pity and the worry and the sorrow were there too but there’d also be frustration. Anger that this wasn’t a problem he could punch or stab or shoot away. That this wasn’t something he could fix. And also, disappointment. Sam was pretty sure it wasn’t directed at him (You sure Sammy?) pretty sure.

Dean tried to hid it but Sam could see it, the disappointment that Sam wasn’t getting better. That nothing they tried, nothing he did, was working (and it never will, ticking time bomb. Only a matter of time, tick tick tick tick tick)

Not that he could blame them, for staring. He’d been flinching at nothing (not nothing, once upon a time, he was Sam’s everything), starring at empty chairs, startled by silence and digging so harshly into the nearly healed scar on his hand that Dean had to gently pull his hands apart so he wouldn’t reopen the wound (gentle touches, it always started with gentle touches).

Which was what he’d been trying to do in the first place, not that he’d ever admit that to Dean. 

It was humiliating, he knew Lucifer wasn’t there (he’s not he’s not he’s not) but— there was this constant itch in the back of his head,

This paranoid little voice that still thought too deeply for Sam’s comfort about what Lucifer had done to him in the Cage— that little voice whispering about the ‘what-if’s’ (tick tick tick tick tick).

He’d spent the day fighting off Lucifer’s taunts and attempts to freak him out. Well, less ‘attempt’ more ‘success.’ His new thing was taunting Sam with the obvious fact that the hand scar wasn’t working for as long as it had used to, sure Lucifer would go away, but he’d pop right back up without fail after only a few minutes (he’s never going away, not forever).

What happens the day it stops working entirely? 
(Tick tick tick tick)

The thought of Lucifer haunting him forever with no end, no escape— it was too much for Sam to think about because if this was forever, how is this any different from The Cage? (It’s not it’s not it’s not)

Needless to say, he’d had a rough day. 

So much so that he announced to the other two hunters that he was turning in for the night despite it only being 9 pm. He tried to keep his tone neutral, casual, judging by Dean and Bobby’s sad (disappointed) expressions, he’d failed. 

“You need anything Sammy? You barely ate today, want something quick before you go to bed?”

Dean was trying to pretend he wasn’t as worried (disappointed) as he was and it was obvious to all three of them. He was using his mother-henning, big brother voice and it just made Sam feel guilty for worrying him so much. 

Bobby was at his desk, glass of whiskey in one hand and some ancient looking lore book in the other. But Sam could see him eyeing the two of them over the pages.

Sam forced a smile, “No I’m alright, just tired.”

The second part at least wasn’t a lie (you don’t deserve their care). He couldn’t stomach the idea of even trying to eat anything, not since this morning when Lucifer made the bacon and eggs Dean tried to offer him look like human flesh (your flesh? Adam’s? Which one tasted better Sammy?)

He walked up the creaky stairs, trying to pretend like the low murmurs of Dean to Bobby weren’t about him (disappointment).

He hated how much he’d been worrying them. After everything he’d put them through, causing any more pain was the last thing he wanted. And the amount of time Dean put into helping Sam made him sick with guilt, his big brother’s love and attentiveness was the last thing he deserved.

Though as he began getting ready for bed, he allowed himself to relax a bit, Lucifer wasn’t here right now, for the first time all day, Sam actually felt alone, at peace (tick tick tick tick).

Honestly, he should’ve known better. As he got ready, Lucifer didn’t appear once. No cruel laughter, no snide comments, no hallucinations, nothing.

It was a strange piece of normalcy that Sam was no longer accustomed to (no longer deserve). He should’ve known that he didn’t get that kind of luck. 

He should’ve known his stupid, self-loathing, broken hell-brain was just setting him up for something else (tick tick tick). 

And maybe a part of him did suspect that, but honestly, he was too tired to acknowledge it and c’mon, what’s the worst that could happen?

Tick tick tick—

⏱︎ ⏱︎ ⏱︎ ⏱︎ 

Dean was on his second beer since Sam had gone up for the night when the sound of screaming broke him out of his light doze on Bobby’s couch. 

He bolted upright, looking around as if he didn’t know exactly who that scream belong to, Dean would know that scream anywhere, it always sent chills down his spine, stabbing his heart with gut wrenching fear.

Both he and Bobby made eye contact before another scream broke their initial frozen shock and Dean was flying up the stairs.

He had his gun at the ready, though a part of him knew he wouldn’t need it, as he burst open the door to his and Sam’s room. 

Like he suspected, Sam was asleep though he looked anything but at ease. His whole body was tense, strained, shaking with the effort, whole body flinches made it look like he was having a seizure, but Dean knew better.

This was far from the first nightmare he’d witnessed since Sam’s hell-wall broke, but he’d never get used to the terror and pain his brother always appeared to be in.

