When I find myself in times of trouble,
Mother Mary comes to me.
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
Writer: LENNON, JOHN / MCCARTNEY, PAUL
LET IT BE
Chapter One
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…I'm so sorry…
…did everything we could…
…injury was too severe…
Do you know if he…?
Do you need any…?
Dean!
Dean couldn't say at what point he'd stopped listening. The words had been unintelligible; the relentless buzzing of a million angry bees crammed inside the cramped cavern of his skull all trying to get out at once. They were too loud, deafening even. And then, suddenly he was like a bee trapped in a tiny glass jar, slamming against the invisible walls of his prison, trying to get to that place he could see beyond, trying to get out! Now!
He'd fled, shaking off the hands that had tried to keep him there, that had tried to keep him trapped. He didn't know or care whose they were. It didn't matter whose they were. Nothing mattered beyond the need to be away, to be anywhere but there.
Where Bobby had died.
Bobby was dead! Bobby! The man who'd become more of a father to Dean than his own dad had ever been... The man who would answer his phone when Dean called and who would drop everything and come when Dean asked for help... The man who saw through every mask Dean had been trying for too damn long to hide behind and who didn't care about the ugliness lurking beneath... He'd only cared that Dean had felt he'd needed to hide from him in the first place.
Bobby was dead, and Dean didn't know what he was supposed to do, now.
Now was a ledge, a narrow perch barely wide enough for him to stand on. He wanted to go back—God! How he wanted to go back, to yesterday, to before Bobby had taken that bullet. Maybe Dean would do things differently, like work it so that bullet found him instead of Bobby.
You die before me and I'll kill you!
He couldn't go back, though. Life didn't come with do-overs; and once you were standing on Now, Before was a locked door at your back. Before was an unscalable wall pressing against your heels and crowding you on that ledge, threatening to push you forward until all you could do was fall into that gaping, black chasm that was After.
But, wouldn't that be better, to be away from Now? Now hurt. It hurt so fucking much. It was a crushing weight on his chest and a sharp-clawed fist around his heart. It was that never-ending swarm of bees buzzing in his brain. It was no breath and no thought; nothing but that stabbing thump, thump, thump of a heart so cruel, so…selfish that it continued to beat when Bobby's had stopped.
Now was Hell, and he just wanted it to stop. He just wanted everything to be over.
You die before me and I'll kill you!
'You got your wish, Bobby,' Dean thought, and the bitterness he felt then shocked him as much as it shamed him. In that very moment, teetering on that ledge—on the Now of his pain—he'd have gladly traded places with Bobby if it meant he wouldn't have to feel what he was feeling, now. In that very moment, that endless split second, he realized that he resented Bobby for dying first and leaving him to carry on without him.
As though he would want Bobby to suffer this crushing, stabbing, relentless grief because of him?
As though he would wish this pain on someone he loved?
Was he really that selfish?
It was a sobering realization, and with it came clarity. The bees in his head went quiet and the pressure on his chest eased. His heart still hurt. It would hurt for a long time, and Dean knew in that instant of sharp understanding that, no, he would not have wished that pain on anyone.
It wasn't the dead who suffered in death; it was the living. The dead had it easy. They only had to lie down. The living were the ones who were left behind to mourn and to try to find a new path to travel now that the one they'd been on was no longer open to them. It was the living who had to find a way to step off that ledge; to move from Now to After, even when After loomed like some giant, gaping pit of nothingness bent on swallowing them whole.
It was the living who had to find a way to move beyond their pain and their…guilt; guilt that they got to see another day when their loved ones would never see anything ever again. It was the living who had to find a way to keep on living, when all they wanted to do was die.
You find your… reasons to get back in the game. I don't care if it's love, or spite, or a ten dollar bet!
The dead only had to stay dead. And wasn't that a lesson Dean had learned the hard way?
Sam.
With his clarity came memory. Dean had left Sam in the ER waiting room. It had been Sam's hands he'd shaken off when he'd fled, and Sam's voice calling out his name. With memory came a sick realization. Sam hadn't been trying to keep Dean in that place where Bobby had died. He'd been trying to keep Dean with him. And Dean, in his blind, drowning need to get away from that place, had pushed Sam aside and left him alone.
"Ah, Sammy," he uttered, rubbing his hand down his face.
