Worth Living For

by Swanseajill

Part Six

Yellow eyes bored into green, gleaming with malice. His father's face loomed inches from his own, breath warm on his cheek, whispered words laced with venom.

"You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is they don't need you."

"No." Dean shook his head in denial. "That's a lie."

"Sam? He's clearly John's favorite. Even when they fight, it's more concern than he's ever shown you."

No. That had to be a lie, too. Dad did care. He had to care.

Yellow morphed into brown and malice faded into anguish. "I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry, Dean…"

Dad's face splintered into a thousand pieces, and when the image reformed, Dean found himself staring into his own reflection. Eyes full of despair locked with his and he was unable to tear his gaze away as the other Dean began to speak.

"So you still think he cares? Sure he does. He cares so much that he left you two years ago, no note, no explanation, nothing. He cares so much that he didn't bother to call back when Sam told him you were dying from a damaged heart."

Oh, god. He didn't want to think about either of those things, because deep down, it still hurt. He shook his head.

The reflection drove its point home. "He cares so much that he tried to kill you at the cabin."

"That wasn't Dad! He was possessed. He fought it, made it stop."

Dean's other self laughed bitterly. "Ah, but he tortured you for long enough first, didn't he? You know you still relive the pain in your dreams. How can you forget the unbearable agony as he ripped you apart bit by bit?"

"It wasn't his fault," Dean insisted stubbornly.

"It wasn't his fault," his reflection mimicked scathingly. "He almost let it kill you, and you're still defending him? Do you really think he'd have taken so long to break free if it had been Sam who was suffering? I don't think so. Sam's his favorite and you know it. He proved it again when he chose to sacrifice you so that Sam could live."

Pain sliced through his heart at the memory, but Dean retorted defiantly, "That was the right choice. I'd have done the same thing."

"Really? Yeah, I suppose you would. Okay then, let's talk about Sam."

"No!" He couldn't take any more. He needed to bury the pain, not have it thrust in his face. He tried to look away but couldn't move or break the reflection's gaze.

It folded its arms and went on. "Little Sammy, your devoted brother. You've always been there for him, Dean. You've given up so much for him, and in return he left you for a life he didn't want you to be part of."

"He had his reasons. It took courage to leave…"

"He cares so much," it went on, as if he hadn't spoken, "that he tried to kill you in the asylum in Rockford, told you clearly that he hates you, that he thinks you're pathetic."

"I'm not pathetic, like you."

"He didn't mean it. It was Ellicott…"

"And when this is all over, when you've found what you've been hunting all these years, he's going to leave you alone – again. What will you have left then?"

"Nothing." He whispered the word, feeling despair overriding defiance, knowing he couldn't hide from the truth any longer.

His reflection continued relentlessly, every word hitting Dean like a punch to the gut. "You really are pathetic, Dean. You try so hard to please Daddy, and why? Because you're desperate for his approval, like Sam said? Because you love him? Don't make me laugh. He doesn't love you, Dean. Oh, you might be the good little soldier you try so hard to be, but you're expendable. He's proved that. And Sam… he doesn't really love you, either. Not like you love him. The demon was right. They don't need you, either of them. They can get along just fine without you."

"No." His voice broke on the word. "It's not… it's not like that."

"It's exactly like that."

Dean's reflection moved, floating forward and merging into him until they were one. He heard its final words as a whisper in his head.

"Oh, really? It's time to be a man, and face the truth. And when you have, you can answer this question. Just what the hell is the point of going on?"

Dean burst into consciousness, lurching upright and gasping as the movement sent a spasm of agony through his back. He looked around wildly, gaze flicking around the standard-issue motel room. Dressing table, chairs, a small desk. Another bed, with the sheet in a crumpled heap in the middle.

He lay back down slowly. He was breathing too fast and his head felt fuzzy. Afraid to close his eyes just in case reality faded, he lay still for a long while, staring at the ceiling, trying to calm his thumping heart. Shit. He must have had a nightmare. One monstrous, bad-assed nightmare.

