Hey everyone! Thank you all you reviewers, I didn't have time to reply to all of you but you guys are awesome! :D So, here's chapter two! I'll update again soon! Happy reading!

-Punkin

"Sammy…"

And Sam doesn't want to wake up. He knows what will happen. He knows that as soon as his eyes snap open, it will just start all over again. It was always the sadistic angel's favorite game: see what cruel ways would get him to willingly come out of the blackness to only be welcomed by some sick new torture. It was, in fact, a type of torture in of itself. Sometimes it'd be Jess's voice, sometimes it'd be Dad's…most of the time it was Dean's, whispering that it was ok, that he was home.

"Wakey, wakey, Sammy. Green eggs and bakey."

Funny how the devil apparently has a soft spot for Dr. Seuss.

"Tsk, tsk. That's when you're supposed to say, "But I do not like green eggs and ham, I do not like them, Sam I am."

Tingling sensations have begun along the lengths of his arms, pins reaching into his skin and pulling from the inside out. His head is pounding, lips distended and skin stretched tight over what feels like brilliant bruises. Though his eyelids twitch, Sam still can't quite find the strength to wholly haul himself into the waking realm, his body seemingly weak and own mind weighed with the trepidation of what exactly awaited him.

"Dean's not coming, darling."

The hiss is so close to his ear he can feel the icy breath alongside his neck, against the thick and congealing substance that has begun to dry there. Something warm snakes its way down his forehead, running along an already contoured path promising a steadily bleeding wound.

"He's gone, left you here, and he's not coming back. Can't say I blame him, I'd have left you years ago. You just going to lay there, Sammy? Prove to him how pathetic you are? You'll miss the best things if you keep your eyes shut, you know."

All at once, Sam tries to form words, tries to tell the taunting, malicious voice to shut the hell up, but his voice catches within his throat. The only thing that comes out is a strangled gurgle, his tongue thick in copper and pressing painfully against his molars.

"What's that? I'm sorry; you'll have to speak up. My hearing's only about 98 and ¾ percent guaranteed."

Pain begins to creep into the edges of Sam's being, clawing its way through his head and down the length of his spine. His stomach flips and turns, bile creeping up his throat despite the fact that very little has passed through his lips the past few days. Hell, after all, does an effective job at stealing away your appetite, among other simple, human aspects. It takes away all 'normal,' leaves only the primitive behind, along with the ghost of one's former self just to remind a person of what once was and what could have been. Sam feels empty…drained…sucked dry. What more can possibly be taken? What will be enough?

"Is this really the great Sam Winchester, drowning in his own blood? Dean is not coming for you, pet. Are you just going to let yourself die?" *Sigh* "And I had such plans for us today…"

At last, this final jibe allows Sam to drag his impossibly heavy lids open, the dim lighting of the motel room nearly blinding him all over again. His surroundings blur and darken around the edges, the agony almost latching on to his ankles and wrenching him back under. Yet, Sam stubbornly resists, determined to not be weak, to not be…pathetic.

He's lying face down on the mustard tinted carpet, left cheek pressed into the broken leg of the chair he himself had knocked over. He blinks repeatedly, perceiving the other pieces of overturned furniture and tell tale signs of a violent fight. Blood stains the edges of the comforter on Dean's bed, drops of it splattering into a trail leading across the expanse towards him. His right eye resists opening any further, surely the victim of a massive fist, and the arm pressed beneath his sprawled body is bent unnaturally so.

"Dislocated. Couldn't have done it better myself. We've really gotten quite soft, now, haven't we? Must've been all our years of pampering. Funny, isn't it? Ah, well, funny things are everywhere."

Sam licks his lips, doing his best to push away the haunting voice, to push away the deafening screams, to clear his mind and allow at least one coherent thought. Someone, or something, obviously got the drop on him...

"Pathetic…"

…he's hurt-concussion and dislocated shoulder for certain-, and Dean is…

"Dean's GONE. How many times must we go over this?"

It's a lie. It has to be. Dean wouldn't leave, not after everything. Would he? A groan tears itself from his lips as Sam attempts to lever himself from the floor, perhaps then he will be able to think clearer. Unfortunately, he only gets a few inches above the crimson discolored carpeting before collapsing once more. He gasps, choking on a scream of pain before forcefully managing to swallow it.

His side throbs with his every sluggish heart beat, a balminess spreading across the threads of his cotton T shirt and creating a sticky, unpleasant sensation. Sam's aware of it now, can pinpoint the ultimate source of his torment. Hesitantly, he begins to move his uninjured arm in that direction, the feeble task proving uncharacteristically difficult and the sheer undertaking sending waves of electricity throughout his entire frame. After what seems like forever, his fingers press against the apparent wound, sinking into torn, ripped flesh.

Sam virtually bites through his entire bottom lip.

When he abruptly draws his hand away, he can comprehend through his swollen lids the dark red on his palm, the overhead light shining and reflecting in its ominous depths.

"That doesn't look too good, Sammy. You should really put some pressure on that, unless you miss me that much."

And now Sam wants to scream. He wants to shout and yell and cry and tell his mind to leave him alone, to stop reminding him of every thing he already knows, and to make less sense than the real world for once in his entire life. His eyes burn with the sentiment, yet he has not the strength to even speak it. Darkness has its grip, shrouding him in uncertainty and blanketing him from the all consuming agony and the puddle of his own blood. Why fight it? After all, Dean's not coming…

"Just you and me, pet. Oh, the places we'll go."

TBC…

Where are you Dean? Lol, I promise he will come, ;)…or will he? I used several Doctor Seuss quotes in 'Lucifer's' talking parts, ten points to whoever can name them all! :D