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

Author's Note: Okay, I got rid of the inexplicably bitter author's note. :) I'm in a happy place once again!

Damaged

by Liz Bach

Previously...

"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.

Part IX

Their lives were so insanely fucked up. Dean spent his life purposely seeking out the things nightmares were made of; he'd willingly gone after all manner of evil entities and creatures without giving them a second thought. But, ironically, the thing that scared him most in this world was walking behind him through the McCrays' abandoned house. It was his ultimate vulnerability. Sam and his inconvenient need to escape from the hunt. Sam and his unharnessed potential for power. Sam and the frightening uncertainty of his future. Sam and the indescribable rush of emotion Dean felt just thinking about him and recognizing the true magnitude of his vow to keep his brother from irreparable harm.

Sometimes Sam thought he was so smart and so smooth, and that Dean must be some kind of freaking idiot. But Sam was the real dumb-ass if he didn't think his brother could read him like a book. He might not be privy to every thought going through Sam's head, but Dean knew when his brother was off his game and trying to hide it. It was an arrogance Dean imagined every youngest child must exhibit, oblivious to the fact that their older siblings had been aware of them long before they were even capable of being aware of themselves.

So even though the house was currently calm and still, its ruinous contents still scattered in disarray throughout the decaying rooms, Dean felt a tense rush of adrenaline pushing him forward, urging him to take his brother and ditch this house and the whole town as soon as humanly possible.

Dean led the way through the front parlor and down the hall to the kitchen. The beam of his flashlight bounced ahead of them, occasionally hitting the thin layer of frost on the floorboards at just the right angle to make the tiny ice crystals sparkle in the dark of the winter evening. His boots left large, confident footprints on the floor, which his little brother tried his best to follow.

At the threshold to the kitchen, though, Sam faltered. He saw his breath weakly drifting away from him like the last puff of smoke from a dying fire. He stumbled a little, reached out a hand to steady himself on a rickety old hall table that was hardly more stable than he was. He could feel Rain's presence like a heavy fog, thick and suffocating, blurring the edges of his vision.

"She's here," he announced quietly.

Dean paused at the top of the stairway and looked back at him. He shook his head in feigned amazement. "We've been here for like two seconds. I swear to God, you're like some kind of freak magnet."

Sam snorted. "I guess that explains why you're always hanging around."

"Hey." Dean shifted his weight, gripping the flashlight a little tighter. "You can do this, right?"

Sam immediately pushed himself off the table and stood up straight. He pressed his lips into a tight line and steeled his jaw defensively. His eyes flashed…something, although Dean wasn't sure what it was. Indignation? Discomfort? Apprehension?

"I'm fine," he snapped. "And if you ask me that one more time, Dean – "

"You'll what?" Dean challenged. He rolled his eyes in annoyed exasperation. "Say kick my ass, Sam. Please. I want you to."

Sam stared at him for a moment, stewing in his own irrational anger. Then he shook his head. "I don't even know why I bother arguing with you," he muttered.

"Yeah? Well, me neither, Broody McMoodswing. So fucking knock it off." Dean turned and started down the stairs, taking them a little more recklessly than he probably should. "Get the lead out," he called over his shoulder. "We got shit to do."

:

At first, Sam's second trip to the McCrays' dark basement was remarkably unremarkable. Everything seemed to be in the exact same places, from the tall shelves that housed the canning jars and various other small scraps of ancient junk, to the old desk where he'd found Rain's hidden box of trinkets, to the snow shoes hanging down from the ceiling. Dean appeared disdainfully unimpressed by the whole situation, which made Sam relax a little, despite the line of sweat making its way from his hairline down to his neck.

Dean tucked his flashlight under his arm and started to reach into his coat for a can of lighter fluid. He was about to tell Sam to toss him the book when he suddenly felt something snake around his torso and wind itself tightly against his chest. The flashlight went flying towards the staircase, and the pressure on his chest violently whipped him backwards. Before he knew what was happening, his body had slammed against a wall, and the basement began to fill with a dim, vaporous light. It didn't seem to have any point of origin; it just glowed, pulsating slightly, chilling Dean to the bone.

"Sam!"

Sam didn't have time to register his brother's predicament before a fierce pain gripped him, leaving him breathless. His stomach seized, and he thought he was going to be sick. It was the same pain he'd been feeling since they'd first driven into Grant, only ten times more intense, and his head was pounding. The cold mass in his chest hardened into what felt like a giant block of ice. Its chill crept up through his diaphragm and lungs, kept moving slowly toward his heart.

