Stefan didn't kill him.
He couldn't.
Innate guilt—stronger than his suffocating sorrow for his fallen friend and over a century in the making—wouldn't allow it, wouldn't sanction him the strength to drive the wood the last inch required to pierce his cruel still beating heart.
Hands shook, knuckles white from the force it took to battle the opposing thought, one that reasoned a final end to his demons, to his concerns about Elena's safety and anyone else whom may unwittingly find themselves in brother's line of fire.
And there would be more.
Victims. Enemies. A number of faceless casualties piled and knitted together until Damon got what he wanted.
A goal that still hadn't become any clearer.
Unless his aim was to provoke Stefan's insanity.
Tears distorted his vision and before Damon could see them fall before Stefan could scorn the voice in his head that still called the injured monster snared in his trap brother, he got up and walked away.
He didn't return that night. Or the next.