Standard Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters do not belong to me, and I'm using them without permission.
Author's Note: I'm sorry it's taken me so long to post this chapter. I really struggled with it (I'm talking wrote and rewrote the whole diner part at least ten times), and I hope that fact isn't too terribly apparent. I guess I'll just let the chapter speak for itself and hope you're not disappointed.
Damaged
by Liz Bach
Previously...
Dean cocked an eyebrow. "You know what they say about guys with big feet."
Sam laughed out loud.
Part IV
The sun had begun to rise, but the thick cloud cover had muted its rays to a dull gray haze. A long, white '97 Cadillac DeVille moved slowly down the slick street, splashing sludge against the curb as it hit a pothole. The car drove on, and the puddle settled, and Grant was abnormally still once again. Even during what should have been the morning rush, the town seemed to be all but deserted.
"So now what?" Sam slouched down in his seat and drummed his fingertips somewhat impatiently against the table top. The look on his face was a mix of boredom and exasperation as he watched Dean's studious attempts to balance the salt shaker on edge against a tiny pile of spilled salt.
Dean was bent down low towards the table and didn't look up to respond. "Well, we now know that whatever it was Mike Mitchell found down in that basement, something didn't like him having it."
"Right," Sam agreed. "And I take it we're in agreement that whatever is abducting these people and whatever chased us down by that lake, is some kind of supernatural manifestation of one of the McCrays."
"Yes, Sam. I think that's a safe – " Dean spared his brother a quick glance. " – albeit wordy – assumption. Problem is, I searched for hours last night, and I never did find anything on the McCrays."
Sam's drumming turned into an annoyed rapping of his knuckles. "So what do you suggest? We don't exactly have a whole lot of useful information to work with here."
"I don't know," Dean answered distractedly. "What do you suggest?"
Dean slowly pulled both hands back, and the salt shaker maintained its precarious angle. He held his breath for a moment and was just starting to smile triumphantly when Sam slammed a clenched fist down on the table. The shaker teetered for a split second before tipping over onto its side and starting to roll. Its tapered shape caused the little jar to arch its way back towards Sam, who caught it and set it down firmly, just far enough on his side of the table to be out of Dean's reach.
Dean looked at Sam's hand wrapped tightly around the glass container. Then his eyes lifted to meet his brother's irritated glare.
"Dude, you are such a dick."
Sam loosed his grip on the shaker. "Can we please just try to focus here?" he sighed, resting both elbows on the table and rubbing his hands over his face.
"I was focused."
Sam snorted and looked at his brother through splayed fingers. "On the McCrays, Dean. You know, abandoned house…missing people…the whole reason you dragged me here in the first place?"
Dean pinched a bit of salt between his fingers and tossed it over his shoulder.
Sam shook his head and slouched in his chair again. Long fingers found his wadded napkin and squeezed it absently, his eyes moving to the diner window. Dean followed his gaze, trying to see whatever it was his brother was seeing, not at all sure that he ever could.
"Something happened to them that drove them apart," Sam declared suddenly, his voice taking on a tone of unfounded certainty that caused Dean to go tense.
"What makes you say that?" he asked quietly, looking closely at Sam's face. That fall through the ice had been traumatic, and even though Sam acted as if it had never happened, every once in a while that morning, Dean had seen him shiver, as if he was still cold. His skin still hadn't fully regained its color.
"Think about it, Dean. The AP report said all the victims had some kind of tragic family background. That's not a coincidence."
"'Tragedy' always has a nice ring to it when it comes to news reports, Sam," Dean pointed out. "It could mean anything. Or nothing."
"It obviously means something. You said so yourself before we even got here," Sam argued, a little too forcefully. "I don't know, man. I just have this feeling it's something they have in common with their victims." The look on his face when he turned back to his brother conveyed an intense regret and empathy that Dean would have given anything to erase.
"It just doesn't make any sense," Sam continued earnestly. "No police records. No local newspaper reports." He shook his head and stabbed a bit of cold egg with his fork. He made no move to eat it, just pushed it around the plate. "I mean, a town this size, and you're going to tell me nobody knows what happened to the McCrays?
Dean shrugged and blew out a short puff of air. "Look, we'll figure it out, okay? Why don't you and your third eye over there just chill out for a second?"
A pathetic snow had begun to fall. The tiny little flakes drifted down and stuck to the frozen street and sidewalk. From where they sat, Sam could see a dusting of white beginning to obscure the Impala's windshield.
