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

Damaged

by Liz Bach

Previously...

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."

Part VI

The bottom of the laptop was growing uncomfortably warm through the coarse fabric of Dean's torn blue jeans. His legs were stretched out in front of him on the bed, and he leaned against the wall with a pillow tucked behind his back.

He'd been searching the Nebraska Health and Human Services death records for the past forty-five minutes and had been looking up floods and droughts for half an hour prior to that. There had been deadly floods in Nebraska in 1908, 1935, and 1943, but none of those had been anywhere near Grant, and none of the victims' names was McCray. Then there was the Dust Bowl in the '30s and a five-year drought in the '50s that affected the entire plains area, but searching through so many years of obits and death records was proving to be a complete pain in the ass.

They'd never drawn the hotel curtains that morning, and they remained closed now. The room was gloomy, bathed in dim, artificial light from the bedside lamps that jutted out from the wall. It was after noon, and any of the motel's other guests would have either already checked out or had yet to arrive, so it was quiet across the entire complex. The Impala sat impassively out in the parking lot collecting snowflakes and ice. The only other vehicle on the property was an old, beat-up Ford Taurus with faded blue paint and large patches of rust on the bumpers and around all four wheel wells; it belonged to the front desk clerk and had been there since at least the night before.

Dean paused a moment to flex his fingers and rest his eyes. He moved the computer off his legs, perched it a little precariously atop a mess of jumbled floral bedspread, and brought his legs over the edge of the bed with the thought of stealing a buck out of Sam's wallet and running out to the machine to buy himself a bottle of Mountain Dew.

Instead, he just sat there, leaning forward slightly with his hands pressed into the mattress on either side of his thighs. He was inches from where his brother lay on the opposite bed, studying the three pictures they'd taken from the McCray's basement, but at that moment he kind of wondered whether Sam even registered the fact that he was there.

When they were younger, Dean had known everything about his brother. As a family, they'd harbored plenty of secrets, yes; but back then, Sam managed to keep nothing from Dean. What he was thinking; what he was feeling; what did he want; what did he need. Sam could tell Dean anything. And even when he wasn't telling, his older brother just somehow always seemed to know.

There was a fundamental difference between the way they had interacted then and the way they communicated – or didn't – now, and that difference had not been lost on Dean.

"You're staring at me," Sam said suddenly, his eyes still on the photographs.

Dean frowned and pushed himself up from the bed, a little pissed off at himself for having been caught. "What can I say, Sam? You're just that hot." He went to the window, nudged one edge of the curtains aside, and peered out at the nearly empty lot. He wondered at the complete desolation that met his gaze.

Sam snorted and sat up on the bed. "Have you found anything?" he asked.

"Other than a load of jack shit? No."

"You're not going to."

Dean let the curtain fall across the window again. He slowly wiped a hand down his face, letting it linger for a moment over his mouth. Then he folded his arms tightly across his chest and leaned a shoulder against the wall. He sighed deeply and turned back to his brother.

"I think we're barking up the wrong tree here," Sam continued. "We're grasping at straws."

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Dude. Why are you speaking in clichés?"

Sam tore his attention away from the pictures long enough to shoot Dean a dirty look. "You said you searched all last night and found nothing. So unless you did a completely crap-ass job, we're not going to find anything new today."

Dean nodded. And frowned. "Jeez. Way to paint a rosy picture, Sam."

"Wait a minute." Suddenly, Sam was up. He grabbed his jacket off a chair and dug around in the pocket for his phone.

Dean watched him with curious interest as he hit a couple buttons and held the phone to his ear. "Who're you calling?"

Sam swatted the question away as a voice picked up on the other end of the line.

"Mrs. Wheeler?" Sam said, infusing as much winsome cheer as he could into his tone. "Hi, this is Sam Burns." He paused, and Dean shook his head at Sam's ability to induce complete, eager cooperation even over the phone. "Yeah, thanks again for that. He was a big help. We're very intrigued."

Sam sank down into one of the stiff motel room chairs, and Dean slid into the one opposite. He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together and resting his forearms against the edge of the small round table.

"Yes, that's actually why I'm calling. Uh huh." He glanced across the table at Dean and, upon meeting his brother's scrutinizing stare, stood up again and began to pace. "It's about Mike and the other victims. How much do you know about their families?" He nodded slowly at whatever she was saying. "Well, one of the articles we've consulted indicates all five of the missing people had experienced family tragedy at some point in their lives. Can you tell me if that's a valid observation?"

