A/N - I'm so sorry, this was supposed to be the last chapter, but it was just becoming a behemoth as I wrote it, so I needed to split it up. I also didn't want to keep you hanging too long from the last chapter. I will have the final chapter (I promise this time) chock full of comforty goodness out in just a couple of days. Thank you all so much for your reviews, follows and favs! I've never had a story get this much attention, I appreciate it so much!

I'm gonna suffer for the rest of my life

But I will always find a way to survive

I'm not a failure, but I know what it's like

I can take it or leave it or die

"Sulfur" by Slipknot

As his hand closed more firmly around the knife's handle, Dean felt something different than just the smooth wood against his index finger. A series of slight indentions, worn nearly away from the constant pressure of fingers against it. It didn't sink in right away what they were. The feeling against his skin was familiar, part of the knife, so it's not something he often thought about separate from it. It was his Dad's initials carved into the handle. There was something almost poetic about using this knife to kill himself, seeing as how he had used it to make his first kill. Now it would make his last one.

He lifted the knife and turned it so it caught the flame bouncing around on the candle, flaring a sharp arc of light into his eyes. That stabbing brightness was enough to thinly pierce the darkness filling his head, giving him something to focus on that wasn't steering him towards suicide. It allowed him a moment to let the memory of how he got this knife to calm his chaotic mind, shoving aside all the images and sounds of his failures that been flipping by like a sadistic Rolodex. Now there was only silence and that memory, vivid and complete. In that space, he was able to breathe, regroup. He was able to find something he had lost.

"My Dad gave me this," Dean observed softly, looking upon the knife in reflection. "He got it when he was just a kid." The rathra had stood and stepped back from him again, but Dean wasn't looking at it. He was just glad that it was no longer touching him. "He took me out hunting for a skinwalker. I was eleven. I wasn't even really backup, it was just to get my toes wet. I was really just supposed to stay in the car."

"Dean, why are you just delaying the inevitable?" it asked him in smarmy concern.

"I heard him scream," Dean continued, completely ignoring the rathra, eyes still caught and transfixed by the shine on the knife, thumb now stroking over the initials. He was lost in his own head now and for once, he wanted to stay there for a bit. "So I ran out to help him. Didn't think twice about it, just heard he was in trouble and started running."

"Do you really want to go back down memory lane, boy? It's not been the safest place for you." It was starting to sound annoyed now, and Dean felt a swift rush of satisfaction. It felt good after the desolation that had started to seize him again, forcing him to consider putting that knife in a vein.

"The skinwalker was on top of him, just slashing at him with his claws. Dad was trying to push it off, but it had him pinned. There was so much blood, it was just flying everywhere and Dad was screaming. I was so scared and I just froze up. It was the shtriga all over again. But it only lasted a second. I'm not sure what happened exactly, but I had Dad's knife, this knife, in my hand. He must have lost it during the struggle. I stabbed that skinwalker over and over again until it was long past dead. Dad had to stop me," he said barely above a whisper, afraid that speaking too loud would dissipate the moment. He was feeling again the terror that he was about to watch his father die and the frozen shock that had filled him when he had seen what he'd done, but it was a pale reflection of what it had felt like at the time.

"Are you sure that's what happened? That you can trust your own memory?" the rathra asked, calm and cunning again.

"Shut up and listen to me now," Dean growled, finally meeting its strange gray eyes again with a narrowed stare. He let the tension in his face relax as he returned to the memory. "I was so freaked out that I threw up all over Dad. Man, there aren't enough words to describe how dead I thought I was. First, I had disobeyed Dad and left the car. Second, I didn't even think to grab my gun when I saw what was happening and it was right in my waistband. Third, I barfed all over him. Not a shining moment. I was expecting him to chew me up one side and down the other, but he didn't. You know what he did?" he asked, continuing to stare the rathra down.

Not allowing it to answer, Dean plowed on. "He hugged me and let me cry. Said I did a good job, that he he was proud of me. Now on the way home, he lit into me like I expected, but the next day he gave me this knife. He said I was a hunter now and I needed a hunter's knife, not my little pigsticker. And the way he looked at me…God I remember it even now." Dean's head fell back against the chair, a weary smile curving his lips. "It was like he was seeing something in me that was good, that was perfect. I felt right, like I had finally done something worthy."

"But it didn't last, did it?" the rathra jumped in. 'What was it, a couple of days before he went back to treating you like a well trained dog, barking out orders like you were a simpleton? A week before he left you alone to take care of your brother with too little money, his disappointment and blame coming across loud and clear the phone when you told him there wasn't enough. Eleven years old and he didn't care what you had to do to make up the shortfall as long as he didn't have to be bothered with it. That's what you're holding onto? You really think that's the way a parent treats a child they care about?" it sneered.

