And We Are Ashes: Chapter Six, Part 2
Nov. 11th, 2007 12:20 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
thecatevariWow. So by tomorrow, I should be halfway done. With my NaNo goal, anyway. I can't even talk about what that feels like. Next year, it's going to be such a bring-down. *laughs* The main draft is up to 175 pages, 76,000+ words; I need to blow the ink and print it all out and start trying to think where I'm going to do breaks once I start posting. The thought of editing this monster makes me want to cry, just a little bit. But I'm being strong and resisting the urge to start posting unbetaed. *flexes* See? Totally strong.
23,518 / 50,000 words. 47% done!
Today's Word Count: 2,314
Current Total Word Count: 23,518
Current Project Word Count: 76,745
Estimated Total Word Count: ~100,000
What's bad: Believe it or not, there is no bad today. Voices were loud, flail was quiet. It was a good day.
What's good: After wrapping up last night's word count, I proceeded to write another 1200 words towards today's count, which nicely covered the five hours I spent having a lovely fangirl lunch with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nyerca! And then I came home and slipped right in the story window to write another thousand. I had to make some moderately big changes to this part, but they feel good and I think it's really working. I like the idea of exploring Sue-Ann as a McCoy.
What pleases me: "Layla, dear, come on. Roy's just about to start…" It takes Mary a moment to recognize the woman that bustles up to Layla. Grief and time have not been particularly kind to Sue-Ann, though she doesn't look particularly old. It's more that the lines of stubbornness and pain have set into her face as if drawn by pen, belying the unfaded cinnamon color of her hair and her smooth, unspotted skin. "Lillith," she says flatly, nostrils flaring.
"Sue-Ann." Mary nods. She and Sue-Ann were never friends. Sue-Ann lorded every day of the three years that separates them in age over Mary, too busy with her own schemes and her own friends to pay much attention. On the other hand—and perhaps more importantly—they were never enemies. And things changed when you had children—sons. At least in their family. She hopes it'll be enough.
Sue-Ann inhales sharply and then pivots, ushering Layla toward the tent. "You go on in, honey. Your mom's already found you seats up in the front."
Layla nods, her smile burgeoning into brightness like a star. "Nice to meet you all," she says politely, nodding at Sam and Mary before she ducks through the flap, only slightly unsteady.
Previous parts can be found here
Sam's stomach sinks when Mary comes into his hospital room, but he manages to scrape up a smile anyway. He knows what he looks like; he's seen himself in the mirror, all the years of California bronze drained out of his skin until he looks nearly as pale as Dean, his eyes dark as if they've been bruised and his lips almost white.
He sees it all over again when Mary looks at him, hears the words the doctor didn't say.
Dying.
All this time he spent worrying about his mom and Dean…turns out he's the one dying.
It should be funny. Really, it is.
"Have you ever actually tried to watch daytime TV?" he asks lightly, pointing the remote at the screen and cutting the babble of whatever it was off entirely. "It's terrible."
Mary doesn't smile, but the corner of her mouth ticks up. She's got jeans layered under a hospital gown and her flannel thrown over that, feet shoved rudely in her half-laced boots. "Get your things," she says, going to the wardrobe and pulling out a plastic bag identical to the one in her hands. "We're getting out of here."
Sam shoves himself up straighter in the bed, an extremely ill-advised movement as pain spikes through the buffering layers of painkillers. "What?" She throws his jeans and t-shirt at him, followed by his hoodie settling over his head like an overly soft spider. Sam claws his way free, confused, his hair falling in his eyes. "Mom?" His voice comes out softer than he expects, less certain—not that he feels real certain of much right now.
Mary comes and perches on the side of his bed, reaching to take his hands. Sam has to fight the impulse not to jerk away from her. Not because he minds so much as it's not a Mary Winchester move and he doesn't know what to make of it. This close, he can see how bad she looks herself, scalp purpled in bruises around where they tried to brain her in Burkitsville and her face drawn and pinched with tiredness and pain. Weirdly, he notices that some of the hairs he thought were just dark from blood are actually black, more of them than he's ever seen before as if she's going gray in reverse.
"Sam," she says, drawing his attention away from her hair and back to her face. "I know… Look, we've had our fights and I know… You're right when you say I haven't given you a lot of reason to trust me."
Sam shifts on the bed, half-sensing where this is going.
"I need you to trust me now. I will get you out of this. I will find a way."
"Mom," Sam protests, really pulling his fingers away from hers this time. "I… Didn't you talk to the doctors? This isn't something that you can just suture or cauterize and slap a bandage on. I'm dying."
