Mary
A/N: Based on the final scene of the season 11 finale and snippets of interviews with Samantha Smith. My take on the moments after Dean met Mary in the woods. No copyright infringement intended.
She recognizes him immediately. Of course, he's taller than when she last saw him, curled up beneath his race car comforter, sleepy green eyes staring up at her with love. This man standing before her looks strong, and yet haggered, tired: he's road weary. But there is no mistake that he is her son. Even before Dean calls for her, Mary knows. He is the one whose scraped knees she soothed with Band-Aids and kisses; whose illnesses were cured with cuddles and bowls of her own mother's tomato rice soup. The boy she had rocked to sleep with "Hey Jude" and had fed pb and j with the crusts cut off.
The boy who looks on the verge of breaking down before her very eyes.
"Mom?" her boy repeats, unsure. For perhaps she is a revenent, or some other supernatural being. Of course he should be questioning her presence. By some miracle, the woman who has been dead for nearly thirty-four years is somehow alive and well, and looking as if she has just stepped out of 1983. Hell, she is even still wearing the nightgown she had died in all those years ago (a garment she has every intention of tossing the minute she finds some decent clothes). Mary stands there, waiting for Dean to react in some way. Toss some holy water in her face, chant an exorcism , anything. And sure enough, after a moment, Dean pulls a silver knife from his jeans. He hesitates, clearly not wanting to test her. Is it because he doesn't want to hurt her, or because he is terrified she isn't real? For a moment, mother and son simply stare at each other in the darkness, until Mary at last extends her hand. "I'll do it, Dean," she says softly, and without hesitation, Dean hands her the weapon. He watches as Mary gently slides the sharp blade across her forearm, wincing slightly at the sting. Normal, red blood oozes from the wound, and Mary finds herself sighing with relief alongside her son. She is real. Somehow, she is alive and breathing and standing before the very son she had believed she would never see again.
"Mom," Dean repeats for the third time and hurries to her side, wrapping his arms around her. He finally allows the tears to fall, and he gently cries into her shoulder. He relishes in the touch of her skin; the smell of the apple scented shampoo he clearly remembers her using; the softness of her worn, cotten nightgown... the steady, rhythmic beating of her heart. And Mary finds herself crying too, her fingers tracing the face of her child. Her fingers caress his forehead, tangle through his close cropped hair, cup softly against the chin with its traces of a five o'clock shadow. "I've missed you so much, love," she whispers when they finally pull apart. Dean says nothing, only nodds, still overwhelmed. After a few minutes, however, Dean switches back into hunter mode. He pulls out his cell phone, Mary staring at the device and wondering how one could possibly make a telephone one could easily fit in your pocket. After a few minutes, he sighs in relief, and leads her through the forest until they reach the highway. Fortunately, they are still in Kansas according to the road signs, and the set off on foot in hopes of finding a car Dean can steal. They travel mostly in silence, with Dean occasionally asking how the hell he could be standing beside his long dead mother and Mary with no reasonable explanation. When after thirty minutes of solitude, the novelty having worn off, Mary asks of Sam. She sees the instant change in tone the minute she brings up her youngest and beams with pride; Dean has been taking care of him, as he'd promised his father the night of the fire. She grieves when she hears of Jessica, and how she died exactly as Mary had twenty-two years earlier; of how he gave up his studies, along with the hope of a law degree and a chance at a normal life, to live the life of the hunter. But there is more than grief; she smiles when he hears of the good times, of beers on the hood of the Impala, and evenings sharing food and stories with their surrogate father, Bobby Singer.
As the miles pass, Dean talks more, of prank wars and their socially awkward angel companion, Castiel. She mentions John, and her son's face falls. "He's gone," he says sadly, and leaves it at that. When Mary softly asks how, Dean changes the subject abruptly, instead goes back to sharing stories of pranks, interesting cases, the life on the road. He is once again a boy, excited to see his mother and eager to tell her all he can. It's endearing, and Mary smiles; though she intends to ask Sam about her husband when they reunite.
