Standard Disclaimer: The show Supernatural and its characters do not belong to me.

Author's Note: I love the kind reviews! Thank you so much to those of you who take the time to comment. As much fic as is out there already for this show, I personally find it a little difficult to write because the characters are still so new and still developing. So it definitely helps to know somebody thinks I'm doing them justice. At any rate, please continue to let me know what you think.

Damaged

by Liz Bach

Previously...

"The next time you don't want to do something, Sam, just don't do it." He watched the rise and fall of Sam's chest wearily. "Dying is a shit ass way to get back at somebody."

"I'll keep that in mind," Sam murmured drowsily, his eyes still closed.

Dean heaved a sigh that shuddered only a tiny bit. "I'm serious," he said quietly.

Sam didn't respond. Dean wondered if he was really asleep.

Part III

Dean was sprawled in the same chair he'd been sitting in for the past hour, trying not to watch Sam as he slept. His right knee was bouncing nervously, and he was absently working at gnawing off the now jagged nail on his left pinky finger.

He was agitated. With himself. With Sam.

The whole thing with the ice, it hadn't been Dean's fault. Sam wasn't a little kid anymore; it was well within his power to refuse to do something Dean told him to do. Nor was Sam a dumb-ass; he should've been able to see that the farther out he got, the weaker the ice was becoming. And yet he'd kept walking. It would be irrational for Dean to blame himself for what had happened at the McCray farm that evening.

Dean was being irrational.

Sam had been asleep for about five hours now. Dean had watched him for the first hour to make sure he was truly out of the woods. Then he'd grabbed the car keys and headed out to find something to eat. On his way back, he'd stopped in at the front desk to chat up the clerk, and when he got back to the room, Sam still appeared to be sleeping. So Dean had pulled out the laptop and started running searches in the Perkins County Gazette. About fifteen fruitless minutes into his search, he'd flipped on the TV for company.

Now Dean heard a sigh from the bed and turned to see Sam with his eyes open, brow furrowed, staring straight up at the ceiling. He'd noticed some time ago that whenever Sam woke, he had a pensive look on his face, like he was trying to figure something out or he had just finished figuring something out, and it never looked like it was anything good.

"Hey, you awake?"

"Getting there," Sam groaned, propping himself up on an elbow and rubbing his eyes. He looked patently confused as he gazed around the room. "Where are we?"

Dean turned back to the computer screen, its blue light illuminating his face and reflecting in his eyes. "Disneyland," he deadpanned. "There was a freak snow storm, and they had to shut down all the rides. I figured we'd come back here to wait it out."

Sam sighed and flopped back down onto the pillow. "Has anyone ever told you sarcasm is not one of your more endearing qualities?"

Dean frowned. "Actually, no. No one's ever told me that," he said with a small shrug.

"Consider yourself officially informed." Sam rested a forearm over his eyes. "God, it's hot in here."

"Dude, a few hours ago you were singing a completely different tune."

Sam was quiet for a moment. Without moving, he said, "Ah, yeah. The lake." He sat up suddenly and looked at his brother. "What was that thing?"

Dean was a little startled by Sam's sudden intensity. "That's what I've been trying to find out," he admitted, nodding to the computer screen.

"And?"

"Aaand I can't find a single article about the McCray family in the county newspaper archives. And every mention of the farm I find is in reference to the people who've gone missing there over the past couple years."

"So nothing new."

"Not in the papers, anyway." Dean smiled significantly and shifted his eyes to his brother, who was looking at him expectantly. "But I did have a somewhat productive conversation with the guy at the front desk while you were passed out. He shared an interesting bit of local folklore with me."

Sam kept looking. "Which was?"

"I guess nobody really knows what happened to the McCrays. They just up and abandoned the house one day. A few years down the line, the place is still sitting empty, so somebody purchases the land and hires some company to demolish the farm. Except when the demolition crew gets there, their equipment and machinery start to go haywire. They can't get their shit under control, and a guy's legs get crushed under a bulldozer that's mysteriously driving itself. So the crew hightails it out of there, and nobody ever has the balls to go back and try it again."

