Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. I've been so busy with school, clubs, and my friends.
"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness but of power. They are messengers of overwhelming grief and of unspeakable love." - Washington Irving
〖 〗
I stared at my laptop's monitor like Lucifer himself had sent me a friend request on Facebook.
My apartment was silent except for the sounds of the city outside my walls and windows. The harsh blue light of my laptop cast an eerie glow over my keyboard, taunting me with the occasional 'ding' that told me that I had unread emails in my inbox. My rational mind told me that I was acting ridiculous, that Sam could be contacting me because they had found information about the demon. But the irrational part of me, which was at this time the majority, had become afraid of the name Winchester. It seemed that my involvement with this family ended in pain, and I cowardly didn't want to deal with it anymore.
Taking a shaky breath, I admonished myself internally in a voice that sounded like Dad's. This was absurd, I told myself. It wasn't until I sat down at my chair that I realized I had been rubbing my fingers over my Saint Archangel Michael's medallion.
The subject of the email read: I never know what to write in these things. That boded well.
Inhaling once more, I clicked the email. The message popped up before I could blink. For a moment, my eyes refused to focus. The words meant nothing, they were just lines and crosses and indecipherable symbols. For a profiler, I had absolutely no idea what to expect.
I'm not really sure how to start this off.
Hi, I guess. I hope you're recovering well; your injuries were pretty severe. Dean and I are OK, actually Dean's perfectly healthy. I'm still banged up but I'm surviving.
I was genuinely relieved to hear that. Some of the weight that had been pushing down on my chest lifted.
Anyway, Dean and I just wanted to make sure that you were OK. You and your friend disappeared and the staff said that you checked yourself out. And I'm totally not a stalker; I found your business card in my jacket. (Not sure how it got there, seriously I'm not creepy- This is sounding bad, isn't it?) But I wasn't sure what had happened since you left so suddenly. So you didn't hear.
My dad died in the hospital. The doctor said it was so sudden. I'm telling Dean it's a heart attack, but you know why I don't believe that. I don't think Dean believes me either. I mean, it's not hard to figure out, right? He wakes up from a coma, perfectly healthy, and then my Dad dies and the Colt goes missing. Dean doesn't say anything, but he blames himself. I'm not sure what to say to him.
Tears welled in my eyes and I blinked rapidly.
Maybe I should tell him it's my fault. I know it is, I knew what my Dad was planning to do and I let it happen. How could I do that? I let my Dad die without doing everything I could to stop it.
Damn you, John.
I can't tell Dean that though. I'm afraid what he'll think of me if I told him that I knew about Dad's plan all along. I can't really tell Dean anything, he's not a 'touchy-feely' guy. But he's falling apart at the seams and I'm not sure what to do about it because I am too.
Sorry, I'm rambling. This isn't your problem. I just wanted to make sure that you were alright and that Meg or the Yellow Eyed Demon didn't do anything to you.
And thanks for staying with me at the hospital. It was nice to have someone else pray with me.
Sam Winchester
〖 〗
Sam,
It's very good to hear from you. I'm so glad you and Dean are well, it's a relief. Thank you for your concern, I'm recovering well but not quite back to my normal capacities. I apologize for leaving so abruptly, Olufemi and I were both pressed to return home. We both work in law enforcement and could only make excuses for our absences for a few days. We didn't want to interrupt your reunion with your brother.
I wanted you to have my contact information, don't worry, I don't find you 'creepy.'
I'm so sorry about your father. However, I would be egregiously remiss if I didn't tell you this. You and Dean should not feel guilt over your father's fate.
If you want to blame someone, please blame me. From the moment you confronted him about his motives, I also spoke to your father about his plans. Since you made me aware of it, I made it a point to discuss with your father the ramifications of forging a pact with a demon. I was the complacent one; I stood by idly by while your father sold his soul. I am the one to blame. Not you. Not Dean.
Sam, if you want to say anything to Dean, you tell him that his father loved him very much. That's all that matters.