He’d never be able to stop his own mind, all too familiar with how creative hell could be, from imagining what Sam might be dreaming about. What memory his mind had thrown him in. 

When Dean got out of Hell, he’d have nightmares about Sam going through what he did, he swore to himself he’d never let his little brother experience that. 

In a way, he’d kept that promise. Sam didn’t go through what he did, he went through worse. 

Dean let out a shaky sigh, forcing his heart rate to go down, carefully he placed his gun on the table by the door, well aware of how bad of an idea it would be to put any weapon near Sam while he was like this.
He was half aware of Bobby standing at the doorway as he made his way to Sam’s bedside, they both knew crowding Sam wouldn’t help either.

Sam was jerking around painfully in bed. His face screwed up in a look of fear and agony. His fists were clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles were going white.

Again, Dean thought of what Sam could be dreaming about, he felt sick knowing it was likely worse than he was imagining.

“Nno—“ Sam’s strangled sounding voice just broke Deans heart even further. He sounded so scared, so desperate, so small. Sam was still mumbling but Dean couldn’t make out anything else he was saying. 

“Sammy, hey you gotta wake up…” he said softly, cautiously putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder,

“Sam listen to me, it’s just a nightmare, wake up.” 

When Sam still didn’t stir Dean shook his brother’s shoulder, resting his other hand on Sam’s forearm in case he woke up swinging, wouldn’t be the first time and Sam was always horrified when he woke up and realized he hurt one of them,

“Sam, focus on my voice okay, whatever your seein, it’s not real.” 

“P-paaox— paaox zacam—“ Sam muttered a little louder, his voice sounded desperate. 

Dean paused but only for a moment, he must not have heard him, “What’d you say Sammy? Sam you gotta wake up please—“

“Iehusoz ol lava g—!”

And now Dean was checking to make sure Sam didn’t hit his head. His heart dropped into his stomach as his mind let cruel thoughts take hold—

This is it. This is what everyone warned me would happen eventually if I put Sam’s soul back. This is all my fault.

But then Sam opened his eyes, though he didn’t look like he was all there, “Esiasch!”

“Sam!” Dean had to forcefully stop Sam from practically jumping out of bed.

He cringed internally as Sam violently flinched away from his touch, slamming himself into the wall his bed was against. His brother was dry heaving now, sucking up oxygen though none of it seemed to be reaching his lungs. 

“Hey— hey! Sam listen to me, you need to breathe okay?” Sam still didn’t appear to really be hearing him. He kept pushing himself away from Dean, backing into the corner his bed was pressed against, making himself as small as possible.

“Ol beg— paaox nalvage lrasd ol—!”

“Sammy it’s me, it’s Dean—!“ 

Dean didn’t know what do to. Panic was taking over, this had never happened before, sure sometimes Sam would wake up still thinking he was in the nightmare but it was never like this. He had no idea what his brother was saying or what was going on in his head,

“Please Sammy—“ 

As slowly as possible, he made his way towards Sam, making a show of every movement he was making so Sam’s half-conscious self could track him.

Sam was still shaking, growing paler by the second as oxygen still failed to meet his lungs.

“Sam please come back—“ he whispered, just quiet enough for only his brother to hear.
Which he did, though Sam didn’t understand a word he said.

⏱︎ ⏱︎ ⏱︎ ⏱︎ 

Sam still couldn’t breathe.

He didn’t know what was happening around him or where he was or who was speaking to him (The Cage The Cage The Cage).

His mind just kept repeating ‘Danger! Danger!’ And his body was acting accordingly (pointless, he doesn’t like it when you fight).

But now that his eyes were un-blurring from the tears and his brain was starting to wake up, he could see his brother in front of him. Bobby was close behind, both looking equally terrified (disappointed, angry). 

‘D-Dean?’ His voice was hoarse, he wondered, with a bit of embarrassment, if he’d been screaming (Don’t be embarrassed, he loves hearing your scream).

His brother had a pained look on his face when he spoke, he looked panicked and scared, it was a mix of emotions his brother rarely let show, which meant something is very very wrong (it’s you Sam, it’s always you).

“Smmy— I cnt udrasndt wht yrou yasing”

Sam furrowed his brow, shaking his head a bit as if he could knock the sleep, and the crazy, away (there is no ‘crazy’ it’s just who you are),

 ‘What?’ He asked, clearing his voice, it still ached.

Though both Dean and Bobby still looked equally confused, their worried expressions only deepening.

“Sm ew odtn konw wht yrou yasing—“ Bobby tried.

Sam looked between the two of them, bewildered, he could hear them, could see their mouths moving and some part of his brain told him they were speaking English but that couldn’t be right because if they were, he’d know what they were saying. 

At least he should.

“Sm? Smmy, olok, ucosf on me.” Dean again.

