Well, it looks like a couple of people are interested, so here's another chapter.

Disclaimer: Don't own, just playing, yadda yadda

Part 2

Born Down in a Dead Man's Town

"We might have to reconsider this whole 'ran away' idea."

Startled, Sam looked up from the laptop and turned to his brother. Dean had guided the Impala to a stop at the main intersection of Mossy Oak and was staring out the driver's side window.

"Why?"

"If I lived here, I'd want to run away, too."

Sam turned his attention to the scene outside the Impala's windows. The town reminded him of countless others they had visited in the poorer areas of the country. The intersection of two main roads served as the center of town, moldering brick buildings and Victorian-style houses lined the two streets, and many of the shops had boarded up windows with fading "FOR LEASE" signs taped to the doors. While most of the houses, in varying shades of dirty white, moss green and slate grey, remained in respectable condition, several were verging on decrepit. Their peeling paint and sagging eves spoke of weariness, neglect, and residents who no longer had the propensity or will to give a damn. The town itself, if such a thing was possible, appeared to be in mourning.

In the center of the intersection was a small town common, dominated by a massive, gnarled oak tree, its' upper branches dark against the grey winter sky. Sam winced at the memory it evoked and quickly looked away, resisting the urge to rub the scar at his back.

A few small groups of people were gathered near various store fronts and at the edge of the common, huddled against the cold and deep in conversation. The closest group turned toward to low rumble of the Impala's engine, their faces creased with mild suspicion and hopelessness.

"Charming," muttered Sam. "Well, we've seen worse," he said in a clearer voice and turned back to Dean.

"Yeah, but I wasn't inclined to stay in those places, either," Dean replied. "Where to first?"

"I figured we'd start with the most recent victim and work our way back. Bethany Miller lived with her mother, Nancy, at 1525 Elm Street."

"Oh, now I know you're kidding me." Sam smirked.

"Nope. All the streets are named after trees."

"Huh. I see the founding father were oh-so creative. How far?" Sam checked his notes. "About half a mile, I guess. Turn right, and make the second left. Looks like the street dead ends and it's the last house."

"On the left?"

"Yeah, how'd you know?" Sam asked, puzzled. Dean shook his head.

"Never mind, Geek Boy. You really need to watch something besides National Geographic. And porn."

Sam shot his brother a dirty look. Dean grinned and turned the Impala in the direction Sam had instructed, while Sam leaned back and closed his eyes. He had played the part of the annoyed little brother, but the truth was he was happy to have Dean acting more like his old self: the gentle teasing and smart-ass remarks were a nice change from the biting comments and thinly veiled anger that had been Dean's M.O. for the past few months, ever since he had made that damn deal. Sam's plea to have Dean act like his brother again seemed to have worked, at least until the next time Dean decided to go 'ninja' to cover up his terror at his impending fate. Sam hoped that he could keep his word to Dean that he would get him out of it, but as the year slipped away he was becoming more and more frustrated after turning up dead end upon dead end. He thought he was putting up a good front: Dean didn't seem to suspect what he was doing and therefore wasn't trying to stop him, but Sam himself was feeling the strain of the façade.

He was going over his options for his next line of inquiry when he felt the Impala roll to a stop.

"Wake up, Princess. We're here."

Sam opened his eyes and took his first look at the Miller house. The simple, two story white clapboard structure had a covered porch (listing slightly to the right) across the front. The walkway to the house was intricately landscaped but bore the signs of several years of neglect. Behind the house a stand of pine trees stretched back towards the western horizon.

They exited the car, walked up to the house, and climbed the porch steps, which creaked audibly as they ascended. Dean rang the doorbell and stepped back, rubbing his hands against the cold as the brothers waited for someone to answer.

After a few minutes, the front door creaked open, revealing a short, stout woman with tightly curled iron-grey hair. Her hazel eyes met theirs and she addressed them with thinly veiled suspicion.

"Yes?"

Dean stepped forward and gave her one of his most sincere smiles.

"Nancy Miller?"

"No, I'm her mother, Henrietta Dobson. What do you want?" Dean briefly held up his ID and Sam followed suit.

"I'm Special Agent Steinhardt and this is Special Agent Walsh. We're looking into some older cases, and we'd like to speak with Mrs. Miller about her daughter's disappearance."

"Have you found her?" The woman's expression was suddenly apprehensive, as if she expected that the worst of her fears had come true. Sam stepped forward.

"No ma'am. We're just trying to get a little more information on the case. Is Mrs. Miller here? We'd really like to speak with her."

"Well," said Mrs. Dobson, "you can try. Come on in." She opened the door wider and moved aside. They stepped through the doorway and into a narrow hallway. She led them to the living room where another woman was seated on a well worn sofa facing the fireplace. She did not appear to notice their entrance.

