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

Author's Note: Whoops. No more trying to predict how many chapters I have left. Two chapters ago I said two, but it sure isn't over yet. I don't know if any other authors are feeling this, or if it's just me. But when I started writing this, Dean was still his early-series, snarky self. And in the second half of the season, he's turned into a character with a lot more depth, and now he's saying and doing things on the show that I didn't anticipate him saying or doing in my fic. Things that I'm now trying to make him say and do without deviating too much from who he was at the beginning of the story. He's more difficult to write now, I guess is what I'm saying. For me. Harder to balance. At any rate, I hope you still recognize him and that you still feel I'm doing the characters justice. If so or if not, comments and criticisms welcomed.

Oh, and I apologize for being bad about responding to reviews lately. Thank you so much to those of you who take the time to do it. I truly appreciate the encouragement.

Damaged

by Liz Bach

Previously...

He didn't want to be leaning this heavily against the window, but it was cool against his aching head. He squeezed his eyes closed, and his fingers curled into tight fists.

"Sammy?" Dean's voice came at him from a distance. "Sam." Drifting farther away, like he was leaving. Or Sam was. One of them was going, and the other would have to stay.

Part VIII

"Sam."

There was a hand on his face.

"Winchester."

The hand moved to his shoulder and gave him a light shake.

"Asshole!"

The hand disappeared, and he felt a sharp pain on his left biceps.

"Ow!" Sam's eyes snapped open, and he looked up at his brother like he was crazy. His right hand moved reflexively to rub at his arm. "Dude, did you seriously just pinch me?"

"Be grateful I didn't slap you."

"You be grateful you didn't slap me. I might've punched you back."

"Right. Really, I'm shaking. I mean, you look pretty formidable there lying flat on your back."

Dean stood and disappeared from his line of sight. Sam let his gaze drift and slowly recognized the hem of the floral bedspread. His face was disgustingly close to the grubby carpet, which, from this proximity, smelled like a mixture of spot cleaner and smoke. There was a plastic cup from the bathroom and a stray sock under the bed. He wondered if it was one of theirs. It looked dirty enough.

"I'm confused," he said finally. His brow creased, but he made no effort to move.

"Three more members, and we can start a club."

Sam continued to stare under the bed until a strong hand grasped his elbow and pulled him to a sitting position on the floor. Dean knelt down in front of him and looked into his eyes appraisingly. Then he stuck his middle finger right in front of Sam's face.

"How many?"

Sam rolled his eyes and brushed Dean's hand away. Then he looked at his brother seriously. "Should I even ask?"

"Actually, I was hoping you would tell me." Dean sat back on his heels.

Sam shook his head mutely and shrugged.

"Well, are you okay?" Dean pressed.

Suddenly, Sam registered the familiar rattle of the heating unit. He turned and looked at it like it was some living thing he'd just minutes ago believed to be dead. "Did you turn that back on?"

"It's cold in here, Sam." Dean was being…disturbingly patient. "Look at yourself. You're shaking."

Sam reached up and fumbled for the knob. It took him a few seconds to find it. He switched it off and then closed his eyes in relief at the resulting silence. He breathed deeply and put a hand to his head, looked a little like a junkie who'd just gotten his latest fix.

He knew what Dean was thinking. Hell, he probably would have come to the same conclusion had he been watching himself. But the truth was, he'd just passed out. Good, old fashioned, haven't slept, haven't eaten, too much has been said, too much is happening, this is your body talking cut me some slack for once passed out. He opened his eyes, and Dean was still looking at him with calm concern.

"So what's the plan?" he asked, ready to focus on a more important subject.

"Uh…okay…" Dean appeared momentarily nonplussed. "Well, it's not completely fleshed out yet, but I'm thinking it's probably going to involve you being able to scrape your ass off the floor."

Sam's eyes narrowed, but he still wasn't trying to stand. "You were supposed to be figuring something out," he said accusingly.

Dean fixed him with a you can't be serious look. "I was distracted."

"You were distracted," he repeated.

Dean's eyebrows lifted. "Oh, wait, I'm sorry. Did you miss that? Dude, you totally should've seen it. A guy just keeled over right here in front of me. Hard. And he was tall, too, so he kind of had a long way to go. Seriously, man, it was like watching somebody fell a tree – "

"Okay, I get it." Sam rubbed his hands over his face.

"Well, good, because I don't. What the hell just happened, Sam?" He paused before voicing his next question. "Did you see something?"

There it was. Sam shook his head again. He hadn't seen anything. Wherever he'd gone, it was completely black. He actually hoped, once they'd gotten rid of Rain, that his overactive mind might allow him to go back there for an extended stay.

Dean sighed and slapped his hands on his thighs, pushed himself up from the floor. He held a hand out to his brother, who took it and allowed Dean to pull him up. Then he went to the table and took a seat. He put a hand on Rain's book, drummed his fingers once.

