While Dean rested, Sam kept himself busy by hauling all their guns in from the car. Whenever they had a day or two between cases, Dean liked to clean their weapons. After a hunt there usually wasn't a whole lot of time for it. He locked the door and shut the windows. Last thing they needed was someone seeing and telling the motel manager that they were international crime lords or something.

Sam lost himself in the repetitive motion of taking apart the guns and wiping down their individual parts before putting them back together. It was actually kind of soothing. A couple hours passed, and Dean didn't stir.

He finished up with the guns, and went to the car to get the knives. They usually wiped off the blood and guts before putting them back, but every once in a while he like to check and make sure they were still sharp. A dull blade in a job like this could get you killed.

He came back inside to find Dean wide awake, sitting up in bed. He was staring at the arsenal of guns on the table with a strange expression.

"Hey, you're awake." Sam set the duffel bag of knives down. "How are you feeling?"

"Peachy," Dean grunted, tearing his eyes away from the weapons. "What are you doing?"

"Just cleaning stuff. I finished with the guns and I was about to do a knife check. Wanna help?"

"Sure," Dean groaned as he tried to move.

"Woah, take it easy." Sam stopped him. "I'll bring them to you."

"Don't have to treat me like a kid." Dean mumbled.

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're not a kid. You're hurt."

"If I don't get up and moving, I'll get stiff." He complained.

"Dude, give yourself a couple days. If you keep ripping your stitches open, you'll never heal."

"Whatever. I'll take the machetes."

Sam sat on the bed opposite Dean, and they began to inspect the blades.

They worked in silence, but Sam kept glancing at his brother out of the corner of his eye. Dean was working slowly, partially thanks to the injuries on his left arm. But there was something else. That same look from earlier, when he was staring at the guns. Sam's brow furrowed as he tried to figure out what it meant.

"Dude, quit eye-fucking the knives," He finally said when Dean took particularly long with a certain machete. He was examining it for damage, sure. But it was more than that. He was gazing at it like he was imagining what it would look like slicing through someone's neck. There was a kind of quiet desperation in the set of his jaw, and a barely concealed hopelessness in his eyes.

Dean looked up and snorted. "What, can't a guy appreciate a beautiful blade?"

"I just don't like how you're looking at it."

"I'll buy her dinner first, don't worry." Dean chuckled. When Sam's frown didn't disappear, he raised an eyebrow. "You're serious."

"Yeah, I am. Maybe I should finish this up."

"What the hell are you talking about?" He glared.

"You're looking at it like you wanna stab someone with it!"

"That's kinda what these are for, Sammy."

"No, but someone specific."

Dean was quiet for a moment. "Well maybe I do."

Sam's eyes widened at the confession. "Who?"

Dean hesitated. "The demon. The one who fucked up our lives." He said, not very convincingly. "Even though I know it wouldn't do much good."

"Hm." Sam narrowed his eyes, but didn't press the issue. He tried to hurry through the rest of the knives so he could get them out of Dean's reach. Truthfully, the look in his eyes wasn't homicidal. He didn't doubt that his brother wanted to murder the demon, but with the way Dean had been talking lately...he was more worried the violent thoughts were directed towards himself.

Once the weapons were safely back in the Impala's trunk, Sam came back inside and sat on the edge of Dean's bed.

"Oh God, we're gonna have a chick-flick moment, aren't we?"

"Talk to me. What's going on with you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Dean avoided his eyes.

"Ever since that faith healer, you've been different."

"I almost died, give me a break!"

"Yeah, that's what I don't get...when you thought you were dying, you were like, weirdly calm about it. Like you didn't even care! But as soon as Roy healed you-"

"You mean, as soon as the Reaper killed some random guy in my place! I'm sorry, Sam, but that's not something I can just forget."

"It wasn't your fault." He said quietly.

"Maybe not directly, but still."

"Throwing away your own life won't bring him back."

Dean pressed his lips into a thin line. How could he tell Sammy these thoughts weren't new? How could he look his little brother in the eye and tell him he'd wanted to die for years? He couldn't.

"I know." He finally replied. "Hey, I'm starving. Wanna go out and see if there's a good burger place?"

Sam sighed. He knew the change of subject was intentional, but Dean had a point. They hadn't eaten anything since last night. "Okay. I'll be right back. Bacon burger with extra grease?"

"You know how I like it." Dean gave his best fake grin, although the thought of food right now made his stomach turn.

With Sam gone, it felt like Dean could finally breathe again. Pretending to be okay was exhausting. He put his head in his hands. God, he just wanted it to end.

He looked up, and his gaze landed on the bottle of pills on the nightstand. Huh.

An idea began to form in his mind.