"They were a family, Dean. A whole family." Sam frowned, and his brow creased as he flexed and relaxed his fingers around the napkin. "How does a community let an entire family just fade into obscurity like that? The only proof they actually existed is that deserted farm."
Dean finished off his coffee and sat back in his seat. "All right. Before we can figure out how to get rid of this thing, we're going to need more information."
"Good call, Mr. Obvious. Where do you suggest we find it?"
"Well, we're probably not going to find it sitting here on our asses, now are we?"
They'd been there for forty-five minutes, but business never did pick up at the Eat Here and Get Gas diner. Their waitress had been to the table to ask if they needed refills five times since she'd poured the first cup. The sixth time she approached, she set their bill down next to Dean's empty plate.
"No rush, guys," she said with a discouraged smile. "You can see we're not exactly being mobbed for the next available table."
After downing his Eggs in Hell, Dean could hazard a guess why. But he surmised the lull in patronage had more to do with the fear and uncertainty that had gripped the town than it did with the diner's questionable fare.
"You want me to box that up for you?" the waitress asked, motioning with the half-empty coffee pot to Sam's untouched eggs.
"No, thanks," he said, sitting up straight and pushing the plate aside.
She smiled again briefly as she carried their dishes away. Sam's own small smile faded when he looked over and saw Dean staring him down incriminatingly.
"What?"
Dean reached into his pocket for his wallet. "It's just…" he shrugged, "I'm concerned is all."
Sam cocked one eyebrow and frowned. "Concerned about what?"
Dean fixed him with a sad look. "All those starving little kids in China, man."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Look, I asked for toast. I ate the toast. The rest was your idea."
"Yeah, yeah. Well, don't come crying to…" He pulled out a credit card and glanced at the name. "…Akshaya Sabbaghi when you're passing out from malnutrition." He stood, grabbed his coat off the back of his chair, and headed up to the cash register.
Sam followed, zipping his jacket.
The waitress joined them at the register and ran the card through the reader without question. She tore the receipt off the tape and handed it over along with a pen, tapped her index finger on the counter as Dean struggled to remember how to spell Akshaya. Then she glanced over at Sam, who gave her a tight smile, his hands in his jacket pockets.
"You're awfully cute," she said suddenly, her eyes on Sam.
Sam's eyebrows shot up, and Dean mangled the last few letters of his purloined last name.
There was an awkward silence, during which Sam wasn't sure what to say.
"You'll have to excuse him," Dean smiled. "First day with the new tongue and all."
The waitress took Dean's proffered receipt and put it into the drawer. Then she closed the register with a soft click.
"That's okay," she said, not in the least bit embarrassed. "You guys obviously aren't from around here."
"No, we're not," Dean answered. "Actually, we're film students up from Colorado State."
"Really?" She turned to Dean. "I didn't realize CSU had a film school."
Dean just kept smiling. "It's a really new program."
She nodded skeptically, then looked at Sam again. "My name's Lucy."
Sam just stood there, an uncomfortable smile plastered across his face. Another brief silence, and Dean nudged him in the elbow. "Oh. Right. I'm Sam. And this is..." Sam glanced sideways at his brother.
"Akshaya," Dean supplied, flashing his credit card at the waitress and then putting it back into his wallet. His cheeks were starting to hurt from his perma-grin.
Lucy was gracious enough to at least pretend she was buying it. "Well, Sam...Akshaya...I feel like I should tell you something."
Sam cocked his head slightly, not sure he wanted to know where this was going. "What's that?"
"I couldn't help but overhear you guys talking after the Wheeler kid left," she said, leaning forward and folding her arms on the counter. "About your film?"
Sam nodded.
"Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but that McCray story people tell around town, it's 100 percent fiction. It's just a myth."
"Are you sure?" Sam asked at the same time Dean demanded, "How do you know?"
Dishes clattered in the background, and the skinny cook poked his head out from the kitchen. The waitress picked up a dishtowel and began to wipe down the counter.
"Please," she said, wiping slowly, still looking at Sam. "I was Jimmy's age once. Seems like every year some group of kids gets the idea that they're going to find something out about the McCrays. Thing is, you can research all you want. There's no record of any family named McCray ever having lived in Grant. But it sure makes for an interesting story, doesn't it?"
Dean frowned. "Then what's the deal with the farm? Somebody lived there."
She shrugged. "No clue. But if you're still wanting to explore the McCray angle…you know, for the sake of your film…I know someone you should talk to."
