Hello my sweets, it's certainly been awhile since I've posted anything!

So this was inspired by Mary and Sam's moment in 12x02, but I personally felt it was a little lacking. That and the lack of BROMENTS BETWEEN OUR BOYS BECAUSE SAM THOUGHT DEAN DIED AND WELL NOPE GUESS HE'S BACK NOW LOL BEER

I'm sorry, it just bugged me. All I wanted was a hug, atleast. Couldn't we have gotten a hug?!

ANYWAY! This fic does have more Mary and Sam moments, but there's definitely some Dean in here too. This will most likely be a two shot, and don't worry—I've got most of chapter two already written.

So please read and enjoy!

The drive back to the bunker was silent. Normally Dean would be blasting Metallica or Led Zeplin, but now, with Sam in the passenger seat next to him passed out against the window, he kept it quiet and drove around bumps in the road. Cas had easily been able to heal Sam, but that didn't mean the kid wasn't exhausted. Almost as soon as they were in the car, he was out like a light.

Mary sat in the backseat, still reeling. Her sons, her precious baby boys, were no longer babies. She stared at them, consumed with the grief that she hadn't been there. She missed out on everything. She wasn't there to watch them grow up, to get them dressed for school in the mornings or to kiss boo boos. She wasn't there to read them bedtime stories or to hug them and wipe their tears away. She wasn't there to watch them graduate high school, or to send them off to college.

And though she had no idea what they had been through in their adult lives, she did know that, whatever had happened, it was bad. She could see the look in their eyes. So deep and haunted, full of sadness and regret, flickering with the shadowy demons of their past.

Mary realized her eyes were filling with tears and quickly tried to blink them away.

She watched as Dean reached over and lightly pressed his fingers into the side of Sam's neck, checking his pulse. After a few seconds and once he was satisfied that his younger brother was still okay, he rested his hand on the back of Sam's neck and gently stroked Sam's nape with his thumb.

The action brought a smile to Mary's face. She reminded herself that things weren't all bad. After all, look at how big and handsome they'd grown up to be—and, she chuckled herself, with emphasis on "big" for Sammy—and look at how close they obviously were. Mary noticed how Dean was gruff and commanding most of the time—something to be expected from a seasoned hunter such as himself—until he turned to his little brother. Dean treated Sam so gently, half-carrying him out of that house, murmuring softly of things that Mary couldn't always make out, but occasionally she would catch a "Sammy", or "everything's okay", or "gonna get you home". Dean was obviously very protective of his little brother, and she began to wonder just how long he'd been considering himself to be Sam's guardian.

When they finally arrived at the bunker, Dean pulled into the garage and gently shook Sam awake. "We're home, Sasquatch."

Sam groaned a little and sat up, rubbing his eyes.

"You okay?" Dean asked.

"Uh, yeah," Sam said, his voice still croaky from sleep. "Just sore. And tired."

"Well," Dean said as he got out of the Impala and circled around to help Sam up, "Let's get you into bed and you can conk out."

Dean pulled his brother to his feet and grasped Sam's elbow while he steadied himself. Mary quickly got out of the car, but stood awkwardly nearby, unsure of what to do. As soon as Sam's head cleared, Dean was walking him to his room. Mary followed behind, hating how useless she felt.

Sam pulled his jacket off and collapsed into bed, asleep in seconds. Dean pulled his shoes off and draped a blanket over him, and Mary watched it all from the doorway, her heart swelling with affection for her boys. Dean checked Sam's pulse again, pressed his hand to his forehead to check his temperature, and then quietly padded out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Mary smiled. "You take good care of him."

Dean shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "It's my job. Has been since . . ." He trailed off and the smile faded.

"Since the fire?" Mary asked quietly, her heart sinking.

"Yeah."

Mary tried to imagine that.

Ever since little Sammy had been born, Dean had loved him. Mary and John had been a little afraid that Dean would be jealous and unwelcoming at first—after all, it was a very common thing among children when a younger sibling suddenly steals all the attention. But from the very moment John brought Dean to the hospital to see his baby brother for the first time, Dean was crawling onto the bed with Mary and asking to hold him. And it wasn't uncommon to find Dean in Sammy's crib, reading comic books to him. Honestly it was a little shocking to see just how well Dean got along with his baby brother, but Mary and John had loved it.