For the first time since leaving the hospital, Dean took stock of his surroundings. It was evening where it had been late afternoon when he'd left. A quick glance at his phone showed the time at a little past six o'clock. Not even two hours had passed since he'd left Sam. Almost two hours that had passed without him even realizing it. He turned in place, scanning the area around him. To his amazement, he was still on the hospital grounds. Well, at least he'd had enough sense not to get behind the wheel of…
That's right. They hadn't come there in the Impala; and as much as Dean longed for the comfort and security of his Baby, he was thankful that she wasn't there. If he'd seen her in the parking lot when he'd fled the ER waiting room, he'd have jumped behind her wheel and taken off. Who knows where he'd have ended up—assuming he hadn't wrapped her nose around a telephone pole in his distraction?
Dean reached into his front pocket. He still had the keys. That meant that Sam, most likely, was still in the hospital where Dean had left him. Giving his face another rough rub, he flipped open his phone and hit the speed-dial for Sam's number.
It rang twice and Dean cursed. No doubt Sam had shut it off, mindful of the risk of using cell phones around sensitive medical equipment. He started walking towards the building as the phone rang a third time with still no answer. On the fourth ring, Dean pulled the phone away from his ear and disconnected the call.
His phone rang. Sam's name flashed across the display, and Dean flipped the phone open and put it to his ear.
"Hey, Sa…"
"Are you Dean?"
It was a woman's voice, soft; familiar though he knew he'd never heard it before. He pulled the phone back and double-checked the display. He hadn't read it wrong. The call was coming from Sam's phone.
"Who is this?" he demanded; his alarm building. He increased his pace.
"…ster Mary Win…tal Chap…ervices," she answered.
Mary Win…? The connection was terrible, growing worse the closer he got to the back entrance. Yet what little he'd heard of her name coupled with the sound of her voice sent Dean's heart jack-hammering up into his throat. He knew why her voice seemed familiar.
She sounded like his mom.
"Where's Sam?" he practically shouted into the phone.
"Sam's…cident. Can you…to the hos…tal?"
"Sam's been in an accident?"
That wasn't possible. How could Sam have been in an accident unless he'd left the hospital? Dean had the keys, so he couldn't have left on his own. Had he taken a cab? Where would he have gone? It wasn't like they could hole up in a nearby motel. Motels were too on the radar, which meant they were off their limits.
"In—ci—dent," the mysterious woman repeated slowly.
That made even less sense to Dean. "Where is he?"
"…sorry. This is a ter…co…ction. How soon…et to the hosp..al?
"I'm coming in the back entrance, right now."
"C…n you pl… me…ses sta…on sec…or…gn B?"
"What?"
"Nurse's sta—tion. Se—cond floor. Wing B."
"Is Sam okay?" he tried one last time.
"N...hope you …ll us."
"Hello?" Frustrated, Dean pulled his phone away from his ear and looked at the display. Only the clock showed. The call had dropped. He started to redial, hoping to get a better signal.
"I'm sorry, but you cannot use your cell phone in this area."
Dean's head snapped up and he glared at the young man in the blue-gray scrubs. The young man stumbled back a step, his face washing out.
"How do I get to the nurse's station on the second floor?" Dean asked urgently, hoping the kid wouldn't pass out before he could answer the question.
"W—which one?" the young man stammered.
Dean took a deep breath and tried to appear a little less like someone who might open fire in a crowded hospital. "Sorry. I just got a call that my brother was…" He almost couldn't get the words out. Sam couldn't be hurt. He just couldn't. Not so soon after Bobby. He just couldn't…
"They told me to go to the nurse's station on the second floor. Ah, Wing B, I think she said."
The young man nodded and seemed to relax a bit. "This is C Wing," he said. "If you follow this hallway... Keep going past three…uh…well, intersections, I guess. At the fourth, turn left and you'll come to a bank of elevators. Go to the second floor and turn right. There should be signs."
Dean thanked him and took off down the hall at a fast pace. He found the elevators, rode one up to the second floor, and turned to the left as he'd been instructed. On the wall, there was a sign with one arrow pointing down the hall towards B wing and another pointing in the other direction towards C wing. He went down the hall towards B wing.
B for Bobby.
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"Are you Dean?"
The voice and the inflection when she said his name were exactly as he'd heard on the phone. He spun around, and he couldn't have stopped the gasp that tore out of his throat if his life had depended on it.
