A/N: This isn't meant to blend fully into canon; I was just plagued with this what-if idea, and decided to write it out. ^-^

Sam was full-out panicking now.

Okay, this was beyond freak out; seeing someone who wasn't actually there? He could deal with that. He could deal with the moments of reliving memories, even if they were of Hell. Hell, he could rationalize through whatever Lucifer did to Bobby and Dean, because it never fazed them. That alone reminded him what was real and what wasn't. But a complete mindfuck, having him totally convinced he was going somewhere with Dean? He had no way of telling the difference, no way of control…

"You wanna point that gun at someone useful? Try your face," Lucifer taunted. "Wanna know the truth? Wanna skip to the last page of the book? You know where to aim, cowboy." He put two fingers under his chin, and made the motion and sound effect of pulling the trigger.

No control, no control, no control.

"It ends when you can't take it anymore, bunk buddy."

Sam didn't want to. After everything that had happened, everything they had survived, he didn't want to end it all. Sure, the world seemed to want to end, and no matter how many baddies he and Dean took down, there was always someone else, someone tougher. What chance did they really have? He pondered the ivory-handled gun in his hand.

Lucifer smiled.

"Sam?" a familiar voice echoed in the huge emptiness of the warehouse.

Dean was already on edge once he discovered Sam had flown the coop. What could his brother possibly have gotten into? Thoughts of potential tortures Lucifer might be inflicting on Sam made it difficult to drive. But he needed to focus now more than ever. The GPS on Sam's phone told him where to go.

He spotted the outline of the Impala sitting outside a crumbling warehouse. Thank God my baby's safe, at least. Now for Sam… Only barely checking his surroundings, Dean bolted for the nearest door.

The sight that met him nearly ripped his heart from his chest. Sam was alone in the warehouse, scared and lost-looking. He kept shifting his gaze from the gun in his hand to a blank space in front of him. Dean had never seen his little brother act like this. "Sam?"

Sam didn't react, at least not to Dean. Whatever scene played in his vision was beyond distressing. Dean might as well have been the nearest support beam. Slowly, he inched his way across the open concrete space, determined to get through to Sam without spooking him.

That's when Sam raised the gun to his own chin.

"Nooooo!"

Dean launched himself at Sam, grabbing his gargantuan little brother's wrists and pulling as the shot rang out. They tumbled to the cold, wet floor in a heap. "Sammy!"

The first thing he registered was the rise and fall of Sam's chest underneath him. The bullet missed its target. He was alive. However, a vicious track had been dug along the side of his face. Blood oozed liberally from it, and the surrounding area was already swelling. Aside from breathing, Sam didn't move.

"Damnit, stop trying to tell me you're fine!" Dean shouted at no one in particular. Sam's phone buzzed in his pocket—Bobby. "We got a problem, Bobby."

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Sam led me on a little chase. We're at a warehouse maybe fifteen out from the yard. Whatever Lucifer said to him, it was bad enough that he tried to shoot himself."

"He did what?" squawked Bobby. Dean had to hold the phone away, his ear ringing.

"I stopped him, and that's what counts. But he's gotta have some fractured bones in his face; I need to get him to a hospital."

"Well, go anywhere but Sioux Falls General. The sheriff was right. The mess I just spent twenty minutes digging through is more than enough evidence where our slippery little friends are congregating. There's a small private place about half an hour down the highway. I've got and old friend there who helps hunters."

"Thanks, Bobby. Meet us there as soon as you can. We'll work out our next steps once Sammy's taken care of," Dean told him. They hung up, and Dean sized up the task of hauling his brother to the car. First he needed to get some kind of bandage on that head wound, if the little puddle of blood was anything to go by. Strips from Sam's flannel shirt would do. Once the kid (and he still thought of Sam as a kid sometimes) resembled a bloody hippie, Dean pulled him into a sort of half-fireman's carry, the exception being that Sam was so heavily muscled, and his long legs brushed the floor. I still don't get how in the world he ended up bigger than me…

The distance to the Impala seemed awfully far from this vantage point. He wished Sam would wake up, though he doubted that would happen any time soon with the potential damage from attempting suicide. But he made it—he forced himself to make it. And before he could really register his surroundings again, they were on the road to the clinic place Bobby directed them to.

A night nurse met them at the emergency door. Soaked in sweat and panting, Dean gave her a revised version of Sam's actions. Hey, Halucifer aside, he wasn't really lying. The kind woman fetched a gurney on which to take Sam away, and directed Dean right into an observation room to wait.

He received periodic updates: the long gash should heal without trouble, held together with butterfly bandages and gauze. Head injuries just had a penchant for bleeding a lot. The scans revealed a good chunk taken out of Sam's cheekbone, along with fractures to it and the orbital bone above. By some miracle, he didn't get any shrapnel in his eye or temple. The MRI came back clear. No adverse effect on the brain.

