Innocence

Mary didn't realize she had stopped breathing until Sam said something.

"Mom? Are you okay?"

Mary let the paper fall to the table, folding her scarred and calloused hands in her lap, to keep Sam from seeing the trembling.

"Bit of bad news," she said. "Don't worry about it, Sam."

Her son slid into the motel's other cheap chair, the plastic creaking as he sat. "Mom," he said warningly. "Last time you lied to me, I had to come in and save you from a pack of werewolves. Are we doing this again?"

Mary sighed, dropping her head into her hands. "Sammy, I don't know about this one."

Her son's sigh forced her to look up, face him straight on. "Mom," he said softly.

"Your father," Mary said jerkily. "It's . . . news. About him."

She hadn't told Sam much about his father. Just that she had left him to keep him safe. Consequently, Sam was always egging her on, trying to get her to give up some information about his other parent. "What about him?" Sam asked eagerly. "Are we going to see him?"

Mary shook her head. "I'm sorry, Sam," she whispered. "He's dead."

Sam's face went blank. "Dead?"

It hit Mary all over again. Some type of pain—like being stabbed by a knife—twisted inside her gut. She bit back a sob, her teeth sinking into her lower lip hard enough to bleed.

"I'm sorry, Mom." Sam got up from his chair, lanky arms encircling her. Mary clung to him, allowing herself for a moment to grieve.

"I'm sorry you never got to meet him," she murmured. "It wasn't right."

Sam drew back. "I understand," he said. "We had to protect him."

Mary tried to smile, but only managed to pull one edge of her mouth up. "I suppose so. Seems like I failed."

"How'd he die?" Sam narrowed his eyes. "Was it supernatural?"

"I don't know," Mary admitted.

Sam stood. "So we go and see," he declared. A second later, and he retreated a little. "Unless . . . it'd be too . . . um—"

"Painful?" Mary finished for him. "Yes, I suppose it would be. I've had my guts spilled, Sammy, trust me, I'll be fine."

Sam vaulted across the motel bed, snagging his duffel. "Impala gassed up?"

"Not you."

Sam froze, and then turned. "What?"

If Sam had any fault, it was his impetuousness. Just like John. Mary pushed past the bite of pain and straightened. "I'll go myself."

"Why?" he demanded.

His propensity for questions, however, came from Mary.

"Sam, you know that you've always been in danger," she explained. "If you return to Lawrence, who knows if it will trip some kind of booby trap."

Sam's eyes lit up. "Lawrence?"

Mary swore to herself and turned to do her own packing. "You aren't coming," she said. "That's final."

The sullen silence that met her declaration was a painful return to Sam's early teenage years. Mary sighed, letting her hands rest on her favorite shotgun.

"I'll be back in two days," she said softly. "Your job at the grocery store earns you enough to get food?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I'll see you soon." She zipped up her bag—it paid to be ready to flee at a moment's notice—and turned to face Sam. "We'll talk, after this," she said, inadequately. "I promise."

Sam's poker face gave away nothing—Mary had taught him too well. She hugged him briefly and turned away before her sentimentality got the best of her.

She had a funeral to crash.

Sam grumbled to himself. Mom always done his ties—he had never figured out how to do it himself. The funeral was about to start, and Sam needed to get inside now or he would be noticed by his mother. She had an uncanny way of knowing exactly where he was at all times, and she would be pissed with him for sneaking after her.

"Darn it." The knot was askew again.

"Dude, you okay?"

Sam looked up, annoyed at himself for not paying attention to his surroundings. "Yeah," he muttered.

"Want a hand?"

The guy looked only a couple years older than Sam; why would he be at a funeral for an older man like Sam's father?

"That's okay," he replied.

"Seriously," The guy flicked his own neat tie. "I'm a pro."

Sam sighed. "Fine. It's just . . . um, yeah. Never figured out how to do these things. It's awkward."

The man handled Sam's tie expertly. "Yeah, that's how it goes. Everything about funerals is awkward."