"Who?"
"Her name's Iona Rothschild." She stopped wiping and leaned towards them again. "You're not gonna believe this, but she's the local psychic. Priceless, huh?"
Dean stole a glance at his brother, whose young features showed no reaction other than cautious curiosity. "Where can we find her?" he asked quietly.
"She used to do readings out of a little hole in the wall down on Merrifield, but I don't think anyone's been to see her in years. People say she's more psycho than psychic, if you know what I mean. Now she just lives there in the back rooms. She's like a recluse or something. But she used to go around swearing up and down that the McCrays really existed."
"A crazy recluse, huh?" Dean mused, casting a significant look at Sam, who shrugged.
"Sounds like our kind of lady."
Dean turned back to the waitress and smiled again. "Thanks for the information."
:
"Dude, that chick totally wanted you, and you gave her the Heisman." He shook his head solemnly. "Sometimes I think you might be adopted."
Sam snorted and pulled open the passenger side door. "I don't know if this occurred to you, Dean, but we're kind of in the middle of something here. Not to mention that woman was a complete stranger."
"No, I know. I'm just saying." He smiled devilishly and waggled his eyebrows. "She just looked like she might be one of those girls who can spontaneously dislocate her jaw, that's all."
Sam stared incredulously at his brother over the roof of the car. "Seriously. Do you even listen to yourself?"
Dean slid behind the wheel and keyed the ignition. "I wouldn't have minded driving around the block a few times while you taxed that ass. You're my brother, so I'm willing to make those kinds of sacrifices for you. Besides, how long could it have possibly taken? What? Like four, five minutes?"
Sam rolled his eyes and sank into the passenger's seat, pulling the door shut. He propped his elbow against the slightly drafty spot where the door met the window and leaned an aching head against his fist. He closed his eyes. They'd been in Grant for less than twenty-four hours, but he already felt like this job would never end.
Dean flipped the wipers on high and cranked up the front defrost in a lazy effort to clear the windshield. Luckily, the new snow was like powder and easily brushed off the glass.
The rear tires spun wildly as Dean attempted the turn out of the parking lot, and they'd dug a couple pretty decent holes in the snow before the tread finally caught and they were on their way to find Iona Rothschild. Dean gunned the engine and playfully spun the steering wheel back and forth a few times, causing the sedan to fishtail for about twenty yards down the center of the empty street.
Dean tossed his brother a wicked grin, which Sam didn't return. Instead, he kept his eyes closed, and his left arm snaked gingerly around his stomach.
"Hey," Dean said, easing up on the gas and the antics. "What's the matter with you?"
Sam didn't move. "Nothing a little Dramamine won't take care of," he muttered humorlessly.
Dean eyed his brother and noticed the tiny bit of moisture that dampened his sideburns and the hair at the back of his neck. He reached over and turned down the heat, even though the air in the car was far from being warm yet.
"Yeah, well, help me keep an eye out for this place, would you?"
Sam still didn't change his position against the door, but he forced his eyes open and watched the storefronts go by.
Merrifield was once a well-traveled road that ran for five blocks perpendicular to the main street through town and dead-ended at a chain link fence surrounding an old, rundown drag strip. A dirty plastic banner advertising a long-past demolition derby hung along the fence and rippled softly in the frigid wind.
The storefronts lining the sidewalk looked eerily desolate and portentous on this gloomy morning. Among the small, single-story shops was an old beauty parlor, a cleaner's, a dollar store, and a florist. The spaces between buildings were empty alleyways where faded brown dumpsters sat collecting the discarded remnants of every day life in Grant.
"Jeez, this whole town is a fucking dump," Dean observed bluntly, scanning the windows for some sign of the psychic's shop.
Along the opposite side of the road was a sporadic row of little houses with grimy siding and a handful of old beater cars parked out front. In one yard, a big, dirty German shepherd followed the Impala's slow motion down the length of its chain link dog run, its teeth bared in what looked like a fierce growl.
"There it is," Sam said quietly, and Dean leaned forward to follow his gaze through the windshield.
It was tucked between the remains of an out-of-business shoe repair shop and another empty store with a For Sale or Lease sign posted in the window. It was indeed almost a literal hole in the red brick wall. The door was set back from the façade of the building in a narrow alcove, and there were dingy, white, vinyl roller shades drawn over the windows so it was impossible to see inside. There was what looked to be a hand-painted wooden sign in one corner of the window between the glass and the shade: Psychic Readings by Lady Iona of the Inner Circle. The paint was cracked and faded.
