Some spoilers for In The Beginning, but other than mostly just the first two seasons. Title taken from a song of the same name by Little Charlie & the Nightcats. Some slight, implied Sam/Dean.
When she hears Sammy's soft cries, Mary slips out of bed. She's halfway across the bedroom when her tired eyes fall upon the calendar, sees the date and a long forgotten memory sparks at the back of her mind.
Don't get out of bed. Promise me, you won't get out of bed.
Mary falters, thinks about the young man she'd met before her parents' death. She remembers the raw anguish in his face and goes back to her bed. She sits there, alone, with her knees folded up to her chest and her arms wrapped around them.
Sammy continues to fuss, and it's almost enough to pull her from the bed again. Fear grips her and she knows, knows that something is wrong, that Sammy is in danger. But, she stays.
No matter what you hear, no matter what you see. Don't get out of bed.
She stays, until the first light of dawn brightens the horizon, and then she runs down the hall, throws open Sammy's nursery door. She finds nothing the matter. In fact, she has to smile.
At some point, Dean must have woken to Sammy's cries, because he lays there, curled up next to his brother in the crib. Mary brushes the tips of her fingers through his soft hair and leans down to kiss both their cheeks.
Her precious little boys, safe and sound and sleeping like angels.
Mary goes back to bed.
John lets her sleep late into the morning and when Mary wakes again, she can hear Sammy crying. She follows the sound downstairs, to the kitchen where John has Sam in his high chair. Sammy's crying, face red and wet with tears and snot, squirming and twisting in his seat, and John is pleading with him, please, son, just eat a little.
Mary smiles, fondly. Dean had been such an easy baby, but Sam fights them both at every turn and it drives John crazy. Runs him right ragged, their little Sammy does.
Dean is sitting at the table, arms crossed and scowling at his plate of burnt bacon and runny eggs (John wasn't the best cook, bless him, but he'd tried). Mary kisses the top of his head, brushes his hair from his face, "Dean, what's wrong, baby?"
"Daddy took Sammy away from me. And Sammy don't like mushy prunes. He don't wanna eat them, but Daddy says he hasta."
Mary looks at the jar of baby food in John's hand, which, sure enough, is prunes. "And what would Sammy like, instead?" Mary asks Dean.
Dean cocks his head to the side and Mary glances over at Sammy, who has gone still, looking directly at Dean. He doesn't cry, doesn't blink, just stares at Dean, who stares right back.
"He wants applesauce." Dean finally answers, sounding sure and confident.
"Does he?" Mary is amused, "Well, John, you heard Dean. Sammy wants applesauce."
John sighs in defeat, gets up and gets a jar of applesauce from the pantry while Mary wipes the prunes from Sammy's face, hands, and high chair. When John returns, Sam doesn't fight him a bit, just accepts each spoonful happily.
Dean beams at Mary and picks up his fork to eat.
Mary adores how close her boys are. At the park, she watches an older boy push a littler one down, hears the boys' mother scolding them, "Lucas! You be nice to your brother; don't push him like that."
Dean watches the whole thing, too. His expression is so serious, stern and disapproving, and he pulls Sammy closer to him. Sammy goes willingly –he listens only to Dean, always to Dean –and looks up at him, eyes wide and smile wider. Neither say anything, but Sammy's smile grows until he's beaming and a second later he stands up on his toes to kiss Dean's cheek.
He runs away towards the slide, Dean hot on his heels.
Mary sometimes thinks it's odd, that they don't often speak to one another, but perhaps that is just a token to their closeness. They seem to communicate just fine, with looks and touches and open affection, even without the words. It isn't anything to worry about, she tells herself.
Nothing to worry about.
Sam had always been smart, Mary and John both knew that better than anyone, but when Sam starts school, it becomes obvious just how smart he really is. Sammy, at five years old, can read and write, count and spell, add and subtract and even multiply.
The school skips him up a grade, and then a few more, until Sam's in the same grade as Dean. Both boys adore school, after that, and Mary no longer has to spend the mornings fighting with Sam to get him into his coat. They get outstanding grades and their teachers comment on how well the boys work together, how they're delights in class, quiet and hard working.
Mary and John beam and preen like peacocks, proud of their boys.
Mary sometimes worries over Sam, who always looks so tiny compared to the other kids. She worries if he's teased, four years behind his classmates, if he has trouble making friends. But, Sam seems happy, always laughing and smiling next to Dean.
Years pass, and teachers bring up other things when they talk. Things like, Dean and Sam are such sweet boys, but they're very quiet. Words get thrown around, like co-dependent and unhealthy attachment. Try as she might, Mary can't think of a time when Dean's mentioned a friend from school. When they talk about school, it's always this funny thing Dean did at recess or the picture Sam made in art class.