Mary couldn't even comprehend how horrible her death must have been, for her boys to grow up hunters and for Dean to have become almost overly protective of Sam.

"Mom?"

Dean's voice snapped Mary out of her thoughts, and she suddenly realized she was crying.

She hastily wiped her cheeks. "I—" But she couldn't even speak without her voice breaking.

Dean didn't say a word, just pulled her into a hug. Mary squeezed her son tight, trying to tell herself that everything was okay now, Dean's alive, Sam's alive, my boys are okay.

But they weren't okay. They were hunters for Christ's sake. And she could tell just by looking at them that they weren't your average, run-of-the-mill hunters, either—no, they had been through some bad shit, so bad that she was afraid to know what it was.

And before she knew it, Mary was quietly sobbing into Dean's shoulder, feeling like her heart was slowly being crushed.

Dean just continued to hold her and rubbed her back in an attempt to soothe her. "It's okay, Mom," he murmured. "We're okay."

Oh, if only she could believe that.

Cold. He was so, so cold. The kind of cold you feel from deep inside, that no amount of blankets or heaters can chase away. He tried curl in on himself, but frigid metal encircling his wrists and ankles kept him upright and immobile.

"Hey Sammy."

Sam's heart stuttered to a halt at the all-too-familiar voice.

"Ready to have some fun?"

Sam opened his eyes and Lucifer's grinning face appeared before him. The Devil caressed his cheek almost lovingly. "Because I am."

Lucifer lazily dragged his fingers down Sam's face, down his throat, and came to a halt on his naked chest. Then suddenly, Lucifer plunged his hand through Sam, shattering his chest plate and freezing his lungs in unbearable pain. Sam wanted to scream as he felt icy fingers wrap around his heart and slowly start to pull.

"See, this is the fun part about my Cage. I can do whatever I want to you, hurt you however I please—and you can't pass out. Your nerves can't give out. You can't die."

Sam still couldn't move or breathe as Lucifer kept pulling his heart out, slowly, slowly.

"It's beautiful. Don't you think?"

But Sam couldn't think. All he knew was pain, pain, pain, pain, painpainpainpainpain MAKE IT STOP!

"Oh, Sammy," Lucifer cooed. "Don't you see? It will never stop. You knew that when you jumped in here, dragging me with you. And since big brother Michael isn't one for playing much, well—it's just you and me for the rest of eternity." Lucifer cocked his head in amusement as he watched blood gush from the ragged hole in Sam's chest, carrying chunks of bone down his stomach and legs and pooling on the frozen metal floor.

"Do you know what it feels like to have no heart?" Lucifer asked. "To feel that deep, gaping hole inside you? No one knows, really. Usually they die before they can find out. But you, Sammy . . . you're lucky." He chuckled. "You get to be the special one to satisfy my curiosity. Don't leave out any details, now. I want to know exactly how it feels."

By now, Sam could see his own heart pounding in Lucifer's hand, still pulling and pulling and stretching muscles to their limits—Dean, I want Dean, where's Dean—

Lucifer laughed. "Dean's already moved on. He doesn't need you. Doesn't want you. In fact, he's glad you're dead, Sammy."

"Nu-nno—" Sam finally croaked.

"Oh, yes," Lucifer sneered. The hand slowly ripping Sam's heart out paused as he leaned forward. Sam shuddered in disgust as a forked tongue flickered over his ear.

"You're my little bitch now."

All at once, Sam felt his heart tear away from his body, and then he was drowning in agony.

Dean handed Mary a mug of coffee and sat down across from her at the conference table. "How're you doing?" he asked.

Mary wrapped her hands around the mug, savoring the warmth. She shrugged. "It's a lot to take in. You boys are all grown up . . . but it was just a few days ago when I found you in Sammy's crib, reading him Knights of the Round Table."

