Worth Living For

by Swanseajill

Part Eight

Dean found the Moonstone Coffee and Gift Shop easily enough. It wasn't difficult to spot, with lime green-painted woodwork and windows haphazardly stuffed full of stone and wood-carved gifts and jewelry. The vibrant sign above the window carried the name of the shop and its proprietors – Sylvia Metz and Amber Jackson.

He paused outside for a moment, gathering the energy to go in.

He'd worked hard to convince Sam that everything was all right. He'd even taken time to flirt with the receptionist at the motel, though his heart wasn't in it. He thought he'd partially succeeded in fooling Sam, but the way his brother kept darting anxious glances his way when he thought Dean wasn't looking was getting irritating.

All morning he had struggled to shake off the blanket of depression that had descended on him as soon as he'd woken up. His brain felt filled with cotton wool and he was constantly assailed with distressing images and fragments of conversation. "You really are pathetic… They don't need you, either of them… I'm sorry, Dean. I'm sorry Dean. I'm sorry, Dean..."

He knew rationally that this downturn in spirits probably had as much to do with his recent encounter with a ghost as it did with the events back at the warehouse. That didn't help him deal with the depression that pressed in at him from all sides, nor the nagging feeling that he was beginning to lose his mind. Frankly, the very last thing he wanted to do right now was walk into that coffee shop and interrogate its owner about the death of her best friend. Add to all that the fact that his back ached and his head throbbed. What he wanted was to go back to the motel, curl up under the covers and shut out the world.

He took a deep breath, slowly blew it out and squared his jaw. This felt a lot like self-pity, and he didn't do self-pity. He took a determined step forward and pushed open the door.

The bell jangled as he entered and paused in the doorway for a moment, eyes scanning the interior. The right-hand side of the room was set up as a coffee shop, counter wedged into one corner and half a dozen wooden tables and chairs crowded into the remaining space. The other side was the gift shop, packed full of shelves and racks loaded with items similar to those he had seen in the window.

Several customers browsed through the gifts and one couple was seated at a table in the window. A blonde girl standing by the till near the door smiled at him as he walked past her to a table near the counter. A moment later, someone appeared at his elbow.

"What can I get you?"

Dean looked up. A woman in her mid-twenties, unruly auburn hair held back from her face with a clasp, laughing green eyes and dimples that deepened when she smiled, as she did now. An attractive woman. Very attractive.

Dean smiled back. "Actually, I'm not here for the coffee. I'm hoping you're gonna make my day and tell me you're Amber Jackson."

She pursed her lips, considering. "Well, I think my answer would depend on who's asking."

"My name's Dean Kent—"

"—and you're a journalist writing an article on unsolved mysteries of small-town America," she finished for him, eyes dancing.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Word travels fast in a small town."

"It does if your cousin happens to work as a barmaid in Charlie's Bar," she admitted with a grin. "It wasn't hard to figure out – you're just how she described you."

Dean leaned back and casually folded his arms. "Really? And how exactly did she describe me?"

"Ah, now that would be for me to know and you to wonder about."

Dean felt his depression lift slightly. He liked this girl. "Okay, well as you already know who I am, you'll know I'm researching the story of Rose Cottage. Think you could spare a few minutes to talk to me?"

Amber's smile faded. "You want to talk about Rhonda, don't you?"

"Yeah. If that's okay?"

She sighed. "I guess Rosie can cope for a while." She sat down in the chair across from him, resting her elbows on the table. "I don't know what I can tell you. Why are you digging this all up anyhow?"

"Five deaths in the same house – that's some coincidence."

She shrugged. "It's strange, I'll grant you, but coincidences happen. It's more likely than some of the theories people have been putting round."

"Like what?"

"Well, I guess you've heard The Weasel's theory of a serial killer." Her contemptuous tone indicated her opinion of that theory. "Then there's the idea that Brad actually committed suicide, which is total crap, and that the others all did the same, choosing Rose Cottage because it was romantic or fitting to kill yourself in a place where it had happened before." Dean nodded, remembering that Norma had come out with the same idea. "Others think the house is jinxed, or haunted or something."

"And what do you think?"

"I told you. I think it's just a strange coincidence."

"Okay. So, tell me how you knew Rhonda."

Amber smiled. "We were best friends in school. Drawn together because we were both arty types, I suppose. She was a painter, I made things."

"Made things?"

"Yeah. Pottery, sculpture, that kind of thing. A lot of the stuff in here is mine, like the carved animals."

Dean looked around with renewed interest. To his untrained eye, the carvings looked professional. He noticed some larger wooden carvings in human form on a nearby display case. They were slightly abstract, but still recognizable as male or female and in poses that suggested profound sorrow. "What about those? Are they yours?"

"Yeah, they're mine. I carved them after Rhonda…" She sighed.

"They're amazing," he said sincerely.

Amber flushed. "Thanks." Her eyes wandered to the carvings, and an expression of sadness spread across her face.

"You know, I think I'd have put you down as the arty type," Dean said, wanting to break the moment and see her smile again.

She tore her gaze away from the carvings and cocked her head. "You would? What gave me away? Do all arty types wear ethnic clothing and dangly earrings?"

He chuckled. "I've met a few who do."

"Maybe I should change my image then; I don't want to be predictable."

"Oh, I get the feeling you're anything but predictable."

She was smiling again. She had a beautiful smile. Dean cleared his throat. "Anyway, why don't you tell me a bit about Rhonda?"

He watched Amber as she talked, noting the even white teeth, the way her unruly hair was escaping the clasp and curling around her face, appreciating the intelligence in her eyes and the wide, generous mouth. She was exactly the kind of woman that appealed to him – attractive, funny and intelligent. Maybe he should ask her out. A night out with a beautiful woman sounded damned good right now.

Then a name popped into his mind. Cassie.

His sudden good mood faded as quickly as it had come. Cassie was attractive, funny and intelligent, and look what had happened there. He'd made two fatal mistakes with Cassie. First, he'd allowed himself to fall in love with her. Second, he'd told her the truth. He still vividly remembered the disgust and distrust on her face when she'd realized what he was saying. She'd clearly thought he was a freak, and who could blame her? He was good at his job, but that was all he had going for him, and who'd want to spend their life with someone who hunted monsters for a living?

Getting close had been a big mistake, and one he couldn't afford to make again. Which is why his love life now consisted of one-night stands with mindless bimbos he picked up in bars. He'd never complain about the casual sex; he enjoyed those encounters, and they were a way of escaping from the job for a few hours. But no matter how hard he tried hard to convince himself and the outside world that this carefree existence was what he really wanted, in his heart, he knew he was lying.

The depression fell back around him like a shroud. This was his life. He was destined to be alone, keeping people at arm's length – everyone except Sam, and even Sam was going to leave. This left him with – nothing.

And maybe that was exactly what he deserved.