For one second, it was his mom standing there. Her warm, gentle eyes regarded him with compassion and understanding that nearly brought tears to his eyes. He took a step back and blinked. The illusion shattered and he realized his mistake.
The woman standing there was older, maybe late forties, early fifties. She was of a small build, coming up to Dean's shoulder, with blonde hair and kind, accepting blue eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said genuinely. "I didn't mean to startle you. I'm Sister Mary Winship. I believe we spoke on the phone."
Mary Winship? Not Mary Winchester. He almost laughed out loud but he held it back. It would have been a bitter-sounding thing, filled with self-castigation and self-loathing. Was he losing his mind, now, too?
"You are Dean, right?" she asked. Concern flashed in her eyes, but nothing else. No judgment. No censure. Just genuine concern.
He drew in a shaky breath and scrubbed his hand down his face. "Yeah, I'm Dean, Sister…"
Sister?
The final detail of what he was seeing clicked into place. Jesus Christ! She was a nun! And he'd thought she was his mother? Talk about a Madonna complex.
The laugh threatened closer, inching up his throat with clawed hands. "Yeah, I'm Dean." He had to force the words out around that lump of cold mirth. He didn't even realize that he was repeating himself. "I'm sorry. It's just…" He couldn't even articulate what 'it just' was.
Apparently, he didn't have to. Sister Mary Winship smiled in sympathy.
Normally that would have irritated him. More likely, it would have pissed him off. They issued those empty platitudes on a daily basis. That's all they were. Platitudes. But hers didn't seem that way. Neither did the words that followed.
"That is completely understandable. You've just suffered a terrible loss, and through such awful means. He was your uncle?"
Dean could only nod.
"But he was more than that, to you." It was a statement of fact. "To you both."
Dean took another step back, suddenly suspicious. "How do you know that?" He didn't give her a chance to answer. He drew himself up to his full height and said menacingly, "Where is Sam?"
Sister Mary Winship was unaffected. She simply stood there with her hands clasped in front of her. Her gentle smile didn't waver a bit.
"He's safe," she said calmly; a subtle note of reassurance coloring her tone. "He is in a private room, resting."
"What?" Private room, resting? Why would Sam need to be resting in a private room? Dean was reeling, a million possible scenarios flashing through his mind all at once.
"We can talk on the way," she said. She turned back towards the direction she'd come, looking at him over her shoulder. After a pause, he drew even with her and they started walking down the long corridor.
"We found him in the chapel about forty minutes before you called his cell phone," she started. "For such a large young man, he had squeezed himself into a very small space, and he seemed to be in the middle of...an emotional break."
Dean's steps faltered. Immediately, that evening at the warehouse came to mind; Sam distraught and confused, yelling and firing his gun at a tormentor only he could see and hear, a tormentor Sam had claimed wore Dean's face. It had been weeks going on months since Sam had had an episode like that, and yet the image still was so clear. To Dean, it was as raw and as sharp as if it had happened only yesterday.
But she'd said an emotional break? Was that different than a psychotic break, or was she just being polite?He was afraid to hope.
"How, exactly?" he asked.
She looked up at him with that same warm, sympathetic yet non-judgmental smile. "He was pressed behind the lectern, almost as if he was trying to hide, and he was rocking back and forth, talking to himself. It was how I knew he was there, actually. I heard his voice as I was walking by the door."
Dean felt that tightness building in his chest again. He almost expected those bees to start up their buzzing, but his mind stayed quiet. Too quiet. Empty of thought. Not even the hum of white noise. Nothing.
"He was very upset," she was saying. Her words were soft and unaffected, even and calm. Her whole demeanor was calm, as though the concept was a tangible thing. Dean could feel it settling around him.
Either that or he had officially shut down. Lights on, no one home. Like Elvis, Dean had officially left the building. He wondered if they'd let Sam and him share the padded room.
She continued speaking, unaware that her words were falling on Dean like ash, landing on him in a fine mist but not penetrating. "He was saying, 'this isn't real', and 'you're not real' or 'you're not here'. He wouldn't open his eyes, even when I asked him if he needed some help. He just squeezed them tighter and curled over himself."
She suddenly stopped. She laid her hand on Dean's arm when he kept walking, not realizing that she'd stopped. He looked down at her hand, so small it probably wouldn't have reached around his forearm.