Sam was studying the bedspread intently. "A poltergeist?"

Dean shrugged. "Sounds like it to me. That's why the place is still sitting there like the McCrays left it, and that's why everyone thinks it's haunted."

"Well, that still doesn't explain the recent disappearances. A poltergeist wouldn't be responsible for snatching people. Poltergeists can be mean sons of bitches; they move objects, attack people and animals. But I've never heard of one actually taking a person."

"Yeah, me neither," Dean agreed, powering off the laptop.

"So what now?"

Dean slapped his hands on his knees and stood up. "Now I'm gonna catch a few Z's. I swear, saving your ass always makes me so fucking tired." He moved toward the empty bed, pulling his shirt over his head as he did. "You might think about following my lead."

Sam shook his head darkly. "Eh. Sleeping's overrated."

Dean paused in a state of semi-undress, his t-shirt wrapped around his arms, which were still stuck in the sleeves. "What're you, going to run on empty for the rest of your life, Sam? You just got attacked by a…" He frowned. "…something-or-other, and then you fell into a frozen lake. Very graceful, by the way." He slid the shirt the rest of the way off. "Dude, I swear, we must have nine lives."

"All together, or individually?" Sam asked soberly. "Because if that's a combined total, I might start to worry."

Dean had started it, but now that they were talking about death, he just wanted Sam to shut up. "Look, maybe it's just me, but five hours hardly seems like long enough..." His voice trailed off as he realized Sam wasn't listening.

Sam had pushed the covers aside and brought his legs around to the floor on the side of the bed. He sat there for a moment, tightly gripping the seam of the mattress to steady himself. His whole body was stiff, and he had a headache that felt like a vice squeezing in at his temples. Honestly, although the room temperature was somewhere around 86 degrees, a cold lump had settled in the pit of his stomach. It was distracting, and in their line of work, distractions could be deadly.

Dean recognized his brother's silence for what it was: the end of that conversation, per Sam Winchester, information withholder extraordinaire.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"Boy, you are out of it, aren't you?" Dean stripped down to his shorts and then stretched out on the bed. "It's ten-thirty. If you're hungry, I brought you back a burger and fries."

Sam glanced over at the small table near the door. Sitting next to the laptop he noticed a crumpled, five-hours-old, white take-out bag. He could practically see through it because of the grease that had soaked through the paper.

"Thanks," he said, pushing himself up off the bed. "As appetizing as that looks, I think I'll pass."

Dean shrugged and rolled over onto his stomach. "Suit yourself, Mary Kate."

Sam made a face, but didn't bother reproving his brother's tastelessness. Such a comment would be wasted on Dean.

Instead, Sam went to the window and turned down the heat. He stood there near the end of Dean's bed for a long moment in the dark, his arms wrapped protectively around himself. The light from the TV animated the shadows on the walls, their bend and pull slightly hypnotic.

"Sam, are you going to move, or do you want me to start having your mail forwarded to you right there?" Dean groaned.

Sam shook himself. "What?"

Dean's face was still buried in his pillow. "I said move! Go sit down or something. I can't sleep with you standing there like that. You're creeping me out."

"Right. Sorry."

Sam didn't move, though. He kept standing, and the shadows kept pulsating. And Dean squeezed his eyes shut tightly, aware of Sam's physical presence at the foot of the bed, but also aware that Sam was nowhere near him at that moment. It was something that Sam did to himself, at the same time as it was being done to him.

Dean pulled a pillow over his head.

:

"Dean, wake up."

Sam was pulling at his arm, and Dean jerked awake. The motel room was still dark, except for the glowing slivers of bathroom light that fought their way through the gaps between the old metal door and its frame. He glanced at the digital alarm clock on the bedside table. It was six-thirty. Dean squinted at the red numbers to make sure he was seeing them correctly. Then he turned and glowered at his brother, who was sitting on the edge of the opposite bed leaning towards him. He was already fully dressed in jeans and a sweater, and his hair was damp from the shower.