It feels terrifying to say it out loud. It feels almost a relief: to finally say it out loud.
Dying.
Mary's eyes are red-rimmed (he shouldn't be shocked but he is) and that same corner of her mouth quirks upward. "Oh, Horatio," she chides, "all the things we've seen in heaven and earth and still you want to stick to your philosophy? We have options."
"Yeah. Burial or cremation. Mom, nothing I've ever seen can make miracles. I…" Then the relief, the calmness, punctures just that quickly, a needle-jab that leaves him breathless and doubled over with it. Dying. Dying and he's only twenty-two. Dying and there's so much…so much he wanted to do, to be, to know…
Mary catches him as he folds, her hands steady and strong on his biceps. His head bends into her shoulder and he chokes, not wanting to cry and unable to swallow it all down without some noise to relieve the pressure welling up from inside.
Dying. Dying.
"Sam," Mary says, her hand petting the back of his head, the nape of his neck. The fingers that seemed so fragile before are like iron now, strangely heavy against his skin. "Baby. I promise you. I'll find a way. Just…we have to go. I'll help you. We'll get you dressed and we'll go. You're not going to die. You're not going to die.
"I won't let you."
***
"Mom, where are we even going?" Sam tries to slouch into a more comfortable position. He racks his knee against the glove box and gets a warning jab of pain from his chest for his trouble. He abandons the effort and sinks limply into the tired vinyl of the seat, tucking his hands into his armpits. He aches all over. He's cold too.
"Nebraska."
Sam glances sideways, doubtful. "Nebraska? Are you serious? You know you could just let me die in peace." He means it as a joke, but Mary clearly doesn't take it as one, jaw squaring and her lips flattening to a nearly nonexistent line.
"Not gonna happen, Sam."
"Mom—" Sam begins. But the truth is that he's really not up for another round of why denial isn't just a river in Egypt. He sighs. "What the hell is in Nebraska?"
"Among other things, your cousin. And her husband. The faith healer."
"Oh, Jesus, Mom, please tell me you're not serious. Please. Please." He blinks and rolls his head toward her. "And what do you mean, my cousin?"
It's Mary's turn to sigh. "Okay. I've only got the energy to go through this once, Sam, so listen up. My real name is Lillith Eve McCoy and my family…our family…" Mary shakes her head. "Well. If ever there was a bunch of people that deserved to be salted and burned in their graves, it's the McCoys. But if there's one thing that the women of the McCoys have in common, it's power."
"So it's not really the husband that's the faith healer, it's the wife?"
"Sam." Mary glances sideways.
Sam holds up his hands in surrender.
"Anyway," Mary continues pointedly, "there are essentially two factions to the family. The part of it that centers around the Aunts…"
The Aunts? Sam almost asks, before catching himself.
"…and the part that…doesn't." Mary makes a vague, completely unexplanatory gesture with her hand. "Sue-Ann is part of the part that doesn't. Which doesn't mean she'll be the least glad to see us, but it's a starting point. Or something."
Sam gets the impression that she's talking to him less than she's talking to herself. Which is interesting on its own merits, because if it was anyone else, Sam would say she was nervous and Mary Winchester and nervous are not terms he would put together in the normal run of things. At the same time, he feels himself starting to slip down the slick and treacherous slope of sleep—he gets tired so easily now—and the run of her voice is restful without him having to contribute anything to the conversation.
"Sue-Ann… Well. It's just there's this thing in the family about. About sons. So she'll probably resent you. Her son… Her son died."
It's on the tip of Sam's tongue to ask how did he die? but he finds he's already too far gone for that.
As always, he feels a last-minute and too-late spike of anxiety; that this time it's not really sleep he's feeling, that this time will be the time he won't wake up. As always, there's nothing he can do about it, scrabbling fruitlessly against smoothed edges until he falls, not knowing when—or if—he'll hit bottom.
***
The Church of Roy LeGrange, Faith Healer is a sad, depressing affair in the middle of a cow pasture (or what Mary assumes is one), at the end of a rutted road that makes her worry about the undercarriage of the Impala almost as much as Sam, white-lipped and clench fisted in the passenger's side seat.
The white canvas tent—really more slate colored by dirt and the rain that even now spits from the sky—flaps quietly in the wind, almost the only sound as Roy's worshippers and petitioners walk, limp and hop their way toward what they hope is salvation. Mary pulls the car as close as she can to the front and throws the car in park, ignoring the evil eye of a one-legged man on crutches. She scrambles from the car in a sprawl of aching limbs and rushes around to help Sam as he painfully unfolds himself.
