"I'm not fucking dead inside! Do you hear me! I'm not!" Dean launched the bottle of alcohol that he had been using as a way to dull the pain, to fill the empty hole in his soul, against the wall of Bobby's house. It had been launched with such a varicosity that it crashed and shattered into millions of little pieces almost instantaneously. "I'm not empty! I'm not!" Dean continued to yell at the sky, the rain melded with the angry sad tears that were streaming down his face. He leaned over and picked up a piece of pipe, similar to the one that an angel had skewered his baby brother with.
He aimed for a rusted out 196-- something and began to beat the hell out of the car, all of the windows were shattered as Dean continued his rant, "I'm just so full of rage, of self hate, of jealously, despair, and fear, that I don't have room to be hungry for anything else! You and your dick angels have fed me enough! You hear me! UHNA!" He yelled and pounded the pipe against the rusting car. "I'm full! Damnit! I'm full of everything! You've made sure of that! I'm not dead! I'm not dead! I. AM. NOT. DEAD!!" He yelled so hard and so loud that his voice gave out half way through the last word.
Dean's rage not fulfilled, he moved to another car and began the process of smashing the car's windshield, and windows, denting the hood, smashing the doors all over again. Each time the pipe came up, a hail of rain lit by moonlight showered him in an unearthly glow, accenting his bulging muscles, and highlighting the rage etched into his face.
"It's one thing to make me like this!" Smash! "But you had to do it to Sammy!" Double smash! "Sam doesn't deserve this! Sam deserves a good life! How dare you let my baby brother suffer like this! How dare you let him be no different than the screaming evil that I tortured in hell! How dare you! You ungrateful, unloving, uncaring…." Smash! Grunt. Smash! Sob. Crash! Scream. Thwack! Grunt.
Dean continued to pound mercilessly on any car that came within his sights. He screamed, he cried, he pounded, and when the pipe flew out of his hands he started pounding viciously on anything he could. And when he finally wore himself out, bloodied his hands, he slumped down against the Impala and cried, covered his face in his hands and sobbed, sobbed as the four year old who just lost his mother, sobbed as the ten year old who didn't know how to feed his little brother when there was no food in the house, sobbed as the fourteen year old whose little brother just found out about hunting and lost his innocence, sobbed as the sixteen year old, who put an arrow through something completely unnatural and set his fate, sobbed as the twenty year old who was getting his GED and was unable to get anything else, sobbed as the 29 year old who was scared to go to hell, sobbed as the thirty year old who realized his brother was addicted to demon blood and he couldn't do anything to stop it, sobbed as the thirty year old whose brother tried to kill him, sobbed as the thirty-one year old who had destroyed the world.
The rain continued to pour down on him, and he kicked, he screamed, and he ranted like a child. And when he finally calmed down just a little, he could hear his brother screaming his name "Dean! Please! Help! Dean! DEANNNNNNNN!!!"
Dean curled into himself, knees up around to his face, bleeding hands over his ears, trying to block out the cries of a little brother whom he failed to save, failed in more ways than he could count. He screamed and howled in concert with Sam's cries. And he felt worthless. It was all his fault.
Bobby heard the first smash of the windshields in the salvage yard. Without heed to his own condition, or his own safety, he wheeled himself out to the yard as quickly as he possibly could, and he found Dean, he found hi smashing, yelling, crying, and then bloodying his hands. He was stunned. He was paralyzed. He couldn't go to the boy, he couldn't make himself wheel out to the kid and do anything. Because he realized belatedly there was nothing he could do for the youth. He was miserable, and there wasn't anything anyone could do for him, except for one. He was down in the panic room detoxing from demon blood.
When Dean was curled up against the Impala, bloody hands dripping down the side of Dean's face, and screaming wordlessly, Bobby finally managed to wheel himself to the young man.
"Dean?" Bobby said gently.
"Go away! It's my fault!" He screamed.
"Go away! Go. I'll get you dead. Go away!"
"Dean Aaron Winchester you will straighten up this instant." The order snapped Dean out of the hysteria and allowed him to focus on Bobby's eyes. The tears didn't stop, but the screaming, and the kicking, and the howling did.
Dean visibly swallowed and then looked up at Bobby again. "He threw up blood on the way here." He said slowly almost as if he were in a trance. "I was scared that he was bleeding internally, scared that he was going to die. Sam looked at me, wiped his face, and said that it was the blood he'd drank." Dean looked away from Bobby, tears flowing faster down his face. "I don't know what to do. I don't know. Famine destroyed something in Sammy. He broke my little brother, and now he's in the panic room screaming in pain and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I can't make this better Bobby. It's all my fault. It's all my fault." Dean said and his face pinched again, and Bobby remembered that from Dean's childhood, when his face pinched, Dean was going to sob, and sob he did. Bobby wheeled himself as close to the younger man as possible and put a hand on his shoulder.
"Son. We'll be okay. You'll be okay. You're brother just needs a few days. He'll be good as new again. You taught Sam how to be resilient. You taught him that Dean. Come on Son, get up. Your hands are a mess, you are a mess. We need to get you inside.
Dean looked up at Bobby, his eyes brimming over with constant tears. Bobby extended a hand and Dean took it. He stood up and started to walk towards the house, Bobby wheeling just behind him.