Stefan heard Abby's neck snap, and he hated his brother.

The coin was tails; it should have been him to do the gruesome work, to take on Elena's rage and Bonnie's grief. The coin had been an impartial servant of destiny, but Damon could never accept fate, could never let Stefan own his actions.

Damon smothered him. Always had. It didn't matter how Stefan acted out as a boy, how many pranks he engineered, how many sins he committed, Damon always swooped in to save the day. Never in his exceptionally long life had Stefan been permitted to take responsibility for his sins. Damon insisted on being the crusader, insisted on saving Stefan from himself. What he never understood was that Stefan never, ever wanted to be saved.

Stefan lashed out at Damon in every way he knew how—began plotting ways to punish his brother, to free himself from that domineering, painful brotherly love. It was petty and Stefan knew it, but he couldn't stop. By hurting Damon, he could at last be his own man. His heart filled with cruel joy when he saw the look of anguish in his brother's eyes as he danced with Katherine, with the woman Damon loved. Did Stefan want her? She was beautiful and desirable and bold, her laughter like bells and her eyes like dark, heady wine, but he wanted to deprive his brother, to take what he so desperately craved. Damon was determined to take Stefan's pain; Stefan was determined to make Damon pay. Just once Stefan wanted to be called onto the mat for his own transgressions, to pay the price for his wrongdoings. But Damon's crushing, confining, constraining love made that impossible.

Was it love or hate that inspired Stefan to bring the girl to Damon that night by the quarry? Was he afraid to lose his brother or afraid to lose his soul? Did he want Damon to live forever, or did he want Damon to despise him, to withdraw his protection and let him be free? As Stefan bit into the girl's lily white neck, he didn't know. Still didn't, so many years later.

Stefan heard Abby's neck snap, and he hated himself.

He was weak and pitiful. He should have been stronger. If he'd been stronger, he could have done it himself, as he was supposed to, as fate had decreed. But no, he had to try to reason with Bonnie one last time, to find another way. But there was no other way, and in the precious seconds he'd wasted with the little witch, he'd let Damon protect him again, to insulate him from the pain.

Why couldn't he be the man he wanted to be? Why couldn't he claim his guilt, take it deep inside his heart and use it to propel himself forward, learn from it and be better? Why did he let the guilt consume him, devour him, echo in his every thought and dream and deed? Why did he hide from it, hide from it in the blood or in the kill or in a woman's arms?

Excuse after excuse. That the human blood had intoxicated him, that Katherine had compelled him, that Damon had forced his hand. Was he so without free will? No, in the end, Stefan had to admit he was fundamentally broken. There was something wrong with him, something that made him wake up in a shower of body parts, grief forcing him to cobble the bits back together into a mockery of life, as though by making his victims whole, he could find that piece missing from his own soul. But even trying to create life out of cruel, brutal death was an abdication of responsibility. He had killed them, and nothing could ever change that, no matter how lifelike they may seem reassembled like Frankenstein's ghastly monsters..

The truth was, he let Damon play the villain used and abused his love. It made him feel as if his sins were less, somehow. So Stefan had killed Father, feasted on his blood, warm and tinged with a hint of brandy—Damon had killed Zack. So Stefan had murdered a migrant village—Damon killed Jeremy, killed Ric, killed people he was supposed to protect. Even if the deaths hadn't stuck, intent mattered. Damon's impulsiveness made him feel less culpable. And Damon let him. An eternity of misery, he'd vowed, but he'd really given Stefan an eternity of easy excuses. No matter what he did, at least it wasn't as bad as what Damon had done.

Stefan heard Abby's neck snap, and he was relieved.

There was still hope for him, after all. Maybe he could pick up the pieces and be the man he'd once been, the good man he'd tried to be. Maybe he could still earn Elena's love back, beg for forgiveness and make another run at being the kind of man who deserved her. He could turn his back on the blood, let himself feel again, a little at a time so he could bear the pain. Elena could find it in her heart to forgive him, understand that deep down, he'd done it for her, to rid the world of Klaus so she could be safe, for once in her life. He wanted so badly to go back to being that man, the man she loved and respected.

But part of him feared it was too late, that Damon had proven to Elena what Stefan had known all along: Damon was the better man.

Damon saved the day but received no thanks, only recriminations. And Stefan let him.