They sat in the car for a moment just staring out at the ugly little shop, which actually looked every bit as deserted as the McCray farm. Then Dean killed the engine, and everything was quiet. The dog's muffled bark could be heard in the distance. The snow was turning into little pieces of ice that tap-tap-tapped insistently against the windows.
"You up for this?" Dean asked, trying to keep a measured amount of nonchalance in his voice.
Sam looked over at him. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" he replied, trying to keep a measured amount of indifference in his.
Dean didn't press the issue. He got out of the car and stepped over a low snow bank to get to the sidewalk directly in front of Iona's shop.
He heard Sam's door slam and then, "Do you think she'll even talk to us?" as Sam stepped up behind him.
He shrugged. There was only one way to find out. He went to the door and gave the handle a good tug. It didn't budge, so he thumped several times against the glass and stood back.
"Dude, we gotta think up a good psychic handle for you," he said over his shoulder as they waited.
Sam gave him a pettish look. "Why would we need to do that?"
"Look, I'm not trying to be mean or anything, but Sam Winchester just doesn't have the same kind of ring to it as that." He indicated the sign in the window, then pounded on the door again, a little harder. "Besides, don't you want to follow the protocol of your psychic kinsfolk? Your brethren?"
"Dean, you're my only brethren, and I'm having a hard enough time trying to disassociate myself from you."
"Ooo, how about Lady Samuel, Mistress of the Night?"
Sam pressed his lips into a thin line. "You are so fucking obnoxious."
Dean had just raised his fist to knock again when they heard a rough scrape-click as the deadbolt slid open. The door slowly opened out into the alcove, and Dean had to step back to avoid being pinned between it and the brick wall.
A withered hand pressed against the glass, holding the door ajar. The body it was connected to was clad in a long, wine-colored linen dress, much too light for the Nebraska winter. Iona Rothschild was thin, tall, and brittle-looking. Her fingers were slender, but her arthritic knuckles were enlarged and deformed. Her gray hair was thick, though dull and greasy. It hung limply past her shoulders and clear down her back. The skin on her face was wrinkled and marked with age spots, and her lips were so thin they were practically nonexistent. She looked out at them with small, suspicious brown eyes.
"You've come," she said, pulling a flimsy, black knit shawl up tighter around her shoulders. Her voice was so low and raspy it was almost masculine. "I've been waiting for you." She motioned them in with a slight tilt of her head.
Dean glanced at Sam, whose expression was unreadable. He would've liked to have known what his brother was thinking just then. Despite Sam's burgeoning abilities, their experiences with Missouri Mosely, and the improbable situations they found themselves facing every day, Dean still considered himself a bit of a skeptic when it came to people who claimed to possess psychic powers. Maybe it was because he understood how real the realm of the supernatural was, and there were just too many people out there ignorantly exploiting what they didn't even remotely understand.
Sam seemed to hesitate, so Dean stepped in first. The air was warm and heavy, and it reeked of sandalwood incense and mold. The room was small and cluttered. There was a filthy Oriental rug in the middle of the floor, at the center of which stood a small round table with four stools around it. A long runner hung across and over the edges of the table, the fringed edges coming close to touching the floor. A fat candle burned surprisingly bright on the table, and its flame bobbed and swayed as the cold, outside air moved in around it. The floor beyond the rug was littered with piles of old newspapers, photos, and books. There were shelves along the full length of one wall, and on them sat sundry jars, boxes, and bowls brimming with all sorts of mysterious contents.
Dean felt Sam's shoulder brush his and heard the door close behind them. The blinds squelched all daylight from the small room, and it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dark.
"They sent you to me to learn more about the McCrays," the woman said. She slowly moved past them towards an old wooden rocking chair that sat in a far corner opposite the door. She put both hands on the armrests and lowered herself down onto the chair. "Come here," she ordered. "Sit."
The brothers glanced at each other before approaching the corner. They each grabbed a stool from around the table and pulled them up in front of the old woman. It was as if they were children, and she was about to read them a fairy tale.
"You've seen her," she asked, although it sounded more like a statement than a question.
She was looking at Sam, but Dean answered. "Seen who?"
She turned to Dean momentarily, then spoke to Sam again. "My neighbors, who've lived in this town as long as I, choose to deny those unseemly past occurrences which might tarnish our town's positive reputation. But their denial doesn't make the McCrays any less real, or their story any less appalling. And despite our children's ignorance of those events, just look at our reputation now."
