Dean was so out of his head, so not like himself, that when Sam searched him for weapons, he didn't move. He simply watched as Sam took every single blade, shiv, and gun that he had on him. He looked up once Sam had taken the last of the impressive stash and said through lashes tainted with tears, "I can find a way Sam."

"I'm not going to make it easy for you." Sam said sternly.

Dean shrugged. "I always take the hard road anyway."

Sam squared his shoulders and tried not to let the words niggle at him, tried not to let his temper, which had become so much shorter since the whole angel and demon dust up, add some demon blood, and it was very very very hard for Sam not to explode, not to go off on Dean, and tell him what he really thought. And what he really thought made him take a step back, made him a little scared.

You are so weak. You aren't the man I remember. You aren't my equal. I'm stronger than you.

Sam licked his lips. He couldn't face Dean with these thoughts running through his head. He needed to get a grip, needed to remember, needed to be the brother Dean needed right now. "I'll be inside," he finally said and walked back into the house, left his suicidal brother on the front step, in the cold, and he felt like an ass. His brother was suffering, and all he really wanted to do was kick him in the ass and make him be the man he wanted him to be.

He went into the kitchen, took a cup of coffee, and starred out of the window, watching his brother, and the feelings intensified as he watched tears stream down Dean's face. "What in the hell is the matter with me?" Sam asked aloud.

He was still standing there an hour later watching his brother from the window when Bobby came in behind him.

"All of Dean's weapons are on the table. What's going on?"

"He wants to kill himself." Sam said matter of factly, never taking his eyes off of his brother's form.

"What?"

"He wants to die."

"And what did you tell him?"

"That it was stupid. Then I took all of his weapons. He told me that it doesn't matter, he'll figure out a way." Sam took a deep breath. "Truth is Bobby, I don't think I can help him."

"He's your brother. Of course you can help him."

"Some of the stuff he's been saying, some of the reasons he gives for wanting to die, are some of the reasons I've given him. And the rest…" Sam looked down at his hands. "And the rest, well, I can't help him with the rest. Those bastards tortured him until he had no other choice but to give in. I can't do anything. I can't. There is no way I can help him."

"Boy, turn, look at me." Bobby said as he grabbed Sam's shoulder and guided him in his direction. It took a moment for Sam to meet Bobby's eyes. "Son. Just being there for him, letting him know you care, that's enough."

Sam shook his head, bit his lip and looked back towards the window. "No. No words, no amount of comfort will fix this. He's so broken."

"So, what? That mean you want to leave him behind?"

"No, yes, no, I don't know what to do." Sam said as he drug hands through his hair in frustration.

"Samuel Winchester. You don't discard something because it's broken. If you love it, you try everything in your power to fix it."

"He's right though Bobby, if he wants to kill himself, we can't stop him. He'll find a way."

"Then we need to be there, we need to take care of it, we need to watch him. We need to be his protectors."

Sam took a deep breath, closed hi eyes and rested against the counter. "I hope—" Crash! Sam and Bobby both jumped and ran towards the noise.

***

The door behind Sam slammed in Dean's estimation. He looked out over the salvage yard and the tears kept coming and he made no effort to wipe them away. Sam thought that he had taken away all of the means by which Dean could kill himself while sitting out here. The boy had no imagination, and what he did have was no match for the cold hard reality that Dean remembered every single second of. He had tortured people with far less equipment than was on his person at any single given time. He probably knew more ways of damaging the human body than anyone on the face of the planet. And if he knew how to damage, he most certainly knew how to take a life, especially his own.

The sounds of the first woman he tortured came back in force. She pleaded, and wept and with shaking hands he plunged the knife into her soul and she screamed. And what was worse, he learned to like the sounds of the screaming, the pleading, the begging. He fed off of the weakness of others. With one ill thought choice he started the whole mess, and here he was, too weak, too useless to do anything about it. So, he decided that he would do the next best thing. He stood, slowly and without emotion, and walked to the nearest car, picked up a discarded metal piece that belonged to one of the relics in the yard and smashed the window. The glass shards would be sufficient and as effective as any knife, box cutter or switchblade.

He was beginning to slice his arm, vertical, the right way to kill yourself, when the door slammed, and Sam and Bobby were running full tilt towards him. He continued to cut, unfazed by their yelling and their panic stricken voices. He was almost finished when a gigantic little brother tackled him to the ground. Dean sighed inwardly. The first attempt thwarted. His second would be successful. You've won this round Sammy. But you wont' win the war.