"Okay, listen," he said, not looking at Sam. He put a foot on the bed. "I'm gonna finish this one on my own."

Sam didn't flinch. "Uh…I'm sorry. What did you just say?"

Dean eyed him evenly. "I'm finishing this…by…myself," he enunciated slowly.

Sam took a moment to stare at him in disbelief. Then he closed the gap between them, leaned a hand against the tabletop, and came dangerously close to getting too far into his brother's impassive face. "That's bullshit. No, you're not."

"It's not bullshit. Yes, I am."

If this was going to be a battle of wills, Dean honestly wasn't quite sure who would win.

Sam stood there, just staring at Dean. He was tired, and he knew Dean was, too. They were always tired, and they always worked through it. It was like Dean to want to protect him; but it was unlike Dean to discount his value in a hunt.

"I'm fine," Sam said finally, even as his head continued to throb.

"Hey, would you fucking quit with the Jedi mind tricks already? That shit isn't going to work on me. I'm your brother, and I've known you your whole life."

"Then you also know I'm not just going to let you leave me here," Sam insisted, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He shoved Dean's dirty boot off the mattress.

Dean rolled his eyes and sat up straighter in his chair. It wasn't going to be a battle of wills at all, and, looking into Sam's eyes, he knew it. "Look, Sam, I'm serious."

"Look, Dean, so am I." Sam stared him down, aware that he was about to win this argument. "Tell me how you're planning on finishing it, then."

Dean shrugged. "I'll go down to the basement and provoke the twisted bitch. Then I'll shoot her little shadow ass into rock salt oblivion."

"We already tried that out at the lake, and the rock salt didn't work." Sam tried to keep the triumph out of his voice. "And how do you know she won't manifest as the poltergeist that attacked that demolition crew? Rock salt won't work in that case, either. Besides…"

"Besides what?" Dean asked warily.

"You'll need me to provoke her." The arm around the stomach was becoming a permanent gesture. In all honesty, Sam thought he must be getting used to the pain.

"Hey, hey. Let's not get conceited here."

Sam just kept looking at him intensely, so Dean sighed.

"Okay. Maybe you're right," he conceded. "But I'm going on record as stating I don't like it."

"Please. I'm not afraid of her, Dean."

"Well, maybe you should be. You read what she did to her parents. She was a human being back then, Sam. There's no telling what she's capable of now that she's a spirit."

"That's exactly why you need me to go with you. You're not afraid of her, Dean." Sam looked at him earnestly. "So neither am I."

Dean froze for a moment. The room was so quiet, they could hear a semi thunder by on the road out of Grant. It was statements and looks like those that gave Sam his power over Dean. The kicker was, the little bastard didn't even do it on purpose.

Dean ran a hand through his hair, then gave his brother a stern look. "Okay, fine. I have an idea." He grabbed his coat and snatched his keys off the table. "Bring a lighter."

:

Sam stood there numbly while Dean pulled the cuff of his sleeve up over his palm and attempted to wipe the heavy snow off the windshield. He just stood and watched his brother over the roof of the car as Dean leaned forward and stretched to reach the center of the glass. With each swipe of his arm, there was a soft, wet thud of three hours' worth of accumulation hitting the frozen ground. Dean looked determined. He looked in a hurry. He didn't glance at his brother until the windshield was mostly clear.

"Dude. Windows."

Sam gave a small nod, then used his bare hand to scrape snow off the passenger side windows and mirror. He knew he was moving slowly, but it was the best he could do. He was in pain, and he didn't want Dean to know. He didn't want Dean to know how…strange…he felt. The nausea and the headache were still there, but ever since they'd read about Rain, there was also something else. He couldn't explain it, didn't even want to try, but it was something he'd felt before. It was in his chest, and it ached, and it frightened him.

It was nearly five o'clock, and the sun had already set. There was a bright security lamp attached to the corner of their building, and its yellow light cast long shadows all around them.

"Good night for a bonfire," Dean said with a grin and a bob of his eyebrows. The car door creaked as he opened it and slid behind the wheel.

Sam got in more slowly and pulled his door shut as the engine rumbled to life. The Impala sounded tough and guttural, like power, and polluted the otherwise quiet night. Dean revved the engine and looked at his brother.

"You got the book?"

Sam nodded grimly and flashed his inside jacket pocket. Rain's worn journal was tucked tightly inside it.

"Then let's get this party started."

They pulled onto the dark road towards the McCrays'.

"This seems a little extreme, Dean," Sam said, watching the snowflakes as they passed through the low beams of the headlights. "Even for us."

"Look, the book is obvious, but that house has to go, too. Just in case."

"I just…" Sam started, then shook his head shortly and clamped his mouth shut.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see his brother donning his patented I stare through the windshield so I won't see anything else expression. The look was annoying at best, infuriating at worst, and worrisome every time.

