And when the broken hearted people

Living in the world agree

There will be an answer, let it be

Writer: LENNON, JOHN / MCCARTNEY, PAUL

LET IT BE

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Chapter 3

They had no idea what they were going to do, but they knew what they couldn't do and that was stick around. The reasons were almost too many to grasp, though a few stood out in no particular order. They had no insurance—fake or otherwise. They had no IDs—fake or otherwise. They'd come in with the victim of a gunshot wound meaning the police were going to want to talk to them.

And then there was the biggest reason of all; the reason that trumped every other. Dick Roman knew they were there.

Dick Roman.

The mere thought of the name lit a fire in Dean's gut that threatened to send him tearing out of the room in a blood-red haze. That smarmy-faced, son of a bitch had killed Bobby. The desire for revenge was a match to dry kindling, incendiary and immediate. The need to find and destroy every last one of those big-mouthed, ooze-filled, body-copying bastards urged Dean to move, to act; just as the enormity of the task—of having to do it alone—froze him where he stood.

Then Sam said his name, in that way that only Sam could say it; encompassing concern and doubt and understanding and trust and determination and uncertainty and so many other emotions that Dean didn't even have the vocabulary to name; and his paralysis broke.

He didn't have to do this alone.

Then I guess we had better figure something out, huh?

We, as in the two of them. Together. But first, they had to get out of there.

He made quick work of the IV in Sam's arm and wrestled Sam into his jeans, t-shirt, over-shirt, and boots. They were blood stained, great reddish-brown, amoeba-shaped splotches across the thighs of his jeans and the front of his shirt where he must have cradled his hand. Some of it was probably Bobby's too. Dean tried not to think about that, though. He looked like an extra in a slasher film.

Sam was pasty-white by the time Dean pulled him to his feet. He swayed dangerously and clutched at Dean's arm. Dean held him until he could lock his knees under him, and then Sam pushed him away.

"I'm good," Sam said.

Dean knew he wasn't. He needed to be in bed, resting. The sedatives would be in his system for a while. How he was even awake, never mind vertical, was a mystery. Then again, Sam's stubbornness was the stuff of legends.

Dean turned and grabbed Sam's coat off the ledge in front of the window. There was more blood splattered across the front so he turned it inside out. It wouldn't hide anything if Sam wore it; but maybe if he just carried it in front of him he wouldn't attract too much unwanted attention.

He turned back and held it out to Sam. Sam just stared at it but made no move to take it. His eyes were miserable.

"Sam," Dean called out to him.

"What about Bobby?" Sam asked. His voice was small and low, the words spoken as though their edges would shred him if he said them too loud. "We can't just…"

"We won't, Sam. We'll do right by him, so help me; but right now, we gotta go."

For a second, he thought Sam might balk. He had that stubborn set to his jaw. Then he seemed to deflate, all the resistance seeping right out of him. He let out a breath and nodded, taking his coat from Dean's out-stretched hand. That alone told Dean how 'not good' Sam was really feeling.

He took a few steps forward and Dean took him by the arm when he veered a bit off course. "Gonna have to do better than that, Scarecrow," Dean teased.

Sam made a face. "You know that makes you, Dorothy."

Dean snorted, reaching for the door. "You wish, Bitch." He pulled it open and almost walked right into Sister Mary.

She was standing outside their door, her hand raised to knock. Startled, she took a quick step back. Dean drew up short, but Sam wasn't as coordinated. He bumped into Dean's side, stumbled back a step, and nearly lost his balance. Dean tightened his hold to help steady him, but Sam still threw his hands out to either side. His right hit Dean in the chest and he grasped a fistful of Dean's coat. His left grabbed the doorjamb beside him.

Immediately, he snatched his hand back with a sharp hiss of pain and clutched it into his chest. "That was stupid," he uttered through clenched teeth.

"Dammit, Sam," Dean sighed. He took Sam's hand and turned it over so he could make sure there was no blood seeping through the gauze bandage. "Are we gonna have to wrap that hand in bubble wrap for the next month?"

The bandage stayed white, and after a minute Sam scowled. "It's fine," he said, pulling his hand back. He looked up and sucked in a sharp breath, his whole body going rigid. His hand shot out and grasped Dean's coat again. "Dean," he gasped, staring at Sister Mary in disbelief and alarm.