"Nancy? These gentlemen are from the FBI. They'd like to talk to you about Bethany," said Mrs. Dobson in a gentle tone. Mrs. Miller remained silent and immobile. Sam walked around the sofa to face her, and when he caught sight of her face he had to struggle to conceal his shock. Mrs. Miller had at one time been an attractive woman, but the loss of her family had drastically affected her: her sunken cheeks, sallow skin, and thin, lank hair belonged to a woman twice her age. But her eyes…Her eyes were the worst. They were flat and dead, like those of a battered, abandoned doll.

"Bethany?" The woman's voice was fragile, almost child-like. "She's upstairs, asleep. She's was mad at me because I wouldn't let her stay up to ring in the New Year, but I'm going to make it up to her. We're going on a picnic tomorrow. Michael is even going to take off work so he can come, too." She smiled and lapsed back into silence, her gaze never wavering from the opposite wall. Sam followed her line of sight and saw two framed pictures on the mantle: one of a smiling strawberry-blonde girl with pigtails; the other of a much younger, healthier Mrs. Miller in a wedding dress and a thin-faced sandy-haired young man in a tuxedo. Sam turned back to Mrs. Miller, ready to try another question, but Dean caught his attention and with a quick jerk of his head guided Sam's gaze to Mrs. Dobson. She stared at him for a brief moment before turning and walking back down the hall, and Sam and Dean followed her back to the kitchen. Sam tried to stammer out an apology, but she raised her hand to silence him.

"I think it's best to leave her out of this. What do you need to know?"

It was Dean who spoke first, and his tone surprised Sam. His voice subdued, with none of the false confidence and charm he had used before.

"How long has she--?"

"Since that night. The neighbors heard a commotion and ran over here. They found her leaning out Bethany's window, screaming her name, and when they reached her she passed out. When she woke up, she was like that. She refuses to leave the house, says she's waiting for Bethany to get ready so they can go."

"And 'Michael'? Is that her husband?"

"Was. He died about a year before Bethany vanished. It was an accident at work, at the steel mill. He fell into the…into the furnace."

Sam felt his gorge rise. He took a couple of deep breaths before asking the next question.

"Do you remember anything…strange about that night?"

"Strange?"

"Strangers, sorry. Was anyone observed near the house around the time of her disappearance?"

"No. Nobody saw anything or anyone out of the ordinary. The sheriff checked out her room, said he couldn't find anything that didn't belong. Then again, I was always of the opinion that that man couldn't find his ass with both hands and a flashlight." She sighed. "But he did try. We all did. Finally most people decided she must have left on her own but it just doesn't make sense. Why would an eight-year old run away? And if she did, why didn't she take anything with her? Besides, she was a good kid, if a little headstrong, and she loved her mother. I just don't see her taking off like that…" Sam nodded, his face easily conveying the sympathy that he felt. How many times have they heard stories like this?

"Why would they think she ran away?" Dean asked, still sounding too subdued for Sam's liking.

Mrs. Dobson sighed. "I guess because they wish they could."

"Why?" She gave a mirthless chuckle.

"It's a dying town, son. People get out and find better when they can, and when they can't…well, then they try to forget why they want to." Sam cleared his throat and tried to steer the conversation back to the reason for their visit.

"There have been similar cases in the area. Are you familiar with--?"

"The other girls who went missing? Yeah, I've heard about it, but not the details. Most of them hadn't been here all that long. The rumor mill says they were snatched by their fathers. Some sort of custody battle thing."

"I see. Do you mind if we take a look around? Just to, you know, cover all of the bases?"

"Knock yourselves out. Bethany's room is upstairs, turn right, second door on the left. It's pretty much as it was. Nancy wouldn't let me change anything."

"I'll check outside," said Dean. "I'll meet you at the car." He thanked Mrs. Dobson and made a hasty exit. Sam sighed. He had a very good idea why Dean wanted to get out of the house.

Sam trudged up the stairs and stopped at the bedroom door. He briefly debated whether or not to pull out the EMF meter before pulling it from his coat pocket and opening the door. He figured that any traces would be long gone, but it wouldn't hurt to check. He stepped into the room and stopped sweeping the meter back and forth in front of him. Nothing. He walked over to the window, pushed it open, and leaned out to look. The slightly sloping roof of the back porch was right below him. He followed the slope to the edge and saw a large cedar tree butted up against the corner of the roof. A possible route for a runaway girl, but unlikely. As he pulled his head back in to window he noticed a strange mark on the window frame. He bent down to take a look, then pulled out his cell phone and snapped a picture. It might be nothing, but then again, it might not.

A/N: The chapter title is the first line of "Born in the USA", by Bruce Springstein

Steinhardt and Walsh are members of the band Kansas