"No," Dean said simply. "Not a normal parent, not a normal child. But we're different. Dad did that because he trusted me to handle it and I did. It wasn't always pretty, and yeah, I gave more than I got, but I accept that. Family means taking the good with the bad, it means hurting sometimes and not holding it against them, because you can't walk away from family."

"I think that's a one way street in the Winchester household, Dean. He walked away from you just fine when you were fighting that black dog," it reminded him shrewdly.

That did hit Dean a little harder than he would have liked to admit. Dad had walked away from him, there was no denying that. He had seen it and it had torn him up, cut loose that last little lifeline he had been clinging to.

"It hurt you so much that you just gave up. You were going to let that dog kill you, weren't you, Dean?" it asked, echoing the path his thoughts were starting to take.

"No, it was because of what you did to me. You poisoned me, made me feel like this!" Dean shouted, pointing an accusing finger at the monster still taking on Sam's appearance. It was the only explanation. This thing was the reason he had been feeling like the world was not just ending, but fucking over, lately. It wasn't him, he was still the Dean Sammy described, he was. It's just that he was being attacked, poisoned. It wasn't him.

It was laughing again, but this time it didn't sound like Sam's. It was something alien and foreign, so evil and rotten that it made Dean's stomach clench in reactionary fear and sickness. It was changing, Sam's form disappearing under a growing darkness, a vague shape of black smoke, two gray eyes glowing out of all that gloom. It seemed to suck in all the light, all the air, until Dean was gasping for breath. Dean felt a shiver of apprehension erupt over his body at the sight, but he was mostly relieved that it was no longer perverting his brother's image.

"You and I didn't meet until after that attack, my dear boy." The voice was thin and light, almost as insubstantial as the form itself. It seemed like he was mostly hearing it in his head, the sinuous voice winding its way around the cracks and crevices in his brain like vapor. Its revelation poured inside, drowning Dean's rising defiance, once again exposing his weakness.

"I came and visited you while you were laying there helpless in your bed, feeling so sorry for yourself. Why do you think I came to you in the first place? All that pain and despair, it was the most glorious taste on my tongue. I couldn't wait to swallow down everything you had to offer and there is so much," it sighed longingly.

"No," Dean denied faintly, all the strength his memory had given him abandoning him abruptly, his head hanging down low, his eyes once again fixed on the knife still clenched in his hand. He didn't, he wouldn't. This thing was lying, it was just trying to trip him up, pull him back down so he would give it what it wanted. He knew he had been in a bad head space, knew that he had stopped fighting the dog, but it was because of the rathra. It had to be. He wouldn't have left his family like that, he wouldn't just give up.

"Yes. That little suicide attempt? That was all you, Dean. You saw Daddy turn his back and just figured you would do everyone a favor and let the dog finish you off. Poor, unloved Dean. Couldn't take the subtle hints, had to wait until it was presented in neon flashing lights." It was all mocking sympathy now, taking vicious advantage of his uncertainty.

It had moved closer, the dark, smoky tendrils only inches from wrapping around him. Dean jerked away, but found he was tied to the chair again, the knife gone from his hand like it had just vanished. Agony rose up within him at his movements, fresh blood starting to soak his skin. The wounds were all back and Dean knew what that meant. He was losing valuable ground, ground he couldn't afford to lose.

"You didn't need me to see your true path, Dean. You've had yourself on death row for years, just going through the motions, waiting. You just finally decided to hit the switch. One last decision that would free you, free your family. Sammy's practically grown up, he doesn't need you anymore, which means your Dad doesn't either. Why not save yourself the pain of having them throw you away? Because they will and you know it. People don't keep broken things that have no use anymore," it stated, that black smoke starting to drift over his skin. It was cold and felt like ashes, but wasn't something he could grasp, couldn't fight physically.

He couldn't think clearly, couldn't get enough air in his lungs, the pain in his body an inconvenience next to the agonizing defeat of that hole inside him that he had been trying to close ripping open again, more despair and resignation pouring inside. It was almost gone, that once robust beacon Sammy had left inside him, eradicated and reduced to the last pathetic flickerings of a dying flashlight.

"You've fought a good fight, but you were always going to lose. No one escapes me. You are mine, Dean," it whispered.

It was so close now that Dean could no longer see anything but the darkness that was its form, was breathing in the smoke and ash that made up its body. He couldn't move, was completely frozen in the chair, but there was something that had fired inside him that was helping him to find his center, think about something other than ending his pain.

