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There’s nothing to tell you where you are or where you’re going, but you move with purpose; quick, determined steps carry you through a series of hallways, one after another. All of them look the same, clean white walls and rich red carpet. There’s a newness about it, a sense of wealth. Any other time, it would be something to admire, but there isn’t time for that. Fear keeps you moving, urges you forward through the chaos that suddenly seems to surround you.

Then something changes. The halls seem to narrow, lose some of their lavishness. Everything stills. Here, there is calm. It brings with it a sense of dread as each breath seems to come more quickly than the last, your hurried footsteps feeling almost absurdly out of place in the quiet.

You almost miss the tiny body tucked into a corner, a little boy. He can’t be more than three.

Before you’ve even realized it, you’re reaching for him, drawing him against your chest and gently shushing him as he tries to wiggle out of your grasp. Because you know if you let go, he’s going to die here. And you can’t understand how anyone could have left him.

He’s just a child.

Your voice raises, anger lacing every word, “She’s just a child.” And you know it doesn’t matter because the decision has already been made.

They look at you, the two of them, the man with the dark hair and glasses and the woman with the oddly colored eyes, and there isn’t even a hint of warmth. “These are your protocols, Dr. Magnus.”

“I’m aware. There has to be another way.” Your argument lacks the conviction it should have. Are you really fighting for her? Or are you only trying to lessen your own guilt?

These are your rules. You made them. You decided her fate. “We’ve all agreed. This is what must be done.”

“And yet I don’t see you volunteering.” This time your tone is steel and determination, and your fingers close around the syringe.

You’ve always done what others can’t.

You tell her she’s a brave girl as you slip the needle into her arm, smile so she knows it’s the truth; and she smiles back, all of five years old, and she trusts you.

He trusts you when you tell him he doesn’t have to be afraid, and you can tell you’re on a ship now. The deck’s already beginning to slant. It’s much, much too late for both of you, but you hold him tightly, reassuring as your free hand grips the railing hard enough your knuckles turn white.

“Shh, you’re going to be all right,” you whisper, close to his ear, and you close your eyes against the tears you already know won’t fall. Because you know, even as you say it,

it’s a lie.

It’s a lie when you take her into your arms, hold her close as she shuts her eyes, and tell her, “It’s all right now. Mummy and Daddy will be here soon to take you home.” As you watch, the gentle rise and fall of her chest slows, eventually ceasing altogether.

You hold her for a long time after, cradling her little body in your arms, and this time the tears do fall and they don’t stop.

A young woman stands in front of you, blonde hair pulled neatly back, and she’s holding the dark-haired woman next to her by the wrist.

“Ashley, please.”

You’re on the floor, crying. You’re crying and you can’t stop. And those blue eyes are so familiar, your own eyes looking back at you, and she’s so close but you can’t reach her. Her hand tightens around the other woman’s wrist, and right now, in this moment, she’s your daughter again.

Emotion chokes her voice, one word, almost a question, “Mom?” And then she pulls herself together.

She was always the strong one.

Then she’s gone, nothing but sparks and ashes. You can’t stop crying.

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Hey. Are you okay?

[It would figure that the one time Helen didn't wish to sleep, she'd fallen asleep anyway. And though she'd expected it, waking up to find her personal memories posted on the network hadn't exactly been a pleasant experience.]

At the moment, I'm not so certain. But I will be.

[It had seemed like keeping a constant soundtrack of everyone else's nightmare broadcasts was the only way to stay awake. It feels horribly intrusive doing so, but Sam tries not to pay attention to the words or the images or any of it. Most of the nightmares are handily laden with screams and disturbing howls, and it's almost like being in Hell again. Complete with the too-recent bite of loss.

He doesn't realize he recognizes the voice in one of them until it's too late, and everything wrenches when he hears Mom and the dissolving of some woman into ash, and he's encroached on something he had no right to overhear.

He still looks like he's falling apart but fuck it, he wasn't meant to see this and he's regretting every choice he's ever made right now.]

I'm sorry, I - didn't realize it was you.

[That's no apology. He knows it.]

[Helen pulls herself together relatively quickly, but nothing quite hides that kind of grief written so clearly in her eyes. She doesn't talk about Ashley because it brings it all back, and now she's watching it all happen again, everyone else is watching it happen again. Bloody hotel.

As if that isn't enough, it's also given them a glimpse of other all too revealing memories.

Nevertheless, when she picks up the tablet and recognizes the man looking back at her, she shakes her head with a gentle smile that's only slightly forced.]

It's all right. You didn't cause this.

[And because she's still a doctor, because it's easier than focusing on her failings, on her mistakes.]

How are you feeling?

[He glances away, guilty and self-reproachful. He shouldn't have looked. He absolutely shouldn't have. He knows better, he definitely does.]

I didn't have to listen.

[It's half-muttered, one part apology, two parts a self-directed reprimand. Like his own life wasn't tragically torn enough, he had to go poking into others. What a responsible thing to do. What a decent, responsible, polite thing to do.]