He knew he should be worried about his brother, needed to go to him; he'd heard Dean call his name. But the pain he was feeling was too profound to allow him to think about anything else. It encompassed more than just physical discomfort; it filled him with an overwhelming sensation of guilt and bitter regret.

Just then, a shrill shriek rang out in the dark. It brought Sam to his knees, and he clamped his hands over his ears. The noise resounded loudly, deep within his skull. It made his eyes water, and he groaned.

Dean watched his brother go down and started to lunge toward him, but whatever was restraining him held him back. It felt like some kind of invisible rope keeping him tethered about fifteen feet from where Sam was crouched, clutching at the hair by his temples.

"Sam!" Dean yelled. He continued to struggle, but the more he moved, the more tightly it squeezed, until it was becoming difficult for him to breathe. "What the hell's going on?"

Good question. Tell him to ask another one.

Sam's jaw dropped, and he squinted past his brother into a far corner of the room. The noise began to dissipate, and he let his hands slide down the sides of his face.

Dean tried to read the look in Sam's eyes. He hadn't heard the shriek, and he didn't understand what was happening. All he knew was he was trapped, and Sam looked like he was on the verge of completely losing it. Sam appeared to be staring at something, and Dean followed his gaze to the corner, but he could see nothing but shadow.

In fact, Sam was seeing shadow, too. But the shadow he was looking at was shifting, slowly congealing into some kind of discernable form. It flowed almost gracefully, as if pushed and molded by a gentle wind, until it solidified and silently stared back at him.

She was young, around Sam's age, and her eyes were impossibly dark. Her brown hair looked mousy thin, stray pieces of it falling out of the bun at the nape of her neck. She had on a long, grey cotton dress with a dark stain on the front of the skirt, and Sam guessed it was the same one she'd worn when she'd murdered and burned her father. Her small face was marred by an unspeakable pain, and the expression made her appear more human than Sam thought should even be possible. Iona Rothschild had called her ugly, and in her pictures she'd look so plain. But at that moment, to Sam, she looked more weathered and weary than anything else. She looked worn down, like life had beaten her.

"Sam!"

At the back of his mind, he sensed a strong, insistent voice calling to him. But Rain was staring at him, and her silence drowned out all other sound. Her lips didn't move; she wasn't speaking. But he heard her intended meaning as if he were channeling her thoughts.

I've brought them pain, he heard her say. I can't help myself.

"Do you want to kill us?" he whispered.

I just want to be with someone who understands.

"But I don't," Sam insisted. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I don't understand." He swallowed and looked at her sadly. "What I'm feeling. Are you doing this?"

She nodded slowly.

"But why?"

Because we're alike. You hurt. And you kill the ones you love. Everyone around you is going to die.

Sam stared at her with wide eyes as if she'd slapped him across the face. "No," he whispered. "No. I didn't kill them. And I can protect Dean. Dean won't die."

Are you going to protect him from yourself? She smiled. Don't you find it interesting that it's always those who are closest to us who most adamantly refuse to see us as a threat?

"Sam!" Dean couldn't stand listening to the one-sided conversation. He had to do something. He had to get free. He had to help his brother. "Sam, listen to me. Is it Rain? Can you see her?"

He'll be next.

The words were smug with knowing, and panic erupted within him. Sam lifted a shaking hand to his pocket and fumbled for Rain's book.

"No, he won't. I won't let him."

There's nothing you can do. You can't help it. I told you, we're alike.

"We're alike?" Sam whispered, and the book slipped from his cold fingers. It fell at his feet, halfway under the McCrays' old desk.

"Sam, no," Dean said, squirming against the invisible rope. "You're nothing like her. Listen, you have to burn that book!"

Sam didn't hear him. The icy sensation in his chest stole ever closer to his pounding heart. "Those kids," he said. "They were innocent. Why would you kill them?"

Rain's expression transformed with a jarring suddenness into something sinister. It was the face Iona Rothschild remembered. Sam almost gagged, and he could no longer find it within himself to feel sorry for her. Instead he felt a wave of revolted disgust.

That was for fun, of course. She smiled coldly. I told you. I just can't help myself.