After a few hours they find an older model Ford Topaz, parked near the back in a grocery store lot. A few minutes later they're on the road, speeding towards Lebanon. She smiles faintly as Dean describes the Bunker and its amazing perks, but Mary can't help but feel uncomfortable. She doesn't belong in this world, hasn't really since 1973, when she made that fateful deal to bring John back from the dead. It isn't necessarily the new technology or social norms, or even the fact that the night dress she is still wearing is long out of style. She was out: had a husband and two children, a decade of Sunday night football and working a mundane nine to five job as a secretary before becoming a stay at home mom. Like Sam, she had tried so hard to put the job behind her, had nearly succeeded before that fateful November night. With a small sigh, Mary closes her eyes, allows the rumble of the Topaz' engine to lull her to sleep...
She is startled awake when she feels the car jerk suddenly to the shoulder of the road. Dean is talking on that strange device he calls a cell phone, eyes wide in horror. "How long ago, Cas? No, this can't be happening. Yeah, I'll be there soon. Just hang on, okay?" He disconnects the call and tosses the phone on the dashboard in frustration. "Fuck," he curses, slamming his hands against the wheel. When Mary questions what's wrong, she can see the fear in his green eyes. "Sammy's missing," he mutters.
XXX
Dawn is breaking when Dean finally parks his stolen car along side the Impala. Immediately he is running for the entrance, Mary at his heels. Greeting them is a tall man dressed in a tan trench coat, looking harried and anxious, but with obvious relief in his blue eyes. "Dean," the stranger says, overwhelmed with emotion, and pulls him into a slightly awkward hug. Her boy returns the embrace, but pulls away quickly, his thoughts not on reuniting with this man, but for his brother. "What happened, Cas?" he asks, and immediately Mary recognizes him as the angel who has saved her boys on more times than she would ever care to acknowledge. The angel describes seeing a young woman in the bunker who had banished him practically as soon as he walked in. Mary listens to the conversation, gathering as much information as she can, before the angel finally stops talking and looks at her.
"Mary Winchester," he says softly, and she nods, not once considering just how messed up this situation was. Only six hours earlier she was dead, and now she is discussing her youngest's possible abduction with an angel. She listens, adds her own theories and suggestions as if she had never left the hunt. It isn't until she blood covered sigil on the wall when she finally feels her stomach churn. Concerned, Dean leads her to his bedroom and she eases herself on the bed. For a moment she lays there, staring at the room her son has called his for nearly four years now; her eyes wander to Dean's stack of faded photos and she picks them up, gently leafing through them. She sees one of her and four-year old Dean, taken the summer before the fire; one of Dean holding baby Sam in his car seat, one of her and John. She smiles faintly, tracing her fingertips across her husband's face, and feels her throat tighten. He must be dead, or else Dean would not have glossed over any discussion of his wherabouts. Wiping her eyes, she flips to the next photo. It's one taken about nine or ten years earlier: Sam and Dean are leaning against John's old Impala, drinking beer and laughing. The tears fall freely now as she looks down at her missing son, and she returns the photo to Dean's nightstand. For several minutes she indulges in her grief, the emotions of the past few hours at last overcoming her. When Dean checks on her half an hour later, she is asleep.
XXX
He stands before her, so much taller than she'd expected, his face bruised and bloody, but somehow no worse for the wear despite behing held captive and tortured for three days. He stares at her, hazel eyes bright with unshed tears as he stares at the woman before her, the one he recognizes only through pictures and the few stories Dean has shared of her. She traces her fingers along the shape of his jawline, just as she had done that night in the woods when she reunited with Dean. For a moment, no words are spoken; and then Sam finally speaks, voice unsteady. "Mom?"
It is all the confirmation she needs. Mary pulls her baby in for a hug, tears freely streaming along her cheeks. As she feels her boy's steady heartbeat, her firstborn and angel companion watching from the side, Mary Winchester at last feels home.