Here are the last few parts of the story. I want to thank everyone who's sent feedback for the first ten parts - it was really encouraging to read and I hope the last chapters meet your expectations!

Worth Living For

by Swanseajill

Part Eleven

The Impala screeched to a halt at the end of Anderson Avenue. Sam leapt out and popped the trunk, grabbing a gun from the weapons bag. His hands shook as he loaded the rock salt and snapped the barrel shut. For good measure, he loaded a second gun, stuffed them both under his jacket and picked up the EMF meter.

Instinct told him to run, but he forced himself to walk normally, casually glancing around to see if any of the neighbors were taking notice. Nobody seemed to be nearby, and once he'd opened the gate to Rose Cottage, he quickened his pace. He was sprinting by the time he reached the cottage.

The front door stood slightly ajar and he walked in, pausing briefly in the entrance to look around carefully. Rushing in like an amateur could be dangerous for both him and Dean, but he couldn't slow the frantic beating of his heart, and his grip on the barrel of the gun he held was slick with sweat.

He stood in the hallway and called, "Dean!" His voice echoed slightly in the silence, but there was no answer.

Sam moved slowly forward, through the first room and into the family room – and froze.

Dean was there, as Sam had known he would be. He stood in the middle of the room alone, but the air around him shimmered as it did in a heat haze on a summer's day. The EMF meter was screaming and Sam quickly shut it off. He didn't need a piece of equipment to tell him that there was a ghost present, and that it had Dean firmly in its clutches.

He considered shooting. The rock salt would hurt Dean but not kill him, and it would temporarily dispel the ghost. But he realized he couldn't risk it. Not when Dean held his sharply honed hunting knife in his hand, blade poised just over his heart. Across his chest, shallow funnels of red stood out starkly against the white of his T-shirt, blood slowly dripping from them onto the floor.

"Dean," Sam called softly, careful not to startle his brother.

Dean looked up.

The utter desolation in his eyes shook Sam to the core. The despair he thought he'd glimpsed in Dean's expression this morning was nothing compared to this. He swallowed hard as the horrible truth dawned. The ghost hadn't killed anyone. It had exerted some kind of influence over them, sending them to the depths of despair so they could fully empathize with it. Then it had forced them to take their own lives.

Now it was doing the same to Dean.

Stay calm. Whatever you do, stay calm. "Dean, put the knife down." He tried to keep the fear out of his voice as he slowly edged closer.

Dean looked at him, but his eyes were unfocused, and Sam wasn't at all sure his brother was actually seeing him.

"Dean?" he repeated, more firmly this time. "Put the knife down."

"I… I can't." Dean's tone, usually so confident and certain, was hesitant, lost. "I'm sorry. I just… I can't do this shit any more."

"Dean, listen to me. This isn't you. It's the spirit of Jamie Warrington. He's making you think these things, but this isn't real, Dean. What you're feeling isn't real."

Dean shook his head. "It's real, Sam. I'm sick of lying to myself. Sick of pretending everything's fine when it's all screwed to hell. You don't need me, you or Dad. You… you'd be better off without me. You could get back to your life--"

Sam's heart lurched at the anguish behind the words. "Dean, no. This is my life, now. We're in this together, remember?"

Dean licked his lips, but the knife didn't waver. "I'm tired, Sam. I just want it all to be over. I've spent my life doing my duty, being Dad's good little soldier. And now I'm tired. I'm sick of it all."

Sam didn't know what to say to this stranger standing in front of him. He knew that beneath the confident, cocky veneer, Dean felt things deeply, but Dean was also a fighter, and he sure as hell wasn't the kind to wallow in self-pity. But this Dean was lost in a world of pain, and Sam didn't know how to reach him.

"Dean, you can't give up," he said helplessly.

"You don't understand. I am pathetic, just like you said. What difference will it make if I'm gone?"

Sam flinched as the cruel words he'd spoken in the asylum came back at him. He tried to keep his voice steady but firm as he sought the right words. "Dean, you have to fight this thing. Dude, listen to yourself. This isn't you. You know you make a difference. You have a job to do, and only you can do it. What we do – it's important. It saves lives. You're a hero, man."

"No…"

Dean's eyed flicked back to the knife. Sam choked back a cry of panic and took a reflexive step forward as Dean drew the knife across his chest, carving another long furrow that immediately began to drip blood. Sam tightened his grip on the gun. Could he risk taking the shot? The knife moved, this time coming to rest at Dean's throat. The moment was lost.

In desperation, Sam hardened his tone. "Dean. Look at me. Look at me!"

Slowly, Dean raised his head, and Sam locked their eyes. "You want to know what's pathetic?" Sam asked. "You, right now. Give up, if you want to. Take the easy way out. But I'm telling you now – the Dean Winchester I know wouldn't give up. The man I'm proud to call my brother would fight this!"

Dean just looked at him with lost, frightened eyes, and Sam could see that although Dean understood the words, they weren't enough. He wasn't getting through.

Then suddenly, he knew. He knew the one thing that might just break through Dean's pain.

He kept his voice harsh. "You know what? You're selfish, Dean. Taking your life because it's what you want. What about me? Have you thought about what I want? What I need? You're my big brother. You're supposed to protect me, look out for me. What's going to happen when you're gone? I need you. I can't do this without you. I need you, Dean."

He held his breath, praying that he hadn't made the wrong move. Dean held his gaze, and there was a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

"Sammy?"

Sam blinked back tears at the depth of pain and confusion in that one word. "Fight it, Dean," he urged, voice tight. "You are not going to die. I need you, okay? You're my brother. I love you, and I need you to fight this thing for me. Fight it!"

This time his words weren't clinically calculated to press his brother's buttons; they were desperate, from the heart.

It took only a moment, and then he saw Dean's uncertainly melt into understanding, and the shimmer jolted as if an electric current had run through it. Dean had begun to fight back. Sam watched in helpless agony as his brother writhed in pain, struggling mentally and physically against the spirit's control.

Sam felt rather than heard someone come into the room behind him, barely registered his father's gruff, "What the hell!" He didn't have time to wonder what Dad was doing there, his whole attention focused on the battle playing out before him, and he held the gun steady, ready to shoot the instant the knife dropped from Dean's hand.

It seemed to Sam as if the whole thing was happening in slow motion. Dean suddenly screamed, face screwed up in agony. Then the mist began to separate itself from him, and at the same moment his fist opened and the knife dropped to the ground. Sam tightened his finger around the trigger. He forced himself to wait until the mist had completely left his brother, coalescing into the cloud he had seen the night before, then fired directly into its center. It dissipated instantly, but Sam kept the gun raised, just in case.

Somehow Dean was still on his feet, hands clasped around his head, face contorted in pain. Out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw their father take a step forward.

"Dean. Son!"

In those two words, Sam perceived a world of fear and pain and love. Dean looked at their father for a brief moment before his knees buckled and his eyes rolled back in his head. Sam leapt forward as his brother crumpled, catching him and bearing him to the ground in one quick move.

He supported Dean against his chest, checking the pulse in his neck with a shaking hand, relieved to find it fast but steady. The cuts on Dean's chest bled freely, but didn't seem to be too deep. Sam let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding and clutched his brother more tightly, resting his head for a moment on the short brown hair.

He'd come very close to losing his big brother – again. But Dean was alive, and Sam vowed that he'd do whatever it took to keep him that way.