Dyed in the Wool
The SUV won't be hard to find, but it won't be easy to spot, either. Dean straightens from his lean against the bumper and shakes out his swollen, throbbing left hand, sends a spray of blood drops to the pavement. His chest twinges with each drawn breath, his jaw aches and his right ear is on fire.
Brass knuckles. BITCH.
Dean drags a probably-clean bandana from his back pocket as he moves gingerly back to the Impala – to his mother – and winds it around his alternatingly numb and screaming hand. The material feels coarse and unwelcome against the open skin of his wounded knuckles and his fingers shout their protest as he wraps them tightly together.
He uses the car door to assist his crouch to put himself at eye level with his mom, needs it to keep from collapsing to the road in a beaten heap. "You okay?"
"No."
He's not unaccustomed to the feeling, but the acknowledgement, the raw honesty and vulnerability…that's something new.
"I never wanted this for you and Sam."
There are pains worse than split skin and broken bone, and it's killing Dean to witness his mother feeling each and every one of them as her wide eyes peruse his bruised face.
Dean swallows roughly. This isn't just a new page they've turned; it's a brand new fucking playbook.
"I think we make the world a better place," he tells his mother, trying to make her feel better about events and choices she didn't have the chance to be a part of. "I know we do."
She doesn't look entirely convinced, but enough. Dean takes that as his cue and reaches up, uses the open car door as leverage to haul his sore, battered body upright. He hisses, a white-hot pain igniting in his wounded left hand as he abuses it further with the burden of his weight.
"Dean?"
"I'm okay," he says automatically, folding the hurt hand against his chest.
She tilts her head. "Your dad used to do that."
"Do what?" he asks without pause, still immediately curious anytime he hears your dad.
"'I'm okay,'" she returns, gently mocking. She sits a little straighter and offers her hand, trembling noticeably a moment ago, but now steady. "Let me see."
"I'm – "
"Dean."
His mouth quirks as he sinks carefully back into a crouch, extending his left arm. "Yes, ma'am."
She unwraps the bandana, already spotted with blood, and her hands are warm and gentle. A world away from the rough, calloused care of John Winchester, but just as sure. It tugs at that part of Dean that never quite recovered right, losing both of them.
A small smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. "You know, when John found he was gonna be a father, he was so excited. Insisted on making your crib himself," she says, trailing light fingertips over Dean's swollen, bloody fingers. "Nothing but the best for his child." She raises her eyes to meet his, and her smile is bittersweet, full of a longing for the life their family never had together.
Her fingers glide with practiced ease over bruised and busted fingers. "Your father made a mess out of the garage. One morning, he tripped over one of the pieces of wood he'd left lying around, split his head right open." She hits a particularly tender spot and Dean curses, reflexively tries to pull his hand back into his own possession but she holds it firmly. "The whole way to the hospital, he just kept telling me 'I'm okay, it's fine.' Twelve stitches."
"Wouldn't even crack the top twenty," Dean comments, gritting his teeth.
Her eyes bounce up to his face, with a sudden, deep pain that has him instantly regretting his words.
She absorbs the sting of the implications and drops her attention back down to his hand. "Make a fist?"
He does, sends fire and ice all the way up into his elbow.
She flattens his fingers against her palm, studies them carefully. "I don't think there are any breaks."
"There's not," he confirms tightly.
"First aid kit in the trunk?"
"Mom." The word slides out with an ease that strikes at Dean, burrows into his gut and settles like a weight. Not necessarily uncomfortable, but foreign enough that he's not quite sure what to do with it. He clears his throat. "Mom, I'm okay – "
"Castiel?" she calls, somewhat hesitantly and glancing at Dean to see if she'd botched it. "First aid kit from the trunk, please."
Cas has his loyalties, but this is Mary Winchester, and he materializes behind Dean with the kit, offering her the supplies.
"Don't be a baby," she chides when he tries to pull away from the sting of the antiseptic, and he's left without a retort.
She cleans the blood away and wraps his bruised hand in fresh gauze. It's going to hurt like hell for a while but Dean can't seem to care, watching with a vice around his heart as his mother reads the instructions on one of the chemical ice packs, chewing at her lower lip.
"Mom," he says gently, placing his hurt hand over hers. "I'm good. Thanks." He pauses, then shifts forward. "But you're bleeding," he notes, carefully flexing his stiff, aching fingers.
She raises a hand to probe tentatively, distractedly at the gash on her forehead, gives him a warm smile as she presses a wad of clean gauze to the spot. "I'm okay."
Dean drags the gauzes from her hand with a soft chuckle, dabs gently at the cut on his mother's temple until the blood is cleaned away. "Maybe I didn't just get it from Dad, huh?"
Her smile melts away, face hardening like she's remembering who she really is. Who they need her to be. She nods tightly. "Let's go get your brother."
Author Note: I thought the premiere was really solid, and was IMMEDIATELY struck for a wanting for this moment. *attack hugs Nova42, for adding a couple of PERFECT lines, and for the title*