"Easy, Sammy," Dean said, squeezing his arm. He knew exactly what Sam was seeing. "It's not her."

Sam's gaze snapped to Dean then back to her. Then he tipped his head to the side and he blinked. His confusion cleared and he let out a shaky breath. "S—Sister Mary."

"Hello, Sam," she said with a gentle smile. She looked at them both with concern. "I just came by to see how you were doing."

Several different emotions flashed across Sam's face, though embarrassment seemed to be the more prominent one. "I'm…better, I—I guess." The corners of his mouth twitched in the barest of smiles even as the skin around his eyes tightened. "Thanks."

"You don't need to thank me," she said. "I'm glad I was there to help."

He nodded, his eyes growing bright with the threat of tears, then he dropped his gaze blinking rapidly. He was shaking, fine tremors that Dean could feel under his hand. The slight blush of color that rose in his cheeks was not enough to erase just how pale he was. If anything, it made him look a little feverish.

She continued to look from one to the other. Clearly she didn't like what she saw. "Is something wrong?"

Instinct and habit said to lie; to just reach into that mental Rolodex and yank out any one of the countless stock answers he kept stored there for just such an occasion. Nothing would come, though. Nothing that wouldn't come out sounding like, 'None of your business! Now get the hell outta the way!'

He couldn't do that, though; and it wasn't for any reason so noble as because she'd helped Sam or because she didn't deserve it or because she was a nun, for crying out loud! It was something else; something Dean couldn't articulate; something so inexplicable he should have distrusted it from the beginning, testing it with salt and holy water and silver and sodium borate; and having passed, still held it at arm's length.

But he did trust it. Against all reason, against everything he'd ever learned in his crappy, hard-knock life; even in the wake of Castiel's betrayal that had shattered his spun-glass faith in everything and everyone save his ever-dwindling family. He trusted that calm aura that seemed to surround her. It reached inside him, touching that frantic, hopeless thing slamming itself against that tiny glass jar screaming, 'Let me out!' 'Make it stop!' 'I can't do this!' 'No! No! No!'; and it said, 'Breathe.' 'You can do this.'

Not even Dean Winchester could stand before something so profound and lie to its face.

"We're leaving," he answered.

"Leaving?" She looked at Sam again and frowned. "Dean—"

He just shook his head. He couldn't lie to her, but that didn't mean he could just tell her the truth. "I'm sorry, Sister. I appreciate everything you've done. I—I can't thank you enough for helping Sam and keeping the authorities out of it. But, we just can't stay here."

"Are you in trouble?"

Dean snorted bitterly. They were in so much trouble he didn't know where to begin. Again, he shook his head. "I can't explain, Sister. I'm sorry. I swear we're not…" Criminals? Outlaws? "…terrorists."

Her face changed, understanding softening her eyes. She laid her hand on his arm. "Do you have some place to go?"

As if she knew that they had no place to call home…

As though she knew that they couldn't get lower down on their luck if they tried…

As if she knew that they had nothing left but each other…

"We'll be fine," he said, because what else was he supposed to say? It wouldn't be the first time they'd slept in their car—and really, the van was considerably more spacious than the Impala even with all the weapons stashed in the back.

It wasn't as welcome. Not by a long shot, and Dean found himself longing for the familiar presence of his Baby; something stable to root him to the ground when all he felt was untethered and likely to fly off his axis. The Impala had been their home for so long, their refuge during so many storms. It was hard not to think that if only they had her now, this storm could be weathered, too.

But she was locked away, along with all their familiar trappings, every habit and trusted standby; hidden from view so as not to give them away, so as not to shine like some giant, neon sign pointing them out to every security camera and surveillance system they passed. One by one, everything they'd ever known, ever trusted was being taken away. Bit by bit, they were losing what little they had left.

"I'm sure you will be," she said with that gentle, knowing smile that said she saw right through him. It was kind and genuine. He almost wished it wasn't. It would have made things so much easier. "I would feel so much better knowing that you were someplace where you could get a decent night's sleep. Maybe a hot shower and a warm meal."