Rain's arms were at her sides, and she slowly started to gather the fabric of her skirt into her fists. Your presence in this town was…unexpected, she continued. But now that you're here, I think I understand. You're a gift. Someone who knows what its like to have the blood of his loved ones on his hands. This one delivered you to me. She nodded her head toward Dean. But his hold on you is strong. I suppose I'll have to do something to rectify that.

Sam and Rain stared at each other for the longest moment. It was almost as if she was daring him to react, to try to stop her. But he couldn't move. His stomach, his head, his chest… The pain consumed him. She was killing him for shits and giggles. But first she was going to kill his brother.

:

Dean cringed as the shelving unit opposite him spontaneously exploded, splintering into pieces that flew all over the floor and across the room. Its disintegration left exposed six large rolls of steel rebar, thick, and coiled like screws, that had tightly anchored the shelves to the cinderblock wall. Dean watched in stunned fascination, and Sam in dazed confusion, as one of the bars began to shimmy; it was slowly but surely working its way out of the wall. Suddenly, the bar pulled free, scattering a small puff of shattered cement to the floor, and hurled itself towards Dean. His eyes grew large as he realized what was about to happen, and he dropped to the floor just as the long piece of metal flew over his head, lodging itself firmly into the wall where his chest had just been.

Dean stood quickly. "Sam!" he yelled, spinning towards where his brother knelt. "You have to snap out of it, man. Don't let her do this. You have to get to the book!"

But Sam wasn't listening. Dean's blood ran cold, and it was almost as if time stopped for one long, cruel moment. A deep rumble began to sound, seemingly emanating from the very foundation of the house itself. It sounded just like Sam remembered it, like a train lumbering down a long and barren track at forty miles an hour, and the house began to quake minutely.

Dean put his hands out as if to keep his balance and was able to move several steps away from the wall before his invisible bonds once again brought him to a halt. He gazed warily around him as the tremor started to build in intensity. He looked down at his feet, felt the subtle vibration of the dirt floor through the soles of his boots. The empty canning jars began to rattle against one another. One jar worked its way to the edge of the shelf, teetered, then tumbled to the floor, sending thick shards of glass across the dirt.

"What the – " Dean looked back at his brother and frowned.

Sam's eyes were now fixed on a spot above Dean's head, and there was an expression of horror on his face. Dean swallowed hard, then dared to look up. It was like slow motion. He saw the heavy beam breaking loose from the ceiling, watched it coming closer and closer. He actually had time to imagine it crashing down on him, crushing bones, pinning him to the floor. In his mind, he anticipated the excruciating pain of it breaking things inside of him; he could practically hear Sam's anguished cry as his older brother went down under the weight of the beam.

Sam, himself, was overcome by a burning sensation of supreme desperation. He actually felt before he saw the wooden beam coming free from the ceiling, falling towards his brother's head.

He knew what Rain was doing. Rain was a monster. She was a psychopath of life's circumstances' making, and they were nothing alike. Their situations weren't even remotely parallel. She was just so twisted and lonely that she'd manufactured this comparison between them. She'd latched onto his guilt and exploited his greatest fears.

In the wake of this realization, there was suddenly a warmth in Sam's chest, where the frozen mass had been, and his whole body began to thaw. With the warmth came clarity, and he shook himself. He refused to be a pawn. In anyone's game.

His brother was going to die if he didn't do something. He would not – could not – just stand by and watch as another of his loved ones was taken away. Especially not Dean; not after all they'd been through. Not after Sam had assured him – promised him – he was all right to back him up.

Besides, Sam knew. He knew he would never be all that was left.

In an instant, the rope-like pressure vanished from around Dean's ribs, and he was free from Rain's hold. It took him one more split second to comprehend that the cry he thought he'd imagined was real, and suddenly his brother was there.

Dean knew Sam was strong, but the strength and speed with which he grabbed Dean by the arms and effectively tossed him out of the path of the falling beam still surprised him. Dean landed with a heavy grunt against a shelf, and the coffee can of washers and nails crashed to the floor, spilling its contents across the frozen ground.

Sam's own momentum carried him into the wall. He turned to avoid connecting face-first, and his back slammed hard against it, his head the last part of his body to make the impact. He instantly saw stars; and he gasped, but didn't move again. He froze where he was and let his eyes slip closed.

Dean saw his brother hit the wall but didn't have time to react as the beam hit the floor, splitting the distance between them. He scrambled on his hands and knees towards the desk. The rumbling was loud now. He could hear furniture, doors, and broken windows rattling in the rooms above them. It was a like an earthquake, and the house was threatening to cave.