Sam listened for a few moments, then stopped mid-pace facing the bathroom door, his back to Dean. He brought his free hand up and laid it against the doorjamb at shoulder level. And as he listened, he began to squeeze. He kept listening, and he squeezed harder, until Dean could actually see from all the way across the room the tips of Sam's fingers and the nail beds turning white.

"Yeah," he said, finally. Softly. Breathily. Like he'd confirmed something he'd suspected but was still sorry or disturbed to find out. "That is quite a coincidence. No, I'm not sure what it means for the film, but it's definitely an interesting angle. Yes, thank you again. You've been a tremendous help."

He ended the call with the press of a button and a quiet beep. He didn't turn around right away, and Dean could practically see the wheels spinning as he grappled with whatever new information he'd just obtained.

"Trouble in Mayberry?" Dean prompted grimly, watching his back.

Sam's hand was still on the doorjamb, and he leaned against it to keep himself steady. His phone hand went around his stomach, and he ducked his head a little, hoping that Dean wouldn't notice. The cold, dull ache in his stomach had turned into something sharp, and he gritted his teeth against the worsening pain. He sucked in a deep breath and held it for a moment before turning to face his brother.

"What? It's that bad?"

Sam shook his head. "It's that interesting. And it's no coincidence."

Dean's eyebrows lifted expectantly. "What, are you waiting for me to guess?"

Sam moved back to the table and sat down across from Dean. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands under the table.

"Mrs. Wheeler said Mrs. Mitchell is Mike's step-mother," Sam said matter-of-factly.

Dean wasn't following, and his expression conveyed that. "Wow, Sam. Way to go on the extraneous information there."

Sam rolled his eyes. "It's not extraneous, Dean. She said Mike's real mother died five years ago…" He paused for effect. "Amidst rumors of her infidelity."

Okay, so it was juicy gossip. But Dean still wasn't sure how it came to bear upon the issue at hand. Sam, on the other hand, was clearly agitated.

"I really hope there's more," Dean said.

"There is. She also said all four of the other victims had one deceased parent, and all four of the dead parents at some point had been suspected of cheating on their spouses."

"Wait, wait, wait." Dean's elbows were on the table, and he put his face in his hands for a moment before leaning back and running his fingers through his hair. "So are you saying the McCrays had something to do with the five deaths?"

"No," Sam said, shaking his head. He got up from the table again and resumed pacing. "No, I don't think that's what this is about. It's about the infidelity, Dean. Iona said Mr. and Mrs. McCray had a falling out over his affair with another woman."

Dean nodded as he caught onto Sam's train of thought. "So our spirit, or poltergeist, or whatever we're dealing with here, is latching onto these families because it identifies with what happened to them? But why abduct the kids? Why not abduct the adulterers? What purpose does it serve making the surviving parent suffer?"

Sam stopped pacing again and lowered himself slowly onto one of the beds. His arm was once more around his middle, and now he gripped a chunk of his sweater tightly in his fist. His eyes were troubled and fixed on a spot on the carpet.

"Sam?" Dean stood, suddenly ready to do something for his brother, although he wasn't sure what. "Hey. What's the matter with you?"

Rain. It was rain.

In his mind, Sam heard the breaking apart of the ice, remembered the shock of the lake consuming him. He could practically feel the contradictory burn of the frigid water as it entered his lungs. And those icy fingers moving over his body…the hands holding him suspended in the darkness, their touch well-disposed and benign, yet so uncomfortably intimate. Unnatural. Supernatural.

"Rain," Sam said quietly. It was almost a whisper. Then he looked over at Dean with wide eyes. "Don't you get it, man?"

Dean thought it was pretty clear that no, he did not. But he didn't say anything, just waited patiently for Sam to connect the dots.

"Rain is a person, Dean."

Dean frowned. "A person?" he repeated.

Sam reached back and grabbed the pictures from where he'd dropped them on the comforter. He sifted through them briefly and then held one up for his brother to see.

Dean took the picture from Sam's hand and sat down across from him on the opposite bed. "You're saying this girl's name is Rain McCray?" he asked skeptically. "I don't get it, Sam. What does that mean?"

"It means they're all dead," he said flatly.

Dean watched him with rekindled concern. "What?"

"The five victims. They're not missing, Dean. They're dead."