Sam tries to shake her off, stubborn as a mule even now, but he's not strong enough and they both know he won't be able to make it even the short distance to the tent flap without her help. "Witness the Miracle?" Sam asks sourly, leaning heavily on her shoulder as they trudge toward the tent.
"You sound like your brother now," Mary observes, amused. "You're not usually so cynical."
"I just think it's sad that all these people are here hoping for a miracle when it's really just …" He waves his hand.
Mary tilts her head. "Just what?"
"It's just people. It's not God."
"Maybe that just shows God works in mysterious ways." A blonde making her way to the tent turns and tilts back her umbrella to smile at them warmly.
Sam blinks at her. Mary just stares.
"Hi, I'm Layla," she says a moment later, extending her hand.
"Sam. This is my mom, Mary." Sam shakes her hand briefly and Mary contents herself with a nod.
"I just think that when people see something they can't explain, there's controversy," Layla goes on and Mary wonders if little birds and fauns of the forest follow her around in the morning and dress her hair. It's an uncharitable thought and though Mary doesn't do guilt often or well, she feels at least a little bad when she looks longer and sees the fine beads of sweat misting Layla's forehead and the chalky pallor of her skin, especially when contrasted against the blue-violet shadows darkening the skin under her eyes. "Maybe it's just time to have a little faith."
Mary snorts. She doesn't mean to, it just happens. But it makes both Sam and Layla look at her.
"Why're you here, if you're not a believer?" Layla's head tips a little to one side.
"That was my question," Sam mutters.
"Layla, dear, come on. Roy's just about to start…" It takes Mary a moment to recognize the woman that bustles up to Layla. Grief and time have not been particularly kind to Sue-Ann, though she doesn't look particularly old. It's more that the lines of stubbornness and pain have set into her face as if drawn by pen, belying the unfaded cinnamon color of her hair and her smooth, unspotted skin. "Lillith," she says flatly, nostrils flaring.
"Sue-Ann." Mary nods. She and Sue-Ann were never friends. Sue-Ann lorded every day of the three years that separates them in age over Mary, too busy with her own schemes and her own friends to pay much attention. On the other hand—and perhaps more importantly—they were never enemies. And things changed when you had children—sons. At least in their family. She hopes it'll be enough.
Sue-Ann inhales sharply and then pivots, ushering Layla toward the tent. "You go on in, honey. Your mom's already found you seats up in the front."
Layla nods, her smile burgeoning into brightness like a star. "Nice to meet you all," she says politely, nodding at Sam and Mary before she ducks through the flap, only slightly unsteady.
Sue-Ann watches her go, lips pressed together. "She's got cancer," Sue-Ann observes. Mary's not sure what's in her voice, quiet and somehow neat. Sue-Ann's hands are pressed together, her sweater's sleeves pulled down so only her fingertips show. "Brain cancer. Completely inoperable, you know." She turns to Mary, then. "Well. Lillith."
There's no invitation in her tone, not that Mary expected any. "I go by Mary now," she says, unexpectedly dry-mouthed. "I need…" She glances at Sam and, as if it was an invitation to look, Sue-Ann's gaze shifts to flit over him as well. Against her arm, Sam's shaking. He needs to sit, rest, and soon.
"I'd heard you had a boy," Sue-Ann cocks her head. "In fact, I thought you'd had two."
"My other boy…" Mary's throat closes up a little, thinking about Dean. Most of the time she can close it off, wall it up, but Sue-Ann knows her. Knows who she used to be. Knows the person she tries hardest not to be.
"Dean's missing," Sam says, speaking up for the first time. His arm tightens around her shoulder and it bothers her how good it feels. Not quite like John, but with the same sense of warmth, of comfort. She can't let herself be lulled. Not right now.
"I need a blood-gift," Mary says, straightening.
"Of course you do." Sue-Ann's lips purse; in disdain, in satisfaction, Mary can't tell. Her fish cold eyes rove over Sam again, predatory. Sam rocks on his feet like he's not sure whether to step in front of Mary or away. Then Sue-Ann puts her hand on Mary's shoulder, turning them toward the flap. "Well, come on then." She sighs. "Poor Layla."
Mary rocks forward and is brought up short by Sam's immobility. "Sam?"
