Title: And There You Were

Author: ArianaKnightly

Rating: T

Characters: Sam, Dean, Mary, John, Bobby, YED, Lisa, etc.

Summary: Pre-series AU; Mary isn't killed in a nursery fire, but when Sam is five years old, the YED returns to collect his soldier. Twelve years later, just as it seems like the Winchesters are truly moving on from the tragedy that occurred that night (Dean has a serious girlfriend and John has a smoothly running garage managed by Mary), Bobby calls with disconcerting news, forcing Mary's family into the life she had tried so hard to escape from.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

Reviews are appreciated!

CHAPTER ONE

Her eyes were still heavy with sleep as she dragged them open and focused on the ceiling in the dark bedroom that she shared with John. The space beside her was empty and the sheets were untouched; the sound of the television drifted up from the living room downstairs and Mary bit back a smirk as she realized her husband had once again fallen asleep while watching one of his late night shows.

Short lived, her amusement faded. It wasn't the faint sounds of the television that had pulled her from her sleep—that had never affected her in the past. She couldn't hear Sammy crying, which meant she should be sound asleep, taking advantage of the few hours of slumber that she could capture before the five year old demanded her attention once more—he rarely slept a night without some kind of nightmare waking him up.

Now wide awake and hyperaware of her surroundings, Mary slid her hand over the side of the bed frame and into the space between the bed slats and the old hand-me-down mattress, pulling out the curved, silver knife her father had given her years ago for her sixteenth birthday.

Even years after leaving the hunting life behind, Mary couldn't completely let go of her old instincts, which told her to scout the area and take precautions. But newer, more insisting instincts brought on by motherhood overrode those desires and she hid the knife in the deep pocket sewn into the side of her nightgown so as not to scare her children. Although she took each step cautiously, her feet carried her quickly down the hallway until she reached the door to Dean's bedroom, which was opened a small crack to let in some light from the hallway. The child was convinced that a monster crawled into his room and tried to steal him away in his sleep when the lights were turned off. When the boy had first made these accusations, Mary had waited until John and Dean were out of the house and had proceeded to search every inch of her son's bedroom for signs of the supernatural. Finding nothing, Mary was relieved that her old life wasn't closing in on her, and that her son was allowed to get lost in the typical dramas and fears of childhood. Mary's own father had made sure that she was well aware of the dangers held by the world, so much so that Mary had always had much more terrifying things to worry about than the dark.

Nothing appeared to be amiss in Dean's room. She opened the door a bit wider, and a small smile lit her eyes as she watched the child's small chest rise up and down rhythmically, a slight frown of concentration between his eyebrows. She'd already turned her back to Dean and was heading towards the nursery when the shattering of glass, then the startled cry of a child sounded from the bedroom and had her rushing past the door and flipping on the lights.

The glass of water Mary had set on Dean's nightstand earlier in the night was lying, shattered, on the hardwood floor at the side of the bed away from the door, and her son's back was pushed up against his headboard, his eyes wide and his spiky, fair hair disheveled. Seeing Mary, the panic in his eyes calmed. He held his arms out to her. "Mom, he was here! I dreamed of the monster again. He talked to me, said stuff about Sammy." Even as he recounted his dream, Dean knew he was safe with Mary. Nothing bad could happen with her there to protect him.

Mary sat on the edge of Dean's bed, pulling him onto her lap. She stroked his hair before resting her cheek on the soft fuzz. "Oh, honey. Don't worry about it."

"But, Mom, his eyes were scary and they glowed in the dark."

"That's just because he was wearing special contact lenses, like Daddy wore for Halloween last year… remember?"

Dean bit his lip until he decided that Mary was right. Nodding his head, Dean relaxed and let himself fall back against his mother. "But why did he say I couldn't be his?"

"Well, Deany, do you really want to know why?" Mary said into her son's ear, turning him around so that he could see her eyes. When Dean nodded again, he missed the playful glint Mary's eyes had taken on, and by the time he saw the smile crawling onto her lips, it was too late. His mother tickled him until he was gasping for air and his eyes were welling with tears.

"The monster can't have you because you're already my little boy," she finished, setting her son back onto the bed and pulling the covers up around him. Dean grinned up at her, no longer afraid of his nightmare in the slightest.

"Mom, I'm in the third grade. Sammy's the little one."