Dean felt himself wavering. The lure of a hot shower after so many days…weeks…he wasn't even sure when the last time was that he'd had a warm shower, let alone a hot one. It had been even longer since he'd had a decent night's sleep. He refused to count that turducken food coma.

It had been just as long for Sam.

He looked up at his brother. He was half-asleep on his feet. His eyes, still puffy and red from his breakdown, drifted in and out of focus, his gaze flicking to the side with that Hell-tinged hint of distracted attention that usually indicated he was seeing and hearing things that were for his eyes and ears only.

"Sam," he called sharply and Sam's gaze snapped to Dean's. "You with us?" Sam blinked a few times, his head whipping back to where he'd been looking before. His gaze darted around, searching. Dean cupped his face and turned him back to look at him.

"Sorry," came Sam's quick reply. "'m'kay."

He wasn't okay. He was drugged and in need of a safe, quiet place to sleep it off; someplace that wouldn't trigger more hallucinations; and the van where he'd held Bobby's bleeding body was not the place for it. He looked back at Sister Mary and nodded.

"Yes?" she asked, hope and relief in equal measure in her blue eyes. Then to his amazement, she said, "Thank you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"It's not much," Sister Mary commented modestly.

Dean didn't have the heart to tell her that it was four stars and then some compared to where they'd been sleeping, lately. The front door opened up right into a living room no bigger than most of the hotel rooms they'd stayed in growing up. Unlike a good number of those rooms, the carpet was clean and free of cigarette burns; the walls were painted a light, neutral color instead of covered in torn, peeling wallpaper with stomach-turning and seizure-inducing patterns; and the furniture, although old and worn, was intact, no tears in the upholstery or visible, protruding springs.

There was a couch against the opposite wall banked on either side by small, square end tables. A matching coffee table sat in front of it. Against the front wall, between the front door and the lone window, there was a recliner and a brass floor lamp. There was no TV.

When they'd pulled up in front of the small, one-story house situated on a postage-stamp lot about three doors down from the church; Sister Mary had explained that the house belonged to the church. The church caretaker had lived there rent free for years, but after suffering a mild stroke the year before, he had moved to Virginia to live with his son and his family. Since then, the church had been lending it out to people in need as a sort of temporary shelter. Parishioners donated their time on the weekends to keep it clean and maintained.

"It's great," Dean said, and he meant it. One look at that couch and it took all his self-control not to flop himself down and go to sleep.

They followed her through the living room, Sam shuffling along under his own stubborn power and Dean keeping his hands poised to grab him if he stumbled or lost his balance. He'd fallen asleep within minutes of folding his long body into the back seat of her small sedan, his head thumping against Dean's shoulder as soon as Dean had slid in beside him. Dean had thought for certain he was going to have to half-carry, half-drag him into the house.

Dean still wasn't one hundred percent sure that Sam was awake, but he was up and moving and following instructions without the need for any physical exertion on Dean's part. The fact that he was following those instructions without the slightest hint of reaction—not even the patented Sammy bitchface at being treated like he couldn't take care of himself—was something Dean flat-out refused to think about at the moment.

They passed through an archway that led to the dining room. There was a table with six chairs and a wooden hutch filled with plain, white dishes. The floors were hard wood covered with a large area rug in varying shades of browns and blues.

"The kitchen is through that door," she said pointing to the right. "We keep the pantry stocked with non-perishables; pasta, jars of sauce, soups. Things like that. You're welcome to whatever you'd like. There is coffee and sugar, but no cream or milk."

"That's okay," Dean said, feeling just a little overwhelmed. He wasn't one to accept charity. They just didn't see all that much of it. As kids, they'd been taught to stay out of sight and to do without. They just couldn't risk someone thinking they were being neglected and calling Family Services. As adults, they made do with what they could get for themselves.

She turned to the left and started down a narrow hallway. Dean grabbed Sam's arm when it looked like he was going to keep going straight—right into the back of a chair—and gently steered him in the right direction. Sam only looked down at the hand on his arm, then up at Dean. One corner of his mouth twitched in a subtle smirk that held no humor at all.

They passed the bathroom on the right, and Dean immediately made note of the full tub and shower. He wondered if he was going to have the energy to take advantage of it, tonight. Sam, he was going to make wait until he was more in command of his balance.