Finally, his fingers touched the worn leather, and he grabbed the book. He didn't give it a second look before he was yanking a small can of lighter fluid from his coat pocket. He tossed the book onto the floor in front of him and doused it with the liquid. Then he pulled out his lighter. He ignited it, and its small flame burned fiercely in the dark. Dean bent down, and immediately the book was on fire. It burned fast. It burned hot. The flames were an unnatural shade of white.

Suddenly, another loud shriek sounded. This time Dean heard it, and he threw his hands over his ears. He stumbled backwards as a piercing white light exploded from the burning book. With another shriek, this one unmistakably human in its agony, the light shot up in a bright cylinder towards the ceiling. Then with a sharp hiss, it burned out and was gone.

The subsequent silence was almost anticlimactic.

Dean sat there on his ass for a moment, panting to catch his breath. The ethereal glow had disappeared, and the only light in the room came from his flashlight, which laid on its side on one of the basement steps. It had been rocking with the vibrations of the house, but now it came to a rest. The rumbling had stopped, and the house stood still as death. Dean's chest was starting to burn as he continued to suck in huge gasps of the freezing air.

He looked around at the McCrays' basement and remembered five people had died here. Their bodies would probably never be found; he wasn't even sure what Rain had done with them. But he had a feeling their spirits had been released from the lake. They'd done their job, and Rain wouldn't be coming back. But her victims' families would never have closure.

Slowly, Dean got to his feet and rubbed at his chest. The feeling of rope tightly slung around his ribcage was still vaguely with him, like a phantom limb. But he was lucky to be alive. His eyes rested on the thick, heavy, support beam that had almost flattened him, and he heaved a belated sigh of relief that seemed to originate clear down from the bottoms of his feet. Sam had saved his life.

Dean's eyes shifted from the beam, and he finally focused on his brother, who was still standing with his back pressed against the wall. Sam was staring at him, a strange expression on his face. He tried to smile briefly, then settled for just a small, abbreviated nod of his head.

Dean's stomach sank. "Sam?"

He rushed over the fallen debris to his brother and grabbed onto him, searched his face. Sam looked down at him, but didn't say anything. Dean at once noticed his breathing was too fast and too shallow to be right.

"Are you hurt?"

Sam swallowed and nodded slowly, but still didn't speak.

"Where?" Dean demanded. "What's wrong?"

Sam gave him a fleeting look of utterly miserable regret before closing his eyes again, and a thin line of red slowly trailed down from the corner of his lips. He trembled for a moment until his knees gave out. Then he slumped against his brother, his head dropping to Dean's shoulder.

Dean struggled to compensate for the sudden shift in weight. And then he saw it. It was slick and black with blood. The rebar. One end of the three-quarter-inch-thick rod of steel was still lodged into the cold wall. The other extended sickeningly through the fabric of his little brother's jacket and into his soft flesh. Dean almost recoiled, but instead tightened his grip on Sam's arms.

"Oh, shit," he gasped. "Sam, don't move."

Squashing down his own sense of panic, Dean quickly snaked his arms around Sam's torso. He had to keep Sam upright, or his body would pull free from the wall. Dean knew that with a wound like this, possibly the only thing keeping Sam alive was the pressure from the very instrument that had impaled him.

Dean's face was in Sam's hair, and he couldn't see what he was doing, but he could feel an exposed length of metal, warm with his brother's blood. He wrapped his hands around it and pulled with all his strength, and the rod came free from the wall. Sam's body collapsed against him, and both brothers sank to the hard ground.

"Stay with me, Sam," Dean said, pulling his brother close to him. He cradled Sam's upper body in his lap in an effort to keep the floor from pushing the rod any further into his back. "I need you to stay awake, okay? I'm gonna need your help. We have to get out of here."

Dean glanced towards the stairs. He couldn't carry his brother, so Sam would have to walk. He just needed Sam to make it out to the Impala, then everything would be okay. They would make it to a hospital where the doctors would patch Sam up, ask no questions, and send the brothers on their merry way. It could happen like that. It had to happen like that. He just needed Sam to suck it up and help Dean help him to the car. When he looked down at his brother, Sam's eyes were open.

"Dean…"

Then something within him crumbled, and he forced what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Don't you say it like that, Sammy," he ordered unsteadily.

"Like what?" Sam asked quietly, with a small shake of his head.

