Worth Living For

by Swanseajill

Part Twelve

Dean was still unconscious when they carried him into the motel room and gently laid him on the bed. Sam started pulling his boots off with an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu.

Looking over his shoulder, he said tersely, "Dad, the first aid kit's in the bathroom."

When Dad returned with the kit, Sam began to rifle through it for the items he'd need. He glanced up at his father, standing on the other side of the bed. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Dad hesitated.

"Dad?"

"I didn't tell you the truth when I said I was heading out in a different direction. I knew Manson wouldn't give up so easily, and I thought he was most likely to come after you two. So I followed you."

Sam looked at him sharply. "You've been following us?"

"Yeah. I've been keeping an eye out for Manson, but so far there's no sign. I think I might have been wrong about him."

Sam thought about the implications of what his father was telling him. "So you were following us last night, when we went to the cottage?"

Dad nodded. "Yeah."

"Then you saw me pretty much carry Dean out of there? And you did nothing to help?"

"He was still conscious, Sam," Dad said with a note of impatience. "You seemed to have everything under control. I didn't want to show myself in case Manson was around. I was trying to protect you."

Sam said nothing, but he could feel the familiar anger starting to build up inside. He'd heard that excuse too many times before. He busied himself getting the supplies he needed out of the first aid kit, and it was Dad who spoke next.

"Sam, you want to tell me just what happened back there?"

Sam picked up a pair of scissors and began carefully cutting away Dean's T-shirt, already ruined by the wide gashes where his brother had cut himself. The sight brought back an image of Dean holding the knife, slowly drawing it across his chest. Then more images, eight months old but still clear in his mind: Dean, pinned to a wall, face contorted in agony, blood pouring from his chest, soaking into his shirt. Sam shuddered and forced the memories away.

He continued his work on Dean's shirt while relating the story as succinctly as he could. He paused and looked up at Dad as he finished. "This is my fault. Dean's been behaving strangely all day. I should have put it together sooner."

Dad glanced at Dean and sighed. "It's not your fault, Sam," he said, his voice gruff but unusually gentle. "How could you have known it would choose your brother?"

Sam turned disbelieving eyes on his father. "You have to ask that?"

Dad frowned. "What?"

Sam clenched his jaw. Much as he wanted to lash out, scream at Dad for being so obtuse, he knew this wasn't the time for a family fight. He took a moment to put the scissors away and took a few deep breaths before speaking again. "Look, Dad, someone needs to get back to that cottage and burn those bones. I'm worried the ghost still has some kind of hold over Dean."

After a moment's hesitation, John nodded. "All right." He glanced out of the window. "I'd rather leave it a few hours, but I guess it's dark enough. Where's the body buried?"

"In the cottage grounds. Mr. Warrington said they buried him right outside the family room – the one where we found Dean."

"Okay. You stay here with your brother and I'll take care of it. We'll talk when I get back."

Dad was halfway to the door when he paused and looked back. "Sam?"

"What?"

"Get some rest. You look like death."

Then he was gone. Sam rolled his eyes at the inappropriateness of the analogy, although it was probably fairly close to the truth, if he looked anything like he felt. But now was not the time to rest. Not while Dean lay there so still and pale, and not until Dean woke up and reassured Sam that he was himself again.

Sam concentrated on cleaning his brother's new wounds. Removing the ruined shirt had exposed the full extent of the damage. As he'd noted earlier, none of the gashes were too deep or required stitching.

He expected Dean to wake when he cleaned the wounds with antiseptic because it must have hurt like hell, but his brother didn't even stir. Sam fixed dressings over the cuts, fished out the strongest painkillers they had and put them ready on the side table in case Dean needed them when he woke up. He filled a glass with water and set it next to the pills. Dean looked a little flushed, and a hand to his forehead confirmed that he was running a slight fever. Sam frowned. It might simply be an aftereffect of the prolonged encounter with the ghost, but he'd need to monitor the wounds in case it was a symptom of the early stage of infection. He filled the coffee percolator's glass jug with tepid water from the bathroom and soaked a small hand towel, wiping it gently over Dean's face and neck to cool him down.

Having done all he could for now, he dragged a chair across the room to the side of Dean's bed and slumped into it as exhaustion rolled over him.

With nothing practical to occupy him, Sam was left with his thoughts and the recurring image of Dean, eyes wide and desperate, holding the knife over his heart. What had Dean been feeling, what deeply buried emotions had the ghost stirred up to cause such despair that he would choose to —

Sam couldn't even bring himself to think what Dean had been about to do. If he'd arrived just a few minutes later…

Beside him, Dean stirred and groaned. His eyes opened a slit.

Sam leaned forward. "Hey, dude," he said softly.

"Sam?"

"I'm here. It's okay, Dean. You're okay."

"Sammy." A whisper laced with fear and confusion.

Sam leaned in closer, laying a hand on his brother's forearm. "Yeah. Relax, bro. Everything's fine."

Dean groaned again and his eyes shut, only to flutter open a moment later. "What… what happened? What did I…"

"You had another run in with your favorite ghost. How do you feel?"

"Head… hurts like a bitch."

Sam winced in sympathy. The previous night's experience had left Dean with a thumping headache; it made sense that this time it would be worse. He pushed some painkillers into his brother's hand and passed him the glass of water, supporting Dean's head as he obediently raised it to drink.

As Dean took the pills, déjà vu hit Sam once again. It felt like a million years ago, but it had been only two nights since he'd last fed his brother painkillers. Now Dean was hurt – again — and Sam was getting really tired of wondering how his brother was going to make it through the day.

"Thanks." Dean's eyes moved, catching sight of the new dressings on his chest, and he frowned, lifting a hand to touch them. Sam saw the exact moment when memory caught up with him, and Dean's eyes widened in anguish. "Oh, God. I… I did this… I…"

"Shh. Shhh, Dean, it's all right." Sam squeezed Dean's wrist in reassurance. "You weren't yourself. The spirit made you do it."

"I… I tried to… I wanted to… to kill myself."

Sam felt a lump form in his throat at his brother's distress. "I know," he said firmly. "But that wasn't you, Dean."

"Everything was so fucked up," Dean whispered. "I just wanted it all to be over. I… Sam, am I losing my mind?"

Sam's heart constricted at the naked fear in Dean's eyes, a sight he had rarely seen. He reached out a hand, cupped his brother's jaw and looked him firmly in the eyes. "You're not losing your mind. The spirit – it got you when you were down, it took your feelings and it twisted them into something else. But Dean, you fought it and you beat it. You have to remember that. Just trust me, okay?"

After a moment, Dean said, "Okay," and his eyes began to drift shut. Sam thought he'd fallen asleep, but his eyes flickered open again. "Did I… was Dad here?"

"Yeah, Dean. He was here. He'll be back soon."

Dean looked like he was about to quiz Sam further, then his eyes drifted shut. "Tired," he murmured.

"Go back to sleep, then. It's going to be all right, I promise."

This time when Dean closed his eyes they stayed closed, and within a few moments he was asleep. Sam adjusted the comforter around him, and then settled himself back on his chair. He scrubbed his hands over his face, thinking that a cup of strong coffee would be a good idea right now. He was tired but didn't want to sleep, worried that the effects of the ghost on Dean would linger, although Dean's anguish when he remembered trying to kill himself reassured Sam that he was no longer suicidal. He shuddered at the memory of Dean's agony. He was used to dealing with Dean in many different moods. His brother could be exuberant, obnoxious, smug, and argumentative – the list was endless. But a lost, insecure Dean was a mystery.

Eventually, he made himself a strong cup of coffee and then settled back in the chair. There was nothing he could do now but wait.