Dean gave a small smile. "I think I remember that. I—"

But he was cut off when a loud scream suddenly pierced the air. Both of their hearts dropped.

"Sammy!"

Mother and son tore down the hallways towards Sam's room. Dean burst in first, and froze.

Sam was sitting up in bed, unharmed, but digging his thumb into the scar on his palm so hard that Dean was afraid he'd break the skin.

"Sam?" Mary asked, heart still pounding with panic, "What happened? Are you—"

But Dean silently held up a hand to cut her off, and there was a look of realization on his face that she didn't understand. She looked to Sam again and noticed that his eyes were shining with unshed tears, and wondered why he kept furiously digging his thumb into an old scar on his palm.

Dean approached the bed slowly and sat down on the edge. Reaching out, he gently but firmly grasped Sam's wrists to still his movements. Mary bit her lip when she saw blood on Sam's fingernail.

"Sammy," Dean murmured. "What's going on?"

Sam blinked. "I—I thought I was—" his voice cracked, and he looked so scared and confused and young that all Mary wanted to do was hold him, but she held herself back.

"It—it was my first day in—it was so vivid, I haven't had one that vivid in—"

Dean placed his hands on the sides of Sam's face. "It's not real. Okay? Whatever you saw, it wasn't real. You're not there anymore."

Mary frowned in confusion, knowing she was missing something. At first, she thought that Sam had been referring to nightmares about the British bitch that had tortured him. But now . . . she wasn't so sure. This seemed deeper than that.

Sam blinked, taking deep breaths, visibly trying to calm himself down. Then he sighed and ran his hands through his hair, seeming to snap out of the haze of fear and confusion. "Sorry I scared you guys."

Dean squeezed his shoulder. "Don't worry about it."

Mary shifted uncomfortably. She felt like she should say something, but at the same time, standing there and watching the interaction between her sons, she felt as though she was intruding on something she had no right to witness.

"Just go back to sleep, Sammy," Dean was saying. "You want me to stay with you?"

"Uh—no, no, it's okay," Sam said, blushing red slightly.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. But thanks."

"Alright. Get some sleep." Dean ruffled Sam's hair as he stood, and Sam laid back down as Dean pulled the door shut behind him.

"What was that all about?" Mary asked quietly as they moved back down the hall.

Dean let out a weary sigh. "That is a very, very long story that I think you should hear from Sam, when he's ready."

Mary nodded, slightly disappointed, but understanding that it wasn't Dean's place to spill Sam's past. She would just have to wait and see if Sam was willing to open up to her.

The next morning, everyone converged in the conference room to see if they could find anything on these British Men of Letters. Cas was already gone searching for Lucifer, so it was just Dean, Mary, and Sam, whose baggy, bloodshot eyes indicated he hadn't gotten much sleep. Mary saw the concern in Dean's eyes, but he didn't say anything about it.

"We're low on supplies," he commented instead as Sam sat down with a pile of books. "I'm gonna make a run, be back in a few."

"Alright," Sam nodded absently, most of his attention already on the books before him.

When Dean was sure Sam wasn't looking, he silently motioned for Mary to follow him. Frowning a little, she did so, and they moved out of the room and out of earshot of Sam.

"Keep an eye on him, will you?" Dean said quietly. "I mean, if he starts . . ." He trailed off and ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking stressed.

Mary was confused. "If he starts . . . what?"

"If he starts to act weird," Dean said, and then immediately regretted his choice of words when Mary's frown deepened. He was making Sam sound like some sort of freak.

"I mean, if he starts to feel bad," he amended quickly, "or acting like he's—in pain or anything."

"Um—yeah, of course I will, he's my son, but—what's going on? First his nightmare last night, now you think something will happen to him?"

Dean looked back in Sam's direction, and, not for the first time, Mary saw the deep, deep pain in his eyes. "Dean, what is it?" She asked, more firmly this time. She was getting scared.

He looked back at her with those bright green eyes of his. "Let's just say, that was way more than a nightmare."

With that, he turned and walked up the stairs and out of the bunker, leaving Mary more confused than ever and suddenly terrified for her youngest child.