Suddenly, Mary has an all knew array of worries. She worries about how Dean has no interest in playing sports because Sammy's still too little to play. She worries about the way Sam sneaks across the hall at night to sleep with Dean and thinks maybe they're getting a little old for that. Sammy's still little, still eight years old and innocent for all of his intelligence, but Dean is almost thirteen, now. Nearly a teenager.
John agrees and takes Dean aside to talk, leaving Mary to deal with Sam. Sam frowns, crosses his arms and scowls at her, fury in his eyes and shaking his little body. He yells and screams, too. He doesn't want to make other friends, he doesn't want his own room, he just wants Dean. Mary stands firm, doesn't let Sam's anger or tears change her mind.
Sam doesn't speak to her or John all of Christmas and when they go back to school, Dean and Sam are in different classes.
Both boys' grades plummet and the school counselor sets up appointments with them each twice a week. She talks to Mary, too, tells her they both just need time to adjust to the change. Everything will be alright, just give it a little time.
John makes sure Sam stays in his room at night, but both boys always come down at breakfast with circles under their eyes like they haven't slept in weeks. They don't eat, don't speak. When they're together, they just look at one another for hours, fingers locked together and touching as much as they can. Sam cries nightly when John drags him away to shower and go to bed, while Dean sits dully on the couch and stares at the stairs.
They grow thin and fragile, withering away before Mary's eyes until she can't remember the last time Dean smiled or Sammy laughed. She takes them to real therapists, wants nothing more than to help her boys.
She thinks about her daddy's journal, tucked away in a chest in the attic. There have to be answers somewhere.
It's been a year, and the boys are just ghosts of themselves. Mary can't stand it any longer. She knows John wouldn't approve, but she doesn't plan on telling him, either.
It's been years since Mary has been to see Missouri.
"Well, get in here, girl. Let me get a look atcha."
Mary smiles and steps into the house, Dean and Sam wearily stepping in after her. Missouri eyes her from head to foot and then looks at the boys. Her eyebrows skyrocket.
"Mary Elizabeth Campbell, what took you so long? Can't you see these boys are hurting?"
Mary ducks her head, doesn't bother to correct Missouri on the name. She isn't here are John Winchester's wife, she's here as the daughter of Samuel Campbell, the daughter of a hunter.
"What can you tell me, Missouri?"
Missouri looks hard at the boys, and Dean shifts protectively in front of Sam. Sam glares at her under Dean's arm, a severe look for his soft, cherubic face.
"Not a lot, Miss Mary. This ain't my cup of tea but what you're dealing with here is a binding. There's a man up north, Pastor Jim, who'll be able to help you more than I."
Mary takes down an address and doesn't meet Dean's eyes as she ushers them back into the car. She drives straight out of town, ignores Dean when he asks her where they're going.
John is going to be furious
Pastor Jim sends her farther north, to a man named Bobby Singer. If anyone has answers, it'll be Singer. No one knows more about the arcane and the supernatural than him.
Mary prays he does. She's running out of things to tell John.
Mary had stopped and bought the boys clothes, as they had nothing more than what was on their back when they left. She bought the cheapest things she could find for herself. Pastor Jim had given her a gun, loaded her up with salt and shells and some holy water and told her to be careful. Her small, impromptu arsenal is tucked away in the trunk of the Impala, John's prized baby.
Bobby Singer runs a junk yard, meets her on the porch with a dog at his feet. He looks at her, eyes shaded by the bill of an old trucker's hat, and then flickers his eyes over her boys. Finally he nods and steps aside to let her in.
He's got a dog inside, a fearsome looking mutt that jumps up on Sammy and licks his face. Dean watches it carefully and Mary knows he'll keep Sam safe, so she leaves them be and goes into the other room with Singer.
Singer hands her books on bindings and takes a stack for himself. They spend three days reading up all they can before they need to bring the boys into it. Singer –Bobby, he corrects her sternly on day three –mixes rosemary, acicia, and barley in a bowl. All they need is the boys' blood, and it'll tell them about their bond.
Dean lets them prick his finger without a fuss, but Sam yells when the needle nears his skin and kicks Bobby in the chin. Bobby swears, grabs Sam by the scruff of the neck, and has to dodge a punch from Dean.
"Dean," Mary exclaims, unable to believe that her precious boy would try and strike someone that was trying to help, "Dean Winchester, stop it right now!"
"Leave Sammy alone," Dean yells right back, throws his weight onto Bobby's arm and breaks the man's hold on Sam. Sam immediately runs for the stairs, but Mary grabs him first. She holds him still and pricks his finger, collects a few droplets of blood into a vial.
Sam stares at her in betrayal as Dean wraps him up in a hug and glares at Mary. "C'mon, Sammy. Let's go upstairs."
They have the blood, though, and Bobby drips the blood onto the herbs and watches the smoke that rises with a hiss.
It's an acrid shade of yellow, streaked with black and red and it smells something foul.
Mary gets her answers.