So Dean feigned nonchalance. "You'd tell me if something was wrong with you, right?"

Sam just kept right on staring.

Dean gave him a casual glance. "You know, the appropriate answer here would be 'yes.'"

Sam still wouldn't look at him, and there was a preoccupied edge to his voice. "I would tell you if I didn't think I was capable of backing you up."

Dean nodded thoughtfully, turning his attention back to the road. "Wow, that's…that's not even close to comforting, Sam."

"It's what you were getting at, isn't it?"

"Actually…no." He tapped a thumb on the steering wheel and tried to be patient. "I was getting at the fact that you've had kind of a crappy past 24 hours, and you look like there might be something wrong with you."

Sam turned in his seat and gave his brother an incredulous look. "Why are you always saying shit like that? I look fine," he huffed. "Jesus Christ, Dean, have you taken a look in the mirror at yourself lately? I could say you look like crap warmed over, too. But I don't. You'd think you could extend me the same favor. I'm tired, okay? All right, I admit that. Otherwise I'm just fucking fine. You do realize I just fell into a fucking frozen lake last night, right? So what the hell do you expect? Miss Fucking America?"

As far as unprovoked, irrational hissy fits went, it was pretty fucking impressive.

Dean wasn't sure how his brother wanted him to react, but he was willing to wager laughter wouldn't go over well. So he opted not to react at all. He just drove, and the windshield wipers brushed the snow away. It was getting colder, and the flakes were getting smaller and drier. Soon they would be solid ice.

Sam glared at him a moment longer, then slouched down into the leather seat. He folded his arms across his chest, and Rain's journal pressed against his ribcage.

"A little less caffeine, a little more sex…" The words were muttered under his breath.

Sam gave his brother a dirty look. "What did you say?" he snapped.

"Huh?" Dean turned to him with wide, innocent eyes. He shrugged. "I didn't say anything."

Sam rolled his eyes and sighed. "So fucking infantile…" It was Sam who muttered this time.

"Me infantile?" Dean exclaimed. He shook his head and smiled disbelievingly. "Okay, Sam. Whatever you say."

They'd been driving past a dense block of trees for the past half mile, and in the snow and darkness, Dean missed the turn. The road was slick with black ice, and even though his speed was abnormally slow, the brakes locked, and the car slid forward several yards.

"Nice driving," Sam commented dryly after they'd come to a stop halfway onto the shoulder.

"Hey, Miss Daisy, keep it up," Dean replied, throwing the car into reverse. "After we're finished with this, I'd love to kick your ass."

Sam actually smiled. It was small, but it was definitely a smile.

"Seriously, Sam," Dean said suddenly, as they started up the wooded drive towards the empty house. The snow crunched loudly under the Impala's tires.

"Seriously you'd love to kick my ass?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "No, seriously are you okay? Healthy people don't just go around passing out. And you never really answered me about what Iona said." He rethought that statement with a frown. "Well, you did, but I think you were lying."

Sam sighed and leaned his head against the passenger window. "Let's not be serious, Dean," he said quietly.

It sounded like something a seven-year-old Sammy might have said. Amidst the constant stress of moving around so much, the ever-present apprehension and danger tied to the hunt, all the tension, the feelings of anger, sorrow, and loss, Sammy might have looked up at him (when was the last time Sam had physically looked up to his big brother?) with the eyes and the dimples and the messy hair, and implored, "Let's not be serious, Dean." Dean would have taken one look at that little face, and, by God, he would have not been serious like it was his job.

They pulled up in front of the farm house, and Dean let the engine idle. The headlights streamed towards the front of the house like spotlights, illuminating the porch.

"You ready to lay this bad boy to rest?" Dean turned to look at his brother, who opened his door in response. Dean pulled the key from the ignition. "Okay, man. Look alive."

The car doors slammed shut almost simultaneously; one sounded like a dull echo of the other. Then they stood and looked towards the McCrays' deserted house. It looked slightly different now that they knew what had transpired inside all those years before. It was oddly a little less foreboding and more like a run-down victim.

They made their way up to the missing porch steps, Sam lagging slightly behind. The snow was ankle deep, and their tracks from the day before had been completely erased. Dean flipped on his flashlight, igniting a large circle of light that reflected brightly off the pristine snow. They stopped next to the overturned bucket, and Dean shone his light towards the front door. The house looked bigger in the dark. The porch looked longer; the barns looked farther away; the tree growing out of the silo looked a little taller. The rickety old swing hanging from its two corroded chains was moving slowly, creaking softly in a frigid breeze. The cold wind feathered Sam's hair off his forehead.

"All right." Dean stepped up onto the decaying wood. "We do this fast and then get the hell out."

He hoped it would be that easy.