oOoOoOo
Bobby stood in the window looking at the small head catching the afternoon's sunshine. Sam had been sitting on the bottom step of the front porch since they arrived back at the house. The boy was scared and crying but didn't want to show Bobby. He gave the kid some space. He also left a can of orange soda in the shade of the top step. It sat there, sweating, and untouched. Bobby figured he would give the boy another half hour before he called him in. He didn't expect to hear anything from John or Mary anytime soon.
To use the time, Bobby returned to the library to work on his current case and research project: The Winchester Boys. John's disclosure that the photo of Sam had faded as though it never existed was a tricky one. He didn't doubt the man. How could he, seeing as it was that photo that kicked open the door to finding the boys? But it made no sense that it was gone now. So Bobby was backtracking, talking to anyone who saw the photo to see if that helped any.
Jenkins, the one who developed the film roll, claimed he hadn't noted anything odd with his machine when he fed the film into it and swore that regardless of the quality of the photos, he expected Bobby to pay for the rush job. Bobby hung up on him after a few choice words then returned to his notes. He got the number of the grocery store where John first spotted his boys. The assistant manager and resident numbskull, Chris, vaguely recalled talking to someone about the kid he called Oliver, but was not sure if he had seen a picture when he did. The nearly two weeks since they spoke was apparently a few too many bong hits ago to be a lucid memory.
The school inquiry was where things got interesting. Bobby located Sister Constance, the secretary/nun who maintained that the boy in the photo (and yes, she recalled it) did not attend her school. Her asserted ownership of the institution wreaked of being passed over for a Mother Superior posting in Bobby's mind. He next asked to speak to the nun who had given John the tip about the grocery store, Sister Gabriela. Sister Mother-Superior-Wanna-Be was tart with that request. Her response was definite and unwavering: There was no one employed at the school in any capacity named Gabriela.
"Balls," he said as he hung up the phone.
oOoOoOo
Sam shivered in the heat of the day. He sat on the bottom step and hugged his knees tightly. His stomach felt sick, and his head hurt. His eyes were all gummy, too. He used the sleeve of his T-shirt to wipe his nose.
He was afraid. It probably made him a baby, and Dean would tell him not to cry or people would think he was weak then try to mess with him, but Dean wasn't there. Dean was hurt.
Except Dean never got hurt, never even admitted it when he got sick. Even when Dean was sick, he never acted sick. Sam got sick sometimes, and he tried to be like Dean and not to act like it, but Dean always knew. He took care of Sam in those moments—stealing packs of crackers from the store and getting him water or soup out of the kitchen even when it was supposed to be locked and off-limits to the kids in the group home. Dean always said taking care of Sam was his job and something like a little padlock or no money weren't going to stop him from doing it.
Sam tried to make his job taking care of Dean, but his big brother never let him.
Sam scuffed his feet in the dirt. He kept thinking about what he saw earlier as he ran down the stairs when they were supposed to be going to the diner. He had washed his hands and changed his shirt, then he heard Bobby yell for his parents. Sam was just pulling his clean T-shirt over his head, feeling excited because they were going out to eat as a family. Dean had agreed to go and Sam was so happy that maybe his big brother was over being mad and worried about everything.
Then Sam heard Mom scream. His legs carried him down the stairs, jumping the last three to get to the bottom faster. He stumbled into the kitchen to see Dad hoisting Dean in his arms like a baby. Dean wasn't moving. Mom and crying, and Bobby grabbed his car keys and shouted something, but what Sam remembered most was that Dean didn't answer as Sam shouted his name.
Dean always answered when Sam yelled for him. Always.
Only, this time, he didn't. He didn't even look up.
In fact, he looked dead.
Sam's stomach flipped over at that thought but no matter what he did, he couldn't get the picture out of his head. And now, no one wouldn't let him see Dean. They were treating Sam like a baby. Dean did that and Sam hated it when he did. He twisted in his seat, feeling sweat rolling down his back, as he looked angrily toward the house. The door was closed, but the windows were open so he would hear when the phone rang. They promised they would call as soon as there was news, and they promised they would speak to Sam before Bobby.
