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Insomnia has become an old friend of Dean's over the years, after a lifetime of nightmares that pull him from his sleep and deep-seated fears that stop him from getting there in the first place. He's no stranger to laying in bed, awake and alone, staring up at his ceiling in some empty half-existence that speaks of too much horror experienced and not enough mending done. He's learned to get by on the handful of hours he may manage to rest, and he's stopped wondering about it. Doesn't miss the concerned looks his brother gives him, sometimes, when he spends the night with a pot of coffee and his laptop, but Sam's the last thing he wants to think about right now when every fibre of Dean's being aches to go out and just find him.
It's never been that easy, though, and he squeezes his eyes shut just in time to hear the tentative brush of bare feet on their concrete floors. It takes him a moment to remember that he isn't alone in the bunker right now- besides Castiel flitting in and out as he tries to track down Sam's location, Dean's mother is in here, too, just a couple rooms down the hall, and there's no one else who would be wandering around at this time of night.
He almost brushes it off- best to leave her be, for now, he thinks- but then the footsteps pause just outside his door and a careful knock follows. Three gentle raps against the old wood and Dean's out of bed, pushing a hand through his hair in a half-assed attempt to make sure he's looking presentable before he moves to answer it.
Mary looks incredibly small like this, drowning in one of Dean's old band tee-shirts- Zeppelin, he'd picked out very carefully- and a pair of Sam's workout shorts. Everything's too big on her but it's the best they can manage for the time being, until they find a less hectic moment to go shopping.
"Hey," he says after they're both quiet for a moment, eyes dropping a little because he still doesn't know how to talk to her. "Um- everything alright?"
He watches the way she shifts her weight between one foot and the other, and then she's hugging herself, arms tight around her middle. Dean wonders if she's cold, and if maybe he's just gotten used to living underground. "I didn't mean to wake you," she starts, and it's the guilty-uncertain tone that gets him ready to reassure her right away. "I just... couldn't sleep, and- well, here I am."
Dean manages a smile for her, because- well, hey, that makes two of them. "I wasn't really asleep," he promises, then steps aside, tilting his head to invite her inside. "C'mon, it's a little warmer in here."
As soon as she's stepped into his room and Dean's closed the door behind her, he feels a little awkward. He doesn't know where to go from here, and just ends up... watching her. She doesn't look at him, eyes drifting around the room and feet taking her to whatever catches her interest. She starts at his record collection and he stays where he is, tracing out tour dates on the back of the shirt she's got on with his eyes.
"I don't really know what I'm doing here," Mary admits softly, and it catches Dean off-guard. He's too used to the way things are with Sam; being honest about feelings is a bit of a novelty. "I just thought... it's all very different here. I guess I'm still getting used to it."
Slowly, Dean nods, taking a cautious step towards her. Boundaries. He still doesn't know what their boundaries are; where they sit between mother-son and strangers. She knows almost nothing about him, really, but he looks at her and sees the sun and stars. It's... troubling. "You came into a pretty messed-up time, Mom. You should see who's running for president... but, uh- it's okay to take some time to get your feet under you, y'know? No shame in that."
She nods, too, but as she wraps her arms around herself once more, Dean gets the sense that he hasn't really gotten to the core issue. He waits, quiet and feeling oddly lost, as she seems to curl in on herself a little more before finally turning to face him once more.
"I feel so silly," she murmurs, and she's not looking Dean in the eye, but he knows the words are meant for him, anyways. "Here you've taken me in without question, given me a home, done everything to welcome me here... and I still feel alone. You know, I almost went to the car before I came to you."
The words hit hard, and Dean's left at a total loss. He's reminded all over again of just how much she's been forced to leave behind; her entire family might as well be dead for all the good he's doing her. Her husband is long gone, and her little boys... they might as well have perished in that fire along with her. The trauma-hardened men she's been dumped with are far from who she wants or needs right now. He drops his eyes, too, rubbing his hands against his pants because they're too sweaty, suddenly, and he doesn't have a damn clue what to say.
"But that's not fair to you, is it?" And suddenly she's coming closer, bare toes entering Dean's line of sight, and he looks up just in time to see her reaching for him, one hand coming up to cradle his cheek tenderly. It steals Dean's breath away because he's still starved for her touch; still aches for this affection the way he always has. He can't bring himself to fight the urge to press closer, and he doesn't miss the way her eyes go soft and sad. "I'm supposed to be your mother, but now you're the one taking care of me."
And God; Dean wants to protest. To say that it isn't her job to care for him anymore; that he's an adult who's been taking care of himself since the day she died... and yet he still craves this; still craves her gentle touch and the way she sometimes looks at him like he's the most precious thing in her world- the way she'd looked at him when he was still four years old. A huge, deeply-buried part of him aches to be taken care of, but it isn't fair to demand that of her. Not when he's a stranger who resembles her little angel only in name.
"Maybe you're the one who needs to be taken care of right now," he says quietly, reaching up to catch her hand in his own. "I'm okay." A lie, but he's good at lying. "Just... let me worry about you for a little bit, okay?"
It's easier, he thinks, than worrying about Sam. Sam is an infuriating dead end, and will remain that way until Castiel manages to hunt down his location. Dean has no outlet for all the concern built up inside him, except, perhaps, for the woman standing in front of him, and he latches onto that. Better to take care of someone than be completely useless.