Sam forced himself to concentrate of his words, he felt dizzy and lightheaded his vision was getting fuzzy and he couldn’t figure out why (Cage Cage Cage?)

“Ocusf Sm,” By Deans tone he could tell he was asking Sam to do something.

He strained his ears, concentrating hard (it shouldn’t be this hard to obey Sammy, you were created to obey). 

“ocus— f ocus on me.” Focus. Focus on Dean. He could do that. 

His brother was making exaggerated breathes, moving his chest in and out and that’s when Sam realized he was having trouble breathing.
He touched his chest with his hands, no blood, skin still intact, his back was pressed against the wall and it didn’t hurt or burn like it’d been ripped open (Lucifer loved to give him wings of his own).

Air was struggling to make its way to his lungs and it was making him panicky and lightheaded. He was still reeling from the nightmare (memory).

He did his best to copy Dean. Ignoring the way his chest burned and his heart still raced like he was in danger (you are you are you are).  

Finally, when he felt like he wasn’t on the verge of passing out,

‘Sorry- I think I just had a nightmare.’ He breathed out.

Something in Dean’s expression crumbled even more and it made Sam’s heart jump, what did he do this time? 

‘Dean?’ he asked cautiously.

Dean turned behind him, sharing a glance at Bobby who looked equal parts shocked and worried, Sam was all too familiar with this look, though right now it seemed dialed up even more.

Bobby glanced down at Dean before looking back up at Sam, 

“s on? Acn you udrasndt me?” 

Sam tilted his head, frustration and embarrassment growing in his chest.

They were speaking English, why couldn’t he understand them?

This shouldn’t be so hard—
(Useless useless useless)

“Sm?” And his mind translated that back to his name, Sam. 

Sam looked back from Bobby to Dean, ‘Dean I— I don’t know what’s happening— I can’t— I can barely understand you—‘ 

Dean didn’t look all too happy with his response, appearing to grow more worried by the second. He stood back up, looking at Bobby.

He had that desperate look in his eyes that Sam only saw when he was scared and didn’t know what to do but didn’t want to admit it. 

“Wht the elhl is iths?” Dean was speaking to Bobby. Sam fought his panic and frustration to try and figure out what they were saying. It shouldn’t be this difficult, why is this so hard? (You’re not made for them anymore Sammy).

Bobby glanced at him then back at Dean,

“Elhl if I konw. It osednt snoud ilke ustj gbbrish to me tguoh.”

“So wht? You hintk wht he s yasing mkeas snese?” Dean asked, his own frustration growing apparent.

Bobby shook his head, “I hintk it osed to h im.”

Dean looked back at Sam, “Smmy, I ened you to nod or sahke y our h ead ok?” 

Sam blinked, trying to decipher what Dean said.

“Sm? Nod, or s haek yuor h ead, gt it?” 

Nod or shake your head. He nodded. 

Dean still looked on edge, his face serious, “Acn you udrasndt me?” 

Sam huffed in frustration, some of the words still weren’t making sense but he could guess what Dean was asking,

‘Kind of, I don’t understand what’s going—‘ He began to say but Dean cut him off. 

“No— Sm, lestin, nod or sahke y our h ead.” (You used to be so good at following commands, what happened Sammy?)

Sam exhaled shakily, with his hand he tilted it side to side. Kind of he tried to explain. 

“Knd of?”

Sam smiled, relieved they were making some progress, though he was still confused, he nodded.

“W ait a dmn mnute—“

Both of them turned to Bobby.

“Wht?” Dean asked. 

Bobby stepped closer to Sam, “Sm, s ay smhintg aigan.” 

Sam got the message, ‘What do you want me to say? Can you understand me now?’

Judging by their faces, the answer is no. (Why is there always something wrong with you?)

Dean pulled his worried expression away from Sam and back to Bobby, “wht is it?” 

Bobby thought for another moment before saying, “We souhld c all Csas.” 

⏱︎ ⏱︎ ⏱︎ ⏱︎ 

“You think he’s what?” Castiel seemed just as confused as the others when he arrived at Bobby’s house. 

They were back downstairs in the kitchen, about to head up to Sam’s room. Castiel was leaning against the counter, Bobby was at the table, Dean was pacing, unable to sit still.

“I think he’s speakin Enochian.”

Bobby explains, “Just from what I’ve seen in books, not that I’ve ever actually heard any of it— just, call it a hunch.” 

Castiel nodded, thinking for a moment, “Well, it would make the most sense if he is speaking a foreign language.” 

Dean stopped his pacing, he couldn’t decide what would be worse: If his brother wasn’t speaking an angelic language and was actually speaking gibberish because the hallucinations finally got to him, or if he actually is speaking Enochian, implying he at some point, learned an entirely new, ancient and extremely complex, supernatural language—

“What does that mean? Why would that make the most sense?” He asked, brow furrowing.