"Tell us the story," Sam requested quietly.
She leaned back in the chair and started to rock. "They were a mother, a father, and a young daughter. The farm had once belonged to the mother's family, and they were as prosperous as anyone else in town could be back in those days.
"But love changes, and people stray. Mrs. McCray discovered her husband was having an affair with another woman. It was a scandal that the family didn't want spreading around town. Mrs. McCray especially was loath that anyone should find out.
"So the discord between them festered, but they kept up appearances. Until one day Mr. McCray just stopped coming into town. He didn't socialize, didn't keep his business appointments; Mrs. McCray attended to matters concerning the farm. The farm itself began to go into decline. To the people who noticed, it seemed like the daughter was forced to do all the work in the fields.
"She was an ugly, miserable girl. Hateful." Iona made a face as if there were something distasteful in her mouth. "So despicable was she, that she actually fought with her mother one day in the middle of town. They raised their voices to one another, something about Mr. McCray and whose fault was it he was gone. But it ended with the daughter climbing into the cab of the truck, and Mrs. McCray driving them away."
She closed her eyes and rocked slowly, her chair creaking softly against the hardwood floor.
Dean lifted an eyebrow and looked over at Sam, who looked just as confused as he. Dean cleared his throat. "And?" he prompted, his voice sounding too loud in the darkness.
The woman's eyes snapped open again, and they were startlingly bright. She fixed Sam with a stare that was accusatory, almost angry in its intensity.
"And that is where she ended the story and the existence of the McCrays," she said. "Since her revenge, the house has sat empty for all these years, deteriorating to the state you find it in now."
"But what happened to them?" Sam asked, struggling to make sense of the disjointed and cryptic story.
"Rain," the woman answered. "It was rain."
What little color remained after his experience in the lake quickly drained from Sam's face and neck, and he felt the cold prickle of goosebumps breaking out on his skin.
"Come closer," the woman beckoned him harshly.
Dean tensed as he watched Sam reluctantly lean forward. There was a disconcerting look of resigned acceptance on Sam's face, like someone who had committed a crime he knew he would never get away with, and the authorities had just come knocking at his door.
Dean reached out a hand and placed it lightly on Sam's back, although he wasn't exactly sure what he was trying to convey with the touch. He mostly just felt like he needed to remind Sam that he was there, because his brother suddenly looked very young and very alone. Beneath his fingers, he could feel Sam trembling, and the sensation startled him.
"I know what you've done to your own family." The woman leaned in too close, invading Sam's personal space. She eyed him with an air of judgmental superiority. "You've felt it ever since you came to Grant, haven't you? Oh, it's a terrible feeling. Sickening. When the sins of those you hunt so closely echo the sins you've committed yourself." Her next words were like ice cold steel slicing into his chest. "You seek normalcy, safety, respite from a turbulent existence. But do you honestly believe anything good can come to a boy who brought death to his own mother? Child, instead of bothering the people of this town, you should be preparing yourself to burn in hell."
The look of stunned disbelief on Dean's face morphed almost instantly into one of rage. He sat motionless more out of shock than restraint as the old woman stared them down. They'd run into plenty of ugly and foul things before in their lives, but this woman and her scathing comments might just take the cake. And there was Sam, looking for all the world like a kid who'd been slapped in the face by a trusted adult. Make that punched in the gut.
"What did you just say to him?" Dean asked, his voice low and menacing. Surely even Dean had his limits, but at that moment he was not above kicking the shit out of an old lady.
The woman frowned at them both. Her eyes were so old, and yet so sharp. Sam found her gaze to be almost painful. He felt slightly panicked, like a cold mass had settled between his stomach and chest, and it began to press harder and harder. He shifted his weight in discomfort, worried now that Dean had asked, that the woman might actually repeat herself.
Instead, she leaned back in the chair and started rocking again. Every move she made, even that of her toe pushing off against the floor, was slow. Sam felt like they were sitting underwater. And he was starting to suffocate.
Next to him, Dean did not appear to be so affected. In fact, Dean seemed to be gearing up for something. Sam brought up a shaky hand, hoping to stop Dean from doing or saying whatever he was getting ready to do or say. Silently, but desperately, he willed his brother to just shut the hell up so they could get out of there and never have to go back.