"No, I'm not yours. I belong to the two people out there that are waiting for me," he ground out, pulling futilely at his ropes again.

The rathra reared back, allowing Dean to draw in a full, cleansing breath.

"They aren't waiting for you. If you wake up, you wake up. If you don't, oh well. They don't care, Dean, no matter how much you want them to. You are by far the most pathetic creature I've ever come across, hanging on to where you aren't wanted. Come with me, Dean. I want you. I want you more than that sad example of a family ever could," it coaxed him.

"It doesn't matter if they don't care. I do. That's been enough for me for fourteen years. It will be again," Dean replied with a shrug.

He could feel the weight of its stare on him, considering and contemplating. Then it was moving again, that hazy dark cloud starting to reach for him. He sat still and watched it come. He was worn out, both physically and mentally from trying to hold it together, and he felt like at any moment he would just crack wide open, blood and viscera flying everywhere. He couldn't attack in his usual fashion, no amount of physical brutality was going to free him from this thing. Dad had said he had to fight it with good emotions, feed it things it couldn't handle. Well, Dean didn't have much of those, but did have something, it had always been his to fall back on. He had forgotten it recently, had been foolish enough to flail against it, but in the end, he still had this.

"Is that really all you have to fight me with, little hunter? Acceptance?" it scoffed derisively.

"It's all I need."

Most might not think that acceptance could be a gift, a strength, Sammy probably hated that one trait of his most all, but it was the one that Dean treasured most. It kept him going, kept him looking forward, helped him store away the things that hurt him. It was why he was able to get up after being kicked by his family over and over again.

He wasn't as complacent as he might appear. He knew his Dad was significantly lacking as a father, that he leaned on Dean for far too much, far too soon. He knew that Dad took for granted that Dean would always handle things without fuss, that he would manage to morph himself into whatever he needed to be at any given time. Dad spent so much time on the hunt and telling Dean to take care of Sammy, that he often forgot that he might want to care about Dean, too. He never felt good enough for his Dad, never thought he measured up, no matter how hard he tried.

He accepted it, though.

Sam wasn't a little kid anymore, but he was still treated like one. Dean knew he both oppressed and coddled his little brother, that he had made him into the most important thing in his world, far too much pressure for a little kid. Sammy was testing his boundaries, trying to break past them, find his own place in their little family, while Dean did everything he could to keep the status quo. He just wanted to keep Sam safe, allow Sam to have more of a childhood than he did. But Sam didn't always understand that and, because he knew Dean so well, he knew exactly what to say and do to carve Dean's heart up. He would always apologize after and try to soften the blow, but the moment the words were said, it was already too late. Dean's greatest fear was that Sam would hate him someday, leave him alone, and every harsh word that spoke of how disappointed Sam was with him, burrowed into his soul to stay forever. Sometimes, nothing he did seemed to make Sam happy anymore.

But he accepted it.

Because at the end of it all, while he might sometimes almost choke on his resentment and anger towards his father's neglect and carelessness with his children, might want to shake Sammy until his teeth were rattling and tell him to stop changing the family dynamic and just accept things like he had, they were all the happiness he had in the world. Maybe he would always give more of himself than they would give to him, but that was okay because Dean did it to make himself happy. So he would know that he always did his best for them, no matter what happened. He wanted to be whatever they needed him to be, to try and give back what they gave to him. People always said they would die for their loved ones, but Dean had proven more than once that he truly would. Because living without one of them wasn't a life at all.

"It's not going to be enough," it warned him, breaking into his thoughts. "It's still all wrapped up in all those delicious, darker things inside your head. I'm going to drink it all down, Dean, right down to your soul," it promised with bravado, but it almost sounded uneasy now, not as certain.

"Maybe that won't be enough, but I have something else, too, something you won't like at all," Dean stated with a defiant smile. He was going to go full on chick flick moment, make Sammy proud. Dean almost wished Sam could see it, because he would never believe him if he told him about it later. If there was a later. This was his last stand. If this didn't get this thing off of him, he was done. He had nothing else to fight with.

"I love Sammy. I love my Dad. And, even though I lost sight of this for a while, I screw up all the time and they still love me, too. They accept me for all my flaws, like I accept them. Do I think they take me for granted sometimes? Yes, but I'm not perfect. Hell, I'm about as far from perfect as a person can be. I know I've done things to hurt and disappoint them and they still stand by me. Sam's the best thing that ever happened to me. He's a gift, something I don't deserve, but I got it anyway. Dad still comes home to us after every hunt, he still trusts me to take care of everything, believes that I can do it, even though I've messed it all up a million times. We're family, we have each other's backs, something you could never understand," he explained softly.

