I’ll always believe Sam should have been more affected by his memories of the cage.
Show me Sam, someone usually so big and tall- curled up into a ball, crushing himself tiny in the far corner of Bobby’s guest bedroom. He’s shaking harder than Dean’s ever seen him shake before, and his eyes are blown wide and wild as they jerk about the room.
He’s tried everything- soft spoken assurances, gentle touches, peace offerings of favourite teas and books- but Sam keeps flinching away from him, cowering in fear.
It’s like he doesn’t even recognise him- and after a while, Dean gets it into his head that if he just kisses Sam, he’ll remember.
He goes for it, one night, after Bobby passes out- drunk and miserable on the couch, crouching-squat at Sam’s side. He sets a warm hand on Sam’s jaw, pulls his face out from between his knees, leans down, and does it.
Suddenly, movement. Sam flies forward, one hand grabbing tight to the lapels of Dean’s over-shirt, the other, threading franticly through his hair.
Dean really thinks he’s done it, but his relief is short-lived. Sam’s moaning against his lips when he says it, crushing their noses together with a force, “Lucifer-“
Dean goes deadly still. Sam’s oblivious, sliding his dry tongue out from between his lips to twine with his brother’s. He’s crawling into Dean’s lap, desperate and moaning, and it’s wrong not to stop it- so wrong- but Dean hasn’t felt his brother’s touch for weeks and he’s going insane here- shacked-up and lonely with an old man for company…
“Mm- I’m sorry, Master- I’ll be good-“ He’s panting, lapping at Dean’s molars like he needs it.
Dean’ll push him off in a minute- remind Sam who he really is- but for now, he’ll let it happen.
Just a little while longer.
