The front door banged open, making Mallory jump. She heard Dean's voice, loud and jarring. "Sam, if you don't stop complaining about it, you're sleeping on the porch tonight. End of discussion!" Mallory gasped and hurriedly put the gun back down on the desk, backing away until she tripped over a chair and fell to the ground with a crash.
"Aw, hell...Mal, you okay?" Dean was beside her, arms wrapping around her to pull her upright. He smelled of leather and sunshine and a little bit like dirt. "You really shouldn't be wandering around, you know," he continued, helping her to her feet.
"How else am I supposed to get anywhere?" Mallory demanded crossly, clenching her still-shaking hands into fists at her side. "I was trying for the bathroom."
"Oh," Dean said, nonplussed. "Right. Sorry." He helped her back to her feet and rustled around a bit. Mallory stood still, unsure of what he was doing. "Shit," he muttered suddenly. "Bobby! What the hell where you thinking, leaving a cocked gun just lying around!"
"What're you talking about, boy?" Bobby yelled back.
Mallory wrapped her arms around herself, a cold sweat breaking out on her skin.
"It's just sitting here on your desk, loaded and cocked! C'mon, Bobby, seriously! I don't have to tell you how stupid that is!"
A large hand enclosed her elbow. "Come on," Sam murmured in her ear as Bobby grumbled something in reply. "Let's get out of the line of fire." He ushered her down the hall and out the front door. It was a nice day, cool but not cold, with a slight breeze. The air had a faint scent of tire rubber and motor oil from the scrapyard, but it was otherwise fresh.
"You feeling okay?" Sam asked hesitantly from where he loomed beside her. Mallory put her hands out at waist height and walked forward until she met the railing. She gripped it tight and did her best to school her expression so he wouldn't know she had just tried to kill herself.
"I'm fine," she said shortly. "Physically."
"Do—do your eyes still hurt?"
She reached up with her right hand to rub them fitfully. She felt her eyeballs roll beneath the lids, useless bundles of tissue and nerves. "A little," she replied.
She heard Sam take a deep breath. "So...I've been thinking...you know, about what to do next, and I thought that maybe—"
"You thought what?" she snapped, cutting him off. "I can't go home, Sam. Not ever. I'm never gonna see my parents again." She laughed erratically. "And not just because, oh yeah, I'm blind. Not much use to anyone anymore, am I? No one knows what to do with the blind girl."
Sam was quiet for a long time. "Mal, it's not like that," he said softly. "What you've done...we'd be dead if it weren't for you."
"No, if it weren't for Ami," she corrected bitterly. "I didn't do anything."
He sighed. "Fine. Okay. Just saying, Bobby is fine with you staying here for as long as you need to. Until you...well, until you can take care of yourself."
Mallory tightened her grip on the railing until her knuckles hurt. "Whatever," she replied dully. "It doesn't matter."
Sam sighed again and she heard his footsteps retreating to the door, which closed behind him. Mallory dropped her chin to her chest and began to shake from head to toe. She didn't want to think about what to do next. She didn't want to learn to take care of herself. She didn't want to wake up tomorrow morning, still in this damned darkness.
Dean came to get her some time later. "Bobby made chili and cornbread," he told her. "You hungry?"
"No," she replied. He grabbed her shoulder and began pushing her towards the door.
"Too bad. You're eating anyway. You still haven't recovered from the first time you went off food. Let's go."
Mallory ignored the small talk happening around her and managed to swallow a couple mouthfuls of the meaty chili. Then she excused herself and retreated to the living room, finding the old afghan and her pillow unmolested. She curled up on the couch, staring into nothing and occasionally reminding herself to blink.
Night came. Or at least, she assumed it was night because everyone stopped moving around and the house grew quiet. She waited another hour or so. Or, she assumed it was an hour. It was so hard to tell. Then she left the couch and began her search. It didn't take her long and she hadn't expected it too. In Bobby's house, it was all too easy to find.
It had been in a drawer in Bobby's desk, without any protective casing at all. She carefully hefted the knife in one hand, getting the feel of it. There was no wrapping on the handle, leaving it plain metal rapidly warming under her touch. She knew it would be razor sharp. This was Bobby's house, after all. Holding the knife in front of her, she groped her way to the bathroom and locked herself in. She pressed her back to the wall and slowly lowered herself to the ground.
Placing the knife aside for the moment, she pushed her sleeves up above her elbows. The fingers of her left hand probed at the skin of her right forearm. There was a scar running from her wrist to the inside of her elbow. It was still swollen and tender, but it hadn't been deep. Not deep enough. She reached out with her right hand and closed it around the knife.
She was a nursing student. She'd had two years of training plus countless hours of intern work. She knew precisely where the major artery was in her arm and she could find it even blind. She pressed the tip of the blade to the tender skin at the inside of her wrist. Her hand had been shaking with the gun. She'd still been unsure. Her hand wasn't shaking now.
