Through Eyes of Insanity//Dean Winchester

2.0

D E V I N

Devin hated hospitals, the sterile stench of illness and sadness invading her nostrils, sending waves of fear down her spine and memories to her brain. The very thought of one made her cower in fear; her mind telling her to run, but her heart telling her to stay.

It was a challenge; so that's why she worked there.

1323B, carefully printed out on the plaque in front of her, the name of the patient neatly written on the bottom.

Critical Condition- the paper said, the word 'critical' echoing ominously in her mind, a reminder of an all too familiar time that she had once been faced with.

Her knocks rang loudly throughout the quiet corridor, and she found herself swallowing uncomfortably. The ghost of a pasted-on smile gracing her face.

It's just a job.

A strangled answer resounded from the room, the voice hoarse and deep, filled with emotion. Devin took another deep breath, preparing herself, before entering; the practiced all-too-rehearsed smile fully on her lips.

"I don't need a shrink," came the immediate statement, one that she had heard often from stubborn men and women.

"I'm not saying that you do," Devin replied, yet again, practiced so much it slipped off of her tongue with ease. "I'm just here to help."

"Well I don't need help, she's not going to die." A man sat on the dark, pea-green recliner, arms reached over the guardrail of the bed, clasping tightly the hand of a girl.

She lay peacefully, light brown hair framing her sleeping face. Seemingly swallowed by the stark white sheets surrounding her. The rhythmic whirring of the breathing machine and the intense beeping of the heart monitor resounded loudly in the quiet room. Covering, only slightly, the childish sitcom that aired over the television that hung in the corner.

"What's her name?" She found herself asking, eyes focused on the young girl; eyebrows furrowed slightly, as if she were facing a bad dream, pale, pink lips pursed in concentration.

"Emily," came the short reply, "but you already knew that." Devin gave a small nod, wishing away the dark blanket of depression that seemed to swallow the room. But it stayed, stubbornly leeched on to the man as he watched his daughter slowly die.

"How old is she?" Came the quiet question, "She's beautiful." With this statement, the man finally looked up, bloodshot, green eyes meeting her own. She unwillingly sucked in a quiet breath, the deep emotion, sadness, anger, and regret that filled his gaze was overwhelming; likened to a battle-weary soldier, war torn, yet beautiful.

"Why do you care?" His voice was hard and brittle, laced with something that Devin couldn't quite identify.

"Because," she began, mind reeling for the answer, "it's my job." The man gave a small snort, held-back tears welling up in his eyes.

"Well it was my job to protect her," he said after a small, heart-wrenching silence, "and I messed up." His voice broke off at the end, his shoulders shaking slightly, but no tears leaving his eyes.

"Sir-"

"Dean, Dean Carpenter."

"-Dean, I don't know what happened," Devin said softly, "but I do know that it wasn't your fault." Her voice was a small whisper, one she used often to calm distressed clients. Dean let out a small, humourless chuckle, the smile that painted his face never seeming to reach his eyes.

"I'll come back tomorrow," Devin found herself saying, a normally nonexistent pang of compassion shooting through her chest, it had been a while since she last felt any sort of pain for a client. "I don't know Emily, but from what I have seen, she's a strong girl for lasting this long, she can do this."

The words were rushed, spilling from her mouth unbidden, but it was too late to take it back.

And so she left, feeling the man's intense stare burn into her back, and the eerie silence nearly driving her insane.