"So?" Dean asks.

"So what?" Bobby asks.

"Before you bail again, – 'Girl, Interrupted' over there. Any thoughts?"

"Looks to me like he's doing better," Bobby states.

"Better?" Dean almost shouts. "What do you mean, better? You just saw him!"

"Saw him check out. Once. That's progress."

• • •

*three weeks earlier*

Sam woke up screaming.

Dean jolted awake from where he was sleeping on the couch. He grabbed his crutches as quickly as he could and went down the hall.

Dean knew this was going to happen. Well, he didn't. He was afraid nothing was going to happen. That Sam would stay asleep. Dean could picture him, pale and withering away until his body just gave up. There was also the other side, where Sam did wake up. Dean thought about that a lot too. He thought about him waking up gorked. That, one day, he would walk in and Sam would still be laying on the bed, with his eyes fixed on the ceiling but looking past it at nothing. There were times when Dean hoped that he would wake up with nothing wrong. Like that time in Garfield when he got knocked in the head and got amnesia, and then got hit again and got his memories back. Something like that. And then there was this. Sam screaming. Seeing Lucifer and hellfire. Imaginary knives cutting him until there was nothing left. Not being able to see Dean, or worse, seeing him but thinking he's not real, a hallucination. Sam fighting him, pushing him away.

When Dean made it to the room, he flipped on the light. Sam was in bed, thrashing, obviously in the throes of a horrific nightmare. "Sam," Dean yelled. He walked toward the bed, dropping the crutches. He put one hand on the bed to brace himself. With the other, he reached out and shook Sam's shoulder. "Sam. Sammy! Wake up." Dean looked and saw blood on Sam's hands, dripping. It was from the cut he sewed up, the one made by glass at the place where Cas became God. The one Sam had pressed him thumb into, made bleed, to keep his hallucination at bay. His hands were balled into fists; his nails must have torn the sutures. Dean shook his brother's shoulder again, hard and continued shouting his name.

Eventually Sam's screams became words. "Stop, please!" he sobbed. "It hurts! Stop!" He was actually crying then, tears leaking out of closed eyelids. Dean stood there helplessly. He shook Sam's shoulder, called his name. Nothing. He didn't have the heart to slap him to try to wake him up. He was already in pain, and, added the logical part of his brain, if pain was going to wake him up, the cut on his palm already would have.

After what felt like hours, Dean finally gave up. He backed up until he hit the wall, and slid down it. He stretched his legs out in front of him. At first, he watched Sam, numbly. His screams filled the room. Finally, Dean stared down at his hands, not being able to watch the suffering of his brother anymore. The least he could do, he decided, was stay with him. It was the only thing he could do.

Sam's voice started to grow hoarse after awhile. At some point, he stopped screaming and his body went still, and Dean thought it was over. He managed to get standing and hopped over to the bed. But there was Sam, his eyes were rimmed red from crying and his lips moving. In quick succession, he said, "Stop stop stop please stop stop don't it hurts please stop stop stop don't please please please..." and on and on it went. Dean felt tears leak out of his own eyes as he backed up and sat on the floor again.

To the sound of Sam's whispered pleas, Dean fell asleep. The rising sun woke him. As he opened his eyes, he realized he couldn't hear Sam anymore.

Dean got up, wincing at the crick in his neck and how his back popped. "Sam?" he ventured. He stood up and looked down at the bed. And there it was. One of the things he thought might happen but hoped wouldn't. Sam was staring at the ceiling, eyes blank. He was no longer crying or thrashing or screaming. His lips moved, and Dean could hear him whispering. It was quieter than before, but the same words.

Dean joined his brother's pleas. He wished it would stop too, whatever Sam was seeing and feeling. He wished he could stop it. He wished he could do something, anything. He felt useless. He was useless.

• • •

Bobby got back on two days later to find Dean asleep on the floor beside Sam's bed on a makeshift bed of blankets and with a pillow under his head. Bobby took in the scene. Sam on the bed, motionless, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Dean passed out beside the bed, clearly having been staying there for some time. It was bad.

Bobby crouched down on the floor and gently touched Dean's shoulder.

"Sam?" Dean asked blearily.

"No, son. It's me."

Dean sat up and looked at Bobby. Neither man said anything. Dean looked back up at the bed. "It's not good," is all he said. It was almost a question, like he wanted Bobby to disagree with him.

Bobby held out a hand to help Dean up. Dean took it, and when upright, Bobby handed over the crutches Dean had put on the floor earlier. "You go get cleaned up. Eat something. I made a grocery run on my way back into town."

"Any news on the leviathan things?"

"All's quiet right now."

Dean nodded. Swallowed. Left.

• • •

Things were quiet for two days. Dean and Bobby played cards, trying to pass the time and distract themselves. They watched TV on a low volume, not really caring about what was on. Bobby surfed the web, looking for leviathans or monsters in general.

The day after that, Dean heard what he thought was Sam's voice calling his name. He lowered his cards and looked at Bobby. Stunned, he asked, "Did you hear that?"

"I think so."

They both dropped their cards and headed to Sam's room, Bobby in front of Dean since Dean was burdened by those damn crutches. When they got there, Sam was looking at the wall across the room. "You're not Dean," he said. His voice wasn't loud like before. It was quiet, defeated. "Dean wouldn't say that." Then he flinched. "Lucifer," he said quietly. He closed his eyes and turned away. "I wish you would just go away already."