"How could you possibly know all this?" Dean asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

"They told me."

Dean's eyebrows lifted.

Now Sam looked at him. "Back at the farm," he explained. "In the lake. I thought I was…I dunno…hallucinating."

Well, that was lame, and they both knew it. Dean rolled his eyes. "You thought you were hallucinating," he said, nodding slowly and frowning. "And you just forgot to tell me."

"I didn't think it meant anything, Dean."

That was bull shit, and it incensed Dean that Sam would think he needed to lie about this.

"Look," Dean said calmly, exhibiting what he felt to be an inordinate amount of restraint. "I know you didn't ask for this, but it is what it is, man."

Sam was studying the carpet again.

"You have to tell me when things happen to you," he went on, his voice low. "Otherwise I can't protect you."

"I don't need you to protect me, Dean."

The look on Sam's face was almost enough to earn him a punch in the jaw. Who did he think he was? To tell Dean, who had been watching out for his kid brother for 22 years, what he did and didn't need.

"Whatever, Sam," Dean snapped. "Okay, so what? She's killing them why?"

"The sins of those you hunt so closely echo the sins you've committed yourself…" Sam's eyes were distant, perhaps back in that room with Iona Rothschild.

"Huh?" Dean asked eloquently.

"She killed her mother, Dean. Possibly her father."

"And you know this…how?"

"Dude, everybody's favorite psychic told us."

Sam looked at him with eyes like a child's, and a hot sensation of rage tempered with helplessness surged through Dean's body. He'd long ago given up asking why them? Why his family? But a part of Sam obviously still needed to know. What could they possibly have done to deserve this?

Dean stood up, unable to withstand that look from his brother. He turned away, went to the window and looked out.

"Okay, just give me a minute to process all of this."

"What's there to process?"

"Well, for starters, why is she killing them?"

"We already know that. Because they all found something down there in that basement."

"But what did they find? And if what you're saying is true, how did she get those particular five people to go down there in the first place?"

"I don't know. Maybe she lured them there." Sam swallowed. "Like she lured us."

Dean spun around and looked at his brother like he was crazy. "That doesn't make any sense."

"What doesn't?"

Dean clenched his fists where they hung at his sides. His jaw was tense, and he stared Sam down coldly, challenged him. When he spoke, his voice was deliberate and venomous. "If you're implying that Mom was ever anything but faithful to Dad – "

"No, Dean!" Sam stood up. "I'm not implying that at all."

"Then what, Sam?" Dean was practically yelling now. "Why would she lure us?"

"Because of me, okay? Because of the similarities she sees between herself and me. Because…" His voice lost its heat as he dropped back down onto the bed. He openly clutched at his stomach now. "Because of our sin." His voice broke. "Because she destroyed her family, and she thinks I destroyed mine."

Dean examined Sam's haggard appearance as if seeing him for the first time. His eyes narrowed.

"So was she right about this?" he demanded.

"Was who right about what?" Sam asked cautiously.

"Everybody's favorite psychic," he said pointedly. "Was she right?"

Sam blanched at the suggestion, and Dean felt himself crossing over from angry to furious. At Iona Rothschild for digging this pain up; at Sam for letting her.

"About this town, Sam," he clarified, his tone only a little less harsh. "About how coming to this town has affected you. I mean, you've looked like crap for a long time now, so I was starting to think that must be normal. But is there more to it here? Are you hiding shit from me?"

"I'm not hiding anything," Sam lied without really intending to. It was just an automatic response to an unwelcome interrogation. "I mean…I'm fine. I'm okay. I just – "

"Well, what the hell is it?" Dean knew he was about to lose control, but he couldn't stop himself, couldn't keep the words from coming out. All his life, he'd always been so patient with Sam. "You think you can just keep acting like you're hunky dory, and your big fat deception doesn't affect anyone else? I swear to God, Sam. One of these days, these secrets – these omissions of yours – are going to get one of us killed. And with your track record, just watch it be me."

It was a terrible thing to say, and he regretted it instantly. Dean had always been a master at walking that line between cunning disrespect and flagrant cruelty, but in the heat of his frustration and concern over what he perceived to be Sam's completely self-serving reticence, he'd slipped. He'd made a mistake.

It was as if Sam had been struck. A stifling silence fell over the room.

"Jesus, Sammy…" Dean expelled a deep breath and ran both hands through his hair, his anger dissipating almost as suddenly as it had come over him. "I didn't mean that the way it came out."