After a while, he turned his head to glance at his cell on the nightstand. Ten a.m.! Sam was usually kicking him out of bed at 7:30. He glanced over at the other bed. It was empty, and he realized then that he could hear the shower running.

He sat up, carefully this time in deference to his bruised back and the lingering headache, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The events of last night were coming back to him now. Rose Cottage and the attack by the spirit – no wonder he'd been having nightmares. He had to pull himself together before Sam came back into the room. His brother didn't need any more of his shit right now.

Still, hard as he tried, he couldn't work up the energy to move. A blanket of gloom descended on him and he found himself dreading the day ahead. Here they were in yet another good-for-nothing little town, doing the hero thing again, but what was the point? Sure, they'd probably identify the spirit, dispel it with a quick salt and burn, and be on their way. But it would just be replaced by another ghost, and another. Their attempts to make a difference were pathetic, at best. And when they eventually found The Demon, what then?

Sam would leave. Again.

What did it matter, after all, if Sam saw him falling apart? What did anything matter? Shit, he was tired. So bone-achingly, mind-numbingly tired of everything. It would be so good to go to sleep and never wake up again. Then there'd be no more pain, no more struggling. No more – anything.

He reached under the pillow for his knife, the one he always kept there, just in case. Just in case something attacked them in the night. Just in case he needed it. He held it in his hand, running his fingers over the razor-sharp blade, and thought how easy it would be to draw it across his throat, to feel the blood, thick and hot as it ran down his hand. It would be so easy, so quick, and then there'd be no more pain…

Sam stepped out of the shower, toweled off and dressed quickly, trying to make as little noise as possible. He had left Dean sleeping soundly and planned for him to stay that way as long as possible. Neither of them had got much sleep the night before. Dean had slept fitfully, plagued by nightmares, and after the first few times he had woken shouting and drenched in sweat, Sam had pulled a blanket off his own bed and settled down in a chair beside Dean's, one hand resting on his brother's arm. He knew that Dean would have been mortified had be been conscious enough to witness this coddling, but Sam's presence had seemed to settle him, and that was all that mattered.

He frowned as he thought back to the supernatural encounter at Rose Cottage. Not that such an occurrence was unusual, but a run-in with a vengeful spirit was so what Dean didn't need right now. He really was a magnet for trouble, and Sam was getting heartily sick of watching him suffer.

He was also worried about the possible lingering effects of the encounter, although despite the headache and a slight fever, Dean had seemed more exhausted than hurt. So exhausted that he had allowed Sam to pull off his boots and jeans, and practically tuck him in with nothing more than a token grunt of resistance.

Sam rubbed a hand over his eyes, gritty from lack of sleep. He could do with another couple of hours, but he also wanted to get out there and track down this spirit. He had a bad feeling about that cottage and this case, and he wanted nothing more than to get the job done and get his brother out of town.

When he opened the door, he expected to see Dean in the same position he'd left him, curled on his side, fast asleep. But Dean wasn't asleep. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, one hand gripping his knife, the fingers of the other running slowly back and forth across the open blade. Sam's heart lurched. He'd seen Dean handle the knife a hundred times before, but never like this. Never hunched up in a posture that cried despair, and never with blood trickling down his hand.

"Dean?" he called sharply.

Dean's head shot up, his expression startled. "What?"

"Dean, what are you doing with the knife?"

Dean put the knife down on the bed and his brow furrowed as he looked at the blood seeping through his fingers. "I… nothing. I was just cleaning it. What's the problem?"

What's the problem? "Well to start with, you're bleeding," Sam said, trying to keep his tone casual.

Dean shrugged. "It's just a nick. Chill, all right?"

"Dean…"

"Can it, dude. I'm gonna catch a shower, then we can get some breakfast and go get this thing done."

As the bathroom door closed behind his brother, Sam sank down on the bed. For just an instant, when Dean had first looked up, Sam had seen a look of total desolation in his eyes. He must have imagined it. Of course he'd imagined it. He was just being paranoid after everything that had happened, and that was the last thing Dean needed right now. Still, he'd keep a close eye on his brother until they finished the job. Then, maybe, he'd persuade Dean that they needed a vacation.

A nice, long vacation.