Standard Disclaimer: Supernatural and its characters do not belong to me, and I'm using them without permission.

Author's Note: Okay, this chapter is very short, and I apologize. I just felt really bad that it's taking me so long to update, and I wanted to at least prove that I've been thinking about where this is all going and working on it. This chapter is just a bit of fluff, really. Trying my hand at a bit of angst, at which I am admittedly terrible! I'd like to wrap this puppy up before the season finale comes and throws us all for a loop, but I'm not sure that's gonna happen. I'm thinking about two or three more chapters after this. Thanks for your indulgence. Your reviews are so appreciated. :)

Damaged

by Liz Bach

Previously...

"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.

Part V

The air was crisp and quiet as only winter air could be, and the cold wind blew intermittently from the north. At one point it stirred the rusted, metal tubes of a wind chime somewhere down the street. It had stopped snowing, but the sky was still a dismal gray, and gusts of wind sent small tornadoes of snow drifting against the building next to them, up against the curb, around the Impala's tires.

Grant, and their business there, got uglier with every passing minute.

He wasn't sure how long they'd been sitting there, but Dean was cold, his pants were wet, and his ass was definitely asleep. He sat uncomfortably on the sidewalk, where no one had bothered to shovel, with his legs drawn up and his elbows resting on his knees. He held one index finger loosely in the other hand; examined a fingernail; glanced up at the flat gray clouds that didn't actually look like clouds but the sky itself, turned old, dull, and colorless in its most depressing of seasons.

Sam sat cross-legged in front of him. He was bent forward with elbows resting on his knees and forehead in his palms. Drifting snow had settled and crystallized atop messy, brown hair, the heat from his head and the harsh chill of the air causing the tiny flakes to seemingly waver somewhere between droplets and ice. He looked brittle, like Dean could reach over and touch him, and he might just shatter right there into a million pieces along the street. So Dean kept his hands to himself and waited.

In their mutual haste to exit the car, both brothers had left the front doors open. The warning bell that signaled Dean had left the keys in the ignition droned on and on and on.

Sam was numb. And it felt…well…not good, but manageable. He sensed his brother's tension and was aware of Dean's concerted effort not to watch him, not to speak, not to open that can of worms. He knew it was taking all of Dean's self-control to just keep still; Dean had never been one for inaction. Sam was just beginning to really appreciate the effort Dean was putting forth when his irreverent voice broke the silence.

"So…what's all this I hear about global warming?"

Sam lifted his head, and his cheeks and nose were rosy from the cold. He almost looked like a little kid who'd been out building snowmen and making snow angels in the yard.

He looked across at his brother, who smiled toothily. Sam didn't smile back. Instead, his eyes narrowed, and he looked at Dean closely. Seriously. And all of a sudden, he didn't look so young anymore. He looked weary, and Dean's smile faltered.

"No, really. I hear things are…like…melting."

Sam continued staring at him, and now Dean started to frown.

"Apparently it hasn't reached Nebraska yet," he muttered, scratching at the back of his neck self-consciously. "Despite all the methane gas." He tried one more small smile. "You know…all the cows and – " Sam was clearly not amused, so Dean stopped trying.

They stared at each other for a moment in silence. Then Sam spoke.

"Dean, I need you to promise me something."

Sometimes there was a quality to Sam's voice that spoke of such innocence, and youth, and vulnerability. And even though it was painfully apparent to Dean that his little brother had never been innocent in his life, he would always be young and vulnerable in Dean's eyes, and that tone of voice got to him every time. It wasn't something that Sam consciously did. In fact, if Sam knew the kinds of emotion that tone dredged up, Dean was sure he would end up doing everything in his power to suppress it.

"All right," Dean agreed warily, aware that he wasn't exactly sure what he was about to promise. "What?"

Sam looked at him with hard, haunted eyes that actually made Dean shiver. "One day, I'm going to do something you're not going to like – "

"One day?" Dean smiled nervously. "Dude, that's like every day already."

Sam's intensity didn't waver. In fact, if it was possible, it seemed to heighten. "When it happens, Dean…you can't try to stop me."

Dean still didn't really know what his brother was saying, but he didn't like the sound of it, and he had a feeling it had nothing to do with Grant, Nebraska, or the McCrays. He shook his head. "I'm not going to promise that."

"But Dean – "

"But Dean nothing."

