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"But! Trouble keeping healthy relationships? Not so sure about that one. Thoughts?"
Sam swallowed his pills (hydrocodone and lorazepam) and the nurse left.
“No opinion? Come on, Sammy!"
Lucifer hopped off the table and walked over to the bed, leaning over to dangle the DSM-IV in front of Sam's face. "You know, there's something in here for everyone."
Sam ignored him.
“Like you, for instance. Betcha it's post traumatic something or other. Curious?"
Sam said nothing.
"How about big brother? He's obviously an emotional wreck--"
Sam slapped the book out of Lucifer's hand, sending it flying across the room.
"Participation! Now we're getting somewhere." Lucifer picked up the book and sat down next to Sam, flipping through the pages. "Hmm. Let’s try Major Depressive Disorder on for size, shall we?”
Sam stood, walking over to the window. He wondered idly whether there really was a copy of the DSM-IV in his room. Wouldn't matter. He knew the nine criteria for a major depressive episode. Looked them up years ago, just in case. He'd been worried. And since he knew them, so did Lucifer.
“Okay Sammy, need five of these to win. One - 'seems depressed most of the day, nearly every day.' Yup, he's just not his usual chipper self lately. Check. Two - 'diminished interest in things or activities once enjoyed.' When was the last time Dean had a piece of pie, let alone a nice piece of ass? Check.”
Sam winced.
“Three - 'decrease or increase in appetite'…and we’re back to pie. Really Sam, aside from chemically enhanced turducken your brother hasn't gone after a meal like he meant it in a long time. Check. Let’s see, no insomnia for him…psychomotor agitation…fatigue…that's a pass for four, five, and six. Bummer. Ooh, here we go, seven - 'feelings of worthlessness or excessive or inappropriate guilt.' Had to take out an Egyptian god over that one! Check.”
“Stop it.”
“He speaks! Finally— oh, but hold that thought Sam, I’m not finished yet. I’m dying to see how this turns out, Dean’s four for seven and we have two more to go.”
Sam stared out the window, unseeing. He knew Dean was having a hard time, but Dean was dealing with it. Not well, it was true, but he was functioning, and Sam wasn’t pushing. He'd reach a breaking point sooner or later, and either take a crowbar to the Impala or spill his guts to Sam on the side of the road over a beer.
Lucifer clicked his tongue. "That's cute. You really think a little hulk smash is going to cut it this time?"
Sam turned. Lucifer had his head cocked to the side, half-smiling. "You remember the last time he was like this?"
Oh. Michael. He'd nearly said yes to Michael.
“Anyway! Almost done. Eight, 'diminished ability to think or concentrate.' Hard to say, he seems just as thick as he ever was. So, it all comes down to nine: 'recurrent thoughts of death or suicide.'”
Sam stayed silent. He turned back to the window and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, willing Lucifer to shut up. The rest was just banter. This? This he desperately did not want to think about.
“I don’t mean to sound too gleeful here, but where do I start? Could make a case for that time you might have had the Croatoan virus."
He'd almost forgotten.
"It's over for me. It doesn't have to be for you."
"No?"
"No, you can keep going--"
"--Who says I want to?"
Lucifer was still talking. "...but the real fun began with that demon deal. Just couldn't live without you, Sammy. And the saying yes to Michael business? Nearly went through with it, and only backed down because of little brother. Now, with angel and father-figure gone...I'm not a betting man, but I'd put money on impending self-destruction, wouldn't you?"
Sam said nothing, hands still covering his eyes.
"Anyway, check and mate. Should ask around, see if they can hook your brother up with some happy pills before you bite it."
Sam turned around.
"Come on, Sam, keep up. You’re the only reason Dean’s still hanging on. You've been the only reason for years." Lucifer pointed two fingers at the underside of his chin.
"What do you think he'll do once you’re gone?”
Sam didn't know.