The hands around his throat made Sam want to lash out. He swallowed, tilting his chin the other direction. "How did you know the deceased?" he asked.

For a moment, the guy's hands paused. "I could ask you the same question," he returned smoothly.

"My mom knew him."

"In the Marines?"

Sam blinked. His father had been in the military? "Yeah," he lied.

"There you go." The man stepped away, offering a half-smile. "We better get in there."

Sam nodded, easing his hand off his concealed knife; someone's hand around his throat made it necessary to be ready. "Thanks," he said.

"No problem."

Sam slunk to the side as soon as they entered, catching sight of his mother's curling blonde hair in the middle of the room. Thankfully, the guy didn't follow, and Sam sat down by himself in the back row.

The preacher stood up and started off with his piece. John Winchester's casket was open in the front—Sam would have to wait for the end, and for his mom to leave.

"And now, his son Dean will say a few words."

Sam jerked his head up, staring at the pulpit area. Had John remarried? Or been married before he married his mother?

"If my dad were here today, he'd be rolling his eyes at all of this." The guy who had fixed Sam's tie leaned against the pulpit, a wry smile on his lips. "Honestly, if you know—" Sam caught the minute flinch that was hidden a second later with a tilt of the head "—knew him, you're probably surprised we're even holding this thing. But getting to see all of you, and knowing the place my dad made in your lives, it means a lot to me. So thank you. And Dad—" he turned to the coffin. "—I'm gonna miss you."

There was a polite silence as the guy sat down. Sam glanced over at his mother, but the back of her head told him nothing.

The funeral was short and respectful, as a couple more people stood and told memories of John, or talked about his accomplishments. Sam mostly kept his gaze focused on his mom, glancing every now and then at John's son. When the funeral finished and his mother stood, he ducked down, waiting until she walked out before casually ambling up to the front.

John, according to what Sam had heard, had died of a heart attack. The peacefulness of his expression showed nothing of a violent end, as far as Sam could tell.

"Did you really think you could sneak past me?"

His mom's sardonic tone made Sam's shoulders drop. He turned to face her. "Sorry," he mumbled.

She sighed, deeply. Sam glanced through his bangs at her and saw her smile a little. "I should've known better," she said. "You did inherit my stubbornness."

Sam glanced back at the corpse. The strong features that he didn't see in himself at all. "Are you okay, Mom?"

"No," she said honestly. "But I will be."

Sam wrapped an arm around her, feeling his mother lean slightly into the embrace.

"Are you two coming to the reception?"

John's son was watching them curiously. Sam hadn't heard him coming up behind them. He really had to work on his environmental awareness.

"I don't think we can make it," Sam responded politely. His mom said nothing, and he glanced at her curiously.

"Are you okay?" she asked the guy, almost abruptly.

The flicker of pain that Sam had noticed before was back and then disappeared. "I'm fine. Lots of paperwork to be done, but that can't be helped."

Sam's mom nodded, slowly, and he could feel her trembling, a little. "Mom?" he whispered. "Are you okay?"

The guy moved forward. "You're looking a little pale," he noted. "Why don't you sit down?"

"I'll be fine."

"Seriously, Mom. I haven't seen you like this since—"

"Dean, are you coming?" An older woman approached and stood next to Dean, putting her hands on her hips, dark skin crinkling around her eyes. "No getting out of talking to everyone, kiddo, you know that."

"I'm coming, Missouri."

Sam caught how his mother's eyes sharpened at the name.

In that same moment, the woman named Missouri took a step towards them. Sam's hand went to his knife.

"You folks okay?" Missouri asked neutrally.

"We're fine," Sam echoed his mother from before. "We'll be going, now."

"Dean," his mother murmured.

John's son looked surprised to be noticed again. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Do you have any other family?"

Small talk? Now? Sam wanted to drag his mother out of this tense web of interactions that he didn't understand before he started cutting some people.

