Worth Living For

by Swanseajill

Part Ten

Sam stood looking out of the window at the grassy quadrangle of Four Pines Technical Institute.

He had decided to turn up at the college without calling for an appointment first, afraid that Martin Warrington would refuse to see him. The drive had taken around thirty minutes, and on inquiring at reception, he was told that Warrington was lecturing until five. He had around a two-hour wait. He'd driven off again, grabbed a plastic sandwich at a nearby store and sat in the car for an hour going over his notes again. No new insights emerged. Frustrated, he returned to the college and made his way to the lecture room. The plan was to approach Warrington as he left and convince him to spare ten minutes of his time.

Sam had been edgy since leaving the Moonstone, glancing at his watch every five minutes, anxious to get this interview over with so he could get back to town.

Anxious to get back to Dean.

His concern for his brother was growing by the hour, and he still felt that it was wrong to have let Dean out of his sight. That, of course, was totally irrational because of all people, Dean could take care of himself. Yet something nagged at the back of Sam's mind, something that told him that there was danger near.

He knew that Dean was still struggling with the emotional aftermath of Dad's decision. Sam himself hadn't yet got to grips with what had happened, his mind repeatedly returning to the incident. If it was hard for him, how hard must it be for Dean, the one their father had chosen to sacrifice?

It had shaken Sam to see his brother so uncharacteristically vulnerable two nights ago, and since the encounter with the ghost, he'd become more and more concerned as Dean began to display uncharacteristic behavior. Not only had Dean been completely indifferent to an attractive, intelligent woman, he'd been indifferent about the Impala, which was even more shocking. He could just be cranky from the lingering headache and continued pain in his bruised back, but Sam was sure there was something more, and it was probably connected to that ghost. He remembered the expression he thought he'd seen on Dean's face earlier that morning, when he'd been holding the knife.

Hopeless.

Desperate.

He fidgeted for another five minutes, then gave in, pulling his cell out of his pocket and punching in the familiar speed dial number.

"Hey," Dean answered.

Relief pulsed through him. "Hey. How's it going?"

"I'm done."

"Already?"

"They weren't social calls, dude. I didn't get invited in for tea."

"Okay, so what did you find out?"

He heard Dean sigh and when he spoke, he sounded tired.

"Bill Turner owned a garage with his brother-in-law. They went bust a year ago. Bro-in-law got a job as a mechanic in another garage, Bill wasn't so lucky. He's been doing odd jobs ever since. Got in some financial trouble, remortaged the house, that kind of thing. His brother-in-law says he was depressed and felt that he was failing his family in providing for them, but he hadn't pegged him as suicidal."

"Huh. And Wendy Metzler?"

"House has been on the market with Parker Wilkinson for three years. Lots of viewings, no one murdered, until Wendy Metzler. First time she'd been to the house. It was in someone else's portfolio and when they left, Wendy took it on. Anyway, Petunia said-"

"Petunia?"

"Dude. Don't interrupt. Petunia, yeah. Receptionist at P.W. Nice girl. Big tits."

Sam frowned. While the comment was typically Dean, it was said without the usual flip tone, and Sam had the feeling that Dean was going through the motions to convince him he was okay.

"Anyway," Dean went on, "Petunia said that Wendy had recently been through a divorce and she was having a rough time – feeling worthless because her ex left her for a younger model."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. But again, Petunia didn't think she was the suicidal type. Beginning to see a pattern here?"

"Mmhuh. Depressed but not suicidal. Can't see how it helps, though. What about a connection to the others?"

"Zip, for both of them, as far as the bro-in-law and Petunia knew."

Sam sighed. "So, of these three, the only thing that ties them together is they were depressed. Why would the ghost be picking them because of that?"

"Maybe the ghost's depressed."

"Maybe. Look, I think the key's somewhere with Brad and Jamie."

"You think? Tell you the truth, Sam, I don't really give a damn."

"You… what?"

"Let's face it, bro, this gig is lame. All our gigs are pretty lame, come to think of it. I mean, dude, there's two of us and a world full of evil. We're just kidding ourselves if we think we're making one atom of difference."

The sheer despondency in Dean's tone alarmed Sam. "Dean, where's this coming from? You know how many lives we've saved…"

"And how many we haven't."

"Dean…"

"Save it, Sam. Look, let me know when you're heading back and I'll meet you somewhere."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'll think of something. Maybe I'll head back to the Moonbeam and talk to Amber. Would that make you happy?"

Only if it makes you happy"Dean…"

But Dean had already hung up.

Before Sam even had time to analyze that worrying conversation, the door across the corridor opened and students began streaming out.

He waited until they'd all left, then peered into the room. A man sat at the desk, head down, writing. Sam hesitated, then took a step inside and cleared his throat. The man looked up. His face, framed by neatly cut gray hair, was long and thin, his skin sallow and his blue eyes melancholy. What else would they be, Sam wondered, in a man who had lost two sons within twelve months of each other.

"Can I help you?"

Sam took a couple of steps into the room.

"Uhh, yeah. Mr. Warrington?"

The man nodded amiably. "I'm Martin Warrington."

Sam stepped forward and held out his hand. "Jimmy Logan. I'm a journalist--"

Warrington held up a hand and his friendly expression hardened. "What do you want?"

"I'm writing an article on…" Sam stopped. He'd rehearsed his story about the article on unexplained mysteries in small-town America. But he had the feeling that Warrington would refuse to talk to him about that. He found himself blurting out, "I'm doing a major in journalism and psychology. I'm interested in the psychology of the relationship between male siblings and I came across the story about your sons. I'd really like to write a paper on them, to try to understand…" he floundered to a halt.

