SPN FIC - No Bridge I Wouldn't Cross
I've had this in mind for a while, after seeing In the Beginning: what did Mary do to explain what happened?
CHARACTERS: Mary, OFC
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: In the Beginning
LENGTH: 1077 words
"Would you like a glass of water?" the woman asks, and Mary wobbles her head No, then gives the question another little bit of thought and whispers a yes, accompanies it with a small, tremulous smile that's gone as quickly as it appeared. She's not thirsty - doesn't think she's thirsty, can't devote any attention to figuring out whether she's thirsty or not - but having the glass to hold will give her something to do with her hands other than wringing them in her lap.
NO BRIDGE I WOULDN'T CROSS
By Carol Davis
"Would you like a glass of water?" the woman asks, and Mary wobbles her head No, then gives the question another little bit of thought and whispers a yes, accompanies it with a small, tremulous smile that's gone as quickly as it appeared. She's not thirsty - doesn't think she's thirsty, can't devote any attention to figuring out whether she's thirsty or not - but having the glass to hold will give her something to do with her hands other than wringing them in her lap.
It's all up to her, now.
John's outside, somewhere outside this room. He wanted to stay with her but they wouldn't allow it: the man out in the hallway, and the woman on the other side of this table, the brown-haired woman in the white blouse and dark green pants. The detective.
"He'll wait for you," the woman said, and that was funny in a way, because the woman had no way of knowing whether John would wait or not, whether he'd stay here or whether he'd run. Run home, maybe. Or run further.
"You're not being accused of anything," the woman says.
Isn't she?
Maybe she ought to be.
I traded, Mary thinks. I made a deal.
"Just tell me what you remember," the woman says.
"Could I have the water?"
The woman gestures. At the wall. It's like on TV, the wall that looks like a mirror. There's someone - maybe a lot of someones - on the other side of it. Watching her. Listening to her. They haven't accused her of anything, but they might. They might, if she says the wrong thing.
If she says the wrong thing, they might accuse John.
And then it will have been for nothing.
What she did.
The door opens a minute later and a cop in a uniform hands the woman a cup of water. A cup, not a glass, because she could break the glass and use it to do something…unfortunate. That's what they say sometimes, isn't it? Unfortunate?
"He was angry," Mary murmurs.
"Your father?"
"Yes."
"Who was he angry at?"
It comes down to this.
Her father loved her. He hadn't wanted children, not really, felt that children made him - him and her mother - vulnerable, and he was certainly right about that. If it hadn't been for her, he'd be alive now, he and her mother both. But he loved her. He never said so, not in those specific words, but he taught her how to protect herself, how to help protect her mother, how to go on if anything happened to him. Maybe he loved her mother more than he loved her - that's almost certainly true - but he taught her things.
How to defend herself.
How to endure.
So, because of him, because of her, because of what they both did (what they both are, or were) it comes down to this. It comes down to lies.
For a stretch of time that seems as long as her life has been up to this point she answers the woman's questions. Wraps a web of lies around her father and paints him guilty of everything: of killing her mother, of attacking John, of having been so enraged - so insane - he stabbed himself in a place so vulnerable that after adrenaline pushed him on for a while, he bled to death.
It helps, oh God how it helps, that everyone in Lawrence thought her father was…odd. Bad-tempered. Unfriendly. That they'll all be willing to believe that Sam Campbell went crazy. Was crazy. Crazy enough to kill.
And John?
All John saw was her father, crimson and furious, dragging her out of the car.
John woke up on the ground.
John won't be able to say anything to contradict what she's telling the woman. John didn't see anything. Doesn't know anything.
And he certainly won't point a finger at her.
John didn't see what she did.
John was dead when she did it.
She begins to tremble, although she can't say whether it's cold in this ugly, odd-smelling room or whether it isn't. She's starting to go into shock, she thinks, and that's all right; that's appropriate. She curls her hands around the cup of water, makes an anchor of it, and answers the woman's questions one at a time, barely aware that her voice is wavering.
When the first of many tears trails down Mary's cheek the woman says, "All right now," but what she means isn't clear.
Nothing's "all right," is it? None of it.
Except that John's alive.
And she's alive, for what that's worth.
So it's all up to her now.
Her and John, if he's still out there waiting for her. If all of this hasn't spooked him, sent him running home, or further. He was in Vietnam, she thinks - that should have toughened him, made him less likely to bolt. And he loves her, has said over and over that he loves her, using those specific words. He was willing to take her away, take her anywhere she wanted to go.
What they need to do now is tougher than going away.
They need to stay.
They need to answer the questions.
At the end of it, they need to make sure her parents are cremated.
"Does this make sense to you?" the woman asks, and she's neither kind nor unkind. She's doing her job. The way Mary's father did his, right up until the choice of doing it or not doing it was no longer his to make. "That your father would do something like that?"
The tears are making wet spots on her blouse. Big, cold, wet spots.
Forgive me, she thinks. I'm doing what you taught me to do.
He was angry. Her father. That much is true.
The rest of it is the only thing that will look like truth to this woman in the white blouse with the grimy cuffs. This woman who's never sat on the damp, rocky ground holding the corpse of the man she loves, looking into the cold yellow eyes of a demon. This woman who thinks the only bad things out there in the dark are human.
"Yes," Mary says softly.
And she thinks: he taught her how to protect herself.
He taught her that the fallen are past protecting.
So she won't try. She'll do what she needs to do. What he taught her to do.
Forgive me, she thinks.