"You sure about that, man?" Sam looked up at him, smiling inappropriately. But it was a bitter smile. "'Cause it kind of sounded like you've been wanting to say that for a long time."

Dean closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. "Look, Sam, can we not have this conversation?" When he opened his eyes again, Sam was on his feet shoving the pictures into the McCrays' wooden box. "I was out of line. You just… Man, you freak me out sometimes. I mean, I keep finding out there's all this stuff going on with you that you don't tell me about."

"I'm a big kid now, Dean," he said, grabbing his jacket and shrugging it on. "You don't have to know everything about me. I'm entitled to my privacy."

Dean pushed off from the wall and positioned himself between Sam and the door. Of course he was. He certainly should have been. But what Dean had already realized and what Sam seemed so desperate to resist was the fact that their lives were not their own, and the rules of life just applied differently to them. Some of them not at all.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Sam had tucked the box under his arm and moved towards the door, stopping in front of Dean. He lifted his chin slightly and set his jaw. "Get out of my way, Dean."

It pissed Dean off that he was looking up at his kid brother. Sam was actually trying to intimidate him, and under other circumstances, Dean might have laughed. Granted, his brother was tall and lean, and beneath the layered shirts and jeans he was all hardened muscle. Dean knew better than anybody that one of Sam's greatest weapons was his boyish face; it was deceptive to say the least. Sam was gentle and endearing, the kind of person to whom complete strangers felt comfortable spilling their guts. But beyond all that, he really wasn't somebody to fuck around with; when he needed to, he could kick some serious ass.

But to Dean, he was Sammy. And he always would be.

"You gotta be kidding me."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

Dean rolled his eyes and released a throaty groan. Then he shook his head in disbelief. He couldn't remember anymore at what point this discussion had turned into a fight. "What're you, going to walk?"

"If I have to." Sam's voice had lost none of its indignant edge.

They stared at each other in tense silence for a moment.

"Well, maybe you should stop and think about that for a minute before you go off all half-cocked without any weapons and without any clue as to how to get rid of this dead chick."

Sam looked defiant, yet sufficiently subdued. He relaxed his shoulders and backed off a couple steps.

"I told you, Dean. I just want to get this done."

"And we will. Just…relax for a minute." Dean left his position at the door and had a seat once again at the small round table. There was a greasy smudge on one side where he'd left Sam's take-out bag the night before. He rested one hand on his thigh and scratched at his forehead with the other. "Look, there's still a couple pretty serious variables we haven't figured out yet. Like what are they finding down in the basement? And why would she lure them there if she doesn't want them to see it?"

Sam joined him at the table, setting the McCrays' box down on top of the smudge. He rested his forearms against the table, his hands on either side of the box. "Maybe she does want them to see it. But once they have, she doesn't want them telling anyone else about it."

Dean frowned across the table. "So what is it? You were down there. What did you see?"

"I don't know. Just junk. Shelves…canning jars…an oar for some kind of boat…" He stopped suddenly, and Dean watched his gaze slowly shift down to the box sitting between them.

And the box.

Wordlessly, he lifted the lid and began to remove the contents one by one, placing them on the table. The watch, the pencils, the ribbon, the rose. The pictures of Rain McCray and her parents. The last thing he pulled out of the box was the book.

"I thought you went through that this morning," Dean said quietly. "And it was just farm stuff."

"I only got about halfway through," Sam admitted.

"Well, way to leave no stone unturned."

Sam ignored him, sliding a finger under the clasp. He flipped past the records and charts to the back of the journal, and stopped when he found what they'd been looking for: several long pages of narrative, written in a girlish script. The formal handwriting and articulate prose suggested Rain McCray had not planned on remaining at that farm for the rest of her life. She was well-educated and apparently had dreams of her own. Until her family obligations changed all that.

Sam read in silence for several long moments, his face paling. Even after all the things they had seen and learned in their lives, mortal turpitude and depravity still had the power to shock them. That fact was just one of the things that kept them human and kept them sane.

"It's Rain's," Sam confirmed softly.

"Well what's it say?" Dean pressed. "What is it?"

Sam looked up at him, and there was anguish where Dean had expected to find disgust. Sam shivered and slid an arm around his stomach without thinking.

No wonder Rain hadn't wanted this getting out.

"They're her confessions."