Dean made a quick run to the vending machine after the last update. At that point he was told Sam would be done in about ten minutes. As he passed the desk, however, a grainy, familiar sound caught his attention. Police radio.

"Copy that, officers and Engines 2 and 5 en route to alarm at 13275 S 700 E…"

He stopped dead in his tracks for the second time that night. A fire alarm, to Bobby's address! His phone was in his hand, dialing Bobby's number. It rang…and rang…and rang. "This is Bobby Singer's direct hotline. You should NOT have this number…"

"Shit!" He kept trying all the way back to Sam's room. Voicemail. Voicemail. Voicemail. "Don't do this to us, Bobby, please!" Dean's knees gave out as soon as he reached the armchair in the room. Cas, Sam, now Bobby…how many people could he lose in so short a time?

The nurse and a woman in a lab coat arrived with Sam, who was out cold on the rolling bed. He appeared to be fully clothed except for his shoes, which were stowed underneath. The cheek that was visible had a couple gauze patches over the worst of the bullet wound (one eye was completely obscured), while the rest was broken up by little white strips. It didn't look so bad now that it was clean.

"Are you doing okay?" asked the doctor lady. She was good looking for being middle-aged, short, dark hair framing her ivory face. In fact, she could almost be Lisa's twin. Dean gave his head a good shake. He didn't need to think about more people he'd lost…

"Just tired. How is he?"

She let the nurse leave. "You said he was your brother? He shouldn't have any problems physically, although the affected side of his face will be quite colorful for awhile. The damage was remarkably minimal, thanks to your efforts. What I want to talk to you about is the psychological side of this. Do you have any idea why your brother would attempt suicide?"

"He's…he's been having a hard time. We hit a bit of a rough patch with work, and lost a good friend on top of that," Dean answered reluctantly. Friend of Bobby's or not, he did not, under any circumstances, want to try explaining Sam's ongoing dance with Hell.

"I can imagine. You know, I could pick you out as hunters as soon as you walked in. That's why I had Denise leave before saying anything." She gave him a warm, gentle smile.

"Bobby said you could help, yeah. But I don't get it! Sam's never been close to suicidal in his life!"

The doctor pulled a stool on wheels next to Dean's chair. "Everyone has their breaking point. When it comes to hunters, I'm surprised we don't see more cases like this. What matters is you were able to stop him. I can recommend you to some good friends who can help Sam sort through what's going on in his head."

I'm not sure anyone could help Sam sort his head out. He's a bit of unique case… Dean bit his lip. "So how long do you think he'll have to be here?"

"I want to keep him under observation at least into tomorrow. Ideally, he would stay until we were sure he was no longer a threat to himself. Unfortunately, I know that doesn't go over well with hunters," she told him.

"Yeah, we're kinda trying to stay ahead of someone."

"Tell you what—we'll start by waiting for Sam to wake up, and see where he is at that point. Then we'll go from there. Deal?"

"Deal." With the worst over for the moment, Dean wanted desperately to get some sleep. The doctor took the hint, heading for the door. Only it opened before she could reach it.

There stood Bobby, soot-covered, huffing like a walrus, eyes about to bug out of his head. Both Dean and the doctor simply gaped.

"You—your house—the dispatch—" sputtered Dean.

"Are you okay?" asked the doctor.

"Been better," growled the disheveled man. A pointed look from his doctor friend sent him to the sink in the corner first. "How's Sam?"

"Gonna live. Although we'll see, once I get a chance to ask him what the hell he was doing," Dean muttered darkly. He glanced over the patchwork that was Sam's face again. Bobby finally approached, resting a knotted hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Easy, there. He hasn't exactly had a walk in the park lately."

The doctor looked back and forth between their faces. "Well, I've got rounds to make. My pager's on the info card. If Sam wakes up needing pain meds, give me a buzz." She quietly let herself out.

Bobby took a deep, shuddering breath. "Carol puts up with way more than she has to, dealing with us hunters."

"Your turn—the police radio broadcasted a fire at your house. What happened?" demanded Dean.

"Slimy bastards figured out from Cas's memories where we were hiding out," Bobby sighed. "I got out using the same escape Sam used when he tried to keep from getting his soul back. Damn lucky I heard the gas leak in time, too. I never would have made it to the first stack of cars for cover. So what's the deal with Sam trying to kill himself?"

"Won't know for sure until he wakes up. Best I could tell was he was still hallucinating. How long can he take this, really? How long could anyone take this?"

"You gotta be there for him, son. Remind him that he has reasons to live, real ones. Be his big brother."

The two of them gazed at Sam, who was peacefully asleep.