Mallory pressed down on the knife until she felt her skin give under the blade. A line of warmth ran down her wrist. Clenching her teeth, she pushed the knife deeper, and then began to drag it down her arm.
The pain was unbelievable. It snatched the breath from her lungs and forced tears to her eyes. Her stomach twisted sickeningly, but she didn't let up until the gash stretched halfway to her elbow. Then the knife clattered from her fingers and she leaned her head against the wall.
She could feel the blood sliding from the wound, sheeting down her arm and pooling on the floor. Some of it soaked into her jeans, but she didn't care. She numbly tried to calculate how long it would take for her to bleed out, but gave up after a few minutes. It was just easier to sit there and wait.
After a few minutes she started to get light-headed. She took slow, steadying breaths, but there still wasn't enough oxygen getting to her brain. Fire still burned up her arm in waves, but it was getting easier and easier to ignore as her skin grew colder and colder.
It wasn't frightening, she realized. It was a little like falling asleep. She started hearing voices, snatches of words hovering on the edge of a dream. She heard her mom trying to soothe her, her father yelling...again. Uncle Richard telling another bad joke. Robyn and Clarissa giggling over something during class. Mark promising he'll make up for their first, botched date.
And then...Dean. Demanding to know that she was okay. Sam assuring her everything was fine. Ellen telling her to breathe. Jo explaining angels and demons. Bobby, too, gruff and indistinct. And Amitiel...her own voice, murmuring comfortingly in her ear. That she was here for Mallory. That she would never leave, that she'd take care of her. Castiel, his gravely voice insistent and concerned.
Mallory closed her eyes against the voices. It was time to go to sleep.
But Castiel's voice didn't go away. Instead it grew louder, clearer. "Mallory. Mallory! What have you done?" She frowned but couldn't formulate enough thought to respond. Her arm was lifted in strong, warm fingers and something thick and soft was pressed to the wound.
"Mallory, why did you do this?" Castiel's voice asked as another hand supported her head. "Mallory? Can you hear me? Are you all right? Mallory!"
She didn't want to stay and answer the questions. She wanted to leave, go far away. But he wouldn't leave her alone. She groaned and turned her head away from his hand. "G'way," she moaned.
"I'm not leaving you, Mallory," he said softly. "You need me right now."
"You did," she accused weakly. "You did leave. I needed you then."
The pressure on her arm increased. "You are losing a good deal of blood. I need to close the wound."
"No, let it bleed," Mallory slurred. "Bleed all the pain away."
His sigh ghosted across her face and she heard him moving around, stretching, opening cabinets. Then something hard clicked down on the floor beside them. Mallory recognized the sound of a container opening.
"You need medical attention," he said. "I should take you to a hospital."
"No..." Mallory rolled her head against the wall weakly. "They'll recognize me. Take me back. Don't wanna go back."
"Why did you do this to yourself, Mallory?" Castiel asked quietly. Mallory felt him begin to bandage her arm but she was too weak to pull away.
"Why not?" she muttered. "Nobody needs me anymore. Not Ami...not you. Not good for anything. Useless."
Another sigh blew warm air across her cheeks. "Mallory, do you remember what I told you before we returned to Detroit?"
"No," she said sullenly.
"I told you that you are worthy. That hasn't changed."
"Worthy of what?" she demanded. "I'm useless now. Ami's gone...and I'm blind. Everything I did for her and...she just left me. Why'd she leave me, Cas? What did I do wrong?"
He paused his work on her arm and cupped her cheek briefly. "You did nothing wrong," he told her fiercely. "Mallory, you did nothing wrong. Amitiel...she made her choice because she..." his voice broke suddenly. "Because she wanted to save you. Save us. She sacrificed herself so that we could live. She wouldn't want you to do this, Mallory. She would never want this."
Fresh tears splashed down Mallory's face and she closed her eyes against them. She was tired of crying. She was just tired. Castiel resumed bandaging her arm. "Why'd you leave, Cas?" Mallory whispered. "Where did you go?"
He was silent for so long she thought he wasn't going to answer. Then, in a low, rough voice, he said, "You are not the only one to mourn Amitiel's loss, Mallory."
"But...I needed you," she whimpered. "No one else...They don't understand...what it's like..."
"They all understand the pain of losing someone you love," Castiel told her gently. "Every single one of them have lost people close to them. They kept fighting. So will you."
"How am I supposed to fight?" she asked bitterly, opening her useless eyes. "What could I possibly do?"
He touched her face again. "Rest. Heal. Pray. You'll find your purpose, Mallory. I promise."
XXXXX
A/N: Yes, I realize it's another short chapter, but look! *holds up plot bunny proudly* I found it! And I'll be keeping a closer eye on it this time. Reviews are like carrots; they make the bunnies happy.