Sister Mary stopped at the first of the three bedrooms, the one across from to the bathroom. She stood aside and invited them to enter before her. Sam stepped into the room but stopped suddenly. Dean nearly walked right into him.

"Dude," he said, giving Sam a small shove to get him moving again. It was like pushing on a wall. Sam wasn't budging. Dean was forced to look over his shoulder.

The first thing Dean noticed was the single bed. Other than that, it was a normal bedroom; hardwood floors, beige walls, brown drapes, and the single bed that was no smaller than what they normally found in motels covered in a brown and green plaid bedspread. He looked at Sam out of the corner of his eye, taking in the tight jaw and the wide, troubled eyes. Barring clowns; there was only one thing Dean knew of that put that look on Sam's face, now.

Dean closed his hand around Sam's arm and it seemed to snap him out of his trance. "Sorry," Sam uttered. He didn't look at Dean, just continued to stare at that lone bed—or, Dean suspected, at whom he saw sitting on that lone bed. His left hand drifted into his right.

"The room next to this one is another single," Sister Mary said casually, as though she wasn't aware that anything was wrong. Dean caught her gaze behind Sam's back, and he realized that wasn't the case at all. There was concern in her eyes, and that uncanny awareness that seemed to see through everything.

"Both of these rooms are on the front of the house, and I'm told the traffic on the road out front in the morning can get a little loud," she continued, looking at Dean directly. "If you'd prefer it a little more quiet in the morning, and you don't mind sharing; the room across the hall has two beds."

"Quiet in the morning?" Dean said. "That sure sounds good to me. How's that sound to you, Sammy?"

Sam looked at Dean like the suggestion was a lifeline thrown to a drowning man, and Dean could have kissed her for making it. He nodded, backing out of the room as though he didn't want to turn his back on what lingered there.

That back bedroom was perfect in so many ways. The walls were that same beige as the other bedroom, but the colors of the bedspread, area rug and drapes were muted shades of blues and greens. The two beds were side by side, with a small nightstand between them. If Dean squinted, it almost looked like one of the hundreds of motel rooms they'd stayed in over the years, minus the stains and strange smells. There was even a bookshelf filled with old, dog-eared paperbacks against the wall adjacent to the door.

He watched Sam drift into the room and head straight for the bookshelf, running his fingers down the worn spines and reading the titles. Dean thought he might have even breathed in their scent. Dean turned to Sister Mary and gave her a tired smile.

"I don't even know what to say about all this?" he said quietly. "I mean, obviously; thank you. It just…I don't know… It sounds so…so not enough."

She smiled warmly. "You're very welcome, Dean."

"I guess I just don't understand why. I mean, I know you think that Fate or…or whatever had a hand in all this, but I gotta tell you, Sister, and I swear I mean no disrespect; but that was some Yellow Brick Road you travelled to get here. I mean, a lot of bricks had to shift and line up just right, you know?

"Sam and I…we've been through stuff you couldn't even begin to imagine. You'd think we were stark raving mad if we were to tell you. And even after everything we've done, after everything we've sacrificed and lost; you'll never convince me that Fate cares enough one way or the other, about what happens to Sam and me, to go through all that trouble."

She reached out and took Dean's hand, cupping it between her palms. She looked up at him with understanding and compassion. "Do you believe that you make a difference?"

The question caught him off guard, calling up memories he didn't want to revisit.

I'm talking the way a person talks…when they've had it. When they can't figure out why they used to think all this mattered.

"I used to," he admitted. "Now, I just don't know."

"Well, my heart tells me that you make a difference, that you have been Called,"—and she said the word like it had power, like she saw it as a vocation every bit as holy as her own— "to a service beyond what most people will ever know, let alone understand."

He shook his head, still unable to see it; to believe it. "But, you can't know that."

"I don't know a lot of things, Dean. But, I have faith; and my faith tells me to trust my heart."

She gave his hand a quick pat and Dean knew that as far as she was concerned, that part of the conversation was over. "Now, do you think your brother might eat some soup if I were to heat some up?"

"You don't have to do that," he said.

She gave him an indulgent smile. "Let's pretend that I do."

