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After the dust settled, Dean had dragged Sam into one of the bedrooms to patch him up and Mary was left wandering the bunker grounds. More than anything, she wanted to offer her help, but at the time it seemed like the worst thing to do. With her mind still reeling from being brought back and all the emotions attached to that, she cannot burden Sam with that right now. He needs safety and stability, things she, no matter how bad as she wants it, cannot offer at the moment. So instead, she tries to keep her distance, at least for now. Still, she finds herself circling back to the closed door they’d disappeared behind. Her babies. Her men. It makes her nauseous to think about. She wasn’t there. Not for Sammy’s first steps, not for Dean learning how to ride a bike, not for their first love or their first heartbreak. Sam doesn’t even know her.
Mary doesn’t even pretend not to eavesdrop. As if a couple minutes of an overheard private conversation will rectify the decades they lost.
Get some rest, Sammy. Call me when you need anything.
It sounds like it’s not the first time Dean said it, going off of the way he snaps the word ‘rest’. Mary moves closer to the door.
You know what I need, Dean.
I can’t… Mom’s here. It’s all too fucked up right now. We shouldn’t .
That’s exactly why we should.
It’s quiet for a moment. Mary can faintly hear some fabric shifting.
Dean, when they tortured me,
Dean’s breath hitches at that.
They made me see things, feel things that weren’t there. I need to know this is real. That I’m safe.
You ARE safe, Sammy.
Then show me. A beat. You care enough about me to do that, right?
It’s evident from Sam’s tone that was a stab below the belt and Mary half expects the sharp sound of a slap to follow.
Instead, Dean only sighs.
Can’t it at least wait until tomorrow?
From the tone it sounds he’s only putting up a performative fight. More fabric rustles and the bed squeaks as Sam gets off of it. But as the room goes quiet and no footsteps follow, Mary adjusts her mental image. Dean must have gotten on the bed instead. She tries to connect the new scene to their conversation. Sam must still be rattled from his ordeal. It’s only natural he’d ask Dean for some physical comfort. She pictures them squeezed together on the small bed she’d spotted earlier when the door was still open. Her heart swells, thinking back how little Dean used to cuddle with Sam in his crib. Would Dean still sleep with one fist curled under his chin and the other in Sam’s shirt? Does Sam still sleep on his back, hands above his head with fingers grabbing at loose strands of Deans hair?
She has to see them. It might be the only tangible evidence connecting these men to her little boys still fresh in her mind. She reaches for the doorknob, her ear pressed against the wood. There’s still no footsteps, only faint movement on the bed. Judging the coast is clear, she starts turning the handle ever so slightly, not noticeable if you were to glance at the door. As soon as she feels the latch is all the way pulled in, she moves the door forward enough so the latch won’t hit the strike plate. Keeping a firm hold on the knob, she turns it back the other way just as slow as she did while opening. She bends down, keeping her head below eye level for extra cover, should they notice the open door. Her heart pounding, she gently presses against the door, inching it open enough to peek through the crack with one eye.
It takes her a moment to discern their shapes, since she’s searching for something fitting her memory. The first thing she notices is that they’re both awake. She ducks back behind the door instinctively, before she realizes both are turned away from the door. She peeks into the room again, and hears Sam before seeing him, whimpering quietly through gritted teeth, previously muffled by the wood. Adjusting her view into the room again, she finds Sam on the bed.
He’s on his back, but it’s nothing like the baby boy she used to sing to sleep. His brows are knitted together, puffing out strained, shallow breaths. His arms are bent, fingers digging into the denim around Dean’s thighs. Dean’s on top of him, his hands braced just above Sam’s shoulders. Mary struggles to wrap her head around what she’s seeing. She poses they could be sparring, right up until Dean dips down, his face disappearing into the crook of Sam’s neck.
Sam chokes out a sob and Mary takes off running. She barely realizes she made it outside until the cool air hits her, bringing her somewhat back to reality. She listens to the wind rushing the leaves, overpowered by the rushing of her own blood in her ears as she tries to make sense of what she saw. The way Dean’s head dipped down keeps replaying behind her eyes even when she frantically tries to shake it. It was too practiced to be a new thing. And Sam was asking for it. She paces in short circles trying to get her thoughts in order. How long has this been going on? Did John know? Did John allow it?
She doubles over, slowly sinking to the ground as she frantically tries to cut the connection between the sweet innocent memory of Dean bending down to kiss baby Sam’s forehead and whatever is happening in that bedroom.
Her little Dean would never… his baby brother….
But apparently he has. No matter how much she pretends otherwise, those men are her sons.
She looks at the grass tickling between her fingers. The only thing we had, besides this car, was each other. Dean’s words echo in her head, the meaning behind them now sickeningly clear.
But she can’t be mad Dean for this, nor Sam or John for that matter. If she wants someone to blame she can start by finding herself a mirror. After all, it was her that invited the devil into Sam’s crib. Then she died and the little family she so desperately tried to hold on to fell apart behind her. It’s not fair to fault her sons for finding solace in the shattered pieces.
Eventually, the cold brings her back inside.
Nursing a cup of coffee, she stares at the kitchen wall as if all the answers will appear if she just wishes hard enough. Maybe leaving would be best. She doesn’t belong here anyway.
It’s too late for that when Sam emerges into the kitchen, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
“Good morning, mom!” He says cheerily as he spots her.
“Morning! Want some coffee?” She manages, before gratefully immersing herself into the excuse of setting coffee.
“Ooh coffee?” Dean’s voice sounds behind her. She steadies herself against the counter. Of course they woke up together. She pulls herself together, but not fast enough, because Sam’s at her side in an instant, gently rubbing her back.
“Is everything alright?”
She turns to answer him, a believable lie ready on her tongue, but swallows it as her gaze is drawn to his collar, the edge of a bite mark peeking out from under it. She tears her eyes from it and in an attempt to look anywhere else, she lands on the second worst thing. Dean’s eyes widen slightly as he catches her line of sight, first in worry, then in understanding.
Somehow, this pulls her back, stumbling out words like ‘it’s a lot to process’ ‘so much has changed’, which is barely a lie, while shakily pouring the coffee she’d promised. A moment later, they all sit around the table, sipping from their respective mugs while Dean’s gently ribbing Sam about something and it’s almost normal. That is, until Dean stands up to get his toast from the kitchen. Passing Sam, he rests his hand over the spot Mary knows the bite mark is. Mary’s eyes shoot up and lock onto Dean’s who’s staring back, steel-eyed, and slowly shakes his head. A second later, the moment is broken when he slaps Sam playfully on his back, an easy smile returning to his lips as he makes a bee-line into the kitchen. Sam, in turn, pulls his shirt higher, clearing his throat awkwardly and asks if there’s anything he can do to help her adjust.
She needs to get the fuck out of here.