Chapter Text
Dean hated himself for throwing Anna to the mob. He tried to justify it, telling himself her dreams and drawings would’ve attracted attention eventually anyway. Normal people didn’t dream like that. Normal people didn’t speak of voices in the air, or frantically scribble out many-coloured pictures of places only other people had seen. The Elders would have noticed her sooner or later. It didn’t take Dean’s hint - oh so casually worded in the bar, wasn’t it funny how she always seemed to know things - to bring the wrath of Normality down on her head. It wasn’t his fault.
He knew that was a lie.
As they dragged her into the hall, he felt the sick weight of guilt wrap its tentacles around his throat. Her fearful eyes, so wide and innocent, caught his as she stumbled past him. He could feel the fear running up her spine, a knife-edge of cold, following the same paths his fingertips had traced only days before. Her skin had been warm then, so soft beneath his wondering palms, her glorious hair scattered like ruddy threads over the ground as he moved above her. Maybe even now, he could still save her. Hunters had status, he could make them listen.
“Dean,” Sam whispered urgently at his shoulder, shifting agitatedly. “You have to stop them. You know she isn’t evil.”
He bit his tongue until the metallic tang of blood sprang sharp into his mouth, and pushed his brother back into the crowd. “Shut it, Sammy.” Shut it before they come for you.
Because he did know. Anna saw things, heard things, that weren’t there or only existed in the heads of others, but she couldn’t move objects without her hands any more than he could. Any more than any Normal could.
Sam could.
The Elders sat straight in their chairs at the end of the hall, looking up at the frail girl trembling in front of them. John Winchester was two from the end, eyes dark under his heavy brows. He didn’t know his oldest son and Anna had been lovers and it wouldn’t have made any difference if he had known. Elder John was devout, his faith as inflexible as iron, and where his faith led his fists followed.
“Anna Milton,” Elder Gordon Walker said loudly from the central chair, “you stand accused of Blasphemy. Do you have anything to say in your defence?”
She swallowed, a tear sliding down her pale cheek. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You can see into the minds of others and hear their thoughts. This is a crime against God.”
“I don’t want to, I can’t help it, please…”
Elder John leaned forward. “You admit you’re different.”
“I…” She drew a shaky breath, gulping back tears.
Different was dangerous, corrupted, poison. It was a Blasphemy against God and a reminder that the world was not as it had been. A murmur went through the watching crowd, faces narrowing against Anna.
Elder Bobby Singer sighed, his tired eyes kinder than the rest. “Humanity prevails through purity. Your Blasphemy risks a second time of Tribulation. Would you bring that down upon our heads, Anna?”
“N...n...no…”
Elder Gordon stood, ponderous in his judgment, and Sam pushed urgently at Dean’s shoulder again. He rammed his elbow back, hard, and Sam’s breath puffed out past his ear.
Shut it, Sammy, don’t make my sacrifice of her for nothing.
“Anna Milton, a choice lies before you,” Elder Gordon intoned. You may be put to sleep, or sterilised and exiled.”
It wasn’t a choice, not really. Exile was just a slower death, everyone knew that. Outside the walls of Lawrence lay corrupted, poisonous lands and wild animals twisted out of their natural shape. There was no cultivated food, no shelter, only the ruins left by the War of Tribulation. Dean saw it every day. He was one of the brave (the word tore, sharp-edged, in his mind) that ventured out to hunt for meat and threatening predators. Anna didn’t stand a chance.
Abruptly he couldn’t bear it. He turned and pushed his way out of the hall, Sam at his heels as always, until he stumbled into fresh air. A pulse pounded in his ears, deafening and nauseous. He dragged in a deep, hot breath and blinked up at the blue sky.
“I’m sorry.” Sam laid a large hand on his shoulder. “I know you guys were close.”
Dean didn’t answer; couldn’t.
Sam pressed in, lowering his voice. “We could get her out. They’ll take her to the Cage first, you know they will. We could save her.”
“Yeah.” Dean forced himself to speak past the nails in his throat. “Then what? Keep her hid in the cellar forever? Pack her off into the wilds? That ain’t a kindness, Sam. And if we get caught busting her out, what d’you think they’ll do to us, huh?” To you?
There was a bustle of movement behind them and Dean dragged Sam aside as Anna was marched from the hall inside a moving cage of people. She caught his eye again as they passed and - it nearly brought him to his knees - she smiled. Her eyes flickered to Sam and back. Dean couldn’t breathe, his whole core on fire with shame and guilt and grief. He sagged under Sam’s hand and his brother held him up with a soft noise of surprise. They watched together as Anna was led away towards the slaughterhouse. Then Dean shrugged himself free and went in search of alcohol.