She just watched her son die.
And the funny thing is, he didn't even seem surprised about it, stepping in front of her and taking the pipe thrust into his gut with hardly a sound, like he walked in here expecting that to happen. It makes her wonder what these men have been through; if they are her sons, what happened to them.
All hunters are hard, but these two are different. They're hard but they're brittle. Like they've broken a few times and been clumsily welded back together.
It's not hard to guess. There are angels (angels!) trying to kill her, and the memory of a promise made to a demon, and he never did say what he'd come for.
I'm sorry, says the red-headed angel as she closes, and Mary's eyes flick over to one man – one son – curled in a fetal position with blood on his lips, and the other, gasping for air and his eyes hollow like holes.
Me too, she thinks, and almost wonders if this is better.