Sam was still looking at him, and something in his eyes caused Dean an inexplicable, physical pain. He unconsciously brought a hand up to rub slowly at a hollow ache in his chest.

"I'm just saying, maybe you're right, man. That this isn't about me. It's bigger than that. It's bigger than all of us. So I just need you to know, whatever happens to me…it's supposed to, okay?"

One of Dean's scariest theories, one he could never tell Sam, was that Sam was dying, and the lethal dose of whatever was killing him had been given to him twenty-two years ago, the night their mother had died. And each new manifestation of Sam's so-called abilities, each supernatural foe they faced, each brush with danger, was really a new symptom that would bring him closer to his cruel fate. As much as he'd thought about it, Dean couldn't actually say for sure just how Sam would go; Dean just knew that he was going and would eventually be gone. But something in the way Sam looked at him then – the urgency, the sadness, the defeated slump of his shoulders – caused Dean to wonder if maybe, at some point, Sam himself had somehow figured out exactly how it would all go down.

Sam kept watching his expression earnestly, and Dean understood Sam was using Dean's love and willingness to do anything for his little brother against him. He was being manipulated, and it both hurt and pissed him off in a way he hadn't experienced before. The Impala's warning bell chimed in time with the steady pound of his heart.

"Don't say shit like that, Sammy," he said firmly. "Seriously. Jesus. You know, sometimes I think you're fucking nuts."

"Look, I know you think I'm selfish," Sam continued, heedless of his brother's visible discomfort. "So for all the times I've failed you…all of you…for all the decisions I've made…"

Dean rolled his eyes dramatically as comprehension dawned. "Oh, God. Is this what all this freeze our asses off and look like idiots sitting in the snow is all about? This is why you're asking me to make some fucked-up promise to let you commit some undisclosed future act of insanity?"

Now it was Sam's turn to roll his eyes and invoke a higher being. "God – Dean – could you please, for once, not do this? I just…I need you to not belittle this, okay? I need you to look at me and…just promise me. Please."

"I don't care what you think you need, Sam. I'm not going to make any empty promises I have no intention of keeping." He clenched his fists in frustration and leaned forward, held his brother's gaze. "So what, you're trying to atone for something? Something that isn't even your fault, by the way. You think doing something stupid will somehow change things?"

"Please, Dean. I…I just…" His voice trailed off, and Sam seemed to…deflate.

The intensity vanished, almost as if they'd never broached the conversation at all. It was as if a switch had been flipped, and now they were back to a reality Dean was a lot more comfortable with. One where he and his brother went about their business dispelling evil, and Sam, for the most part, went along with the plan, whatever would keep them both alive another day.

The wind picked up again, and larger, heavier snowflakes began to tumble towards the ground. The sky looked thick and close. Almost within reach.

"Can we just get back to figuring this McCray shit out?" Dean grumbled, getting to his feet. He looked down at his wet jeans and then incriminatingly at his brother.

Sam sighed and stood. A wet snowflake landed on his cheek, but didn't melt. He wiped it away.

"Should we go back to the farm?"

Dean shook his head. "That bitch, Iona, said something about rain. Did you catch that?"

Sam nodded stiffly. "Yeah, I did," he breathed.

"Okay, so let's start there. Maybe it's some kind of hint or clue or whatever. Let's see what we can dig up about any unusual storms, floods, droughts, whatever you can think of that has something to do with rain."

Sam nodded again. "I'm not sure that's what she was talking about," he said. The memory of those hands in the lake sent a shiver down his spine.

"Well, I'm open to suggestions. What the hell else do you think it meant?"

"I don't know."

Dean watched him for a beat, but Sam wasn't looking at him. Dean wasn't sure what Sam was looking at, and it struck him again that he may never be able to see the things his brother saw or understand them the way he did. He didn't think anyone could; not him, not their father. In that sense, he knew Sam lived an isolated existence, and that thought made him incredibly sad.

"So, like I said." His voice was almost gentle, but Sam didn't notice. "Storms, floods, droughts. Let's get on it."

Sam made a move to slide into the passenger seat, but Dean stopped him with a hand to his sleeve.

"Whoa, wait a minute, Sponge Bob. Just hang on a second." He opened the back door and pulled a thin travel blanket off the floor behind the driver's seat. He folded it once and then laid it across the leather bench.

Sam watched his brother move around to the other side of the car and carefully situate himself behind the wheel. "You are fucking amazing," he muttered.

Dean flashed him a wide grin. "Tell me about it."