Four teens had disappeared from a small community. Then they'd been found, their dead, broken bodies mysteriously appearing in a small, public park exactly two days from their disappearance.

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"Easy, Sammy," Dean whispered, putting a gentle hand on his brother's shoulder.

Sam nodded his understanding, but kept digging, anyway. He'd never had to dig up a child's grave before.

They'd arrived in town just the day before and had unfortunately gotten to see the bodies of the victims, four young teens, all around thirteen years old. Through very tactful interviews of the parents, and especially other kids, it was determined that these four had had dealings with a child that had been killed in a playground accident a year before. It was Sam and Dean's belief that this child had come back and exacted some sort of revenge on the four teens.

"The kids might have been bullies, but they didn't deserve to die," Sam reminded himself.

"Neither did he," Dean retorted, hearing Sam's words.

When they opened up Michael Robertson's coffin, it was all the brothers could do to keep their composure. Even though the boy's body had been buried for a year, and the mortician had done his best, it was easy to see that Michael did not have a quiet death.

"Doesn't look like it was a playground accident," Sam whispered.

"Eye for an eye," Dean remarked, as he started spreading the salt down.

"We're gonna have to do this again, Dean," Sam added, gaining his composure and pouring the gasoline.

Dean nodded as he lit the match. "Four more times."

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The brothers wound up having to stay in town for another three days – until the funerals for the four teens were over and done, and they were buried in the ground. Having to dig up the four graves and burn the bodies inside, while the graves were still fresh – it was a little less noticeable that way – was better than burning down the funeral home in order to prevent four future teenaged bully ghosts.

When all was said and done, the two tired, sore and weary brothers left town, with no other destination in mind other than south.

For several hours, while Dean drove, images of the kids – Michael Robertson, especially – kept interrupting his thoughts.

He'd seen dead children before; he'd even killed their ghosts and burned their bones before – he was, unfortunately, several up on Sam in that department. So why was this gig bothering him so much?

He'd known what to expect when they opened Michael's coffin. He'd been the one to investigate Michael's death, not Sam. He'd seen the police reports, the pictures from the playground a year before. Sam was right. His death may have taken place at the playground, but it was no accident. Why the hell the police, or Social Services for that matter, had never done anything to those kids? The police had known exactly what had happened and who had done it.

The problem with small towns, Dean mused, is that everyone knew everyone; they took care of their own. Out of nowhere, the interior of "Davy's" flashed through Dean's mind. Todd and Maren's voices echoed through his soul, taunting him. The other people there just looked away, not caring about what was happening to him, ignoring his pleas for help. Dean squeezed his eyes shut momentarily, willing them away. No, he thought. Sometimes they don't take care of their own. Sometimes they just brush the problems to the side, ignore them, because they don't know how to take care of them, or get rid of them.

When Dean realized that his hands were sore from gripping the steering wheel too hard, maybe subconsciously exacting his own sort of revenge, if only in his mind, he decided that finding a motel to crash in for the night was probably a good idea. He shook out his hands and let out a breath he'd been holding.

"Dean?" Sam called. "You okay? Want me to drive?"

"I'm fine, Sam," he replied automatically. "Just tired. Should be a motel up ahead about fifteen miles. We'll stop there."

"Sounds good."

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"I'll get the room," Sam offered when they arrived at "Nicole's Night Owl Inn" twenty minutes later.

"Okay," Dean replied and grabbed a few things from the back seat of the car.

Fifteen minutes later, Dean emerged from the bathroom, naked, vigorously rubbing a towel over his hair. He headed for his bed, and the duffel bag on top.

"Place across the street looks to be hopping," Dean said as he rummaged in the bag for some clean clothes.

Sam tried not to stare at his brother, once again seeing the newest scars that still shone bright pink on his back and abdomen. He was startled by Dean's words, though.

"You're going over there?"

"I need some beer."

"You sure?"

"What do you mean, 'am I sure?'" Dean balked, stopping his rummaging and looking at Sam.

"I just mean… I'll go with you."

"No, Sammy. You tell me what you mean," Dean demanded, folding his arms across his chest.

Sam took a big breath and let it out, taking the time to try to pick and choose his words carefully. "I just meant… I wondered…"

Dean caught the meaning, and realized that Sam had caught sight of his scars. "I think I can go into a bar by myself, Sam!" he shouted and tugged on a pair of boxers. "I'm a big boy, you know. Even got the fake ID to prove it."

"It's just that… I haven't known what to say, Dean," Sam pressed, his frustration heard in his voice. "I know what those kids did to Michael Robertson last year; why you didn't tell me."