When Cass seemed hesitant to answer, Dean pressed further, “C’mon, what is it?”

He tried his best to keep the annoyance from seeping into his tone. His brain was working overdrive trying to find a way to fix this, to help Sam. So far, he had nothing and that was only making him more frustrated.

Castiel glanced over at the stairs, making his way towards them and not looking at them when he spoke,

“Lucifer hates humanity. Sam spent almost 200 years with him. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if Lucifer wasn’t keen on speaking a human language in the Cage.” 

And suddenly Dean wished he never asked.

He didn’t like thinking about the actual details of what could’ve happened to his baby brother in the Cage.

In hell, the demons worked tirelessly to strip Dean of every piece of humanity, over and over and over again they took piece after piece until he couldn’t handle it anymore.

But Sam didn’t have an ‘out’ like he did. He didn’t have a way to escape the torment.

The idea of Lucifer trying to strip every piece of humanity away from him too? That demons were bad sure but Lucifer was the original. Demons had to learn their methods from someone—

Another nauseating thought crossed his mind that if this were the case, it’s very likely Sam has spent more of his life speaking Enochian than his own native language. It was just another reminder to Dean that his brother had spent over a lifetime with the devil and there was nothing he could do to ever truly make that better.

Bobby seemed to sense some of the turmoil this caused Dean, “Well, why don’t we just head up there and see?”

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding once and leading them up the stairs to Sam’s room.

They made their way up the steps. Dean had tried to coax Sam out of the room but despite being lucid again, his brother adamantly refused to move from the corner.

It was heartbreaking seeing the look of horror on his face when Dean tried to get him up, he half wondered if Sam even knew what Dean was trying to do.

Sam was still so shaky and only pressed himself further away from Dean until the older Winchester promised he wasn’t going to force Sam to leave.
The relief wasn’t immediate, thanks to the apparent language barrier, but once he realized Dean wasn’t going to make him do anything, he calmed down. Though he still refused to even move from the tight ball he’d pulled himself into.

Dean cautiously knocked on the cracked open door to let Sam know they were coming in.

“Hey Sammy,” he walked in slowly, Sam was still exactly where they’d left him.

He was staring off into the distance but his head snapped in their direction when the door creaked. He only tensed for a moment before realizing it was Dean and relaxing a bit, 

“Look who came to say hi.” Dean kept his voice gentle, knowing Sam likely wasn’t listening to his words, but more his tone.

Sam still seemed to struggle understand exactly what Dean was saying but figured it out when he saw Cass follow in after Dean.

“Balit de uran g.” Sam said with a warm, if not a bit strained, smile.

It was more obvious to Dean now that Sam really wasn’t speaking nonsense, there was a clear pattern to his words that in Dean’s initial panic, he didn’t pick up on. The notion didn’t give him much relief though. 

Dean and Bobby were still lost as to what Sam was saying, but when Dean glanced at Cass, he looked more surprised than confused. 

“G ca balit…” Castiel responded slowly. And when Sam seemed to understand him, he continued,

“Adgt g om ol vaoan kures?”

Sam’s smile widened, he nodded vehemently looking relieved, “Noib ol adgt! ol gnay ge om bagle a dilzmo adgt ge om ol. Ol adgt prdzar om par.”

Dean looked to Cass, “What the hell is he saying?” 

Cass didn’t look all too happy, then again, his expression rarely gave away much of his feelings,

“He doesn’t understand why you cannot understand him. I believe he is unaware that he is speaking Enochian.” 

Dean’s brow furrowed, “How the hell does he not realize he’s speaking another language?”

Castiel thought for a minute, something like bitter realization crossed his face but Bobby beat him to the punch,

“He had a nightmare.”

Both of them turned to him, waiting for him to elaborate, Bobby shifted, looking like he didn’t want to explain what he was thinking, “Sam’s a stubborn kid. If Lucifer wanted him to only speak Enochian— and if Sam refused…” He trailed off, the others got the picture. 

Dean felt sick. The idea of Lucifer punishing Sam for speaking English.
That Sam had nightmares about it so bad he reverted back to Enochian as some sort of messed up defense mechanism without even noticing—

He turned back to his baby brother who was staring cluelessly between the three of them with that kicked-puppy look that always pierced straight through Dean’s heart.

Castiel turned his attention back to Sam as well, “Geh g c iadnah ar g geh ge blans ah cordziz bia?”

Sam seemed surprised for a moment, “Ol zir ge?”

And the ease at which Sam spoke made Dean’s heart ache even more, he didn’t just know Enochian, he was fluent. 

Cass sighed, glancing at Bobby and Dean, “My assumption was correct, he didn’t know.” 

