Mother Mary
AN: Sometimes I just remember this whole show started with one death…isn't that just crazy? Also I bent timelines a bit; I know children generally go to Pre-k when they're four…but…shhh. Daycare, yes? Or something. xD
Disclaimer: I'm in my pajamas writing fanfiction. Fairly certain I don't own Supernatural.
Summary: Dean remembers soft hands and warm kisses. Oneshot.
Four years wasn't nearly enough to time to get to know his mother and did not supply enough memories to last a lifetime. Dean remembered how his mother's apple pie was to die for and no matter what recipe he would try in the Men of Letters bunker, he could never quite remake it.
He could recall the nights when she'd kiss his forehead and hum 'Hey Jude' just quiet enough for the two of them to hear; like it was a secret between mother and son for their ears only. She would tell him angels watched over him as she turned off the lights after checking under his bed for monsters that the child swore lurked in the darkness. She didn't like to read books out loud as bedtime stories, instead preferring to weave together her own tales of heroes and magic and daring rescues.
Dean, on lucky nights, dreamt of happy summer days where he'd swing on the tire swing attached to the large oak tree in their family's yard and see Mary waving him from the porch and mouthing 'come in!' for fresh lemonade and sandwiches (with the crusts removed).
He could still see his father taking him to the park and teaching him to throw the football that was too large for his tiny fingers and look over at his mother and watch her wave enthusiastically and give him a beam of approval. Afterwards she would push him on the swings, but that was before she was visibly pregnant with his little brother.
(Somehow, the almost-four year old was absolutely certain it would be a boy, baffling the older Winchesters because they never got an ultrasound to discover the gender of their second child. It was even more shocking when he was right, and when Mary asked Dean how he knew, the child only shrugged and said "I knew I'd be getting a little brother.")
When they brought little Sammy home Dean would call to mind how his mother cradled the baby like he was the most valuable treasure she ever laid eyes on. She then pulled her firstborn into her lap and let Dean hold his brother whilst she supported Sam's head and told Dean how they would take care of the baby and how Dean used to be that small too. Mary smelled like cinnamon and apple and the blonde hair tickling the back of his neck was soft and silky, reminding Dean of the fur of his babysitter's well-groomed cat.
He would come home from school with papers crinkled in tightly clenched fists, waving the pictures and crafts around so quickly that there was no way the images could be discerned yet Mary would always smile and clap excitedly, pinning the projects to the fridge with a bright red magnet. (Dean could never think of what any of the crafts looked like, too focused on his mother's bright blue eyes alight with pride and pure content.)
But above all Dean remembered the little things, all the hugs and displays of affection that would randomly be granted to him by his beautiful, lovely mother. The experienced, tender hands that would tend to his boo-boos and plaster Batman band-aids on skinned knees and elbows. He remembers those warm kisses and soft hands even though by some standards they were considered easily overlooked or mundane.
Dean remembers a special kind of happiness and relationship with his mother that Sammy would never get to experience, and a woman who John Winchester would never be able to embrace again. Dean remembers what they fought for as they were growing up, and somehow it didn't matter as much as his family that was still alive and breathing.