I'm so sorry, I should have done more. The responsibility lies with me, the exorcist who failed to protect the flock from the wolves. The only thing I can do is beg for your forgiveness. But rest assured, I will free your father from that thing. I promise you that.
You probably don't want to speak to me much now that I've told you this. I don't expect anything less because that is what I deserve. However, please, if you ever need anything, don't hesitate. Just promise me that you and Dean will stay safe.
God bless,
Elisha Gideon
〖 〗
Sam never replied. I wasn't surprised by that. My admission of guilt most likely angered him, but knowing the Winchesters I theorized that Sam's thinking was a mixture of self-loathing as well as blame directed at me. Even if he accepted my involvement, Sam would still blame himself. However, Sam was not malicious. He would never confront me about this directly unless we saw one another face-to-face.
I think I may have felt better about it if he had just ripped me a new one.
Dalton had a very potent opinion on the entire situation.
"They all sound batshit crazy. 'Let's go piss off Hell and not tell our associates about our plan. Genius!'" He rolled his eyes sarcastically. I crossed myself.
"Don't speak ill of the dead,"
Dalton gave me a look. "Eli, please,"
"My tolerance for your 'gay-sass,' as you so eloquently label it, is not very high today, dear."
Sticking his tongue out at me, Dalton pulled a face that made me laugh. It seemed like life had stabilized. However, that foundation was rocked catastrophically two days later. It was Thursday night. The up-coming weekend was Veterans Day, and federal employees were blessed with tomorrow as paid time off. However, I was working.
The Bible says "Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths."*
Veteran's Day weekend I was scheduled to teach, along with a few others, some seminars at Nebraska's FBI field office in Omaha. The training was not mandatory, it was open to agents and police officers who were interested and had registered months in advance. My first lecture was Friday afternoon; it was centered on anti-social personality disorder. After landing at the airport that afternoon, I had a meeting with the other presenters and coordinators of the education program. They even treated us to dinner. It wasn't until late evening that I was finally free in my hotel room and I was pouring over my notes for the next morning.
Then my cell phone rang, and it wasn't the phone my family and co-workers called.
"Agent Gideon,"
"I need a home visit," Ellen's curt voice cut through the receiver.
I guffawed. "Why and exactly how do you expect me to do that?"
"You got a license right? Figure it out," the line clicked and then dropped. Well then.
A couple hours and multiple cups of cheap gas station coffee later I pulled my rented car into the dusty parking lot of the Roadhouse. Killing the engine, I yawned hugely into my hand. Nothing good comes easy, so they say. The windows were bright with light, but it was eerily quiet. I idly kicked some gravel and dirt as I walked toward the door, irritated.
Opening the door and stepping inside, the bar was haunted by the regulars. By 'regulars' I mean, Ellen, Jo, and Ash. The three of them had the collective liveliness of a wet paper towel. Jo was wiping down some glasses, and smiled when I walked in.
"Hey Elisha!" Poor girl didn't get much socialization beyond the hunters who occasionally sauntered into this bar stinking of salt and blood.
"Jo," I nodded, sliding onto a bar stood and plopping my purse onto the countertop beside my elbow. "Your mother called me down here for something, her prickly tone suggested it was rather important."
She frowned, genuinely ignorant of her mother's call to me. "Mom's down in the basement getting a new case, she'll be up soon. You want a drink?"
I usually abstain, but Goddamn the last few weeks had been stressful as hell. "A gin and tonic would be welcomed,"
Jo probably didn't get many patron orders that varied from beer, scotch, and good ol' Jack. Forty-five seconds later the clear drink was in front of me and I took a swig, reveling in the slight feeling of warmth pooling in my stomach. Ash was nowhere in sight, but I could hear music blaring from a room in the back.
"We heard about what happened..." Jo trailed off.
"Hm?"
Jo stared sympathetically at me. "The demon, we heard about what it did to you,"
I blinked, going brain dead for a moment as the slight burning of gin went down my throat. "I never told you that,"
Jo shrugged minutely. "Sam told me,"
The glass I was holding in my hand almost shattered. "Sam? Sam Winchester?"