"We'd better be under imminent attack, or I'm going to kill you."

"Dean, I just talked to one of the latest victim's friends. He and his mom are meeting us for breakfast before school, so you need to get up and get dressed. And wear something presentable."

Sam flipped on the light next to the clock, and Dean groaned loudly.

"Dude, give a guy some warning when you're going to do that." He pulled the comforter over his head and then groaned again as he felt it being yanked back off. "Damn you and your circadian rhythms," he grumbled. "I purposely didn't set that alarm clock."

"I just want to get this job done," Sam said, pulling on his shoes. They were still slightly wet from the night before.

Dean rolled out of bed and reached both arms above his head. One of his shoulders popped. He frowned belatedly. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean? 'Wear something presentable?' I'm always presentable."

Sam was examining his coat, which Dean had draped over a chair and placed near the heating unit the night before. It was still wet and cold. He would just have to wear a jacket and suffer through the elements.

"I told them we were film students researching a possible documentary project."

Dean grabbed his bag off the floor and made his way to the bathroom. A gust of warm, steamy air rushed out at him when he opened the door. "Gah, it smells like girl in here!" he complained, closing the door behind him.

"That's soap," Sam said, digging through his own bag, looking for his watch. "And shampoo. You should try them." He dropped the bag and looked around the room.

Sam spied the watch next to the laptop on the small round table where Dean had been researching the night before. He snapped it on his wrist and then sat down to wait while Dean completed his beauty regimen. Absently, he picked up the soggy take-out bag his brother had procured for him. He was leaning over to lob it into the trash when he saw the small wooden box he'd stolen from the McCray house sitting on the opposite chair.

He lifted the box to the table and raised the lid. The contents looked even more mundane now than they had back in the basement. It made Sam a little sad to be looking through them. He wondered what remnants of his life someone might find one day in the future, and what they might think based on insignificant bits and pieces.

He briefly glanced at the pictures again, then pulled out the faded journal. Its leather cover was dirty and worn smooth from fingers repeatedly sliding the clasp open and shut. He opened it to the first page, and there was a pen and ink sketch of the old farm house in its original glory. The next page appeared to be the first of a series of charts detailing the demarcations and contents of the fields.

He kept turning random pages, encountering what looked like livestock birth and sales records and details of area weather patterns. He'd flipped his way about halfway through the journal when he heard the bathroom door click open, and Dean emerged fully dressed with a towel wrapped like a turban on his head.

"See anything we can use?" Dean asked when he noticed what Sam was doing. He unraveled the towel and rubbed it against his hair.

Sam shook his head and tossed the journal back into the box. "Mostly just farm stuff. Crop rotation…cow mating rituals – "

"And you can stop right there," Dean interrupted with a raised hand. Then he cocked an eyebrow and threw his brother a wicked glance. "Bring back happy memories of your first time?" he asked, and winked.

Dean thought he might shit his pants when Sam actually turned red.

"Are you ready or what? We're supposed to meet these people in ten minutes."

"Where are we going?" Dean asked, grabbing his coat and keys. He opened the motel room door and waved his brother out ahead of him.

"Some diner up the road. The kid said we couldn't miss it."

And miss it they did not. There were no traffic lights on the main drag of Grant. There was barely even a main drag. They passed a Handy Andy hardware store, a Jack and Jill, and a BP station that was ridiculously overpriced. There were three tall, metal grain silos jutting up from the middle of the town with Co-Op logos painted on the sides. The small businesses lining the road, like the card shop and the ladies clothing boutique, were dark this early in the morning. The snow was piled high in dirty banks where it had been plowed up against the curb. There was fresh slush pooled in the cracks on the sidewalk.

"This must be it," Dean announced, pulling into the lot outside the small restaurant. There were only a few cars, and there was a single gasoline pump out in front of the building.

"Eat Here and Get Gas," Sam read the sign.

Dean looked at him and grinned. "Nice."

Sam shook his head and followed his brother up to the door.