"What are you two doing up?" a deep voice asked from the hallway, causing both Mary and Dean to look towards the door. John stood there, rubbing his eyes in a way that caused Mary to remember him as he had been years ago, when she had first met the young mechanic, fresh out of the Marine Corps. Sure, now he had sprouted a beard, and parenthood had carved a few lines onto his young forehead, but he still had that mature innocence Mary could never hope to obtain. She thanked God that her husband would never need to know the true horrors that lurked in the shadows.

Dean pushed back the covers once more and slipped out of bed before Mary had time to protest. He made a mad dash towards his father and crashed into the older man's legs. "I had a bad dream about the monster with glowing eyes, but I'm okay now."

John quickly glanced at his wife, who gave him a small smile in return to show that there was nothing more to Dean's story. Scooping the youngster up, John headed over to his wife and sat down beside her. Dean snuggled into the space between his parents and drowsily laid his head in Mary's lap whilst keeping the rest of his small body curled up on his father's legs. The parents watched as the boy's eyes drooped, and they shared the quiet moment as a family. This was why Mary had found it so easy to toss away everything her father had tried to instill within her. These moments, this peace—they were irreplaceable. Mary bent over her son and ruffled his hair lightly before whispering into his ear, "Angels are watching over you, baby." Then she leaned back and breathed in a deep sigh, her own exhaustion catching up to her.

John put his hand in front of his mouth as his face contorted with a yawn. "Sammy's been pretty quiet tonight, hasn't he? Did you read to him before bed?"

"Yup," Mary sighed, "It doesn't usually help, though. I read to him every night and he wakes me up anyways, crying because of those damned nightmares. They torture him, John."

John grimaced. "Yeah. Maybe we could help if he'd tell us what happened, but our Sammy is one stubborn little kid. You know, Mary, you should take the couch for the rest of the night and I'll stay in the bedroom and help him out when he wakes up. You could use a full night's rest."

Lips pressed tightly with the yearning stirred by John's offer, Mary reluctantly shook her head. "You'll never be able to stay up all day at work tomorrow if Sammy keeps you awake. Besides, I'll be able to take a nap when Sammy takes his." Sam's kindergarten class only took place in the mornings, and the poor kid was usually so tired from his lessons and waking up halfway through each night that by the time Mary picked him up from school, he had to settle down for a few hours to catch up on his sleep. Sam's constant fatigue worried everyone in the family, even Dean, who tended to tiptoe around his younger brother for fear of interrupting his slumber.

Doubt and concern lingering in his eyes, John shook his head, consenting to his wife's logic. "Okay, fine, but this weekend, you are getting two full nights of rest." He leaned in to peck his wife on the lips before heading off to bed, but stopped when she held up a weary finger. "What?"

"John, what time is it?"

Frowning, John replies, "Almost four in the morning. Why?"

"He's never slept through the night this long. He usually wakes up before three. Have you been in to check on him?" She tried to keep her voice down, but pressed by her worry, the volume increased until Dean shifted awake on their laps.

"Mary, you worry way too much about these kids. Maybe he's finally getting over it and he'll stop waking up every night."

"No," Mary argued, carefully lifting Dean's head from her lap and shifting him onto John's. Despite her cautious ministrations, his eyes snapped open. They narrowed in confusion as he took in the anxiety in his mother's expression.

"Why are you scared, Mom?" Dean mumbled, but Mary ignored him as she headed for the door.

"Mary, will you just wait a minute?" John called as he set Dean aside onto the bed and got up to follow his wife. "If you go in there, you'll wake him up. Sammy's fine."

"No, this is different! Something woke me up, John!"

"Dean woke you up. You said it yourself that he was having a nightmare. He probably cried out in his sleep."

"Please, John," Mary pleaded, ducking out of the room.

Dean watched as his father also disappeared into the hallway. For a moment, he sat alone in his bedroom, confused from the fast-paced conversation that had transpired between his parents. "Daddy?" he called out, craning his head towards the door, expecting his parents to walk back in, laughing at some misunderstanding. "Daddy, what's wrong with Sammy?" As his baby brother's name escaped his lips, he shot into action, racing after his parents. He had barely reached the door of his room when he heard his father shouting, and a shrill sound that he'd never heard before shook through the hallways. A strange, bright light flickered from the door to Sammy's bedroom.

