AN: Sorry again for the wait, guys. Midterms suck the life out of me. :P Hopefully I'll have more time now that they are done. Thanks again to all who are reading and reviewing. :)

You're Not Alone

– – Chapter Three – –

More Problems

"Sam and I don't need you. Your brother left you; left you alone to take care of me while he ran off to live the normal life. He didn't care what you thought, what you wanted. You asked him not to leave, you begged him. But he didn't care. He just left. He didn't really need you, and he never will. What could you possibly give this family? You're useless. Pathetic. A waste of space. We don't need you now and we never will. I could never love you."

Dean felt his heart tearing open in his chest, his precious lifeblood bleeding out into the rest of his body, soaking his lungs and filling his throat. He tried to scream, to yell, to cry, but nothing came out but a gurgled choke. He choked on his own blood, fighting against the darkness threatening to suffocate him. His father's voice echoed in his head as the pain got worse. He gasped for air and found only blood, and then he couldn't fight it anymore. He tried to scream one last time, tried to beg his father one last time to make the pain stop, but he couldn't. He gave himself up to the darkness, tasting nothing but blood, feeling nothing but pain, and seeing nothing but his father telling him that he could never love him.

"Never love you, never love you, never-"

Dean shot up in bed, a silent scream on his lips, and he clutched at his chest, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. He wouldn't have been surprised to find wounds there, slowly bleeding down his body. But when he looked down, panting heavily, he saw no telltale signs of red, and he didn't feel any moisture. All he felt was a series of long scars under his hand, and he could feel the blood pumping away quickly behind them. Dean let out a deep breath, trying hard to ignore the aching burn in his chest as he lifted his head, still panting harshly, to check his surroundings.

He took in the room around him: the table and chairs, the TV, the sink, the dresser, and the feeling of scratchy sheets under him. And eventually, he remembered where he was, and painful memories of the past 24 hours (had it really only been 24 hours?) came flooding back to him. Dean had exiled himself to the beach behind the cabin for a long time after the sun finally went down. Sam had come to him to tell him that he had fallen asleep in the car, and that he was worried because Dean had been out in the cold and the dark for so long, and that they should probably get some food and a good night's sleep because Dean had to be hungry and tired. Dean hadn't admitted it to him, but he was exhausted, the past day having taken far too much out of him.

Sam had driven them to a diner, where Dean had gotten yet another bowl of soup and only eaten a few bites.

Sam hadn't said a word to him about it.

In fact, Sam hadn't said a word to him all night since he had told Dean they should leave the cabin. All he had said was, "Do you want to find a hotel in the city?" and when Dean had nodded, that had been the end of it. Sam had found them a cheap motel in El Dorado, where they had checked in and Sam had headed off for a shower. Dean had changed into a T-shirt and boxers mindlessly, more out of habit than any desire to be comfortable, climbed into bed, and faced the wall. When Sam had come out of the shower, gotten dressed, and sat on his own bed, Dean could feel Sam staring at his back, and Dean knew his brother desperately wanted to talk to him.

But Dean didn't want to talk. About anything.

Ever.

So he had continued to face the wall until, finally, Sam had climbed under his covers and faced his own wall. Five minutes later, Sam had fallen asleep without so much as a "Goodnight," and Dean had stayed awake for almost an hour, staring aimlessly at the wall across from him, trying, and failing, to not dwell on anything. Dad's death, the past...the look on Sam's face when Dean just couldn't talk to him. He had fallen asleep with that look of despair, loss, and sadness burned into his eyes.

And now, as Dean turned toward his brother's bed, he found himself greeted by the same sight. Sam was sitting up in his bed, staring silently at Dean, who was still breathing heavily and clutching his chest. Dean watched Sam stare at him silently, imploringly, begging him to just for the love of God open up and tell him what was bothering him and why he couldn't sleep and how
Dad's death was affecting him.

Dean stared at that look in his brother's eyes, wanting so desperately to make that hurt look disappear.

But he couldn't.

Dean sighed and let go of his chest, ignoring the gentle throb, and he lay back down, facing the wall, and said, "Go back to sleep, Sam."

Dean was glad he wasn't facing his brother, because he was pretty sure that if he had to see the look of hurt that was undoubtedly gracing his brother's face, he'd fall apart.