Dean didn’t like everything that implied, how second nature the language would have to be for him to be completely unaware.

Cas turned back to Sam, “Zorge,”

He hesitated for a moment before continuing,“Uls g aldon oi farzm g a doalim?”

And whatever Castiel asked seemed to upset Sam even further, he went rigid and refused to look at any of them.
Dean was beginning to grow even more frustrated that he couldn’t figure out what they were saying despite them talking right in front of him. 

How was he supposed to protect his little brother if he couldn’t even understand him?

⏱︎ ⏱︎ ⏱︎ ⏱︎ 

‘Sam, did you learn this in The Cage?’ Castiel asked hesitantly.

Sam felt himself freeze up. Hyper-aware that Dean was watching his every move like a hawk, probably because he couldn’t gauge how he was feeling based off his words right now. 

Sam nodded slowly, he didn’t like thinking about it. Lucifer had gotten bored quickly, bored of English—

Let’s try something new Sammy

—Of any human language for that matter.

He thought everything human was below him, and that included Sam. 

Lucifer was also very possessive. 

And Sam was his now (not ‘now’ you always have been his).

He made it clear very early on that Sam was no longer human (never really were).

He worked very hard to separate him from everything that made him human (not that that was very difficult once his body was freed from The Cage, leaving behind his soul) and the big one was language. 

He hated when Sam spoke in English, and Sam had hated just rolling over to everything Lucifer wanted (you will eventually though). 

It wasn’t that he had trouble learning the language. Quite the opposite actually, he’d always enjoyed learning languages, he’d picked up Latin quickly, it was one of the few things John would openly praise him for.

It was the principle of it. Lucifer didn’t want him to speak English because, in Lucifer’s eyes, Sam was his. 

To own, to control, to play with and to train like a pet. 

And nothing that belonged to him was going to remind him of the thing he despised the most. 

C’mon Sammy, do I have to cut out your tongue again? 

Enochian wasn’t a comfortable language to learn either. It wasn’t made for humans.

The syllables sat uncomfortably in his mouth and when Lucifer found that out, he simply ripped Sam’s face open, reconstructing his vocal cords however he pleased,

Breathe Sammy, this stuff takes time to perfect, stop squirming or this will just take longer—

Playing them like an instrument and laughing as Sam (tried) to cry out in horror and pain unable to move, to breath, to do anything as Lucifer ripped him open like he was a corpse being autopsied.

—On second thought, maybe I’ll leave you like this a bit longer, this look suits you.

‘He didn’t give me a choice.’ Sam spoke in a whisper. 

Smile for me Sammy. 

Now that he thought about it, his throat and his jaw were starting to hurt from the unfamiliarity of this language on his freshly-healed, topside body. 

Oh right I forgot, you can’t! 

Lucifer wasn’t here to dislocate his jaw and crack it back into a new position, he wasn’t here to pull out his teeth and force them down his throat. He wasn’t here to peal back the skin on his neck and test out what muscles and tendons Sam absolutely needed before he couldn’t speak anymore. Blood pooling and making Sam wonder if asphyxiation is better than crying-

‘Sam!’ 

Castiel was in front of him, both hands on his shoulders. Sam hadn’t even noticed him moving,

‘Sam can you hear me?’ 

He nodded again, ‘Sorry, didn’t mean to check out.’ 

Castiel listened, turning back to an even more worried looking Dean, “He s fne n ow.” (You have to make this harder on them Sam? Really?) 

His older brother looked so helpless. Lost and worried and confused, Sam understood why, this wasn’t a problem he could fix. This wasn’t even a problem he could really help with, hell—

Dean couldn’t even understand him right now.

He tugged at Cass’s arm to get the angels attention, ‘Cass can you— can you tell Dean it’s okay? I’m alright, we’ll figure this out, he doesn’t have to worry.’ 

Cass huffed a small laugh, glancing at Dean then turning back to Sam, ‘When has that ever stopped your brother from worrying?’ 

Sam looked at Dean, who was looking between the two of them with a bewildered expression on his face, he chuckled, ‘Yeah I guess you’re right, but still, tell him? Please?’ 

Cass smiled, right as Dean leaned forward, “Wht the hlel is he yasing Csas c’omn—” 

The angel turned back to Dean and Bobby, “He wnated me to t ell you not to wrry. He s aid he s o kay and taht we wlil fgure tihs out tgetoehr.”

Dean looks surprised, Bobby looks more amused than anything.

“He s aid not to wrry aobut h im.” Castiel adds and Bobby chuckles.

“Of curose he d id.” Dean mutters.

