Chapter 1
Desperation
Old Town Cemetery. Rock Harbor, Maine.
December 12, 1993.
"Did you see your mother after she was dead?" Henry suddenly asked.
The question was a little personal and rather painful, but Mark somehow felt compelled to answer. "I wanted to, but they wouldn't let me."
Henry took another drag, blew out the smoke, and flicked the cigarette down into the well. Out of the corner of his eye, Mark watched the red ember disappear into the darkness. He didn't even hear it hiss.
"You should have made them let you look," Henry said. "It's very important. Nobody actually talks about death. That's why you have to investigate. It's scientific."
The talk of death and his mother made Mark feel very uncomfortable.
"It doesn't seem scientific to me," he said, hoping Henry would just drop the subject. Mark didn't like talking about his mother as dead. He didn't like thinking of his mother as dead.
"What did your mom look like the last time you saw her?" Henry asked.
Mark winced visibly and looked into his cousin's eyes. Henry looked right back with almost no expression on his face. He wasn't grinning or leering or anything. It just seemed like he was curious. Still, Mark wished he wouldn't talk about it.
"She looked kind of pale," Mark said reluctantly.
"Kind of pale?" Henry frowned. "When Richard drowned in the bathtub, I got a real good look."
Mark felt his eyes widen in surprise. "What?"
"He was completely blue," Henry said, circling the rim of the well and stopping directly opposite Mark. "You should have looked at your mother's eyes and lips and touched her skin to see what it felt like. You know, hot... cold... or whatever."
Her eyes? Her lips? Without warning, and without wanting to in the least, Mark pictured it for a second. His mother dead. Her open, glassy eyes. Her pale, bloodless lips. No, it was awful, too awful.
"NO!" Mark shouted. It was too much to think about. Too horrible. He was enraged at Henry's seeming insensitivity. "Don't you dare talk like that again," he snapped angrily.
"Hey, don't get all mad, I was just trying to be scientific," Henry said, feigning innocence.
Mark fixed him with a fierce glare. "Then talk about something else. Anything else," he growled.
"Ooh, temper, temper," Henry said sarcastically. "And if I don't?"
Mark's fists clenched at his sides. Henry wasn't backing down. He continued glaring at his cousin. This was, in no certain terms, open for discussion. Talking about his mother in such a horrible context...A context of death.
It was almost too much for Mark. And he wanted Henry to know that.
They stood there, face to face, in silence for several seconds before Mark responded.
"I'll beat the daylights out of you," Mark said. He walked the rim and stood directly in front of Henry. Then he gave him a shove. Not too hard. Just enough to make him think twice about what Mark had said.
Henry flat out scoffed, unwavering. "I'd love to see you try. Then I'd throw you down there." He nodded down at the black hole below them.
The next thing he knew, Mark had raised his clenched fists. His emotions had become a swirling rage inside him. He almost didn't care about the well – or anything else for that matter. Least of all Henry. Mark just wanted him to shut up about his mother.
Henry raised his fists, too. For one, long moment, again filled with a cold silence, the boys just stared at each other.
There was something so still and empty about Henry's eyes.
Then Henry suddenly dropped his fists and smiled sheepishly. "Hey, look. I'm sorry. That was real dumb of me. I know how I'd feel if I lost my mom." He paused to let that sink in.
Mark hesitated.
"Friends?" Henry asked.
Mark watched as his cousin extended a hand. Once again he felt his anger drain away. When Henry smiled and acted friendly like that, it was almost impossible not to like him. Mark unclenched his fists and offered a hand to Henry.
They shook. Mark wondered if his cousin might try to do something funny, like giving his hand a little pull, pretending to yank him off-balance and into the well. But Henry let go of his hand and they both hopped back onto the ground.
A moment later, and for the rest of the day, Henry was acting as though nothing had ever happened.
That night Mark tossed and turned in bed. He was still thinking about what Henry had said. About his mother being dead. Truly dead.
There simply was no other explanation. Despite what Mark had tried to think, the evidence to the contrary was far too much to ignore. His mother was gone.
NO! No, she's not! He screamed into his head.
A calm, seemingly rational voice answered. She is.
No! I won't believe it! I won't!
Accept it, the other voice said. It was his own, but it sounded...different somehow.
No!
Just great...Now he was arguing with himself.
Mark cried softly into his pillow. She was gone. Dead...
But what if she could come back somehow? Really, truly come back.
Then Mark thought of a book that Alan Parks had loaned him once. A crazy thing. The story had dealt with someone bringing a loved one back from the dead. But that was a zombie book. Zombies didn't exist.
But if there was any chance of being with his mother again...
It was a thought far too tantalizing for him to ignore.
Mark shoved that train of thought aside for the moment.
Though rather fun for the most part, the day hadn't been without its stressful moments.
Fortunately, Henry had promised him that tomorrow would be better. He sincerely hoped his cousin would be right.
A/N: This story will use some of the text from the 1993 novel adaption of TGS by Todd Strasser. And it takes place in an AU (diverging from both TGS and the real world).
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or The Good Son.