He looks at her and she's reminded again that he's only twenty-two, an age that seems impossibly young to her now. "Mom…I don't know." His eyes flick back toward the tent. "That girl, Layla…"
Mary reaches up and flattens her palm against his cheek. Boy-soft stubble grits against her skin. "Sam. I won't let you die. There'll be another time for her. Today let me save you." She tugs him toward the tent again and this time he goes. Mary's breath sighs out in silent prayer.
Today's Word Count: 2,314
Current Total Word Count: 23,518
Current Project Word Count: 76,745
Estimated Total Word Count: ~100,000
What's bad: Believe it or not, there is no bad today. Voices were loud, flail was quiet. It was a good day.
What's good: After wrapping up last night's word count, I proceeded to write another 1200 words towards today's count, which nicely covered the five hours I spent having a lovely fangirl lunch with
nyerca! And then I came home and slipped right in the story window to write another thousand. I had to make some moderately big changes to this part, but they feel good and I think it's really working. I like the idea of exploring Sue-Ann as a McCoy. What pleases me: "Layla, dear, come on. Roy's just about to start…" It takes Mary a moment to recognize the woman that bustles up to Layla. Grief and time have not been particularly kind to Sue-Ann, though she doesn't look particularly old. It's more that the lines of stubbornness and pain have set into her face as if drawn by pen, belying the unfaded cinnamon color of her hair and her smooth, unspotted skin. "Lillith," she says flatly, nostrils flaring.
"Sue-Ann." Mary nods. She and Sue-Ann were never friends. Sue-Ann lorded every day of the three years that separates them in age over Mary, too busy with her own schemes and her own friends to pay much attention. On the other hand—and perhaps more importantly—they were never enemies. And things changed when you had children—sons. At least in their family. She hopes it'll be enough.
Sue-Ann inhales sharply and then pivots, ushering Layla toward the tent. "You go on in, honey. Your mom's already found you seats up in the front."
Layla nods, her smile burgeoning into brightness like a star. "Nice to meet you all," she says politely, nodding at Sam and Mary before she ducks through the flap, only slightly unsteady.
Previous parts can be found here
Sam's stomach sinks when Mary comes into his hospital room, but he manages to scrape up a smile anyway. He knows what he looks like; he's seen himself in the mirror, all the years of California bronze drained out of his skin until he looks nearly as pale as Dean, his eyes dark as if they've been bruised and his lips almost white.
He sees it all over again when Mary looks at him, hears the words the doctor didn't say.
Dying.
All this time he spent worrying about his mom and Dean…turns out he's the one dying.
It should be funny. Really, it is.
"Have you ever actually tried to watch daytime TV?" he asks lightly, pointing the remote at the screen and cutting the babble of whatever it was off entirely. "It's terrible."
Mary doesn't smile, but the corner of her mouth ticks up. She's got jeans layered under a hospital gown and her flannel thrown over that, feet shoved rudely in her half-laced boots. "Get your things," she says, going to the wardrobe and pulling out a plastic bag identical to the one in her hands. "We're getting out of here."
Sam shoves himself up straighter in the bed, an extremely ill-advised movement as pain spikes through the buffering layers of painkillers. "What?" She throws his jeans and t-shirt at him, followed by his hoodie settling over his head like an overly soft spider. Sam claws his way free, confused, his hair falling in his eyes. "Mom?" His voice comes out softer than he expects, less certain—not that he feels real certain of much right now.
Mary comes and perches on the side of his bed, reaching to take his hands. Sam has to fight the impulse not to jerk away from her. Not because he minds so much as it's not a Mary Winchester move and he doesn't know what to make of it. This close, he can see how bad she looks herself, scalp purpled in bruises around where they tried to brain her in Burkitsville and her face drawn and pinched with tiredness and pain. Weirdly, he notices that some of the hairs he thought were just dark from blood are actually black, more of them than he's ever seen before as if she's going gray in reverse.
"Sam," she says, drawing his attention away from her hair and back to her face. "I know… Look, we've had our fights and I know… You're right when you say I haven't given you a lot of reason to trust me."
Sam shifts on the bed, half-sensing where this is going.
"I need you to trust me now. I will get you out of this. I will find a way."
"Mom," Sam protests, really pulling his fingers away from hers this time. "I… Didn't you talk to the doctors? This isn't something that you can just suture or cauterize and slap a bandage on. I'm dying."
It feels terrifying to say it out loud. It feels almost a relief: to finally say it out loud.
Dying.
Mary's eyes are red-rimmed (he shouldn't be shocked but he is) and that same corner of her mouth quirks upward. "Oh, Horatio," she chides, "all the things we've seen in heaven and earth and still you want to stick to your philosophy? We have options."