Tell you the truth, I've been better. [Nightmares digging up the things he staunchly tries to forget does that to a person. He snaps himself back to now. Again. Again. Stop getting lost in your head, Sam. You of all people would know it's not such a nice place to be.] But uh, what about you?

[She can't exactly argue with that. He didn't have to listen. But who wouldn't take the opportunity to learn more about those they're stranded with, how their minds work? It's to be expected, she thinks. Even the kindest among them might let the curiosity get the best of them.]

No. You didn't.

[And yet, she clearly doesn't blame him. There's no accusation, no anger. Not toward him.]

Well, you look better than the last I saw of you. [Which, granted, isn't saying much; but at least it's something. She needs something good to come from this night. But of course he isn't going to let her make this conversation about him. Quite unfortunate.] I'll be fine.

[It's such an obvious lie. No matter how many walls she puts up, no matter how little outward emotion she's willing to put on display, her eyes give her away. Because it isn't just one nightmare. She lives with the weight of it, carries it with her always. The boy she couldn't save, the little girl she sentenced to death, the daughter she lost to her work. They're always with her.]

It was a long time ago.

Edited 2015-05-27 04:06 (UTC)

[It's the kind of 'fine' Sam knows the tone and pitch of shape of, Winchester-fine, the kind of 'fine' when you're screams and nerves and repressed horrors all wrapped up in skin. The future tense, though. That's important. She's not fine now, but she will be.

Relatively. 'Fine' is code for 'not', it always is, and maybe that's just about right. Sam's fine now. His throat's dry and he's caught in the protracted act of crumbling under worry for Gold, who might not come back, for Belle, who had just found him again, for the dozens of others who are just as shit out of luck as anyone who's been unfortunate to wake with their personal nightmare branded on the network for all to see.

So in essence, Sam's fine too.]

Doesn't necessarily make it hurt any less.

[He's having trouble meeting her eyes and can't help but feel more than a little awkward about it, because he did basically just do the dream equivalent of eavesdrop but he can't not respond to that, so:] D'you - wanna talk about it?

[And there's the ghost of a smile, entirely genuine if somewhat bitter.]

No, time isn't always the great healer they claim.

[For just a moment, she seems older, tired. She's had more than a century to come to terms with Ashley's death, two since she went down with the Titanic, and still it's like opening a fresh wound. Time doesn't heal anything. It doesn't make it more bearable. No. All time does is add more heartache.]

There isn't anything to talk about. [Another lie. There are so many things she should talk about, but she isn't in the habit of showing that kind of weakness.] We all have our demons.

[Demons. That's almost funny.

Almost.

The bitter noise that tugs at his breath tastes like ash in his throat.]

Yeah.

[God even phrases like that are just. Not the same.]

I mean, goes without saying, but if you ever want to, y'know. [A sympathetic lift of the eyebrows.] Talk. Or anything.

[It's about all he can offer after seeing those - remnants.]

[She probably should have chosen her words better. He had mentioned during their first meeting that he'd been trying to close the gates of Hell. For him, those words must have taken on an entirely new meaning. But she doesn't apologize. Apologies are something else she's never been particularly good at, too much like admitting she's wrong.]

That's kind of you. [Then after a slight pause.] How much of it did you see exactly?

[And hereforth descendeth further guilt. Sam shuts his eyes.]

I didn't realize it was you until the end.

[The note of apology does nothing, nothing, he knows that.]

I was just trying to stay awake and keeping the nightmares on was the only way I could think of.

[And he trails off miserably, the guilt spectacularly evident in the defeated slump of his shoulders. Dumb idea. Dumb, intrusive idea. He knows it.]

[She smiles again, mostly for his benefit, but also because he looks so guilty she can't help but find it just slightly amusing. And maybe a little charming.]

Would it have made a difference? If it were someone else?

[Somehow, she thinks it wouldn't have made much of one. He seems to carry quite a lot of guilt.]

Would you like to talk about it?

[No, she doesn't particularly want to talk about any of it, nor does she feel she should have to explain herself; but she can understand if it's brought up questions. It's an offer to answer some of them. How truthful she chooses to be is always up for debate.]

Edited 2015-05-27 23:34 (UTC)

[Would it? Would it have all? For a while he'd just tried to keep the damn thing hidden so he could resist the temptation, but ultimately he'd folded to the warped masochistic urge. It was the useful kind of disturbance, redistributing other peoples' horrors so he could willfully ignore his own. Like emotional subluxation is a normal fucking thing, everybody does it, and a backdrop of screams and nightmares is practically his life.

But he had no right. That's always the bottom line, isn't it.]

Guess not.

[He doesn't know what to say to that, honestly. His brow beetles for a minute.]

That's - not really my call.

[He had no right, but then neither had whatever power had chosen to broadcast it for everyone to see. And she does wish he could accept that, in the grand scheme of things, his own guilt is minimal.

None of them has a right to see or hear anything the network has seen fit to show recently. That hardly meant most of them had chosen not to listen. She's made note of a few, herself.

