A new chapter came to me. Why? Why now when I'm already busy answering my own prompts from a fic meme that died over a year ago? Such are the ways of art.

Sam resurfaced with no warning.

One minute, his body was doing lunges in the relative cool of the living room, while its completely unappetizing yet nutritionally balanced perversion of Hamburger Helper simmered on the stove. The next, Sam was gasping like a drowning man, falling on his ass, and scuttling backwards under the nearest desk. When Dean lunged after him, Sam, in a move he really should have anticipated, grabbed his arm, judo-rolled him to the floor, and dashed to the kitchen. By the time Dean confirmed that his shoulder was still in its socket and staggered to his feet, Sam was wedged between the fridge and the side door, clutching an eight-inch chef's knife. Dean froze.

Bobby's boots sounded on the basement stairs, directly opposite Sam's defensive position. Dean yelled an alarm. "Bobby, watch it, he's got a knife!"

The footsteps retreated. Sam cocked his head, hair swinging haphazardly over his eyes. "What's the date?" he hissed.

Dean advanced cautiously, hands at his sides. "What's that, Sammy?"

The knife shook in Sam's whitened fist. "If Bobby's walkin', what's the mother-grabbin' date?" he snarled, teeth flashing.

Bobby's boots pounded back up the stairs, and as the door cracked open, the hot white glare of a halogen work lamp burst out, right in Sam's face. Sam screamed and dropped the knife, cringing against the fridge like Gollum. Dean tackled him and kicked the knife away. Bobby thankfully turned the light off before Dean had to strangle him with the extension cord for abusing Sam's new phobia.

The Cage hadn't hurt Sam's sparring any. After a few seconds of grappling, Dean was on his back, seeing stars after a knee to the nuts, and desperately trying to pry Sam's hands off his throat. Bobby jumped in and wrapped his coat around Sam's head, blind-folding him like a wild animal, and Dean slipped away and pinned Sam in an armlock when Sam froze in shock.

Sam wheezed and sobbed behind the coat, face to the floor.

"It's twenty-twelve," Dean rasped. "Swear to god. Bobby came back to life, remember? It's June. Twenty-twelve."

Sam collapsed, breath leaving him in a low whine. Dean slowly eased his hold. As soon as Sam had his arm back, he pawed around in the air until he hit Dean's sleeve, then wrapped his hand around Dean's forearm with bruising force. Dean would think Sam was actually grinding his bones together if he didn't know what that felt like. "Dean?" Sam moaned.

"Yeah, it's me," Dean replied, sagging as the adrenaline faded. He climbed off of Sam and settled down beside him, nodding at Bobby, who backed away. Sam's grip tightened, if that was possible. "Think you could ease up on my arm there, kiddo?"

Sam didn't respond.

"It's kinda hurting a little," Dean admitted.

Sam twitched, and yanked his hand from Dean's arm as though burned, flinging himself backward to rattle against the door. Dean's gut dropped. "Hey, hey," he soothed, his voice breaking. "It's okay, you can hold my hand if you want. Here." Moving slowly, though Sam couldn't see a thing with Bobby's dusty coat wrapped around his face, he slipped his hand between Sam's fingers. Sam pulled away, then closed his hand carefully around Dean's, like he was caging a butterfly.

Dean sighed. "You ready to get that blindfold off?"

Sam shook his head, the jacket flopping.

"Whatever you need, Sammy."

Dean sat against the side door shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam, as Sam's shaking fingers tickled the hairs on the back of his hand. Bobby took a seat at the kitchen table and watched, eyes shiny, while Dean hummed snatches of songs, wishing as he did that 80's hair metal hadn't had such an obsession with death and angels.

Dean wondered how far they'd gotten on Sam's daily fifteen minutes. "I got to talking with your imaginary friend last night," Dean murmured, watching the coat. "You remember him?"

Sam nodded, otherwise sitting absolutely still, so still that Dean was still to avoid jostling their hands.

"You remember what we talked about?"

Sam paused, then rolled his head in an ambiguous motion. "Not right now," he rasped, sounding choked with tears.

"He mentioned some things that might be bothering you," Dean told him. "God knows I've done some shitty stuff to you, Sammy, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But he mentioned this voicemail..."

Sam shivered.

"Yeah, something about calling you a vampire and saying I was through with your ass?" Dean swallowed, as though the words were bile in his mouth, and took a deep breath to keep the anger out of his voice. "That wasn't me."

Sam's hand tightened just an instant around Dean's, and when next he spoke, it was in a low broken growl. "I will call down every angel from Heaven and burn them all."

Dean winced, and Bobby's eyes narrowed warily. "Let's put that on the old to-do list, huh, Sammy? At least 'till you're done with the blindfold."

Sam slumped sideways onto Dean's shoulder. "Write it in Sharpie," he croaked.

"You got it."

Homicidal knife-wielding broken Sam is my favorite flavor of broken Sam. I would say that Sam has made great strides to overcome the learned helplessness he doubtless developed in the Cage, and can be excused a tiny overreaction.

Go, Sammy! Burn them all!