Work Text:
Motherhood had never called to Rowena.
Not really. Not the first time, anyway. Fergus had been a surprise, and though she'd wager he turned out perfectly fine, she is more than aware that she lacked the maternal instincts. They didn't have the bond he wanted, or the one she should have wanted, even.
Looking at Sam right now, however, she can't deny the tug at her heartstrings. The ache in her chest as created by the pitiful sight which is the younger Winchester brother. Beneath several layers of soft blankets and propped up by various cushions, Sam's tucked into the corner of the couch, hair damp from his fever, eyes bloodshot.
Had he returned from his solo hunt just half an hour earlier yesterday, he would've caught Castiel and Dean before they departed the bunker, and the former could've healed him. Instead, Rowena's left playing nurse to a sick, upset little. A clingy one, at that. How she managed to talk him into letting her go to the kitchen is beyond her.
(A lot of kisses and the promise they could watch The Fox and the Hound before his bedtime. Again.)
Before Rowena can so much as sit down on the couch, there's a hand clutching at the back of her blouse, accompanied by a congested whine, which soon slips into a small series of coughs. "Samuel," she says, placing the tray down on the coffee table. "Hold on, little dove." Her hand finds his at the small of her back, fingers slipping between his. Sam's hands are clammy, but Rowena couldn't take her hand away even if she wanted. Sam's grasp is almost crushing.
It's unsurprising to her when she finds his eyes are full of unshed tears, lip juttering out dangerously. Her well-manicured thumb swipes over his cheek soothingly, and she wraps an arm around him when he—as she'd expected him to—collapses into her with an exhausted sob.
"Oh I know, I know." Rowena's sympathy extends from her tone to how her arms wrap around Sam, one hand to the back of his head, the other to the space between his shoulderblades. His shirt is slick with sweat, and though she knows he needs to break this fever, she hates to see him like this. "You cry it out," she encourages as he does just that, face tucked against the skin of her neck.
Maybe it's hypocritical, perhaps it's unfair, but Rowena hadn't had an ounce of patience for Fergus that she does Sam when he was a child. Would she change things if she could? Maybe—a lot can change from a seemingly innocent or positive shift, but what she does know, is that her son didn't die in vain, and in the end, well, she'd loved him more than enough to span many childhoods, let alone the one she failed him in.
She knows, as well, that she needs to get something into Sam's tummy. He's mostly nursed bottles of cool water and taken little bites of soft, buttered toast, but they're hardly packed with nutrients, nor flavours.
Sam whines when she pushes him away, only to be met with Rowena's soft shushes, her hand resting against the nape of his neck. "I made you some soup, and some tea," she says, gesturing over to the bottle and soup amongst the tissues and storybooks of the tables. "What do you say to getting something nice in that wee tummy of yours, mmh?" Her hands dance over his lower belly, and though it is the faintest of giggles it pulls from her boy, she still takes it as a victory.
With the TV turned onto a documentary about the ocean (Sam takes no information in whilst like this, but Rowena knows he loves the imagery, likes watching the fishes swim and the octopus wriggle their tentacles), Rowena tucks Sam against her side and starts with the soup. Usually she'd have made this dish as a stew, with tender chunks of beef and boiled vegetables swimming in a rich broth, but she thinks even the softest food with hurt her dove's throat, and so she has blended it into a smooth, vibrant pureed soup. It'd turned out a brown colour, but thanks to some food colouring she found at the back of the cupboard, it's now a silky blue.
It looks just like—
"Magic?" Sam asks when offered the first spoonful, eyes wide and hopeful at Rowena.
"Mmh, it'll certainly make you feel better," Rowena promises, gently nudging the tip of the spoon against his lips. "Good boy, Samuel," she praises when he opens his mouth, taking the soup without protest or hesitation.
Okay, perhaps it isn't actually magic, but it does resemble the potion she'd made Sam a couple of months back when he contracted strep throat. A white lie never hurt anybody. Besides, this one is fueling Sam, and keeping him distracted.
When he starts fussing after two thirds, Rowena sets the bowl aside and wipes his mouth and chin with a wet rag, laughing fondly as he whines and tries to move his head away. Sick or not, he hates having his face washed after food.
"Mama," he huffs, trying (and failing) to bat her hand away.
"I have to keep you clean," she replies, wiping one last blob of soup from his chin. "There," she smiles fondly, tapping the lower lip of his pout with the pad of her finger.
The bottle of tea comes next. Dean had bought it for Sam for his birthday, clear glass with green and blue stars decorating it. It's still warm to touch, but Sam doesn't have a single complaint as Rowena places the nipple between his lips. It's barely thirty seconds before his eyes start to slip shut, a dribble of tea is escaping from the corner of his mouth.
Rowena will clean that later. Right now her entire focus is on the sweet sight of Sam as he rests against her. His hand comes up to play with some of the hair that cascades over her shoulder, his fingertips rubbing against the auburn strands. Leaning down, she kisses the side of his head, watching as he fails to fight the sleep that takes over.
Her little dove, so sweet.