Warrington looked at him in silence, and Sam was beginning to think he'd made a big mistake when the man gestured towards a seat across the desk from him.

"Well, that's not the usual angle reporters come with. Sit down. I can spare you five minutes."

Sam took a seat.

"What is it you want to know?" Warrington asked, and Sam was relieved that he didn't sound hostile. More – resigned.

"I just wanted to say that I have an older brother myself and we're… we're very close. I can't imagine how difficult it must have been for your son Jamie to lose his brother and for you…" Warrington regarded him in silence, and he went on, "Maybe you could start by giving me a bit of background on your sons. Why they were so close, and so on."

Warrington shrugged. "They shouldn't have been, by all rights. They were very different. Brad was a great kid – outgoing, loved sports, bright, too. Jamie was different. Almost pathologically shy, kept himself to himself. Never had many friends. Bright, though, like his brother. He used to write poetry, that kind of thing, He idolized Brad, and Brad was really good with him – he doted on his little brother. When he went to college he made sure he came home often, had Jamie out to stay with him, things like that."

"And Brad's death was an accident?"

"Yes. All the lights in the house went out during a storm. He went down to the basement to try to fix the problem. Turns out there was a fault with the wiring. He… he was electrocuted. If only I'd gone down myself that night…"

Sam was struck by the naked grief in Warrington's voice, indicative of a would still raw even after three years. He wished he could just leave this man be, but he had to find the truth, and he was sure it lay somewhere with Brad and Jamie. So he forced himself to go on with the interview.

"Mr. Warrington, I hate to ask this, but I've heard that it's possible that this wasn't an accident, that Brad—"

Warrington shook his head firmly. "Brad didn't commit suicide. He had no reason to. He was doing well in college, had his whole life ahead of him. When he came home that weekend, he was full of himself. He had a new girl; he'd just scored the winning touchdown in the final minutes of the intervarsity championship. I knew my son, and I'd have known if there was anything wrong."

"Okay. What about Jamie? Can you tell me a bit about him?"

Warrington's face clouded. "Jamie – Jamie was very different. Like I said, he was a shy kid, a real loner. Sensitive, I suppose you'd call him. He idolized his brother, and when Brad died – he just seemed to fold into himself, you know?" He paused, running his hands through his hair. "I blame myself. I was so devastated by Brad's death, I could barely keep myself together, and I just didn't see what was happening to Jamie. That's something I have to live with every day. He became more and more morose, spent all his spare time in his room or in the family room, scribbling in his journals. On the anniversary of Brad's death, I came home from work to find him hanging from the light fixture in the family room. I'd known he was depressed, but I'd had no idea… or rather, I didn't want to have any idea. I was too caught up in my own grief about Brad."

"I'm very sorry, sir," Sam said sincerely, nodding in sympathy. "And you're sure it was suicide?"

"Positive. He didn't leave a note, but I read his journal. The poor kid was desperately lonely, felt that now that Brad was gone, no one understood him, least of all his father. Every page was full of self-pity and self-loathing. He kept saying that there was nothing but days of misery stretching out ahead, and all he wanted was to leave this world and be with his brother."

Sam felt the beginning of understanding clawing at his consciousness. Of the five victims, Jamie was the only one who had been suicidal, and that had to be significant. What if Jamie was the restless spirit? He'd wanted to die and be with his brother, but instead he'd ended up trapped alone in the house. Maybe he was preying on people who were emotionally vulnerable, like himself. That made sense – except for Martin Warrington. He must have been desperately depressed himself after Jamie's death. How, then, was he still alive?

Warrington was still speaking, and Sam dragged his attention back.

"Anyway, the day I found him, I walked out of that house and never set foot in it again."

Sam felt his heart miss a beat. "You mean you literally never went inside again?"

Warrington nodded. "Seems stupid, I know, but I just couldn't make myself do it. Had my brother go in and fetch the things I needed, and then I put it on the market. Only went back into the grounds once, and that was to bury my son."

"I'm sorry?"

"Jamie. He loved that house. Spent hours in the family room, writing in his journal. I had him buried right outside it. I knew it was where he'd want to be laid to rest." He shook his head, expression full of regret.

Sam's heart bled for this man who would never have a chance to go back and change his relationship with his son. But at the same time, alarm bells sounded in his head as he considered his theory. Jamie was lonely, thought no one understood him. Who would understand him? People like him, who had experienced some kind of emotional trauma. He was killing them so he wouldn't be lonely any more.

Sam broke out in a cold sweat as he realized the significance of the truth. The previous night, Jamie hadn't picked Dean because he was the first to walk into the room. He'd picked Dean because he was still emotionally raw from the events of the previous few days. Jamie had been trying to kill him, as he'd killed the others. In the process, he must have done some damage, left behind something of himself that had caused Dean's low spirits today. And if he wanted Dean — what if he'd also put in his mind a compulsion to return to the cottage?

Sam sprang to his feet. "Mr. Warrington, I know this is extremely rude, and I appreciate you talking to me – I can't tell you how much – but I've just remembered a very urgent appointment." He was babbling, words falling over each other in his haste. "Listen, don't worry about the paper. I don't think I'm going to be writing it after all. I'm… I'm very sorry for your loss, but I really have to leave."

He practically ran out of the room. As he sprinted down the corridor, he pulled out his cell and hit the speed dial. "Come on, Dean. Pick up." The voicemail came on. "Dammit, Dean, where are you?" He knew the answer, even as he pressed redial.

Dean was at Rose Cottage.