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The first night Mary spends in the bunker, she wakes to the unmistakable sounds of someone whimpering and moaning, as though in pain. The noise is muffled by the thick walls, and so faint Mary is surprised she can hear it at all, but it seems a mother always knows, even if she’s been dead long enough she doesn’t feel like much of a mother anymore.
She rolls over, listening, and is momentarily distracted by the drag of strange clothing over her skin. Then she remembers she's wearing a borrowed pair of Dean’s sweats and an old flannel, scrounged from the bottom of a dresser drawer to replace the nightgown she arrived in. They’re soft with age, perfect for sleeping, but everything feels new and uncomfortable to her, and when she first put them on it was a little disconcerting that she had to roll the cuffs up three times in the arm and leg. Her child isn’t much of a child anymore, either.
Still, there’s something familiar in the cries filtering into her bedroom, something that has her sliding out of bed before she’s awake enough to think better of it. Something that cuts through all the strangeness and guides her steps across the cold floor and out into the hallway, like a string tethered to the mouth of a maze.
She hesitates just outside Dean’s room, though, her fingers just brushing the doorknob. This place, this bunker, wasn’t built to be forgiving; it’s all severe concrete architecture and harsh fluorescent lighting and doors that look like they’re meant to stay shut. She gets the sense that few people are allowed past these defenses, and she’s not entirely sure she’s one of them. She certainly hasn’t done much to earn that kind of confidence.
“He’s dreaming,” says a deep voice behind her, and she spins around, startled. It’s the angel, Castiel, having appeared from the other end of the hallway, some room she hasn’t seen yet. His head is cocked as if listening, though Dean has gone quiet by now. “It’s not a very good dream.”
“I know,” Mary says, trying to match the angel’s icy blue stare. “I was going to….” But she trails off, realizing she’s not sure what, exactly, she was going to do.
Castiel just looks at her, inscrutable. “You should go back to your rest,” he says, in that flat, gravelly voice. “I’ll watch over him.”
“No!” Mary says quickly. “I can do it.”
Castiel gives no sign of agreement, but he doesn’t stop her as she turns back to the door and opens it, letting light from the hallway spill into the room beyond.
Dean is curled on his bed, the covers torn half off the mattress and trailing haphazardly onto the floor, and he’s moving fitfully in his sleep, just like John used to whenever he dreamed about the war. Mary wonders if John knew what he was doing when he brought their sons into this life, and she wants to be angry at him for it—but all she can manage is guilt, because of course he didn’t know.
She made sure of that.
Mary drifts closer to the bed, so carefully and quietly she might as well be a ghost, her weight hardly dipping the mattress when she sits down on it. Dean stirs in his sleep, turns his face into his pillow, away from her, and she folds her arms awkwardly over her stomach. If he were still four years old, the way she remembers him, she'd know exactly what to do, just stroke his hair and hug him and hum a few bars of “Hey Jude;” but Dean's a long way from a toddler now, and she hasn't had time to catch up.
“S’okay,” Dean mumbles suddenly into the pillow. Mary jumps, half-rising from the bed, but he’s still asleep, not talking to her. “S’okay, Sammy. I gotcha. I gotcha.”
Mary can’t help smiling a little at that, remembering the way a much smaller Dean leaned over his baby brother’s crib and kissed his forehead. At least there’s one thing that hasn’t changed, one thing that has survived and flourished all these years; and she thinks maybe John knew what he was doing after all.
“Mom?”
Dean really is awake this time, blinking dazedly at her, and she finds herself reaching out to smooth her fingers through his sweaty hair.
“Shh,” she tells him. “Go back to sleep.”
He just blinks at her again, frowning slightly, like he doesn’t quite understand. She feels the old mantra rising to her lips, opens her mouth to say Angels are watching over you—but then she thinks of Castiel out in the hallway, and she bites the words back, and says instead, “I’m here.”
And judging by the way Dean immediately relaxes, his eyes slipping closed again, that was all he needed.