But she isn't sure anyone will.
* * * * *
CHARACTERS: Mary, OFC
GENRE: Gen
RATING: PG
SPOILERS: In the Beginning
LENGTH: 1077 words
"Would you like a glass of water?" the woman asks, and Mary wobbles her head No, then gives the question another little bit of thought and whispers a yes, accompanies it with a small, tremulous smile that's gone as quickly as it appeared. She's not thirsty - doesn't think she's thirsty, can't devote any attention to figuring out whether she's thirsty or not - but having the glass to hold will give her something to do with her hands other than wringing them in her lap.
NO BRIDGE I WOULDN'T CROSS
By Carol Davis
"Would you like a glass of water?" the woman asks, and Mary wobbles her head No, then gives the question another little bit of thought and whispers a yes, accompanies it with a small, tremulous smile that's gone as quickly as it appeared. She's not thirsty - doesn't think she's thirsty, can't devote any attention to figuring out whether she's thirsty or not - but having the glass to hold will give her something to do with her hands other than wringing them in her lap.
It's all up to her, now.
John's outside, somewhere outside this room. He wanted to stay with her but they wouldn't allow it: the man out in the hallway, and the woman on the other side of this table, the brown-haired woman in the white blouse and dark green pants. The detective.
"He'll wait for you," the woman said, and that was funny in a way, because the woman had no way of knowing whether John would wait or not, whether he'd stay here or whether he'd run. Run home, maybe. Or run further.
"You're not being accused of anything," the woman says.
Isn't she?
Maybe she ought to be.
I traded, Mary thinks. I made a deal.
"Just tell me what you remember," the woman says.
"Could I have the water?"
The woman gestures. At the wall. It's like on TV, the wall that looks like a mirror. There's someone - maybe a lot of someones - on the other side of it. Watching her. Listening to her. They haven't accused her of anything, but they might. They might, if she says the wrong thing.
If she says the wrong thing, they might accuse John.
And then it will have been for nothing.
What she did.
The door opens a minute later and a cop in a uniform hands the woman a cup of water. A cup, not a glass, because she could break the glass and use it to do something…unfortunate. That's what they say sometimes, isn't it? Unfortunate?
"He was angry," Mary murmurs.
"Your father?"
"Yes."
"Who was he angry at?"
It comes down to this.
Her father loved her. He hadn't wanted children, not really, felt that children made him - him and her mother - vulnerable, and he was certainly right about that. If it hadn't been for her, he'd be alive now, he and her mother both. But he loved her. He never said so, not in those specific words, but he taught her how to protect herself, how to help protect her mother, how to go on if anything happened to him. Maybe he loved her mother more than he loved her - that's almost certainly true - but he taught her things.
How to defend herself.
How to endure.
So, because of him, because of her, because of what they both did (what they both are, or were) it comes down to this. It comes down to lies.
For a stretch of time that seems as long as her life has been up to this point she answers the woman's questions. Wraps a web of lies around her father and paints him guilty of everything: of killing her mother, of attacking John, of having been so enraged - so insane - he stabbed himself in a place so vulnerable that after adrenaline pushed him on for a while, he bled to death.
It helps, oh God how it helps, that everyone in Lawrence thought her father was…odd. Bad-tempered. Unfriendly. That they'll all be willing to believe that Sam Campbell went crazy. Was crazy. Crazy enough to kill.
And John?
All John saw was her father, crimson and furious, dragging her out of the car.
John woke up on the ground.
John won't be able to say anything to contradict what she's telling the woman. John didn't see anything. Doesn't know anything.
And he certainly won't point a finger at her.
John didn't see what she did.
John was dead when she did it.
She begins to tremble, although she can't say whether it's cold in this ugly, odd-smelling room or whether it isn't. She's starting to go into shock, she thinks, and that's all right; that's appropriate. She curls her hands around the cup of water, makes an anchor of it, and answers the woman's questions one at a time, barely aware that her voice is wavering.
When the first of many tears trails down Mary's cheek the woman says, "All right now," but what she means isn't clear.
Nothing's "all right," is it? None of it.
Except that John's alive.
And she's alive, for what that's worth.
So it's all up to her now.
Her and John, if he's still out there waiting for her. If all of this hasn't spooked him, sent him running home, or further. He was in Vietnam, she thinks - that should have toughened him, made him less likely to bolt. And he loves her, has said over and over that he loves her, using those specific words. He was willing to take her away, take her anywhere she wanted to go.
What they need to do now is tougher than going away.
They need to stay.
They need to answer the questions.
At the end of it, they need to make sure her parents are cremated.
"Does this make sense to you?" the woman asks, and she's neither kind nor unkind. She's doing her job. The way Mary's father did his, right up until the choice of doing it or not doing it was no longer his to make. "That your father would do something like that?"
The tears are making wet spots on her blouse. Big, cold, wet spots.
Forgive me, she thinks. I'm doing what you taught me to do.
He was angry. Her father. That much is true.
The rest of it is the only thing that will look like truth to this woman in the white blouse with the grimy cuffs. This woman who's never sat on the damp, rocky ground holding the corpse of the man she loves, looking into the cold yellow eyes of a demon. This woman who thinks the only bad things out there in the dark are human.
"Yes," Mary says softly.
And she thinks: he taught her how to protect herself.
He taught her that the fallen are past protecting.
So she won't try. She'll do what she needs to do. What he taught her to do.
Forgive me, she thinks.
But she isn't sure anyone will.
* * * * *