The guy's smile was small and sad. "Just me, now."

"What about your mother?"

Sam blinked, thrown. Dean looked thrown as well, before his face darkened.

"My mother ran off years ago, abandoning my dad," he told her coldly. "I want nothing to do with her."

Sam felt his mother cringe away from Dean in his arms. And he understood, suddenly, and horribly. This man in front of him was Mary's son. Well, other son.

As soon as the shock passed, anger surged up to replace it.

"Don't speak like that," he said.

"Dean . . ." Missouri murmured.

Dean ignored her and focused in on Sam. "You don't know me, kid," he growled. "And I'll say what I want about that bitch."

Sam punched him.

Dean had been having a rather crappy day.

Never mind the fact that his dad was dead and had left Dean with nothing. Giving a speech in front of a bunch of his dad's old crony's hadn't been great either, and Dean hated wearing a suit.

Getting punched in the face, though, had been a surprise.

"What the—"

"You watch your mouth," the kid snarled at him.

Dean bristled. "You come to my dad's funeral and—"

"Dean," Missouri murmured.

"Not now, Missouri."

A new voice interrupted them. "You look just like your father."

Dean had almost forgotten about the woman—presumably, the kid's mother. He spared her a glance, keeping most of his attention on the floppy-haired boy. "Okay, lady, right now is obviously not a great time."

"I am sorry to let you know this way," she continued, "but there's no good way to say this. I am your mother."

The same shuddery feeling Dean had felt when the doctor told him his dad hadn't made it passed through him again. The kid also seemed half-surprised, turning back to his mother.

"So he's my—"

She nodded at him, turning back to face Dean. "Dean, when you were four, I left with Sam."

Missouri started forward, her hand settling on Dean's shoulder. "Sit down before you fall over," she said kindly.

"I don't understand."

The blonde-haired woman—Dean's mother?—stood. "I know this isn't ideal. And I—I'm sorry for—"

"You left me," Dean said, softly. "You left us. Why—"

The woman visibly shrank, eyes going dull. "I made choices to keep you safe," she whispered. "I did what I had to do."

Dean advanced on her. "Yeah? What kind of flimsy excuse is that?"

The kid stepped in Dean's path. His hazel eyes were dark and protective. "That's enough," he growled.

"You're one to talk. You're the ones crashing my dad's funeral for no reason."

The woman made a soft sound. "He was my husband," she said. "And you're my son."

Dean met her eyes—green like his—and said, "I'm not your son."

She slumped back. The kid's arm went around her, shielding her from Dean's view. There was something near hate in his eyes.

"Oh, enough of this nonsense!" Missouri shoved the two of them apart, taking Dean's arm. "Now, we have a reception to attend, and Dean you will be perfectly respectable for your father's sake, and the two of you will . . ." Missouri's voice trailed off. For the first time since Dean had known her, Missouri seemed uncertain.

"We'll go," the woman said. "We never should have come. I'm sorry."

She strode out, leaving the kid staring at Dean, and then at the corpse behind him in the coffin. He seemed to be wavering between anger and sorrow.

"I am . . . sorry," he bit out. "Goodbye."

Dean sagged against Missouri's arm as they left. Missouri was supposed to be psychic, though Dean had never been certain if she actually was. At the very least, she was perceptive. "Were they lying?" he asked.

"I know you don't want to hear this," Missouri told him, "but she wasn't. Though that kid had no idea what was going on."

Dean barked out a laugh that echoed through the church's rafters. It was a hollow sound.

"Let it go for now," Missouri suggested, "and we'll talk about this later, okay?"

Dean nodded and steeled himself. He would get through this. Then he could figure out what the hell had just happened.

A/N: Hey guys! It's taken me a little while to even come up with something I want to write . . . imagination's been struggling. Even though I'm not sure where this story will end up, I thought it best to go ahead and start posting in order to force myself to keep going. Anyway, thanks for reading, and let me know what you think! :)