But she thinks she's gotten her point across as well as she's going to this evening.]

It's an offer, Sam, to answer your questions. An opportunity that may not present itself again.

[Which is her way of saying that once this conversation has finished, she isn't terribly likely to discuss the events of her most recent dream in anything other than the vaguest of terms.]

[Is she offering to - explain what he just saw? Because on one hand, no, what the hell, that's incredibly private - and on the other, it's not like he hasn't already intruded. But god knows he wouldn't drag anyone through the steps of his own dream.

But she's making an offer. And he can't exactly just take a raincheck on the rehashing of emotional trauma.

Why does everything happen so much.]

So you're saying, what? Open FAQ about your life?

[Well she wouldn't have put it quite that way. But essentially, yes, that's exactly what she's offering. It's because he's already intruded, because he's already seen enough to question, that she's even making the offer in the first place.]

In a manner of speaking. [After a brief pause, she does add something, however.] Temporarily.

[Oh so NO PRESSURE THEN. What does he do with this he already feels like he has no right to even be here help.

Is there any way for him to take her up on this and not feel like a terrible person afterward?

Probably not, actually.

Damnit.]

Was she your daughter?

[No no NO NO WAIT GOD

You're a terrible person, Sam Winchester.]

[Give her just a moment, a quiet breath, a short nod. She may have agreed to answer his questions, but of course it doesn't make it easier. It's still her life, some of her worst memories. It's still difficult to talk about.]

Ashley. Yes.

[Never mind that she barely looks old enough to be the mother of a twenty-four year old woman. But if he caught the beginning of this little broadcast, he might already realize she's somewhat older than she looks. By at least a hundred years.

Thank you, Hotel.]

You lost her.

[Not a question, but weighted in sympathy regardless. It was obvious, he saw it. The dull scrape of grief over the end, biting and familiar. Grief is always familiar, like his second shadow.

It says so much, so damn much, that her worst fears and worst nightmares would be rooted in the loss of children. The mechanics of the first death were obvious, distressingly obvious - the second, not so much.

His voice closes, still and forever quiet with guilt. It's almost a whisper.]

What happened?

Edited (PLURALITY IS HARD) 2015-05-28 02:03 (UTC)

[She died. It's the obvious answer, not the one he's looking for, and not really the one she wants to give. Ashley deserves better than that. Everyone dies. She was so much more than just another loss.]

I let her walk into an enemy stronghold.

[There's more to the story than that. Of course there is. Ashley had been the perfect target, the progeny of two source blood altered abnormals, daughter of the woman who stood for everything the Cabal were against. And she knows, with or without her approval, Ashley and Henry both would have likely still infiltrated that facility.]

They changed her, used her against me. [Here, she glances down, not quite able to look at him or not quite willing.] In the end, what she did, she did as herself.

[It's scary, how similar that story rings. You just need a minute, Sammy, minute's all it's gonna take to seize control of that thing inside you and twist it, bend it so you can leap into Hell and take the fucking Devil with you.

What can he say? That he knows how it must have felt for her, for her daughter? He doesn't, simple as that. No one ever knows. He can't do anything but listen, and try to, impossibly, lessen the weight of someone else's grief.]

She did it for you.

[His tone softens in understanding. Because if there's anything he gets, he gets that. You do everything you can for family. Burn yourself to ash, hollow yourself out, set yourself aflame - you do it. Whatever it damn well takes.]

[And there it is, right there. Losing a child, that's difficult enough, but watching her sacrifice herself for you, knowing you sent her into the enemy's hands, that you brought her into the world knowing the circumstances of her conception put her at risk?

She hadn't just failed to protect her. She'd put her in the line of fire.]

That isn't how it's meant to happen.

[A mother should protect her child, not the other way around. This grief isn't so easily lessened.]

I know.

[Dean always figured he'd go out keeping his little brother safe. Hell, he did go out that way a few times. But when it happened at the mouth of Hell it happened the other way 'round, and Sam had been scared. Not about Satan or leaping to commit himself to eternal fire or any of it - he'd been scared for Dean. Dean who never planned to outlive his kid brother.]

And it doesn't matter if you see it coming, it -

[It always feels like you've been gutted. It always feels like it should've been you.]

It's always sudden.

[This is one of the more interesting dreams out there, though Gabriel isn't drawn to the overarching theme of it.

No sir. He's squinting at the ship scene instead.]

If that's what I think it is, then that was a pretty crappy day for a lot of people. I remember when that one happened like it was yesterday.

[ooc: let me know if you don't want him recognising the ship and I can tweak it.]

(ooc: that's totally fine!)]

[Helen is fairly composed by this point. Her eyes are still somewhat haunted, and faint irritation simmers beneath the surface, but it clearly isn't directed at him. She's angry that they would show this, invade her privacy in this way.]

Yes, it was. A lot of good people died that night. Friends died that night. [He does have her curiosity piqued, however.] You were there?

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