More so than he already had.

He closed his eyes, trying not to imagine the look on Sam's face, ignoring his brother staring daggers into his back.

Finally, he heard the bed creak and Sam shuffle off to the bathroom.

Dean sighed and closed his eyes. He felt bad for doing this to Sam, but Dean just couldn't open up to him. He couldn't let Sam see how vulnerable he was; how messed up.

How broken.

Dean had to be the strong one for Sammy. He was the big brother. It was his job.

It was what Dad would have wanted.

Dean sighed as images of his father telling him he could never love him rose unbidden to his mind. He fought hard to get a handle on the millions of emotions churning through him at once.

"Sam and I don't need you. What could you possibly give this family? You're useless. Pathetic. I could never love you."

Dean flinched as his father's words washed over him for the millionth time. This time, he hadn't just heard his father's voice in his head. His father had said it right out loud to him. And now Dean couldn't remember that his father had been possessed when he'd said that. All he could think was that his father had really said that to him, and that he had meant it. Dean was too far gone, too confused, had repressed too much, and now he was confusing his dreams with reality. He couldn't tell the difference anymore.

Dad had meant what he said. Sam didn't need him. Sam had a normal life, college, and friends that he wanted to go back to. Sam didn't need Dean to hold him back. And Dad…Dean had done everything for his father. He had given him everything he'd ever had.

But it wasn't enough. His father didn't love him before he died, and now that he was dead, he never would.

Dean gasped softly as the realization hit him hard. He held his arms closer to his chest and pulled his legs up, trying fruitlessly to protect himself from the realization that nobody needed him or loved him. He fought back the tears he could feel rising in his eyes. Tears were a sign of weakness. Tears-

"Dean?"

Dean yanked himself from his internal battle, flinching slightly at the sudden intrusion.

Sammy…

Dean could feel him standing over him, looking down at him, but he couldn't see his face. Dean tried hard not to look up at Sam. He didn't want to see the false concern in his eyes. He didn't know what to do. Even if Sam didn't need him, Dean still needed his brother. He would never admit it to him, but Dean needed Sam more than anything right now.

Loved him more than anything.

And because Dean knew that Sam didn't need him, because Dean felt too messed up inside, he continued to push Sam away.

Dean pulled the covers further up his body and turned his head down to face the mattress, turning his back on his brother, the one person who, unbeknownst to Dean, wanted more than anything to help him. Who needed him more right now than he ever had.

"Dean, please-"

"Don't, Sam. Go back to sleep. I'm okay," Dean said in a quiet monotone.

Dean continued to stare a hole in the bedspread, praying that Sam would just give up and leave him alone.

Finally, Sam turned away and walked back to his bed in silence. Dean heard Sam lay down and pull the covers over himself. He listened to Sam breathing a few feet away from him, and he continued to stare at the mattress, trying to count the horrid flowers in the dark; trying hard to ignore the thoughts and memories and emotions tidal waving through his mind and heart, threatening to crush him. He didn't want to fall asleep. He didn't want to go back into that horrible nightmare; didn't want to relive that horrible night.

But Dean didn't think that being awake was any better.

So he continued to listen to Sam's breathing. He listened for what felt like forever. He listened until Sam's breathing finally slowed down and eventually settled into the gentle, even breath of sleep.

Eventually, Dean began to feel the inevitable pull of sleep yet again, just as the sun was beginning to peek through the curtains. He heard Sam shift on the other bed and heard his breathing increase as he woke up, but Dean couldn't fight it anymore, and he let the sleep take him.

He thought he heard Sam sniffle once before he fell asleep, but he figured he probably just imagined it.

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Dean stared hard into his glass of water, wishing fiercely that it were coffee. Or beer. Or whiskey. Something that could chase away the pain and make him numb. He took a small sip and put it down, turning toward the plate of pancakes Sam had insisted on getting him. Usually, Dean loved pancakes. He could eat more of them than even Sam's bottomless pit of a stomach could handle. Dean loved pancakes and Sam knew it.