The words of the reports and pictures from Michael's autopsy once again flashed painfully through Dean's mind. He and the boy had some of the same bruises and injuries. "It wasn't important, Sam. We had a job to do, and we did it. End of story," he countered, pulling on his jeans with such force that he almost tripped.

"You haven't said a word about what happened in that bar; how you feel. Whether you-"

"How I feel? I feel fine, Sam! Not that you'd believe that, Dr. Phil! So what do you want to hear, Sam?" Dean demanded, moving closer to his brother, seething. "You want to know all the gory details?"

"Dean. No," Sam whispered, shaking his head.

"You want to know how that bitch slammed my head down onto the pool table!" he shouted, pointing to his head. "Three times? You want to know how her brother used a cue stick on my kidney for baseball practice?" he went on, turning slightly, showing the still dark bruising on his back.

"Dean…"

"Or how about this? You can see it up close, now," Dean went on, turning back to face Sam, shoving down on the waistbands of his jeans and boxers, showing the still fading scars and bruises on this belly, saying, "See how the corner of the pool table dug into me when they fucked me?"

"Stop it!" Sam cried. "Dean!"

"Oh, I know. You want me to bend over and show you my ass?" he continued, ignoring Sam's pleas.

"NO!" Sam shouted, shoving his brother, forcing Dean to stagger back and land on the bed. "I don't need to know the details. I know what they did to you." Dean gave him a skeptical look. "You've been putting up this big, stupid front since it happened, Dean," he said. "Pretending like it didn't happen; 'It was just a fight'"he mimicked. "I'm not stupid, Dean. You think you can just go on, as if nothing happened." Sam shook his head. "And this blaming thing – you haven't said it, but I know you're blaming yourself. It wasn't your fault, you know."

"Of course it was my fault! I let my guard down. I screwed up."

"They drugged you!" Frustrated, Sam turned away from Dean and ran his hands through his hair, pulling at it. When he turned back, he asked, "Was it Michael Robertson's fault!" He quickly continued on before Dean could answer, demanding, "Or what if it happened to me? Would you blame me? Would you say it was all my fault?"

"No, of course not-" Dean stammered.

"So why is it your fault!" Sam shot back.

"Because I left myself open to it. I wasn't paying attention!"

Before Sam could say anything more, Dean moved around the bed and put on the rest of his clothing. Cursing his brother for bringing up what he felt was a dead subject, something he did not want to remember, let alone talk about, he quickly, harshly, put on his shirt, jacket and boots and headed for the door, only to find it blocked.

"Dean," Sam whispered, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. Don't go."

"Fine. You're sorry," Dean told him. "Now get the hell out of my way," he added and shoved Sam to the side when he didn't respond.

"Dean!" Sam shouted to the door that slammed in front of him.

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Dean walked into the bar, "The Dark Horse Tavern," and eyed the place carefully. It wasn't a big place, but it was crowded, packed with what looked like the local population. There wasn't a band, but a DJ was currently playing some Country. Dean didn't care at the moment. He'd endure the twangy music, some guy singing about losing his pick up truck, wife and horse and not knowing which was the worst. He shook his head.

He approached the bar, nodding to the two men he had to get in between to gain the bartender's attention. "A bottle of… Bud," he told him, hating the hesitation in his voice, remembering the last time he'd had a bottle of beer. He traded a couple of singles for the brown bottle and moved to stand against one of the support beams near the dance floor.

Several couples of varying ages danced together as Dean watched. They all seemed happy; dancing, talking, laughing. They all seemed… normal. He bet not a one of the people in the entire bar had any clue as to what was out in the dark, lurking under their kids' beds, skulking around in the local cemeteries… He took a swig of his beer. A flash of blonde caught his eye and Dean almost spit out the beer in his mouth. He closed his eyes and steadied himself. Get a grip, Deano.

If only we hadn't gone to that Godforsaken town. If only I hadn't seen what they'd done… If only I could forget…

Dean was startled as a hand landed gently onto his shoulder and he was brought back to the here and now.

"Just me, Dean," Sam said quietly.

Dean wanted to yell at Sam, tell his brother, again, that he was quite capable of being in a bar by his lonesome, but didn't. He just nodded to his brother, though, unable to put his thoughts into words beyond, "Buy you a beer?"

"Sure," Sam replied.

A/N: Sorry for the delay – real life and all… Thanks to November's Guest and Shywalk for the help and beta work. More soon, I promise! Probably one more chapter to go…