Something was happening with the rathra. The stronger Dean grew, his wounds fading away again, the ropes vanishing, the more transparent it seemed to become, the murky blackness thinning to a watery gray. Those unnatural eyes still glared out strongly from the mass, but they weren't filled with anticipatory glee anymore, there was only fear and confusion. Dean felt something like relief flood through him seeing some evidence that he was getting somewhere. Baring his soul was not exactly a typical battle tactic for him, he didn't really think it would work.

Now it was time to push his advantage. He had the thing on the ropes, it was time to finish it.

"They will leave you," it threatened desperately, trying to use his greatest fear to take him back down again. It wasn't going to work this time.

Standing, he advanced on the shrinking mist. "Yeah, probably. And it's going to hurt. It's going to tear me up inside and send me on another downward spiral where I'll have to deal with these feelings all over again. Bright side? Thanks to this little melodrama, I'll have had some practice. But they aren't leaving today and I'm done talking to you about things that are none of your business. But since you seem so interested in why I'm holding on, let me show you," Dean offered bitingly.

He opened up to it, let all the memories he had of Sammy and Dad, the ones that he treasured, to flood inside. Pushing Sammy on a swing, his little face full of smiles and laughter, telling Dean he was the best brother ever. Dad surprising him with a birthday cake right before midnight, a bare four minutes before it wouldn't have been his birthday anymore. He let the light, the gratitude, the love, fill him, mending all those little cracks that had formed inside him. He had cut these memories off from himself in his depression, had forgotten about them, convinced that he was nothing to his family. He had caused this, not Sam and Dad.

"No!" it screeched, lunging for him. "You will not escape me!"

He could feel it trying to push those memories aside, trying to pull out and present instead the things that ate at his soul, that had made him vulnerable to the rathra in the first place, but he didn't let it. He rallied against that invasive presence in his head, bombarding it with those good things Dad had told him to use.

Sammy's first word being "Dee", his chubby little hands smacking him on the chest while he smiled up at him with a toothless grin.

Dad gripping him tightly on the shoulder, smiling proudly at him, when Dean had salted and burned his first ghost.

Sammy in his school play, waving at Dean in the audience when he came on stage.

Dad wrapping him up in his leather jacket that Dean had been coveting for years after he'd fallen in that frozen river going after a black dog, telling him he could keep it, that it looked better on him even though it was still a few sizes too big.

Sitting on the couch watching movies with Sam, stuffing their faces with pizza and candy until they ended up falling asleep, Sam leaning against him.

Hours in the Impala, awesome music blasting over the speakers, all three of the Winchesters singing "Back in Black" at the top of their lungs, even Sammy who claimed to hate it.

They came faster and faster, just flashes, but bringing a peace and strength that Dean desperately needed. A thousand different memories, tiny and insignificant, pulled together to create an intricate tapestry of a family, of what Dean needed to live for. It reminded him that he was needed, that he was loved, even if he had forgotten that for a time.

The rathra was choking, gagging, on all that sentiment, its hold in his mind growing smaller and smaller, along with its form. It was no longer struggling to take him back over, it was trying to retreat. Dean wasn't exactly sure how he was doing it, but he was holding it, pushing all the love he had for his family into it, forcing it to drink it down like it had forced him to relive his pain.

"Don't seem to want everything I have to offer now, do you?" he mocked the now screeching thing, feeling his cockiest smirk twist his lips.

It seemed to take the derision personally, the remnants of its form gathering together for one last dive at him, but the smoke and ash was so reduced that he barely even noticed. It was losing its hold here, maybe even dying. Those gray eyes stabbed into him, filled with hate and rage.

"You may kill me, little hunter, but it won't change things for you. It doesn't fix you. You are broken, will always be broken. Happiness will never truly find you. Your life will just be endless pain and misery and that's all you will bring to those you love. So enjoy, Dean Winchester. Enjoy your travesty of a life and see how long it is before you take the way out I offered," it spat out, dimmed down to almost nothing now.

Those words felt like both a curse and a portent of the future and there was no refuting them. He didn't see a bright happy path for the rest of his life. That had been taken from him when his mother had died, when his father turned to vengeance. He'd been raised as a hunter, bred to be a killer and that's all he could see himself ever being. That kind of life promised nothing but strife and grief, with very few shining moments.

And he accepted it because he loved it. Saving people, hunting things…it was the family business. It was his business. Even after they finally got the thing that killed Mom, he couldn't imagine doing anything else.

"That's probably all true," he acknowledged ruefully. "But as long as I can take out evil sons of bitches like you, I'll make my peace with it, best I can."

It gave out one last unearthly howl and was gone. Before Dean could react, he was gone too.

TBC..