But Dean had only eaten a few bites of his pancakes since he had gotten them ten minutes ago. He knew he should feel hungry, but he just wasn't. He looked up to find Sam halfway done with his own breakfast, and Dean looked quickly back down at his pancakes when Sam raised his eyes to meet Dean's own. Dean picked up his fork, intending to eat some, to do anything to get Sam to stop glaring at him like he wanted to force the food down his throat and burst out crying all at the same time. Dean took a few small bites before putting down his fork. Suddenly, the silence at the table became deafening, and all Dean wanted to do was get away.

"I'm going to the bathroom," he said quietly. He got out of his chair and prepared to walk away.

"Sit," Sam growled. Dean looked down in surprise to find Sam glaring at him with the most deadly look Dean could ever remember seeing on his brother's face. Dean was so taken aback at the fierce tone that he instantly obeyed, mouth slightly agape.

"Sam, what-"

"I know you may not feel hungry," Sam said, and Dean could practically feel Sam's anger flowing at him from across the table. "But you need to eat something."

"Sam-"

"I'm serious, Dean. I'm not letting you leave this table until you've eaten something."

Dean stared at Sam like he had two heads. Sam rarely ordered him around. Sure, he voiced his opinion whenever he got the chance, but his tone and words had never been so forceful. Suddenly, Dean felt angry.

"Who the hell do you think you are? Dad?"

Dean saw the flash of pain behind Sam's eyes and he ignored it.

"No, I'm your brother," he said, and Dean noticed Sam's voice and face soften a bit. "I'm trying to help you."

"Yeah? Well I don't need your help," Dean said, standing up and taking a step away from the table.

"Dean." Sam practically growled his name again, and Dean felt Sam wrap his hand tightly around his wrist.

"Let go of me, Sam," he said, glaring daggers at his brother.

"No," Sam replied angrily, gripping Dean's wrist tighter. Without warning, Dean felt a small surge of…something…travel up his arm from his wrist. He flinched at the sudden feeling and looked at Sam, trying hard to mask the fear he felt at what had just happened. Sam had told him about the odd behavior he had exhibited around the paramedics when they were trying to revive him. But there was no way Sam could be that angry with him.

Was there?

Dean saw Sam's eyes go slightly wide in reaction to Dean's flinching and look of fear, and Sam let him go as quickly as if he himself had been the one to be shocked. He rubbed softly at the offending hand with his other, and Dean could only stand watching in fascination. Was Sam really that upset with him?

"I'm sorry," Sam said quietly, gazing at his hand as though he wanted nothing more than for it to chop it off.

"It's okay," Dean said out of habit.

Suddenly, Dean really wanted to get away.

This time, as he headed for the bathroom, Sam didn't try to stop him.

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Dean came out ten minutes later slightly calmer and with the resolution in his mind to at least eat some of his food. If it would get Sam off his back, get rid of some of the anger and resentment Dean knew his brother was harboring toward him, he would do it.

He arrived back at their table and was surprised to find Sam at the bar talking to two strangers. Dean frowned and sat down at their table. Sam never talked to strangers. What was he up to?

Dean picked up his fork and began to slowly eat his pancakes, but his eyes never left Sam.

Five minutes later, Dean had eaten as much as he could stomach of his food, which turned out to be about half of the stack of pancakes and a good deal of the bacon. He was sipping slowly at his water when Sam walked back over to him and sat down. Dean didn't miss the small smile that flashed quickly over Sam's face as he surveyed Dean's half eaten meal, but the smile was quickly replaced by a look that Dean knew all to well. It was a mixture of intrigue, confusion, and thoughtfulness.

It was the look Sam got every time they found out about a new hunt.

Only this time, Dean could see a look of fear and sadness in his eyes as well. Dean put down his water and looked at Sam, frowning slightly.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Sam looked back toward the men, who were talking quickly and animatedly to each other, and then back at Dean, sighing softly.

"Something happened at Chelsea Cemetery."

Dean felt his recently eaten pancakes rise up in his throat.

"What…when…"

"Sometime last night. Someone's grave was dug up. The coffin was broken open. Someone…someone's body was…mutilated, and…"

Dean fought hard not to throw up. This couldn't be happening. They had just buried their father…

"Dad? Sam, is it-"

"I don't know," Sam said softly, and Dean noticed Sam's eyes fill with tears.

"We have to go, Dean."

Dean put his elbows on the table and rested his head in his hands. This was unreal. Everything. The past month, the past few weeks, yesterday, this morning…none of it could be happening.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?" Dean asked, knowing what his brother was going to say.