Dean's smile faltered, and he had to swallow hard before he could speak. "Like you're not going to say it again."

Sam sighed. And shuddered. He licked his lips, but there was no more blood.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, Sam," Dean said firmly. "Save that for later, okay? When you can do it right. On your knees. Kissing my ass."

Sam seemed to ignore him. "I'm sorry, Dean," he repeated. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

Dean brushed Sam's hair away from his forehead, kept brushing, let his fingers get tangled.

"Well, the pushing you out of the way part I did," Sam amended. "But not this."

"It's okay, Sam," Dean comforted. His heart was racing; he could practically hear the blood rushing through his body. "It's okay. You're all right."

He used to say the same words to a three-year-old Sammy when he'd skinned a knee or bumped his head. It's okay. You're all right. And Sammy would believe those words, and they would always keep him from crying.

Sam's eyes started to close again, and Dean touched his cheek.

"Hey, hey, hey. C'mon, Sammy. Stay with me here."

"I'm sorry." Sam forced his eyes open and looked at his brother with a weary smile. "It's just that saving your ass always makes me so fucking tired."

Dean smiled bitterly. "Ah, a wise-ass, eh? Nice to know I can still count on you to throw shit back in my face."

"Really, Dean." Sam's smile faded. "I am so sorry. If I'd realized, I might've done things a little differently. More carefully."

"If you'd realized what, Sam?"

"That here I was living Winchester collective life number nine. And look at me. I only managed to hold onto it for a day."

Dean stroked Sam's hair again and shook his head.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Sam said. It was the ultimate understatement. "There are…things. Things I thought I was supposed to do."

"You mean stupid things?" Dean asked with an incredulous snort, remembering their talk in the snow earlier that day. "You're telling me this wasn't it? You've got more stupid moves up your sleeve?"

Sam was completely still for a moment, and Dean felt a surge of panic like fire in his veins.

Sooner or later, you will lose him. Iona's words echoed in his mind.

Then Sam's hand moved, weakly clutched at his brother's coat sleeve. He squeezed, and Dean felt the fabric tighten around his wrist.

"I wasn't a bad person, Dean, was I?" Sam asked, his voice soft and breathy. "Not wanting to do this. Not wanting you to do this. Did that really make me a bad person? Was I really selfish for wanting to just…be? For not wanting life to be so difficult? So dangerous?"

"No, Sam," Dean assured him, smoothing his hair compulsively. "Of course not."

It was no more selfish than Dean wanting to keep the three of them all together when he knew what the hunt did to his brother. When he knew it kept him up at night and tormented him by day. When he knew – sooner or later – it would kill him.

It hadn't been that Sam was truly selfish for wanting a life. It was that he didn't understand that Dean couldn't imagine any other way of living. Dean had lived like this for 22 years. He was used to it. He was good at it. And giving that up, trying to go back to a life of normalcy, which he'd had once and lost, frightened him. What if he wasn't good at that? What if he lost it again? The hunt was what he thought he wanted. But he wanted Sam, too, and their father. So the fact that Sam didn't seem to want the same things in the same way hurt. It wasn't Sam's fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. It made neither of them selfish or a bad person. It made them complex. It made them real. It made them normal.

"It just doesn't seem fair, man. I mean, what was the point? Of any of it? Just to be in pain all the time?"

Sam Winchester was 23-years-old, and his entire existence had been nothing but violence, and pain, and death.

"No, Sam. The point is helping people. Saving people. And we've done that so many times. You've saved lives, dude. You've changed the world. That's the point."

"It's been really hard." It was a quiet statement of fact, not necessarily a complaint.

Dean nodded silently. It had been hard. And it was about to get so much worse.

"But there were parts…" Sam smiled faintly, as if recalling a fond memory, and looked up at his big brother with eyes full of such acceptance, and sincerity, and gratitude, that Dean almost couldn't take it. "There were parts, Dean…that were so fucking awesome."

And those words – the way they were spoken, the sentiment behind them, the person speaking them – finally did it. They broke him. Dean closed his eyes tightly, and a tremor went through him. He held fast to Sam's jacket, pressed his cheek into Sam's soft hair. His head was so frighteningly cold, when all Dean wanted at that moment was to feel the warmth of Sam's life very close to him.

"Don't let go, Sam, okay?" he whispered, finding Sam's hand on his sleeve. He grasped his brother's fingers in frantic desperation. "Dammit, Sam! Do not let go of me!"