"Yeah. Burial or cremation. Mom, nothing I've ever seen can make miracles. I…" Then the relief, the calmness, punctures just that quickly, a needle-jab that leaves him breathless and doubled over with it. Dying. Dying and he's only twenty-two. Dying and there's so much…so much he wanted to do, to be, to know…
Mary catches him as he folds, her hands steady and strong on his biceps. His head bends into her shoulder and he chokes, not wanting to cry and unable to swallow it all down without some noise to relieve the pressure welling up from inside.
Dying. Dying.
"Sam," Mary says, her hand petting the back of his head, the nape of his neck. The fingers that seemed so fragile before are like iron now, strangely heavy against his skin. "Baby. I promise you. I'll find a way. Just…we have to go. I'll help you. We'll get you dressed and we'll go. You're not going to die. You're not going to die.
"I won't let you."
"Mom, where are we even going?" Sam tries to slouch into a more comfortable position. He racks his knee against the glove box and gets a warning jab of pain from his chest for his trouble. He abandons the effort and sinks limply into the tired vinyl of the seat, tucking his hands into his armpits. He aches all over. He's cold too.
"Nebraska."
Sam glances sideways, doubtful. "Nebraska? Are you serious? You know you could just let me die in peace." He means it as a joke, but Mary clearly doesn't take it as one, jaw squaring and her lips flattening to a nearly nonexistent line.
"Not gonna happen, Sam."
"Mom—" Sam begins. But the truth is that he's really not up for another round of why denial isn't just a river in Egypt. He sighs. "What the hell is in Nebraska?"
"Among other things, your cousin. And her husband. The faith healer."
"Oh, Jesus, Mom, please tell me you're not serious. Please. Please." He blinks and rolls his head toward her. "And what do you mean, my cousin?"
It's Mary's turn to sigh. "Okay. I've only got the energy to go through this once, Sam, so listen up. My real name is Lillith Eve McCoy and my family…our family…" Mary shakes her head. "Well. If ever there was a bunch of people that deserved to be salted and burned in their graves, it's the McCoys. But if there's one thing that the women of the McCoys have in common, it's power."
"So it's not really the husband that's the faith healer, it's the wife?"
"Sam." Mary glances sideways.
Sam holds up his hands in surrender.
"Anyway," Mary continues pointedly, "there are essentially two factions to the family. The part of it that centers around the Aunts…"
The Aunts? Sam almost asks, before catching himself.
"…and the part that…doesn't." Mary makes a vague, completely unexplanatory gesture with her hand. "Sue-Ann is part of the part that doesn't. Which doesn't mean she'll be the least glad to see us, but it's a starting point. Or something."
Sam gets the impression that she's talking to him less than she's talking to herself. Which is interesting on its own merits, because if it was anyone else, Sam would say she was nervous and Mary Winchester and nervous are not terms he would put together in the normal run of things. At the same time, he feels himself starting to slip down the slick and treacherous slope of sleep—he gets tired so easily now—and the run of her voice is restful without him having to contribute anything to the conversation.
"Sue-Ann… Well. It's just there's this thing in the family about. About sons. So she'll probably resent you. Her son… Her son died."
It's on the tip of Sam's tongue to ask how did he die? but he finds he's already too far gone for that.
As always, he feels a last-minute and too-late spike of anxiety; that this time it's not really sleep he's feeling, that this time will be the time he won't wake up. As always, there's nothing he can do about it, scrabbling fruitlessly against smoothed edges until he falls, not knowing when—or if—he'll hit bottom.
The Church of Roy LeGrange, Faith Healer is a sad, depressing affair in the middle of a cow pasture (or what Mary assumes is one), at the end of a rutted road that makes her worry about the undercarriage of the Impala almost as much as Sam, white-lipped and clench fisted in the passenger's side seat.
The white canvas tent—really more slate colored by dirt and the rain that even now spits from the sky—flaps quietly in the wind, almost the only sound as Roy's worshippers and petitioners walk, limp and hop their way toward what they hope is salvation. Mary pulls the car as close as she can to the front and throws the car in park, ignoring the evil eye of a one-legged man on crutches. She scrambles from the car in a sprawl of aching limbs and rushes around to help Sam as he painfully unfolds himself.
Sam tries to shake her off, stubborn as a mule even now, but he's not strong enough and they both know he won't be able to make it even the short distance to the tent flap without her help. "Witness the Miracle?" Sam asks sourly, leaning heavily on her shoulder as they trudge toward the tent.
