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“You cut your hair.”
Mary’s looking at her. Dean’s not sure what the thing in her voice is.
“Yeah.”
About twenty-five years ago , Dean wants to add and doesn’t.
They’re quiet. Two cups of coffee sit on the table between them.
Mary’s still watching her. Dean watches back.
She looks exactly the same. Exactly as she does in Dean’s worn pictures and worn memories.
And she looks so young .
Dean’s always known she died at twenty-nine, but it never hit her as a kid just how young that is.
She was just about twenty-nine when she died, too. The first time. The big time. When she went to Hell. And at the time she hadn’t thought—well, she hadn’t thought she was all that young. She thought she was about as grown as she was gonna get, y’know?
But then she thinks about Sam, who just turned twenty-nine a couple years ago, now. And she thinks about her mom. About the woman sitting across from her. And it’s all she can think.
God, she’s so young.
“You look old.”
That surprises a laugh out of Dean.
“I feel fucking old.”
She wonders if she should feel weird about swearing in front of her. If that’s against some kind of rule, or something. She wonders what the rules are, for the two of them.
Mary smiles, and they’re quiet again.
“Sammy calls you Dean.”
“Yeah.”
“What should I call you?”
Dean shakes her head. Shrugs.
“I answer to anything. You can—you can call me anything.”
Mary’s quiet for a long moment. Picks up her coffee then sets it down.
“I named you after my mother.”
“I know.”
“I miss her.”
Dean looks up. Pauses.
“I know.”
But she didn’t. Not really. It’s never occurred to her that Mary lived for ten years missing her mom, too.
Dean hates herself for that.
“I’m sorry,” she adds, after too long.
Mary just shrugs. Smiles a sad kind of smile.
More quiet.
Then, finally:
“I like the hair.”
“Thanks, Mom.”