Ave Maria.
Dean had heard it once, echoing off the vaulted ceiling of a cathedral.
Hail, Mary.
Hail, Mary.
Mary Winchester was a faint memory. An idolized, idealized, legend.
Ave Maria, gratia plena.
There were snippets of memory.
A loving hug after school.
A sandwich made just for him.
A reassuring kiss after John came home late, drunk and yelling, again.
Hail, Mary, full of grace
Dominus tecum.
Dean awoke one night,not long after Halloween, to smoke. Eyes watering, he stumbled down the hall to find his brother's nursery devoured by flames and his mother trapped in the center by a force that could not have been heaven-sent, screaming. Blood dripped from her abdomen.
The Lord is with thee.
Benedicta tu in muleribus.
She was beautiful.
That, Dean could remember. Her hair was soft blonde, her eyes a piecing green. When his tongue was loosened by alcohol, John used to spit venomously about the men who chased after his wife.
Blessed are you amongst women.
Et benedictus fructus ventris tui
She swore she would never raise her children the way they were raised.
Her youngest, the Boy King, the abhorrence, the half-demon.
Her oldest, the Righteous Manthe Son of Murder, the sword of Michael.
And blessed is the fruit of your womb.
Sancta Maria, ora pro nobis peccatoribus.
When John was sober, Mary's name was uttered rarely. To use it was to commit sacrilege.
What if Mary had lived. What if Dean's life didn't consist of sinning and killing sinners? Of everything being temporary - school, home, friends, lovers?
Holy Mary, pray for us sinners.
Nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae.
Since Mary's death, Dean has met his mother precious few times, and even then,only when he was close to death. He had begun to equate his mother with another, better life. One he could not hope to live here on earth.
So, when the hour had come, and he was drowning in his own blood, Dean wasn't surprised to see the smiling, familiar face of his mother.
"Mom?"
Now, and at the hour of our death.
Amen.