[Sam's brow crumples with exasperation for a fleeting moment, but moves to sit down. Really, he can't even remember the last time he sat at a table. He has a hard time remembering a lot — Lucifer tells him it's for his own benefit, because if any of that came flooding back, he'd be, uh. Fucked. For lack of a better term. A great mental wall full of cracks and holes that Sam sometimes peered through. Felt the reverberations through.

When he pressed his ear to it, he heard the carnage on the other side, sometimes.

Sometimes it's so much to think about, he could just explode into pieces.

He picks up his spoon instead, a stark contrast to Dean's impatience as he carefully stirs the stew and waits without complaint for it to cool off. His stomach's gone on for over a day without something on it; it can last another ten minutes.

Sam glances up at Dean. Glances back down. Eye contact has become so much harder, since he popped Lucifer free. It's been rocket science.]

I know you wouldn't do that, Dean.

... I just don't want to mess anything up here. The panic room — it's in the past.

[It's really not. But it isn't because Sam blames Dean or Bobby. Looking back after everything... they at least didn't just throw their hands up and take him out back to shoot him Old Yeller style. They probably should've, but they didn't. Sam makes that count for something.]

I'm sure they made Cas do it. He wanted to help, right?

Afterward, he helped you. So.