What he saw when he reached the door made him want to burrow behind the curtains he always used when he and his dad played hide-and-seek. The shrill sound was coming from his mother, her mouth opened wide in horror and shock. His father's face was hardened into a mask of fear and determination, something he recognized from the pictures his mother had shown Dean of the day his father had left on his Marines assignment. But what really drove the stake of fear through Dean's stomach was the shadow that lingered behind Sammy's trundle bed. It looked like his father hadn't noticed the figure, too preoccupied by the appalling phenomenon of Mary's ascent up the wall and towards the ceiling of the bedroom.

Those horrid, glowing eyes seemed to laugh at the tears now streaking down Dean's cheeks and dripping off his chin. Maybe this was just a terrible nightmare and his mom hadn't woken him up after all. He had only ever seen those animalistic yellow eyes before in his nightmares.

"Daddy!" Dean tried to scream, but his voice never amounted to more than a hoarse, petrified whisper. "Dad!" he attempted for the second time, but to no avail. So, with no other options, Dean ran into the room, heading straight for Sammy's bed, where the boy was still asleep. The yellow eyes filled with a new kind of look. One that reminded Dean of panic, but even he knew that wasn't it.

Dean couldn't know it, but the yellow-eyed demon was surprised that such a young boy would risk his life to get to his baby brother. And disappointed. This plan had already gone so wrong. There wasn't enough time to steal the boy away anymore, not with Mary butting in, serving to divide his powers and attention. It was too late. The sun was beginning to show in the distance, the boy would awaken from his induced sleep- which could prove to be dangerous- and by the time the following evening rolled around, the window of opportunity would be closed. The hunter had been warned, the child would be protected, and he would be spotted. He couldn't have anyone catching a hint of his plans yet. The time wouldn't be right until years in the future.

As the tragic scene played out in slow motion before him, the demon glared at this family who had succeeded in putting a dent in his plans. And even though there were others who would suffice, this boy, this small, repulsive human being, was supposed to be fate's gift to him, to his king. A child born of a long line of hunters and a descendent of the Men of Letters, whose nightmares always came true… none of the other children had even begun showing signs of psychic abilities as a result of his first visit all those years ago.

He could kill them all. His fury almost engulfed him, his rage unleashed could have demolished the entire rancid town of Lawrence, Kansas. But he reigned it in, knowing that if he did anything without his master's orders, there would be, to put it accurately, hell to pay. Mary he could be excused for killing, for she had tried to interfere with their deal. The husband and the other little boy… they could prove useful, and he wasn't willing to waste yet another one of his tools, especially after he'd lost the most powerful one he'd ever laid eyes on.

The idea came suddenly, placed into his head from somewhere far away. His lips curled into a sneer. He knew how he could still take the child. Then, within the space of a blink, everything was over.

The monster was gone, but not fast enough for Dean to miss that vile expression on his face. Mary dropped from the ceiling, the thin line of blood seeping from her stomach alarming, but not wide enough to be life threatening. John frantically searched for the wound, but Mary's eyes were crazed with dread from what she saw behind her husband's wide shoulders. A fire crawled up Sammy's small bed and flared, so quickly that it couldn't be natural. It engulfed the bed, so hot that Mary felt the heat searing the hairs on her arms, scorching her face. She screamed John's name as she saw Dean standing so close to Sammy's bed, still stumbling towards it despite the heat, the child realizing the danger his beloved brother was in. By some miracle, John was pulled from the daze he had fallen into, and he swiveled around, hardly pausing before he hurtled toward his eldest son, pulling him back from the flames, which were turning blue from the intense heat.

As John wrapped his hand around his wife's wrist and pulled Dean into his chest, he dragged them out from the house they had called home for so many years.

When they were safely huddled at the curb, sirens echoing in the distance but coming closer, John kept his hold on the remaining members of his family, the shock of what he had seen finally seeping in and causing his body to shiver uncontrollably. Surely, there had to be an explanation for what had happened to Mary. He even might have imagined it all. Dean was staring back and forth between his mother, the house in flames, and his father. Deciding that his mother, whose features were eerily void of all expression, was the better alternative to getting an answer, Dean directed his trembling words toward her. "M-mom… is Sammy okay? Did you get him out? Where is he?" He knew there was no way his parents would ever have let anything happen to him or his brother. Maybe Sammy was hidden somewhere to keep him safe from all of this.

Mary didn't hear her son's words. She didn't hear the neighbors shouting, didn't feel her husband's shaking arm wrapped around her shoulders, didn't care about the smoke forcing its way out through her mouth in frantic, heaving coughs.