But Dean was not to be so easily deterred. Before Sam had a chance to react, Dean was on his feet. He brought both hands down on either side of the rocking chair, gripping the arms and bringing the woman's rocking to an abrupt stop.
"You filthy bitch," Dean ground out through clenched teeth. In his own mind, Dean wasn't sure what he was about to do, and the woman stared up at him with that same biting look in her eyes.
"Dean."
It only vaguely registered in Dean's mind that his brother was calling him.
The woman kept looking into Dean's eyes, leaned forward a little in her seat, froze him like that, like if she wanted she could hold him there forever. Then slowly, she leaned back.
"Sooner or later, you will lose him," she said, her eyes eerily dulling a shade.
Dean pulled his hands back quickly, as if he'd been burned, and the release of pressure sent the chair rocking slightly again. Confused, Dean backed away from the woman and, without breaking eye contact with her, grabbed Sam by his sleeve and man-handled him across the small room. All 6'4" of Sam seemed a little too easy to shove towards the front door. Something told Dean he had to get them both out of there now.
After they stepped out of the shop, Dean finally turned and steered Sam toward the car, giving him another prod. He didn't think he'd pushed that hard, but Sam stumbled a little against the car door. His fingers shook as he pulled on the door handle.
Neither brother spoke until they'd driven for about a block, when Dean said, "Well, she was a bitch."
Sam watched the shop moving farther away in the passenger side mirror. No shit she was a bitch. And as long as they were stating the obvious, "She knew about mom."
Sam half expected Dean to make a huge production of rolling his eyes and possibly even pulling over the car to tell Sam how ridiculous he was being to even consider the woman had any idea what she was talking about.
But at first Dean didn't say anything or respond at all. He just clenched his jaw muscle and kept staring out at the road. He seemed to be trying to figure out what to say, and the hesitation caused the weight on Sam's chest and stomach to tighten. It was starting to feel like a vice gripping his insides, and he had to close his eyes for a moment. He felt nauseous, and suddenly hot. Every lurch of the car on the old stretch of road only further aggravated the slow throbbing in his head.
Dean was choosing his words carefully. What that witch back there had said had been meant to inflict pain, and from the looks of Sam, it had worked. He decided to just focus on getting this job done and leaving Grant as soon as possible.
"So they existed," Dean stated grimly. "And family dinners were a little tense. We still don't know what happened to them."
"Dean, I need you to stop," Sam said through clenched teeth. He was holding it together as best he could, but he was obviously distressed.
Dean mistook the urgency in Sam's voice for reluctance to continue this hunt, although he should have known better than to think his brother would back down just because of something some crazy old woman had said.
"Look, we'll go back to the house tonight and just set the whole fucking thing on fire. It may not destroy the spirits, but at least it'll keep anyone else from going in there."
"No, Dean," Sam interrupted. "Please. Stop."
Dean finally looked over at the passenger seat. What he saw caused him to slam on the breaks. Sam's skin had taken on a gray, almost transparent pallor, and several pieces of his long bangs were plastered to his forehead with sweat. His left arm was wrapped around his stomach, and his right hand was already on the door handle.
The car had barely come to a halt on the side of the road before Sam was tumbling out the door and onto his knees in the three inches of snow along the sidewalk.
"Sam!"
Dean was around the car in a matter of seconds. Putting one hand on Sam's shoulder, Dean cupped the back of his neck with the other and searched his brother's face. There was panic there, but Dean wasn't sure exactly which part of this whole mess Sam was presently panicking about. So he took a guess.
"Look, Sam, what that bitch said back there – "
"I heard what she said, Dean." Sam closed his eyes and tried to steady himself. Dean's hold on his shoulder was firm, and he tried to anchor himself to that. Tried to anchor himself to Dean. "It was complete bullshit, okay?"
"Well, yeah. I mean, of course," Dean stammered. "I just – "
"Can you please just let it go?" Sam implored. "Please?"
But Dean didn't want to let it go. "Sam," he said forcing as much authority as he could into his voice. He wished his brother would at least look at him. "What happened to our family…. It wasn't you, okay?"
"Then what was it?" Dean had expected to hear anger in Sam's voice, not raw desperation. But that was what was there, and it broke his heart.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I refuse to believe it has anything to do with you."
"Then you're an idiot. And you're deluding yourself."
Dean didn't respond to that. He knew Sam was in no state of mind to listen to him anyway. So instead, he sighed deeply, rested his forehead against the hand on Sam's shoulder. He could feel Sam still shaking, but he felt helpless to do anything about it.