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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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[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.

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