Sam knew Dean was talking to Mary about him. He wasn't stupid.

Part of him was insulted and a little angry, but he reeled in that part of his mind and reminded himself that Dean was just worried. And besides, he knew Dean wouldn't tell Mary about Sam's time in Hell. Neither would Sam, at least not yet. He wasn't willing to dump that on his mother right away and make her feel even worse.

When Mary came back into the room, Sam pretended to engross himself even more into the books so that he wouldn't have to look at her. He didn't know exactly what was said, but he had a pretty good bet that it probably left her feeling confused and maybe a little afraid—possibly even afraid of him. Either way, he didn't want to have to see the fear or pity in her eyes as she stared at him. It made him feel like spectacle in a zoo, something people came to point at and say, "Aw, look at how bad he has it. Poor thing."

Mary cleared her throat awkwardly. "So, uh, where should I start?"

Sam finally looked up. "Well—" he grabbed two thick books from the pile— "you can start looking through these records and see if you can find any mention of British or international Men of Letters. I haven't found anything yet, but I'm hoping these guys met at some point."

"Okay." Mary took the books and sat down, glad to have some regular old book research, something familiar, to do.

Sam paged through the manuscript before him, looking for anything British related, but so far it just looked like records of tools and weapons the Men of Letters had confiscated from a Grand Coven temple. Sam idly turned the page, not really interested—maybe he would be later, but now wasn't the time—and stopped.

This page was covered in detailed drawings and descriptions of the witches' torture devices. Branding irons, spiked manacles, wicked looking daggers, even what looked like meat hooks—

"You know, I'm getting bored of these things," Lucifer said, grabbing the chain to yank on the manacle around Sam's wrist. "Let's try something new!"

He snapped his fingers, and the restraints vanished. Without anything holding him up and because he was to weak to do it himself, Sam crashed to the floor, crying out as he landed on his injuries.

But almost as soon as he hit the floor, Lucifer was seizing his wrist again, and suddenly his hand exploded in pain as something big and sharp and cold pierced his palm, and was forced all the way through his hand. He screamed as he was yanked up by the hook, and didn't even have time to take a breath before Lucifer was poking hooks through his other hand and through the flesh just behind his ankles, and two more through his shoulders so that his weight wouldn't tear his hands right of the hooks.

Lucifer stood back to admire his handiwork. He smile made Sam want to throw up. He reached up to brush Sam's hair behind his ear, treating him almost like a pet. "You look so beautiful, Sammy," he murmured. "All strung up, covered in your own blood, trembling in agony . . . See, now this is what I live for."

He conjured a dagger out of thin air, and pressed the freezing blade to Sam's lips. "Now, shall we continue?"

"Sam!"

Sam jumped, eyes snapping open.

He was back in the bunker, sitting at the table with a book in front of him.

But now, Mary was standing next to him, her hand gripping his arm like she'd been shaking him, eyes wide with alarm.

Sam blinked, and realized his hands were shaking. "What—what happened?"

"I don't know," Mary said, her voice trembling. "Y-you started shaking, and your fists were clenched really hard. You didn't seem to hear me when I kept calling your name. And you—you were screaming."

Oh, great.

Sam ran his hands over his face, burning with shame. How weak was he that looking at some pictures triggered this shit all over again? Much less in front of his mother, who wasn't even supposed to know about his time in Hell, at least not for a long time.

"Sam? Are you alright?"

Sam shakily got to his feet. "I'm fine," he tried to reassure her, but knowing it wasn't working. His voice, annoyingly just like everything else, wouldn't stop shaking. "I just—I need some air."

Mary didn't believe for one second that he was fine. His eyes were watery and bloodshot, and she could see that his hands were still trembling. When he turned around and headed for the door, she grabbed the phone Dean left her and quickly started to dial his number.

When she heard another scream, she whipped around just in time to see Sam clutching his head in his hands before collapsing to the floor in a heap.

When he started to seize is when Mary screamed.

More to come soon, so stay tuned!

And remember, reviews are food for a writer's soul ;)