"Sam?" Dean asked hopefully.

"Not interested," Sam said. His voice was rough.

"Sam, it's me. Dean." He went over beside Sam's bed. "Sammy, please, look at me."

"You're not real. Why would I look at you?"

"I am real," Dean insisted. He wracked his brain for something only he would know, something to convince Sam of who he was. "Remember when I taught you how to ride a bike?" he asked. Sam's eyes opened but he didn't look up, not yet. "I stole that bike, remember? From some kid at school who was an asshole to you. I opened the trunk of the Impala when we got back to the motel and it was there. Of course, we had to trash it once Dad got wind of another case. No room in the car with all the bags and weapons, you know."

Sam finally looked up. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy, it's me."

Sam sat up, seemingly painfully. "What happened?"

"One of the leviathans found us, out back at Bobby's."

"Bobby," Sam said. "Is Bobby okay?"

"Right here," Bobby said from the doorway. "Alive and kicking."

"I'm so glad you guys are okay." But then his gaze was drawn back to the other end of the room. Dean looked but saw nothing.

Trying to get Sam back, Dean said, "Yeah, so, you got hit pretty bad. Had to go to the hospital." Sam's head turned before his eyes did, like he was worried if he looked away, Lucifer would jump him or something. "But there were leviathans there so we had to bail. You've been asleep for a few days."

Sam must've been getting close to fully aware because then he asked, "What happened to your leg?"

"That leviathan that attacked us at Bobby's," Dean said. "I'll be fine soon enough. How are you feeling?"

Sam looked back at the other side of the room. It seemed like he was listening to someone. Sam tore his eyes away to look back at Dean. "Still kind of tired, I guess. My body hurts, probably from laying in bed so much."

"Yeah, you wanna get up and try for some food?"

"Or we could bring something in here," Bobby suggested.

"That sounds good," Sam said. He smiled but it was so obviously false.

"I bought some soup earlier," Bobby said. "Wasn't sure if you'd be up to eating solid food yet."

"Sure. Whatever you have works for me."

"Grilled cheese?" Bobby asked. Sam nodded. "Okay. I'll be back soon. Want anything, Dean?"

"I'm good, thanks." Bobby left with a nod.

Dean maneuvered himself so he was sitting at the foot of the bed. "Lucifer?" he asked.

Sam's eyes darted to the corner of the room then back at Dean. "Yeah. Right now, he's dressed like you. He keeps saying these things..." Sam looked down at his hands. He turned the bandaged one over.

"It's almost healed," Dean said. "I can redress it, if you want."

"Stings," Sam commented. He rubbed at the bandage with his thumb.

"Sammy," Dean ventured. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I remember the leviathan... and then nightmares."

So then he didn't remember waking up screaming or being in a catatonic state. Dean couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not.

"What were you doing anyway, while I was out?" Sam asked.

Dean sighed. "Bobby's been busy. Looking out for leviathans. It's quiet. Calm before the storm, I think. Other than that, we've just been sitting around, waiting for you to, you know."

Sam nodded. He was still looking at his hands. He untaped the bandage and took it off. He held up his palm and examined it. The stitches were out. Dean had to take them out after the first incident from where Sam's nails had ripped them from the skin. He hadn't wanted to replace them; the cut was already healing and he hadn't wanted to cause Sam any more pain. Sam ran his thumb over it gently. Then he stretched out his fingers. The movement made the wound bleed, and Dean cursed under his breath. "I'll get the first aid kit," Dean said.

When he got back, Sam was sitting there, one hand under the injured one, holding it up, watching the blood slowly pool in his palm. Dean sat on the bed beside Sam. "Let me see it," he instructed. Sam held out his hand. Dean used some gauze to soak up the blood. Sam jumped a little when Dean wiped the cut with an antiseptic pad. Dean looked up at Sam to see him staring at the wall across the room again. Dean went back to the hand. As he finished dressing it, he asked, "Hey, Sammy. Wanna watch a movie?" He was hoping it would provide a distraction.

"Sure," Sam said.

So ten minutes later, the brothers and Bobby were out in the living room watching something on cable. Except Dean was more watching Sam and making sure he was watching the movie and not Lucifer or some other Hell in the room.

• • •

It took Dean a week before he would let Sam be alone in a room for more than five minutes. "I don't need to be on suicide watch anymore, Dean," Sam had said. "I'm doing better." And he had been. He was with it more often, and Dean could tell he wasn't constantly seeing Lucifer. So, Dean let him be on his own more.

The second week, saw much improvement. Sam was acting more like his old self. Well, part of the time. Rather than having hallucinations 24/7, he just had a bunch of mini ones throughout the day. At least they weren't bad. It was mainly just Sam looking off in the distance at something only he could see. There was no screaming, no discharging of firearms (although Dean and Bobby made sure to keep any weapons well hidden). All in all, it was a huge improvement.

By the third week, Sam was hardly having any hallucinations. He would check out occasionally, but it was only ever a couple minutes a day. There were even a few where nothing happened.

It was the best they could hope for. Dean just prayed it would stay that way.