Mary watches him for a long moment, and Dean quietly memorizes every detail of her face. As if he hasn't done it a million times already; there's something indescribably better about being able to do it in person, instead of from a beat-up old photograph. "I don't need to be taken care of," she says softly, but it isn't accusatory or defensive. "That isn't your job, Dean."
"Can't it be, though?" he asks, and there's too much desperation in his voice as his fingers curl tight around hers. "Just... just for now?"
And she gets quiet again, before slowly- very slowly, she nods. Doesn't look away from him once and Dean's breath is taken away by the softness in her eyes. "I couldn't sleep," she tells him quietly, and there's a long, pregnant pause before she speaks again. "I think... I think it's because of John."
Dean understands, then, and feels his heart twist in his chest. He remembers the weeks after he and Sam stopped sharing a bed as children, and how hard it was to even close his eyes without his brother's heartbeat nearby. And- well, needless to say, he certainly hadn't been married to Sam back then. Mary's loneliness has a whole new meaning to it and Dean swallows hard, not letting go of her hand.
Boundaries. He still doesn't know where to draw their boundaries.
"You can stay here," he says too timidly, and fuck; it's too much. It's too far; she's his mother, and he's a grown man, and no matter how messed up his understanding of familial relationships might be, this is too much. "I mean... it's... I don't-"
"Dean." But she cuts off his fumbling and gives him a tiny smile, and he thinks maybe he didn't fuck this up. "I think that would be alright... just for tonight. That's how you can take care of me, okay?"
Dean feels too raw, too vulnerable with his own words gently returned to him, but he finds himself nodding, all the same. Swallows hard around the lump in his throat and doesn't resist when she carefully leads him back towards his own bed. "We need to rest, anyways," she murmurs, like it's going to distract him. "We're no use to Sam exhausted, and coffee is not a substitute for sleep, Dean."
That gets a smile out of him, remembering her obvious disapproval after catching him making that very exchange earlier today. "It is sometimes."
"Not while I'm around."
Mary slips into his bed first, and after only a moment of hesitation, Dean follows her, reaching to turn off the bedside lamp before he settles down. It's not unfamiliar, having someone in bed with him in the dark, but knowing who it is... he isn't sure how to handle himself. He's close enough to hear her breathe but leaves enough space that they aren't touching, because it seems to be the safest way to go.
Mary doesn't seem to be terribly concerned with "safe."
Dean holds his breath when she moves closer, slotting herself against his chest until he's not left with much of a choice but to let his arm settle around her waist. She gets herself good and comfortable until they're properly spooning and Dean's left at a loss for words as she breathes out a sigh.
"Is this okay?" she asks after another quiet moment, and... and at first, Dean isn't sure how to respond.
It's different. It's different than any other intimate experience he's had, because she's a woman, of course, and she's warm and soft in his arms and her hair smells the way Sam's does because she'd borrowed his froofy shampoo, but- but it's different. Different at its most basic level because this is his mother. This is the woman who raised him for the first four years of his life, and who was so cruelly ripped away by the very world she fought so hard to protect them from. The woman who held him and sang him to sleep and gave him every good memory he has from his childhood, and she- she fits here. She fits just right against his chest and Dean shouldn't be crying but there are tears welling up in his eyes, all the same.
He just wants to keep her safe. He wants to protect her so badly. She deserved so much better than to be burned alive by a demon, and Dean just... Dean just wants to make her happy, in this second chance she's been given.
He wants to take care of her.
"Yeah," he whispers back, blinking the tears away and feeling deeply grateful that it's dark and that she isn't facing him, anyways. "This is okay, Mom."
She hums in response, soft and sleepy, and Dean can already feeling her start to relax. He tucks his nose into her hair and closes his eyes and tries to breathe like he isn't fighting against an emotional breakdown. "Goodnight, Dean."
"Night, Mom." The words are mumbled and lost somewhere between his lips and loose, blonde curls, and with time, Mary drifts off. Dean listens to the way her breathing evens out, and he's left to his thoughts in the middle of the night.
He doesn't last long either, though. Between the warm body in his arms and the soothing rhythm of her heartbeat, his mind goes foggy and his body goes lax. He's sleeping before he realizes it, finally- if momentarily- at peace.
He dreams of the kitchen from his childhood home, and of the smell of apple pie. He dreams of his mother's smile and the way she used to coo at him when she scooped him up off his little four-year-old feet, and he dreams about the tender brush of lips against his forehead every night, about "angels are watching over you."
He dreams of being taken care of.
He wakes up before she does, and he's very careful when he slips out of bed. He's still confused, still doesn't know where their lines should be drawn and what this relationship is supposed to be, but he can't help but linger a few seconds too long, watching Mary in her sleep-softened state with her hair spread out on the pillow behind her and his shirt still too big around her shoulders.
Before Dean finally leaves the room, he moves silently to his drawers and pulls out the most comfortable piece of clothing he owns, carefully and purposefully draping it over the back of his chair. He gives his mother one last look, and then leaves, intent on finding himself a cup of coffee or five and maybe checking in on his winged companion.
When Mary joins him later with the love-worn robe carefully cinched around her waist, it's hard for Dean not to go too soft and try to hug her again.
Boundaries, he reminds himself. There need to be boundaries.