"Yeah," Jo confirmed, absentmindedly. She was rooting around in the bar cabinets. "They came in yesterday, something about a voicemail my mom left them on John's phone-"
"You took your time," Ellen interrupted, a large case of drinks in her hands.
She was probably joking, but the comment just irritated the shit out of me. "I have a life that doesn't rise and set with your needs."
Ellen was not a woman who you 'gave lip' to. Many hunters who have come through this bar have stood shaking in terror under her hard gaze. If my bruises weren't still yellow and brown on my face, my body slight and bowing under my own weight, and dark circles highlighting my tired eyes, Ellen would have given me a speech that would make the devil himself cry.
She settled with just staring at me for a long moment as she plopped the crate on the bar counter. "You look like hell,"
I grunted and pushed my unfinished drink away. "I should go,"
Ellen quirked an eyebrow. "You just got here,"
"You should have told me," I said in a low voice, turning back to face her. Ellen must have realized what I was referring to, because her eyes narrowed slightly and her lips flattened out into a thin line. The entire situation confused me, because this type of deception was so uncharacteristic of Ellen. Just as I was about to question her, the door to the Roadhouse opened and Sam and Dean Winchester stepped inside.
My head whipped back to Ellen, my eyes wide and my expression completely shocked. A small, mirthless smirk upturned the corners of her lips. Got you, that smirk seemed to say. So, Ellen was just the middle man, which left me with only one more important question. Who had put her up to it, Dean or Sam?
Lord, give me strength. I sent up a quick prayer and turned to face my executioners.
Dean's confusion was obvious and genuine. His eyebrows were knitted together and his lips pressed together slightly as his eyes went from me, to Ellen and then to Jo. Sam, however, was staring pointedly at me with wide eyes, his lips slightly parted and his cheeks flushed a different color. Aha.
"I should go," I reiterated to Ellen, and shimmied around the Winchester brothers toward the door, my eyes firmly locked on the floor. As the door swung shut behind me, I let loose a sharp breath, my face felt hot against the cool night air. Rubbing at my tired eyes, I headed toward my car, kicking at the loose gravel with more force than when I had arrived. That was embarrassing.
As my hand fisted into my purse looking for my rental's key, the door to the Roadhouse creaked open and the sound of boots hitting gravel came toward me. I looked up to see Sam walking toward me, hands shoved in his jacket pockets.
"Um, hey,"
I blinked at him, bracing myself for the onslaught of anger, but nothing came. Transparent green eyes flickered at me, patiently waiting for me to say something.
"Why did you have Ellen call me out here, Sam?" My voice was quiet, unexpectedly unsure.
Looking down at the tops of his shoes, Sam toed at the loose rocks. He seemed almost shy. "I kind of wanted to talk to you,"
I stared. "You have my number,"
He stuttered for a moment and then blew out a rush of air. "Well, this doesn't feel like a situation where a phone call is enough!" Sam held up his hands in vexation.
Taking even breaths, I concentrated on reciting various chapters from The Ritual. I waited for the hate, and I would deserve it, but I sure as hell wasn't going to like it. Sam was one of those people who just had that tender soul, it radiated off him like light. I couldn't imagine that soul hating me.
I was expecting curses, anger, and revulsion.
What Sam said was, "I'm really worried about Dean."
"Huh?" I stammered, and cleared my throat as heat crept up my neck. "I-I'm sorry?"
Sam looked at me like I had just taken a hit of crack. "I'm worried about Dean; he's taking what happened to Dad really hard..."
Re-centering myself, I inhaled slowly and adjusted to the idea that I was not about to receive a verbal ass whooping. It was cooler tonight, autumn was coming to an end and soon it would be winter. The night air was chiller, but it cleared my head and sobered me that much faster. "I'm sure it's been hard on you both,"
Sam looked choked up and swallowed audibly. "Um, yeah," He wanted to say more, but he seemed to think twice about it and stopped himself.