"You sound like your brother now," Mary observes, amused. "You're not usually so cynical."
"I just think it's sad that all these people are here hoping for a miracle when it's really just …" He waves his hand.
Mary tilts her head. "Just what?"
"It's just people. It's not God."
"Maybe that just shows God works in mysterious ways." A blonde making her way to the tent turns and tilts back her umbrella to smile at them warmly.
Sam blinks at her. Mary just stares.
"Hi, I'm Layla," she says a moment later, extending her hand.
"Sam. This is my mom, Mary." Sam shakes her hand briefly and Mary contents herself with a nod.
"I just think that when people see something they can't explain, there's controversy," Layla goes on and Mary wonders if little birds and fauns of the forest follow her around in the morning and dress her hair. It's an uncharitable thought and though Mary doesn't do guilt often or well, she feels at least a little bad when she looks longer and sees the fine beads of sweat misting Layla's forehead and the chalky pallor of her skin, especially when contrasted against the blue-violet shadows darkening the skin under her eyes. "Maybe it's just time to have a little faith."
Mary snorts. She doesn't mean to, it just happens. But it makes both Sam and Layla look at her.
"Why're you here, if you're not a believer?" Layla's head tips a little to one side.
"That was my question," Sam mutters.
"Layla, dear, come on. Roy's just about to start…" It takes Mary a moment to recognize the woman that bustles up to Layla. Grief and time have not been particularly kind to Sue-Ann, though she doesn't look particularly old. It's more that the lines of stubbornness and pain have set into her face as if drawn by pen, belying the unfaded cinnamon color of her hair and her smooth, unspotted skin. "Lillith," she says flatly, nostrils flaring.
"Sue-Ann." Mary nods. She and Sue-Ann were never friends. Sue-Ann lorded every day of the three years that separates them in age over Mary, too busy with her own schemes and her own friends to pay much attention. On the other hand—and perhaps more importantly—they were never enemies. And things changed when you had children—sons. At least in their family. She hopes it'll be enough.
Sue-Ann inhales sharply and then pivots, ushering Layla toward the tent. "You go on in, honey. Your mom's already found you seats up in the front."
Layla nods, her smile burgeoning into brightness like a star. "Nice to meet you all," she says politely, nodding at Sam and Mary before she ducks through the flap, only slightly unsteady.
Sue-Ann watches her go, lips pressed together. "She's got cancer," Sue-Ann observes. Mary's not sure what's in her voice, quiet and somehow neat. Sue-Ann's hands are pressed together, her sweater's sleeves pulled down so only her fingertips show. "Brain cancer. Completely inoperable, you know." She turns to Mary, then. "Well. Lillith."
There's no invitation in her tone, not that Mary expected any. "I go by Mary now," she says, unexpectedly dry-mouthed. "I need…" She glances at Sam and, as if it was an invitation to look, Sue-Ann's gaze shifts to flit over him as well. Against her arm, Sam's shaking. He needs to sit, rest, and soon.
"I'd heard you had a boy," Sue-Ann cocks her head. "In fact, I thought you'd had two."
"My other boy…" Mary's throat closes up a little, thinking about Dean. Most of the time she can close it off, wall it up, but Sue-Ann knows her. Knows who she used to be. Knows the person she tries hardest not to be.
"Dean's missing," Sam says, speaking up for the first time. His arm tightens around her shoulder and it bothers her how good it feels. Not quite like John, but with the same sense of warmth, of comfort. She can't let herself be lulled. Not right now.
"I need a blood-gift," Mary says, straightening.
"Of course you do." Sue-Ann's lips purse; in disdain, in satisfaction, Mary can't tell. Her fish cold eyes rove over Sam again, predatory. Sam rocks on his feet like he's not sure whether to step in front of Mary or away. Then Sue-Ann puts her hand on Mary's shoulder, turning them toward the flap. "Well, come on then." She sighs. "Poor Layla."
Mary rocks forward and is brought up short by Sam's immobility. "Sam?"
He looks at her and she's reminded again that he's only twenty-two, an age that seems impossibly young to her now. "Mom…I don't know." His eyes flick back toward the tent. "That girl, Layla…"
Mary reaches up and flattens her palm against his cheek. Boy-soft stubble grits against her skin. "Sam. I won't let you die. There'll be another time for her. Today let me save you." She tugs him toward the tent again and this time he goes. Mary's breath sighs out in silent prayer.
