I loved last week's episode of Supernatural so so much. I'm so happy that Sam finally got a moment with his real mom that I had to write a tag for the episode. I had a little trouble with the ending, but I hope you like it. Let me know what you think.
Shutdown and Rebound
Sam's head was spinning, and he knew it wasn't from the blood loss. His mother was frowning at him in concern. Embarrassed that he'd been fingerpainting with his own blood, he grabbed the nearest rag and wiped his hands clean. He glanced at the gash in his arm, biting the inside of his cheek.
"Here," Mary said, her voice rich like honey. "Your hands are shaking."
Before he could figure out what she meant, his mother, young, alive and beautiful was standing front of him, pressing an embroidered handkerchief to his arm. Words failed him, and he found himself staring again, trying to cast every minute detail to memory.
She smiled like roses and lavender. She wasn't wearing earrings. Her hands were sure and soft as she cleaned his arm. Her hair was the same color Dean's was when he was a child. Her eyes were dark blue like his, but her features were all Dean.
And just like that, the world dropped out from under him for the third time in a single day.
Strong arms encircled his waist, and they weren't Dean's. "M'too heavy," he mumbled.
"Tell me about it." Mary huffed.
She was strong.
He fell gracelessly on his bottom, long legs stretched out. "You're gigantic." She observed with a twinkling laugh, kneeling down beside him. She tucked her hair behind her ears and refocused on his arm again. "Your mother must be a saint."
Sam didn't know whether to laugh or cry, so just focused on breathing. "Yeah, she is."
**
Dean stared at his brother, who was sullen and broken, curled up on the bed, holding one shoe like he didn't know what to do with it. Sam had been like this for three days, a hollowed out, despondent version of his normal self. The sharp edges had wilted. The always-burning anger curling to sadness. Raw nerves exposed.
Dean couldn't blame him. He remembered how he felt after coming back from 1973, and he had memories of his mother. Sam never had. He'd only known her through lovingly embellished memories and the larger-than-life revenge mission. While her death had bonded John and Dean, it had isolated Sam. He hadn't even know her face until he'd found a picture of her at Pastor Jim's and asked Dean with big blue eyes, "who's this?"
He'd been handling Sam with kidgloves and bubblewrap ever since he'd been transported back to 2010 and found his brother healed, but bloody and unconscious on the floor.
And he once again had to be the big brother, had to push forward and keep them going because it was his job—the most important one.
"You gonna put that on or dance with it?" Dean asked, pointing to Sam's dangling shoe with his toothbrush.
Sam wordlessly put on his other shoe and sighed as if that simple task had taken all of his strength.
Dean was beginning to miss Angry Sam. At least Angry Sam dove into a salad with passion Dean could admire. Angry Sam slammed doors, flopped on the bed, cracked his knuckles and whittled steaks to vent. Angry Sam slept and shouted and yelled.
This Sam was nearly catatonic, and so sad Dean ached when he looked at him.
They walked to a diner. Dean flirted with the not-so pretty waitress, because he had to maintain normalcy. He ordered pancakes and eggs for himself and Sam, who was gazing lifelessly out the window. Dean was surprised when Sam ate mechanically. He'd finished half of his short stack and all of his eggs. But then the fork tumbled from his grip, cluttering on the plate, and his face paled to a milky white. Sam was stricken, frozen.
Dean followed his gaze to a booth across the restaurant—a mother and her twin boys eating breakfast, all three smiling in the sunshine. A frickin' Norman Rockwell.
Sam scrambled out of the booth and bolted from the diner.
Dean ran after him, but all he found was a puddle of vomit and a Sam-free parking lot.
**
He'd drove all over town, checking dusty backrooms of libraries, coffee shops and grocery stores, where Sam often wandered to clear his mind.
He headed back to the room to call Bobby, but Sam hadn't checked in.
He'd disappeared. Again.
Dean paced the room. And waited. Tried not to panic. He'd known that going back in time to save their parents was a fool's errand. But he'd been prepared to fail. He just needed to see it through, try one more time.
Sam, however, wasn't at all prepared, and had been dead set on setting everything right that he hadn't cushioned himself for the cruel blow of failure. As much as Sam had changed, darkened, he was still the bright-eyed little boy Dean had raised.
Sick of the room that smelled faintly of mold and the glaring orange bedspreads, Dean ventured out into the night. The air was cold, and the stars were hidden. But Dean could still make out Sam curled up in the passenger seat of the Impala, face buried in vinyl.
It was the last place their mother had been that he could reach.
"Sammy," he opened the door, and fisted his jacket.
He'd been waiting for the breakdown, waiting for everything Sam working so hard to internalize that he'd all but shutdown, the calm. But now that it was here, Dean wasn't ready for the storm.
Sam's face was smooth, but his chin was trembling. The air was changing. He chanced a glance at Dean, and finally let it go. "I want my mom. I want my mom," he sobbed and chanted. "She's real now and it's not fair. I just…want her."
Sam dropped his arm over the empty seat, hugging it like it was a person. And Dean's heart simultaneously sank, broke and twisted. He'd had dozens of these moments as a child. Even though Sam was too young to understand, he'd often found a toddler in his lap, sharing grief he hadn't understood until now.
Dean fought his own tears as he placed a tentative hand on his brother's back. He understood. "We tried, Sam. We did the best we could."
His face was covered in tears,"…she died for nothing."
"She died for you, Sammy. Twice we've tried to change it, but she loved you that much."
Sam's back tensed, muscles locking. "She never should have had me. She…the whole world would be better off."
"I wouldn't be." Dean said honestly. "I asked for you. I wished for you. You're my brother, kid."
It took nearly twenty minutes to get Sam into the security of the hotel room. He was crying so hard, body whiplashing with it that sometimes it stole breath and coordination. But finally, Sam burrowed into the mattress, hiccupping and weeping, and Dean locked the door. "Do what you need to do, Sammy."
He cried for hours, jagged visceral sobs that shook that were the climax of two decades of grief. Dean let him, wiping his face clean, getting a trashcan when he'd started gagging. But when he'd began hyperventilating, grasping at Dean in breathless panic, he'd had enough.
He poured Sam a triple shot of whiskey and gently coaxed it through his chattering teeth like it was medicine. He dropped a pillow on his lap and draped Sam over it as he waited for the liquor to lull him to sleep. His little brother clung to him like Dean had during those dark nights when he missed his mother so much it caused him unbearable physical pain. He shed of some of his own tears too, not knowing how much more they could take.
**
Dean woke up, neck and back on fire from sleeping in a prezteled position, feeling everyone of Uriel's blows. But the bed was empty, covers swept aside. The bathroom was dark. Dean cursed under his breath, exhausted and still worried about Cas. He deflated, energy pulling out of him, leaving him husked out and empty. Trying to summon the will to begin another day.
He heard the door open, and Sam walked in, all rumpled clothes and sunglasses. He handed Dean a small paper bag and an enormous cup of coffee.
"Afternoon, lazybones," Sam said, voice harsh. "I think I found a lead on how we can help Cas. Probably a weak one, but it's something."
Sam pulled off his sunglasses, gulping his black coffee. His eyes were bloodshot, white irises glinting pink. He looked ill, dark bruises limning the skin beneath his eyes, face pale, body language telling of the weakness breakdowns could bring. But he was standing.
To Dean, he'd never looked so strong, rebounding from his own pain for the greater good.
Coffee abandoned, Dean threw his arms around his brother, hugging him fiercely. "She'd be so proud of you right now, Sammy."
Sam embraced his brother for the first time in years. They'd fall, Winchesters always did, but they always got up, leaning on each other.