She didn't think she could ever get close to forgetting the smell of burning flesh or the words that still bounced against her skull. The words she knew the demon had allowed only her to hear.

If I can't have him, then neither will you.

"Mary, you have to stop this. I know it hurts, God, I wish I didn't know how much, but you can't keep doing this."

"Mary, Dean needs you. I need you."

"Mary, please come with us. It might help… I know he's not really there, but people say that funerals give people closure."

"Mary, you're scaring me. Say something. Say anything. Cry, goddammit. Why can't you even cry for him?"

"I need an explanation, Mary! What happened in that bedroom? How did that damn fire start?"

"Snap out of it! Please, Mary, I'm begging you! Everything's falling apart and you just sit there, watching everybody struggle. Don't you get it? Your son thinks a monster is after him, and at this point, what can I say to prove otherwise? You're the one he needs."

"Mary, I called Bobby. You said… you said if anything strange happened to you, that I should call him and he'd know what to do. Remember? Mary, do you remember?"

Bobby didn't turn the radio on once during the six hour drive. As he pulled into the driveway of an unfamiliar house that nonetheless corresponded to the address John Winchester had given to him over the phone, a cold clutch of misery fisted in his stomach. His mind was numb as he shut off the engine and climbed out of the rusting Chevy truck. He nervously straightened his baseball cap and tried wiping the gathering of dust off of his jeans.

Although Samuel had told him while helping out on a hunt years ago that his daughter had gotten engaged, Bobby hadn't ever met the girl. Samuel hadn't even told Bobby her name. From what he could gather, Samuel hadn't liked the husband and was furious that his daughter was leaving a "fulfilling" life of hunting, tossing aside her "duty" to run off with an idiot mechanic in order to lead yet another "white-picket fantasy that would only leave her disappointed when she came back to reality." Although Bobby had silently thought of how he wished for his ignorant, but happy, life with Karen, Samuel had been convinced that his daughter couldn't stay out of the life forever, that the hunt would eventually draw her back in, like it did with everyone.

Then, out of the blue, a decade after he'd heard news of the death of Samuel Campbell, he'd gotten a call on his personal line from a name he'd never heard before in his life.

"Singer," he'd answered gruffly, distracted as he flipped through an ancient, leather-bound volume on Babylonian gods, one of which a fellow hunter suspected to be terrorizing a small town where he had gone looking for a trickster.

"Are you Bobby?"

At the sound of the weary, guttural voice, Bobby had stopped reading. "Who are you? Where did ya get this number?" Bobby had growled. Very few people had the number to his personal line. Most of the hunters he knew resorted to calling his fake governmental phones when in need of assistance.

"I'm John. John Winchester. M-my wife, she…" the voice had trailed off, and he had heard the man talking to someone in the background. Straining his ears, Bobby could have sworn he heard the soft voice of a small child. "I'm sorry. I had to…" the man stopped talking once again and Bobby could hear papers rustling from the other line.

"My wife told me to call you if anything strange happened to her. She made me swear, and I don't know if this is what she meant, but if you can't help us, I just… I have no idea what I'll do."

"What's her name?"

"Excuse me?"

Bobby had let out an impatient huff of breath. "Your wife," he'd said slowly, "What is your wife's name?"

"Mary Winchester."

He'd searched his mind, but couldn't remember ever hearing such a name, nor meeting such a person. "Never heard of her."

There was no reply from the caller, and Bobby had almost hanged up after several minutes passed by without a response. "Wait," the man said, finally. "I don't know how she knew you, but she trusted you. I always knew there were things she wasn't telling me about how she grew up, and I never asked because I didn't really care. We just… when we met, it was so fast and it almost felt like she was running away from something, and I always thought it had to be pretty scary for her to run into the arms of a foolish mechanic like me. I guess, what I'm-"

"What did you just say?" Bobby's back had straightened as he heard the man's final sentence.

The man had cleared his throat, clearly confused. "I… what do you mean?"

"Did you say you were a mechanic?"

"Yes. Well, up until a few weeks ago. I'm taking a… leave of absence."

Campbell. That last hunt was one he could never forget. The man was a brilliant hunter, and despite all of his complaining about his daughter, Bobby knew he loved his family and everything he did was to protect them. "Was her father named Campbell?"

An intake of breath. "Yes! Samuel Campbell. The man despised me."

"What do you need?"

"Really?"

Damned idjit. Would the stupid questions ever stop? "What are you goin' on about? I haven't got all day."

"You'll really help me?"