Slowly, Dean takes a seat on the bed, when Sam didn’t shy away or flinch, he leaned back against the headboard, close enough that either of them could reach each other, but still not touching. Sam felt a little guilty, remembering the first few moments from when he’d woken up, pulling himself away from touch, still not lucid enough to understand anything about his surroundings.

Sam turns back to Cass, ‘So what are we supposed to do now? How do we fix this?’

Castiel thinks for a moment before shrugging, ‘I’m guessing this is a side effect of your nightmare. Do you remember any of it?’ 

Sam hesitated-

Smell that Sammy? That’s the smell of your tongue, cooking. You hungry? 

Sam shudders, doing his best (and failing it seems, by the look on Dean’s face) to hide the fear the memories bring him. 

Now Sammy, be a good boy, speak! 

He takes a deep breath before speaking again, fully aware that Dean was paying more attention to his tone rather than his actual words.
He nods, ‘Some of it yeah. But- I don’t get why that caused me to suddenly forget English.’ 

“C sas c ome on, wht are you gys syaing?” Dean’s impatience would be funny under any other circumstance. 

Cass turns to them, relaying what Sam had said, they converse for a moment before turning back to him,

‘We believe the nature of the nightmare put your subconscious in a state of fight or flight. Your body and mind are trying to protect you from more harm.’ 

‘So, I’m speaking Enochian because of a some sort of stress-response?’ Sam asks

‘Given what you’ve been through, having a post-traumatic-stress-type reaction isn’t all that surprising.’ Castiel answers 

‘Post-traumatic— what— PTSD? This is because of PTSD?’

And the only reason he was even saying it out loud was because he knew Dean couldn’t hear him (weak weak weak).

Of course he’d looked into PTSD, he’d also done research on schizophrenia and depression and OCD and dozens of other mental illnesses that could be applied to him and his brother. 

But that didn’t mean they needed to actually acknowledge the possibility (the very real possibility) of him having any of those. He’s fine. Well, he’s managing. He’s alive and he knows what’s real and what’s not…for the most part. 
He’s fine. Really. 
(Crumbling, held together with strings).

Castiel nodded, ‘From what I’ve observed amongst other humans, it’s not something to be ashamed of Sam,’

Cass is getting way too good at reading them, 

‘And though this is obviously not a very common reaction, that doesn’t make it abnormal.’ 

Sam sighed, ‘Okay okay fine— so then, how do we fix this? Because honestly I’m still having trouble understanding Dean and Bobby and I can’t stop myself from speaking in Enochian it—’ 

He hesitated, trying to calm himself down a bit, ‘I don’t hear a difference Cass. To me, I sound like I’m speaking English.’

Castiel thought for a moment, he turned back to Dean and Bobby, talking quickly and Sam was too tired to try and translate what they were saying, assuming he was just repeating their conversation to them. 

Finally, he turned back, ‘Our best guess is that we just have to convince your mind that you are safe. Eventually the English will come back to you and your subconscious will release the mental block it’s put in your brain to protect you from whatever threat it feels you’re facing.’ 

Sam looked at him in surprise, ‘Wait so our best bet is to just— hope?? Hope that with time this just magically goes away?’ 
(Lost cause, there’s no saving you. No fixing you).

Aw Sammy, as much as I love hearing you beg, did we forget what the punishment was for speaking in that vile language? 

Sam swallowed the lump in his throat, reminding himself his tongue was in fact, still in the correct place in his mouth. He kept his eyes downcast towards his hands.

Though Dean couldn’t understand what he was saying, he could see the distress growing on his brother’s face,

“Hey Smmy it s o kay. W e’ll fguier tihs out Arlghit?”

His brother’s words of comfort were still a jumbled mess to Sam’s ears and for a moment he had a terrifying thought that what if this was forever?

What if he’d never be able to understand his brother again?

What if Dean will never be able to understand him again?

Good boy Sam! See? How hard was that? Maybe if you didn’t fight me so much you’d still have your skin! 

‘Sam? Sam calm down please, you need to take a breath okay?’ And Castiel was talking in a language he could understand but that just hurt more because this language wasn’t his own. 

It’s not his (yes it is Sammy, you’ve spoken this language longer than you’ve spoken any human tongue) and it’s so far from something that could bring him comfort.

This was the language that only brought him pain and torment (gentle hands, kind words). This language meant suffering and agony. 
It didn’t matter who was speaking it, he’d never feel the same reassurance he would if those words were in the native tongue he could no longer speak. 

If you insist on continuing to speak in that language, then maybe I’ll just pick it out of your brain, that sound like a plan?
Piece by piece, word by word?

Perhaps I should start with that annoying big brother of yours’ name. It’s not like you’ll need to remember that anymore.

Eternity. It was supposed to be for eternity.

Had he known he’d get out, he would’ve fought more, resisted for longer (pointless pointless pointless, Lucifer will always get what he wants in the end).