Focus Elisha. What isn't Sam saying? Hone in on his body language and see what that tells you. His eyes were bloodshot and he had dark circles under his eyes, obviously Sam hadn't been sleeping. He also seemed to be a tad thinner, losing weight and not eating enough. Worrying about his brother and trying to come to terms with John's death were becoming more than Sam could bear.
"You want to talk?"
Sam looked immensely relieved that I took the reins and he didn't have to say it aloud. "Yeah,"
〖 〗
From the moment Sam and I walked back inside, Dean stared me down. I wasn't sure what emotion was behind it, but it was overpowering to the point that I could feel his gaze burning a hole into my back. Sam and I sat at a table wedged in a corner of the bar. Jo kept Dean mostly occupied, so when he wasn't staring me down he was staring down Jo's top.
Sam and I both sipped at our water.
"Sam, to be perfectly honest ethically I shouldn't be counseling you."
"Do you think I need counseling?" He asked, sounding genuinely concerned at the prospect.
"Of course not, but you aren't well," I said it as a statement, because it was obvious. By the way Sam's eyes tightened and he looked down at his folded hands he wasn't going to deny it. It actually hurt me to see him like this, and I barely knew him. He reminded me of a little boy trying to stay strong but wanted nothing more than for someone to swoop him up in their arms and assure him that everything would be fine.
"Sam," I said gently. "Mourning takes time, it's not a competition. There's nothing that states you have a deadline to come to terms with your father's death, but you do have to try."
"You went to Stanford, you've heard of the 5 Stages of Grief?" Sam nodded. "Which stage do you think you're at?"
Going quiet for a moment, Sam stared contemplatively at his water before answering. "Depression,"
"Well, good news is you're close to the last step," I paused. "And where would you place Dean?"
"Anger," Sam answered quickly. I pursed my lips, and Sam noticed. "What?"
"Why do you think it was easier for you to think about where your brother is emotionally then yourself?"
That brought Sam up short. "Um..."
"You two are very close, I can see that, you care very deeply for each other and that truly is a good thing. It seems you're more sensitive to what he's feeling than what you are feeling, correct?"
"I guess, yeah," Sam shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
"Doesn't leave a lot of time to deal with your feelings then does it? If you're worrying about his?"
"Um..."
And then Dean was standing by the table, hands on his hips and car keys looped around his finger. "We gotta' go Sammy,"
"Kind of having a conversation, Dean." Sam replied in a strained voice. Dean sent me a glare like it was my fault. "And it's just Sam." He asserted, eyes flickering back to me for a moment.
"Well wrap it up so we can head back to Bobby's,"
"Dean," I stopped him as he started to walk away. He looked suspicious. "I'm glad you're doing well,"
"Thanks?"
I got to my feet. "I don't want to keep you both, and I have a presentation in-" I glanced at my watch and winced. "Seven hours," Sam started, but I shook my head. "Keep me updated, alright Sam?"
"Yeah OK. And thanks Elisha, for coming out here and everything." Sam was so unadulterated about everything, like I had done something as remarkable as change the rotation of the earth by coming here and listening to him.
"Just take care of yourself Sam," I said meaningfully and then headed toward the door. I shouted a goodbye to Ellen and Jo. Ellen actually came around from the bar and gave me a hug goodbye. I must really look like death incarnate. I was exhausted, and I still had to drive back to Omaha.
I was stopped again, however, just as I was about to get in my car. But this time it was by Dean.
"Hey, um," He grabbed my shoulder just as I unlocked the door. I turned, and Dean awkwardly fidgeted with his hands. "I just wanted to, uh, say thanks for listening to Sammy."
This was painfully uncomfortable for Dean, he must be unused to saying thank you to anyone but his brother and even then I'm sure it was still embarrassing for him.
"Of course," I replied quietly. Nodding decisively and quickly ending the conversation, Dean headed back toward the Roadhouse. I opened the car door, but then turned back. "Dean," He was a few feet away, stopped, and half turned to look back at me. "It's not your fault."
He looked so broken and lost in that moment.
"God has already forgiven you," I parted with as I got into my car. "Now you must work on forgiving yourself."
〖 〗
Biblical Verse: Proverbs 3:5-6