"Yes!" A thought had occurred to Bobby. "Wait, tell me what happened to Mary."

Winchester spoke hesitantly, talking about a fire and how his young son died in the flames. How he barely got his frantic wife and nine year old son away from the house in time and how the boy, Dean, had been in the hospital for two nights because of several serious burns and smoke inhalation. He'd told of how his wife wouldn't respond to anything he said and how Mary had missed her child's funeral. They were living at the house of one of Winchester's coworkers.

Deciding he'd postponed the moment long enough, Bobby trudged up the steps to the door and rang the doorbell. The curtains on the window in the foyer moved slightly before he heard someone working the lock from the inside. When the door finally swung open, Bobby was startled to find nobody there until his gaze traveled down to a small, pale boy with blond hair that stuck out every which way. "You must be Dean," he muttered. The boy tilted his head a little.

"Yeah. I guess so. Who do you want?"

"I'm here to see Mary Winchester."

A look of sorrow, one that should never cross a child's face, settled into Dean's wide eyes, and the boy shook his head. "My mom won't talk to you." Dean glanced behind him, as if making sure nobody was listening, then leaned in closer to Bobby, almost stepping over the threshold. "Dad won't believe me, but it was the monster. I think he did something to her."

"What monster?" Maybe this wasn't just a fire.

"I saw him. I saw him standing behind Sammy and he had this mean face on him. He was in my dreams. I think he started the fire."

"What did he look like, son?"

"He had yellow eyes. They glowed. He looked like a person, but I've never seen someone who looked so mean. I think he wanted to hurt us." Dean's voice was dull, and his eyes were lifeless, reflecting none of the thoughts that had to be thundering around his skull.

"Dean," a stern voice reprimanded, and Bobby looked up to see a tall man with a dark beard standing behind the child. "I told you to stop talking about your dreams." Dean looked up almost fearfully and scurried back into the house.

"Sorry about that. John Winchester." The man, John, held out a hand and shook Bobby's with a firm grip. However, beneath John's obvious strength, Bobby could sense the slight tremble that accompanies never-ending fear and desperation. Awkwardly, Bobby drew his hand back. He felt like he'd intruded upon something he should never have been witness to.

John held the door open wider to let Bobby through. The first thing Bobby noticed about the house was that the place was spotless. He highly doubted that was due to any of the Winchesters' efforts. Then, his eyes landed on the stunning young woman, reclining against some pillows on a wicker couch covered by an old, handmade quilt. Mary. He could see her father in the girl, see it in the curve of her forehead, and the way she must have loved her family to have them so worried about her. He could imagine her being fiercely protective, willing to do anything, give anything to keep them away from the life of a hunter.

Bobby watched as John walked over to her and quietly knelt beside the couch. He kissed her on the forehead and for an instant, his eyes flickered to her face, hoping for any kind of reaction. When he got none, a familiar resigned look crossed John's face. "Nothing worked, you know," John said. "I tried comforting her. I yelled at her. I told her that Dean needed her help. She didn't go to Sammy's funeral, you know. I even tried begging. It's like she's locked herself away because she can't imagine a world without Sammy."

Hardening himself for the task at hand, Bobby sidestepped John, who stood up and backed a half step away from his wife to allow Bobby some room to work with. Hesitating only for a moment, Bobby drew back his hand and then brought it down with a hard smack to Mary's unblemished cheek. John cried out in anger, hurrying forward, but Bobby held out a hand to stop him. Reluctantly, John waited, ready to pounce if nothing came of Bobby's theory. Both men held their breaths, and John gasped when Mary blinked her eyes and seemed to focus on them for a few seconds before they glazed over again and she was gone. But those few seconds seemed to renew something in John. "My god, it worked," he breathed.

"Not really," Bobby sighed, holding back a groan as he rose from his position on the floor. Once he was back on his feet, he ran a hand through his scruffy beard, thinking through the situation thoroughly. "John, I've got a few buddies of mine crashing at my place and they said they could take care of anything that needs takin' care of 'til I can get back. How about I stay here until ya get back on your feet and I'll help you figure out what's goin' through your wife's mind?"

Dubious, John shook his head slowly. "Haven't you got work?"

Bobby snorted. "Business is always slow. Nobody would notice I was gone."

"Daddy, please."

Both men turned to look at the little boy half hidden behind the doorway. "Maybe he can help Mom."

Flexing his jaw, John headed for the doorway leading into the kitchen. Before he passed through, however, he paused. "One week."