Suddenly the room was too small and too stuffy (familiar) and too warm (less familiar, he ran cold) and there were too many people and too many unknowns and—

‘I can’t do this-‘ 

He pushed past Dean and Cass, slipping around Bobby with speed and relative grace that even surprised him but he didn’t stop.

He didn’t stop when he heard Castiel calling after him. He didn’t stop when he thought he heard Bobby and Dean yelling his name.

And Dean is fast sure but Sam got a head start and his long legs were good for something. He was out the front door before Dean even reached the stairs. 

⏱︎ ⏱︎ ⏱︎ ⏱︎ 

“Sam! Aw shit c’mon, Sammy?!”

They’d practically grown up at Bobby’s but that didn’t make the graveyard of cars any easier to search through. 

The yard stretched on for what felt like forever and there were about a dozen places a person could hide.

Dean would know, they loved playing games as a kid, hide-and-seek was always Sam’s favorite, mostly because the kid was lanky and could squeeze just about anywhere.

Dean always used his big-brother card to pick a different game to play, saying hide-and-seek was stupid when in reality, he just hated losing. 

It was a fond memory most of the time, now, it just made him sad.

Dean had been thinking a lot about Sam as a kid recently, he didn’t want to, it only made the reality of now hurt more, but he couldn’t help it. 

Bobby was searching the back, him and Cass took on the front and side. He wanted to find Sam first but a part of him questioned what he’d even be able to do to help his brother if he did.

Touchy-feely moments were never his forte, he’d always leave that up to Sam when he could, it was hard enough for him as it is but now?

He wouldn’t even be able to understand his little brother. 

He’d felt so useless back at Bobby’s house. Castiel and Sam were talking back and forth so casually and he and Bobby couldn’t even begin to understand what they were saying.

It both shocked and hurt Dean how fluently Sam spoke, a part of him wondered why his brother never told him about the fact that he could speak Enochian. 

Another part of him already knew the answer. 

Ever since the demon blood Sam made an effort to hide away any part of himself that he deemed even remotely ‘freak-like.’

It broke Dean’s heart how badly his brother just wanted to be normal and those broken pieces were drowned in guilt when he remembered how big a part he had in making Sam feel that way.

Dean sometimes wondered if not pushing Sam to talk about what happened in The Cage was only making everything worse, that’s what you’re supposed to do after all right? Talk about this shit?

Sam isn’t like him, he doesn’t drown away all the memories with alcohol and sex and hunts— 

A cruel part of his mind reminded him that his little brother wouldn’t be able to even if he wanted to.

The Devil in his brain would never allow that. 

His brother didn’t tell him about the Enochian because he was ashamed. 

Ashamed of something that happened to him as if it was in any way his fault, which, knowing his brother, was probably what his mind was telling him. 

“Sammy!! Please c’mon man! Where are you?” 

He turned a corner and felt his throat close up a bit.

There Sam was, sitting in one of the junk cars, the door was gone and he had his legs sticking out, feet kicking around the rocks on the ground.

His knee was bouncing, head ducked down, face hidden by his hair and his fingers were digging painfully into the scar on his hand. Dean could see the blood from ripped open skin even from here. 

And suddenly, his giant of a brother looked so painfully small.

So little, he looked like his baby brother Sammy who used to beg to play hide-and-seek in Bobby’s yard.

Suddenly Dean remembered again that Sam had spent over a century trapped with Lucifer when 40 years in Hell had felt like an eternity. 

Suddenly Dean remembered that the sweet, kind and unbelievably gentle little brother of his had spent more of his life in never ending pain than anything else, thinking that the torture would never end, likely thinking he deserved it too. 

He’d spent more of his life with Lucifer than Dean. 

Suddenly Dean wasn’t looking at another hunter, he was looking at his brother, a kid who never wanted any of this to begin with.

He vowed right then and there he was going to do everything in his power to make sure Sam understood that this wasn’t his fault.

That he doesn’t need to hide this from his big brother and that no matter what, he won’t think less of him. 

He knew he’d be competing with the Devil, but for his brother, he’d be willing to take on God. 

“Sammy?” 

Sam still didn’t seem to hear him, he was mumbling to himself and when he got closer, Dean could make out Sam repeating something, seemingly growing more and more frustrated. 

“Dnnrr—“

“Eddnn—“

Sam didn’t notice his brother’s presence till he was practically in front of him,

“Sammy, hey.”

Sam looked up at him, kicked-puppy look in his wide eyes,

“Esiasch ol zir gnay cirp u adgt not— ol adgt not—!”

Dean tried his hardest not to let his face fall, “Woah, hey Sammy it’s alright— let me get Cass okay?” 