The place was nearly empty. A free-standing sign near the door had "please seat yourself" written on it in black dry erase marker. There were vinyl booths lining the front and one of the side walls and square metal tables in the middle section of the floor. Across from the door was a counter where two men in work boots and heavy flannels sat on tall stools eating sausage and biscuits and talking with a skinny cook back in the kitchen. There was an order of bacon and hash browns up, and a waitress in jeans and a t-shirt snatched the plate on her way past.

"Have a seat, guys," she called, hustling to a table where an older man sat alone with a newspaper and cup of coffee.

"Actually, we're meeting somebody," Sam said.

At his words, a plump woman stood up from a table near the back. "Mr. Burns?" She smiled and waved them over. She looked disheveled, her purple cotton blouse rumpled and a dark stain near the pocket of her long denim skirt. There was a one-year-old attached to her hip and a toddler hiding under the table. Sam cringed when he heard the older child's head crack against the underside of the metal tabletop, and the family's breakfast dishes rattled.

"Oh, Roger," the woman sighed, as the child began to cry. "You're okay." She smiled apologetically up at Sam and Dean as they approached. "He's okay. He's got a really thick skull." She reached under the table, pulled Roger out by his wrist, and guided him into a chair. "Sit here," she instructed, flipping over the paper placemat and plunking down a handful of broken crayons.

The child scowled and glared up at the two brothers, folding his arms across his chest. Dean frowned back, then stuck out his tongue.

At that, Roger's eyes went wide, and he stopped crying and began to draw.

There was another person at the table, a high school-aged kid wearing khakis and a black T-shirt with "Wiffleball Champion" screen printed across the front in block letters. He was slumped down in his seat with a bored look on his face. He fiddled with a little tub of creamer.

"Thanks for meeting with us, Mrs. Wheeler," Sam said, pulling out a chair across from the kid. "I'm Sam, and this is Dean."

"Nice to meet you, boys. And it's not a problem." Mrs. Wheeler hitched the infant higher on her hip and then had a seat. She reached up with her free hand to self-consciously smooth her short, dishwater blonde hair. "When Jim told me you wanted to meet with us, I knew this was a really important opportunity. It's a really important story, and we're completely willing to help you with your research. The Mitchells are good friends of ours, and they're just devastated. It's so horrible. Maybe your film could help shed some light on what's happening to all these people."

"We hope so," Sam smiled sadly. "At this point, though, we're really just trying to understand exactly what's happening here."

Dean pulled a laminated menu from between the salt and pepper shakers and the glass ketchup bottle and began to peruse the options. He wondered what a dish called "Eggs in Hell" could possibly entail.

"What would you like to know?" Mrs. Wheeler asked.

Sam turned to Jim Wheeler, who hadn't even acknowledged them yet. "Jim, do you think you could tell us what you remember from that night?" he asked quietly.

Jim rolled his eyes and looked toward the window. He sighed. "We just snuck in for fun," he started, as if he'd told this story hundreds of times before. "Some of the guys at school kind of dared us to do it, said we couldn't make it through a night in there. We figured we'd just break into the front room and stay right by the door all night." He paused and cleared his throat. "But once we were in there, Mike wanted to look around."

"And what happened?"

"He went downstairs into the basement." Jim glanced over at Sam now, and the attitude faded from his features. He sat up slightly in his seat and looked down at the table. "But Mindy and I were too afraid to go with him." When he looked up again, there was guilt in his eyes and regret in his tone. "I swear, he couldn't have been down there longer than ten minutes. Then we heard him scream." He swallowed. "And he just never came back. We were too scared to go down to help him. We ran away and called the police."

Dean set down the menu and leaned forward. "Did you hear any strange noises? See anything out of the ordinary?"

Jim shook his head. "I don't think so," he said. Then he frowned.

"What is it?" Sam pressed.

Dean recognized the familiar timbre of Sam's voice in its 'persuasive encouragement' mode, that low, breathy quality that was so gut-wrenchingly Sam.