"We have to check this out. We have to go back there."

Dean closed his eyes, fighting to keep his food down and the anger, pain, and sadness at bay. He had sworn to himself he would never go back there. He was going to put Dad, Mom, and his entire past behind him. He was going to move on. And now Sam wanted him to go back there?

"Sam, I…."

"We have to," Sam said, and Dean looked up at his brother and felt his heart flutter in his chest when he saw the tears in Sam's eyes.

"Dean-"

"Ok, Sammy," Dean said so quietly he wasn't sure Sam would hear him.

But he did.

"Now?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Dean replied.

Sam nodded silently and flagged down their waitress. Dean told Sam he would be right back, and he walked quickly toward the bathroom, where he flung himself into a stall and threw up everything he had just eaten into the toilet. He knelt on the ground, his body shaking slightly as he heaved until there was nothing left.

Five minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom to find Sam waiting by their table. Sam looked at him questioningly, and Dean knew that he must still look pale. He had tried his best to cover up what had just happened, but nothing could hide the gentle shaking that had taken over his body.

"Dean, are you-"

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean said dismissively. "Let's go."

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On the painfully short ride back to Chelsea Cemetery, Sam told Dean what the men had told him. Someone had gone to visit the cemetery in the early morning hours to stumble across a freshly dug pile of dirt. Whoever it was had approached cautiously and found a coffin lying broken open in a freshly dug hole. The person who had discovered it hadn't caught the name on the tombstone above the grave, having been too shocked by the "horribly mutilated body" they had found inside. Sam hadn't found out any details about the condition of the body. They didn't know whose body it was or even if anything supernatural had desecrated it. Dean could think of a thousand supernatural things that could have dug up a body, and none of them were pretty. He would have to see it to know for sure.

As Sam continued to drive faster than was legal, Dean quietly berated his own stupidity. He knew why he hadn't burned Dad's body like his father had always told him to; why he had disobeyed his father's wishes. He just couldn't believe he was gone. He could not accept that his father would never talk to him again. Never go hunting with him again. Never yell at him again, order him around again, or tell him to watch out for Sammy again. Dean just couldn't accept it. Burning Dad's body seemed too final, and as much as the part of Dean that was a hunter demanded that he burn his father's body, as much as the part of him that was a good soldier commanded that he follow his father's orders, the part of Dean that was a son – a scared, heartbroken little boy – just couldn't do it. So he had buried his father's body in a coffin in the ground. Sam had been surprised to hear that Dean had had it buried, but he had never questioned it.

Until now.

"Dean, why didn't you burn Dad's body? I thought that was one of our unwritten family rules. Dad always said-"

"I don't give a shit what Dad always said," Dean answered harshly. He really did not want to justify his actions to Sam. Not now, not ever.

"But Dean-"

"Just drop it, Sam, okay? I wasn't thinking straight. Dad was dead, I almost died, and you suddenly developed a bunch of creepy new psychic abilities. I wasn't thinking straight."

Dean turned from Sam to gaze out the window at the swiftly passing scenery.

Finally, Sam sighed loudly and kept his gaze on the road. Neither of them said another word until Sam had pulled the car off to the side of the road outside the cemetery. Police cars were blocking the entrance, where a small crowd of people had gathered to try and see what was going on inside.

Sam reached over Dean to pull Dean's box of badges out of the glovebox. He came back with two federal marshal's badges, much like the ones they had used when Dean had pulled Sam out of Stanford a year ago. He handed one to Dean, took one for himself, and put the box back.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Dean? I can go by myself if you don't want to. You don't have to-"

"I'll go, Sam." As much as Dean had vowed to himself to never come back here, it was more important that he know his father's body was still intact. That he know the memory of his father was still resting peacefully beneath the earth.

That he know no evil bastard of a person or supernatural being had dared to mess with his father when he and his brother were still grieving their lose.

"Okay," Sam replied. "You ready?"

Dean didn't trust himself to speak, so instead he nodded and got quietly out of the car. He stood by his door, gazing at the police cars blocking the entrance.

Before Sam exited the car, Dean clearly heard his brother say, "Please, God. Don't let it be Dad."

TBC...