He sighed, feeling tears prickle at the backs of his eyes. It was always the unexpected kindnesses of others that seemed to kick his tough-guy veneer right in the teeth. "I don't know. Maybe?"

Her smile brightened immediately. "Good. While I'm doing that, why don't you get him settled. There are clothes in the dressers. Some were Mr. Mitchell's, the caretaker. Others have been donated. You might find something that will fit him."

Dean chuckled at that. "Only if Mr. Mitchell was Sasquatch-sized."

"I don't know about that," she replied with humor. "I've heard that he was tall, but..." She looked passed Dean to where Sam still stood by the bookshelf, and she shrugged her shoulders. "I'm sure we can find something that will tide him over while I wash his clothes."

"While you wash his clothes?" he repeated. "No, Sister, please. You don't..."

"It's no trouble. There is a washing machine and dryer off the kitchen."

He was shaking his head before she'd even finished speaking. Soup was one thing, and when added to everything else she had already done for them, even that was skirting the edge of what his pride would let him stomach. No way was he going to let her wash blood out of his brother's clothes. That was so far above and beyond what he could accept.

"Dean, what?"

Dean glanced back at Sam. Even half-unconscious, Sam could pick up on his moods in a way that was down-right unnerving. He didn't want to upset him, now. Sam wasn't paying attention, though; and Dean couldn't help but shake his head in exasperation. What was it with Sam and books, anyway?

Hoping that Sam would stay preoccupied for a little while longer-and that there wasn't a copy of Dante's Inferno or Lucifer Rising waiting to jump out of the bookshelf and bite Sam in the ass-he gestured for her to step out into the hall with a subtle jerk of his head.

"Dean, what's wrong?" she asked quietly as soon as he cleared the doorway.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his hand down his face. "Look, Sister," he said, keeping half his focus trained on the bedroom. "I appreciate everything you've done for us. It's just...we're not used to people doing stuff for us that we're perfectly capable of doing for ourselves. We were kinda raised to take care of ourselves and each other."

"And how much of that was out of practicality or necessity?" she asked gently.

He snorted. "All of it."

"Well, tonight it's neither practical nor necessary."

"Why?" he hissed, suddenly angry. He looked away from her, his jaw clenched. He drew a deep breath, trying to keep tight rein on his temper. It wasn't directed at her, after all; but at something he couldn't get his hands on and hurt. "'cause Bobby's dead?" he said through gritted teeth. "What does that have to do with anything? The Big Bads aren't gonna just—"

He slammed his mouth shut, his chest heaving. His fists clenched at his sides and the urge to slam one right through the drywall was so strong it actually hurt to hold back. He felt a soft touch land on his arm and he flinched away from it.

"Don't," he uttered. Don't try to make this better.

Undeterred, she stepped around him, all but forcing him to look at her or turn away. "Dean, I don't know what it is that you two do, and I don't know what it is that you are going to have to face when you walk out that door. I only know that I probably will not be able to help you through any of it.

"But this? This I can help with. A place to stay, something to eat, and clean clothes. The basic needs of right now." She smiled warmly. "Really, in the grand scheme of things; I get the feeling that I'm getting the better deal, here."

He felt a smile pull the corner of his lips even as he felt his eyes start to sting. "When you put it that way," he joked weakly.

"It's not so hard to accept, huh?" she teased back. Her smile faded a bit, taking on that gentle, motherly quality. Dean's vision blurred. "So, let me take care of all those mundane, boring, menial concerns that don't really matter, because you don't need to worry about any of those, tonight.

"The only thing you need to worry about, tonight…" She slowly turned him so he faced the bedroom. "Is in there."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~SPN~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

T. B. C.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Well, this was supposed to be a simple Epilogue to tie up the loose ends, but apparently I still had things to explore in this story. Maybe the gap between Death's Door and Adventures in Babysitting had something to do with that. It certainly gave me more room to play.

To all of you who have added this story and me to their Follow and Favorites lists, and to all of you who have left reviews; I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I promise, I will respond to you all. I appreciate your kind words and your support so much. I hope you will continue to enjoy the story.

To Kailene; as always, a million thanks for everything. And thanks for the 11th hour read-thru. Any errors are mine entirely.