"Well," Jim continued hesitantly, rubbing nervously at the back of his neck. "Before he screamed, I thought I heard him call up that he'd found something."

Sam was shaking his head slowly. "Do you know what he'd found?"

"No. I mean, I'm not even sure that's what he said."

The table fell silent. Dishes and silverware clinked softly around them. The men's voices drifted their way indistinctly from the counter. The waitress poured another cup of coffee and laughed at something the old man with the newspaper had said. A heavy drop of condensation was slowly making its way down a juice glass on the table, and Jim solemnly watched it slide.

Sam watched Jim; Dean watched Sam; and Mrs. Wheeler moved her eyes back and forth between all of them.

"What?" she asked, finally. "Is that significant?"

Sam turned to her and gave her another small smile. "Any information is helpful, Mrs. Wheeler."

The baby on Mrs. Wheeler's lap broke the tension by lightly slapping her mother across the face.

"Meredith!" Mrs. Wheeler scolded, grabbing the baby's chubby hand. She caught sight of her watch and stood abruptly. "Oh, hell's bells," she said, letting go of the baby's hand and gathering Roger's crayons. She shoved them into the diaper bag hanging from the back of her chair and then held Roger's little winter coat out for him with her free hand. "Jimmy, we've gotta get you to school, or you'll be late."

Sam stood and attempted to help her get everything together, but she appeared to have it under control and motioned for him to sit back down. She nudged Jim in the shoulder, and he turned to zip Roger's coat. Then he pulled his backpack from under the table and started to head for the door.

"Thank you again for your time," Sam said sincerely.

Mrs. Wheeler smiled at him, pulling the baby's hood over its tiny head. "Let us know if there's anything else we can do."

Sam nodded and watched them go.

The waitress approached their table. "You guys staying for breakfast?" she asked, turning their coffee cups and pouring from a fresh pot.

"Yeah," Dean piped up before Sam could say anything. "I'll take the Eggs in Hell."

"And for you, sweetie?" she asked, looking at Sam.

"Um…toast is fine."

"Just give him the same," Dean interjected, standing and moving to the other side of the table.

The waitress nodded. She picked up a few of the Wheelers' empty plates and carried them off to the kitchen.

"You know, you never ate last night," Dean said, pushing Jimmy's orange juice aside.

"Thanks for noticing, mom."

Dean shrugged. "Whatever, man. I'm just saying."

Just then the door swung open again. Mrs. Wheeler propped it open with her hip, and a small body slipped past her back into the restaurant. "Hurry, Roger," she said. "We have to get going."

Roger toddled his way back to their table and wordlessly pushed his placemat into Sam's hands.

"He wanted you two to have it," Mrs. Wheeler explained from the door.

Sam looked down at the picture and had to swallow a laugh. It was a stick person with a red-line smile and spiky yellow hair. Its eyes were green dots, and it appeared to have on enormous, brown, stick boots about the same size as its head.

"Wow," Sam marveled a little unconvincingly. His eyebrows disappeared up under his heavy bangs, and the smile on his face looked more painful than truly impressed, although Dean had to admit it was a valiant effort. "It's…" He turned the picture around so Dean could see. "It's really pretty! Isn't it, Dean?"

"Pretty ugly," Dean muttered under his breath before taking a sip of his coffee. He choked as Sam kicked his shin under the table.

"It's great, Roger," Sam said, turning back to the little boy. He smiled gently. "Thank you."

Roger grinned and took off for the door.

"Well, it is," Dean shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Ugly, I mean. Seriously. Even for a kid."

"No, no, you're right," Sam agreed, picking the picture back up and examining it at arm's length. He smiled. "You do realize it's you, right?"

Dean snatched the picture from Sam's hands and studied it for a moment. "Well, I guess he got one thing right."

Sam waited, his eyes bright, and his lips curled up in the faintest of smiles.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "You know what they say about guys with big feet."

Sam laughed out loud.

Okay, okay. Not a whole lot of plot development that time around. But the next chapter promises to up the angst-ante a bit. :)