The summer months were sad and slow. Bobby often sent Dean out of the house, encouraging the child to play with the other boys in the neighborhood, but he knew that Dean usually ended up merely observing, lamely sitting on a swing with a sullen frown upon his features. John reluctantly went back to work at the garage, knowing he needed money to build his family a new life.

While everyone was out of the house, Bobby tried every spell and ritual he'd ever read about as he tried to pull Mary out of her stupor. Nothing helped, and Bobby began to doubt that there was anything other than shock and grief playing a part in her near comatose state. John hadn't said a word when Bobby hadn't left by the end of the week he'd been assigned.

When September rolled around, Dean was sent back to school, starting the fourth grade with his old friends. He used to be a troublemaker, always talking and horsing around in class, and his new teacher had been warned by Dean's previous instructors to beware of his disruptive manners. Mrs. Mongol found the boy to be the quietest child in the class, bordering on antisocial, and she personally called Dean's past teachers to make sure they hadn't confused him with another child. Eventually, she called his home while her students were having recess in the school playground, hoping to find answers to the child's odd behavior.

"Hello? This is John Winchester," a tired voice answered on the other line.

"Oh, hi. I'm Dean's teacher, Mrs. Mongol. I-"

"Oh God, tell me nothing's happened to him." The voice was immediately alert with a panicked edge to it. "Is he alright?"

Shocked, Mrs. Mongol shook her head even though she knew the man who had picked up the phone couldn't see her. "No, of course not. I was just worried about his behavior. I've received notes from his teachers of previous years and all of them describe a rambunctious, energetic child whom I haven't caught a glimpse of in Dean Winchester. I just couldn't imagine what could cause a little boy like that to become so withdrawn."

Rubbing his eyes, John sat down on the chair next to the phone of his family's new apartment. "He's had a tough year. We all have."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I'm just worried that your son is depressed, and, well, I wanted to make sure it wasn't because of problems at home."

"You have to understand… his younger brother died and his mother is ill. We lost our house. I'm working day and night to pay our bills. I'd be surprised if there wasn't something going on with him."

The man's words clicked in Mrs. Mongol's head and suddenly she realized why the Winchesters sounded so familiar. The fire had made front page news months ago. "I understand. If you don't mind, is it alright if I talk to him about what's going on?"

"No, go ahead. I'm sorry, I've got to head out to work." With that, John Winchester hung up, leaving the young teacher looking out of her classroom window at the young boy who kept staring at the clouds from his spot on the playground, as though hoping for something to appear. She wondered what she could possibly say to a child who had lost so much.

"Mom, there's a school play next week. I don't have to be in it because I asked not to, but Mrs. Mongol said I still have to help with the set and costumes and stuff. It's a really stupid play about the Indians and pilgrims and stuff. I wish you'd come see it anyway." Dean chattered about anything he could think of, even though he kept his eyes averted from his mother's staring figure. She always laid in that bed, even when the sun came up, and it unnerved Dean.

It was late, and John had allowed Dean to say goodnight to his mother before heading up to bed. John was already asleep on the couch downstairs, where he'd taken to sleeping lately. Dean suspected it was because he had trouble sleeping beside his troubled wife, and John couldn't sleep in the third bedroom because Uncle Bobby used that room.

Knowing it was futile, Dean allowed himself to search his mother's eyes for any sign of recognition, and tried not to be disappointed when he found none. "Okay, Mom. I have to go to bed now." He waited for a minute, once again hoping for his mother to say the words she used to say every night to him before he went to bed. She hadn't said them in four months, and he didn't expect her to say them now.

He slowly trudged toward the door, when a sudden thought struck him and he made his way back to the bed. "I don't know if you can hear me, but I… Mom, you always said that angels were watching over me and Sammy, and I just thought… is Sammy an angel now?"

Mary blinked, but Dean knew she did that sometimes. It was when she blinked again a second later and a large tear rolled down her cheek that Dean realized his mother was actually reacting to something he'd said. Trying not to get his hopes up, telling himself not to expect anything more, he cautiously leaned over in the bed and hugged his mother. "It's okay, Mom, you don't have to cry."

"Sammy was always an angel, Dean." The words were quiet and said in an unfamiliar, hoarse voice Dean barely recognized. He thought he'd imagined them, but when he looked at Mary's now focused eyes, he turned his head into her stomach and began crying into her nightgown.

To Be Continued