"Dean," she said his name and it was his mother's voice again. He couldn't help but look at her. He met her blue eyes, suddenly wanting the illusion so badly. Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd gotten what he wanted.
Sister Mary met his gaze and gave him a gentle but sad smile. It was all he could do not to pull away, not wanting to hear what she clearly was about to tell him. "There was a significant amount of blood coming from a wound on the palm of his left hand. It appears as though he had torn open a previous injury. He was so distraught; I don't even think he realized he was doing it at the time."
"Oh, God," he uttered, brokenly. He realized what he'd said, and cringed. "Sorry, Sister."
She just smiled indulgently. "I understand this must be very difficult. I'm sorry. I wish there was an easier way to tell you. However, something tells me that you are the type who prefers the facts straight without the spoonful of sugar to help them go down."
He laughed, despite himself; a sharp snort of a chuckle that might have erupted into hysterics if it weren't for that strange aura of calm coming from the woman in front of him.
"Sam was a warrior, wasn't he?" she asked then.
The question, so totally out of the blue and coming from left field, caught Dean by surprise. "A warrior?" He chuckled at the absurdity of it.
"Well, I would have said soldier, but with hair like that…?"
"Yeah, well…" Dean shrugged his shoulders. He looked down the hall they'd just come down, his eyes ghosting over the signs and posters and pictures hanging on the walls without really seeing them. "Our dad was a Marine and he served his country during Vietnam," he said absently. It didn't even cross his mind that he was sharing something of his family with a total stranger. "Sam and I were never in the military. We'd never claim to be soldiers."
"Not all who serve their fellow man in times of war wear a uniform," she pointed out. "And not all wars are fought on global fields. I worked for years in a VA hospital, and I've seen soldiers who have come back from war hurt in both body and spirit. Sam has that same look. What he did to his hand; that's a coping mechanism, isn't it? He wasn't really trying to hurt himself, was he?"
Dean looked back at her. There was something in her eyes that hadn't been there before; a subtle urgency or…determination. No. Conviction. That was it. It was that same look Sam used to get when he knew he was right about something but no one else seemed to be on board. Of course, just because Sam knew he was right, didn't mean that he was right. Sam's judgment had failed him on more than one occasion and he was still paying for it.
He'd probably be paying for it for the rest of his life.
"Hurt himself?" The idea was nuts. Sam ten kinds of crazy and 'tripping Hell's Bells' was still the same stubborn, pain in the ass, fight-tooth-and-nails kid he'd always been. If anyone was going to try to check out ahead of schedule, it wasn't going to be Sam.
Dean pushed that thought aside, not liking the way it seemed to settle in the pit of his gut like a bad meal. "Sam cut his hand on a piece of glass about two months ago," he explained, sounding defensive even to his own ears. "It was an accident, that's all."
"And since?"
He took a step back, pulling his arm away from her touch. He'd forgotten it was even there. "What are you implying?"
Her calm demeanor didn't change even in the wake of his threatening stance. She simply folded her hands in front of her again. "I'm not implying anything. I'm trying to understand so I can help him." Her expression suddenly became grave. "And I need you to understand the gravity of the situation. It is the policy of any hospital: when there is reason to believe that a person might be a danger to himself, or that an injury might have been self-inflicted, the authorities are notified and the patient is remanded to psychiatric care.
"Sam is safe," she insisted. The way she emphasized the word safe, as though it encompassed harm in all its forms; it was as if she knew the exact words to say to penetrate Dean's worry. "No one has been notified, yet. He is in a private room, sedated enough to keep him calm and comfortable."
Dean rubbed his hand down his face, recognizing it as a nervous habit every bit as neurotic as Sam's new habit of pressing on his palm. As though he could wipe away the stress pressing down on him…As though he could wipe away the pain or the horror of the things he'd seen or done…As though he could wipe away the evidence of his shattering composure before it spilled out all over the floor next to Sam's scattered marbles…
"Dean." Again with that voice so like his mother's. Infinitely patient. Infinitely understanding.
"Why?" he demanded. "Why haven't they called the cops or…or…" Locked him up? He couldn't say it.
"Because I asked them to wait until I could speak to you."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
T. B. C.
Author Note: This is my first official Supernatural story, so I hope you'll be kind. A very special thank you to Kailene, for introducing me to this series, for coaxing me back into writing, for being my sounding board for ideas, and for being the best friend ever. Love you. All errors are mine entirely.
