A bang, from far away. From close by. A muting noise that drowned out everything else. Nothing after. He could feel a foreign sound escape from somewhere (him?), some vague reference to a bus that came out on autopilot. The rest was the sound of static.
He was kneeling beside her, turned her over reflexively, taking her hand. Please, please, please, God. Maybe he didn't want to know. The blood jumped out at him, warm and dark. Please. Her lips were moving and he tried to understand, to process, but all he could hear was his own panting. Blood. He watched his hand lift her collar. There was no wound. He didn't understand. But her lips moved, so she couldn't be… 'His blood.' The words made sense in his head now, reaching him. He pulled her as close as he could, cradling her head. Her face was distorted in terror, but it wasRojas' blood. Not hers. She was warm. She was breathing fast. He had to feel that. She was all right. The breath in his own chest hurt. Thank you, thank you, thank you.
The static was buzzing through his skin, prickling. The moment was over, but it wasn't. Waves crashed over them, but he could feel her breathing, feel the tenseness of her muscles. He wanted to hold her like a child, but knew that he couldn't, knew that there was something police detective-like he should be doing. But his mind was blank.
He loosened his grip reluctantly and turned to see where the shot had come from. It was Dean, who was just standing there, looking hardly shaken at all. Just a man and his gun, a cocky bastard as ever. To think that the situation had been in this guy's hand, not his, made him sick. Not his hands. He'd been powerless. But she was alive.
He couldn't help pulling her close again, there on the ground, his face close enough to smell her hair. Thank you, thank you. She was warm, warming him through the electric buzz. He had to protect, to hold, to live. To-
Because they hadn't had that moment of preparation. There had been a time of realization when he saw the gun against her head, but all he'd been able to focus on was Rojas and the gun. He couldn't think. If he'd thought, he wouldn't have been able to negotiate. His role would have collapsed. There hadn't been that moment of shared understanding as before with Gitano. But he understood now, understood why she hadn't shot a few years earlier. Except it was all a blur. He'd always tried to prepare himself, but he really hadn't expected for this exact situation to happen again. Not this way around, anyway. And this time, he was at the worse end, had felt something that hadn't been there before. Like at the subway station. To die was nothing in comparison with surviving. What if he…but he couldn't think about that now. Not now that she was warm and breathing.
He hadn't said goodbye or seen their life flash by in a soppy way. All it would have taken was a glance. This was…unprepared. She was warm. She was okay. He could let go. But he saw his arms stay where they were. Just for that moment. Her muscles began to relax. The static faded, reality returned.
But Dean couldn't know what it meant…to live without. The thing was, he couldn't. Live without, that is. It was unimaginable. He knew he shouldn't feel this way, knew what the psych evaluation would say, knew how to fake it, but he wasn't professional. Not when it came to this. It had been too close. And he couldn't let go. The adrenaline wouldn't stop. He was frozen. It's all right now. They could breathe again. Where was that internal wall when he needed it? He couldn't go on with his job like this. He couldn't take it.
A bang. A sound that drowned out everything else. A sound that smashed the glass. He studied her face, less distorted now, and she looked straight back at him. 'All right?' he managed with a steady voice.
'Yeah…' She averted her gaze, pulling away.
He helped her up, then let go. A warm imprint on his palm.