He turned, searching for the tell-tale flapping of a trench coat, “He can tell me what you’re saying—“

Sam interrupted him, grabbing him by the sleeve and tugging until he turned back around. Dean looked down at his brother, confused, 

“Drnnn—“ Sam said again, seeming to grow more desperate and frustrated.

“Sam I’m sorry I can’t— I don’t know what you’re saying—“

“D’nn—“ Sam tried, contorted his mouth in a way that didn’t look very comfortable.

It clicked suddenly what Sam was trying to say. 

Dean turned fully back on his brother, kneeling down in front of him one of his hands resting on Sam’s knee, looking slightly up now. 

A vague memory of kneeling down in front of little Sammy with a cold towel and bandaids as he sat on the porch stairs after he tripped in the yard, skinned knees and red-rimmed eyes. 

“Dean?” He asked, “You’re trying to say my name?” 

He felt his heart break as the kicked-puppy look came back in full swing and Dean swore that that look could be classified as a weapon with how much it hurt.

His little brother gave him a small, sad and slightly desperate nod, “Ed’nn”

“Duh…duh…” Dean spoke gently, over enunciated the first letter of his name, waiting for Sam to copy him. 

He tried not to think about when they were little. The nights in the motel Dean would try and get baby Sammy to talk for the first time. 

“D’uh— duh—“ Sam’s attempts came out harsher than Dean’s but he counted it as progress. 

“Good Sam, that’s right. Now try this, Dee…Dee…”  

Sam was watching how Dean moved his mouth with an intensity that in any other circumstance, Dean would’ve found greatly uncomfortable.

He was doing his best to replicate the movements, “Dee— Dee—“

“Nnn, Dee—nnn” Dean continued patiently. 

A memory of Sam as a baby, mumbling and giggling nonsense came to the forefront of Dean’s mind.

“Dnnn— Dee—  nnn” 

“Almost Sammy, c’mon you got it.”

He was exhausted, staying awake as late as possible in hopes their dad would get back soon (he didn’t).

Sam was wide awake, probably because he slept most of the day, babbling loudly and incoherently.

“Dee—nnn. Deennn—“

“Deenn!!” And suddenly the babbling made sense.

Dean felt himself wake right up, unsure if he heard his baby brother’s first word right. 

“Dean—!” Sam spoke his name with a sigh of relief, 

“What did you say Sammy?”

He’d looked at his baby brother’s chubby smiling face, 

“Deen!! Deen!!” Sammy repeated. His first words, not mom, not dad—

“Dean.” Sam breathed out, like a weight had been lifted off of him now that even if he couldn’t speak English, he could at least utter the word that meant most to him.

He grabbed his brother’s sleeve again like it was a lifeline. 

His older brother smiled, eyes watering though he didn’t dare let any tears fall, ignoring how chick-flic-y this moment was becoming, he cleared his throat so Sam wouldn’t hear how choked up it was,

“That’s right Sammy! Good job kiddo,”

Just then, Castiel appeared around the corner, making his way over to them, 

Sam perked up, “Zorge!”
He deflated a bit, clearly not happy that he’d spoken in Enochian again.

When Castiel looked at him Sam pointed to his brother, “Dean!” 

Cas smiled, an adorably soft smile that Dean hadn’t seen on the angel before,

“That’s right Sam. This is good, you are already making progress.” 

“Noib, el saga dooain…” Sam grumbled.

Dean had no idea what Sam said but it sounded sarcastic and self-deprecating.

“Hey c’mon Sam don’t be negative, this is good, we just gotta work at it. It’ll come back to you.” 

Sam huffed, giving Cass a look, not even needing to speak for the angel to understand what he’s saying,

Castiel smiled, clearly attempting to stifle a laugh, “Lap ah cordziz ds gnay ge aziazor a boaluahe zna qaa…”

Sam however, didn’t bother trying to hide his small laugh, sparing a glance at Dean.

 Dean looked between the two of them, “What? Oh come on you assholes, what’re you saying?” 

Castiel smiled, “Nothing Dean. Just appreciating your ‘chick-flick’ attitude is all.” He said, putting air quotes around ‘chick-flick’ with his hand.

Dean glared at both of them as they continued to smile, “Screw both of you, we need to fix this now or you two shit talkin right in front of me is gonna get old fast.” 

Sam smiled, it was the first genuine smile Dean had seen on his face since…well he wasn’t sure.

It made something in his chest soften, a weight he hadn’t even realized was there lift, just slightly but enough to give him hope. 

Holding baby Sammy in his arms, he rocked gently, alone in the motel room he allowed himself to shed a single tear, unfamiliar with the feeling that bloomed in his chest.

The first time he’d feel such pride while looking at his brother, though it’d hardly be the last. 

Sam was going to be okay.

They’d get through this because they could get through anything. 

They’re gonna be okay.

⏱︎