If they didn't, Sam had a plan. Dean said he always had to have a plan, just in case. Well, Sam's plan was simple. He now knew the way to the hospital. If he didn't get a call by the time he thought he should, he was walking back into town and going to the hospital himself.
oOoOoOo
Two hours after Dean was taken to surgery, a graying man in his early 50s arrived. He wore surgical scrubs and a pair of glasses on a chain around his neck. He carried an overlarge envelop in his hands as he stepped into the room and held out his hand.
"Mr. and Mrs. Winchester?" he began. "I'm Dr. Burton. I performed the surgery on your son, Dean. He's doing well."
Both parents relaxed and clasped each other's hands in relief as Burton continued.
"He suffered a ruptured spleen which necessitated the removal of the organ," the doctor said. "The internal bleeding placed sufficient pressure on the chest cavity that it collapsed his left lung. Due to the extreme blood loss, he went into hypovolemic shock which stopped his heart." Mary gasped and pressed a shaking hand to her mouth as John squeezed her other hand tighter. "We restarted it once we clamped down the bleeding."
Burton reached a strong and warm hand forward and placed it on Mary's shoulder. He looked both parents firmly in the eye and offered them a tired but reassuring smile.
"He pulled through like a trooper," the doctor reported. "We're running a lot of tests to make sure there are no lingering side effects. So far, everything looks good. In fact, I wish I was as strong as this kid of yours."
"He'll bounce back from this?" John asked.
"I'm optimistic," Burton answered. "He's being moved to a room now. You should be able to see him in a few minutes after he is settled. Normally, he would go to the recovery room until he was fully out of the anesthesia, but he needs to be in a private room so we are bringing him directly to the critical care unit."
"Critical?" Mary asked, sitting up eager to go see her child. "You said the surgery went well."
"It did," Burton replied. "However, his heart did stop, and he lost a lot of blood. Add to that the compromised state of his immune system, and we're going to need to watch him carefully for the next 48 hours. His body has been through trauma and without his spleen, he's at risk for more infections."
"More?" John asked. "What's infections does he have now?"
Burton sighed. He expected this. Parents were usually the last to know with teenagers, he knew from experience.
"Has Dean complained of fatigue, fever, sore throat and a general sick feeling recently?" Burton asked.
Both shrugged. He'd been listless and cranky, but they assumed the behavior was due to the upheavals in his life.
"Dean has Mononucleosis, which caused his spleen to become inflamed and was the cause of the rupture," Burton explained oblivious to the reason for their blank and uncomfortable stares. "I wouldn't beat yourselves up as parents too much. He's a teenager, and school is about to let out for the summer so it's no surprise he didn't tell you he felt ill. What kid wants to ruin his vacation with being made to stay in bed? Now, in the interest of saving another parent from the day you are having, does Dean have a girlfriend right now or has he had one in the last few weeks?"
Again, both John and Mary shrugged. They had no way of knowing. John spoke up first.
"He didn't tell us about one," he replied in a calculated way. "His brother Sam would know; they're very close."
"Close as in share the same soda can close?" Burton asked.
John nodded as he recalled seeing Sam sipping from Dean's milkshake the night they stayed at Jim Murphy's home two weeks ago.
"You need to bring him in to be tested," Burton continued. "Mono can be passed through saliva, that's why I asked about a girlfriend. It's known as the kissing disease because that is a common way teenagers infect each other. In general, mono isn't dangerous. We don't treat the virus, we treat the symptoms and they go away on their own, but you have to be careful because as the body fights the disease, the spleen can become enlarged. A blow to the abdomen, no matter how slight, when the spleen is enlarged can result in a rupture as you found today."
John cringed. He had done this; he hadn't intended it, but he was the one who took the kid out back to spar. The doctor then sighed and pulled out an x-ray from the envelope he carried.
"Now, I noted no scars on Dean's chest during the surgery and even a few of those would not explain this," he said and held up an x-ray of Dean's rib cage.
"What the hell is that?" John gaped as he stared.
Small, intricate carvings covered Dean's ribs and sternum. They looked like Egyptian hieroglyphs to John. He looked to Mary, who appeared as bewildered and amazed as himself.
"We have no idea," Burton replied. "I considered sending a copy of the x-rays to a colleague of mine at Duke Medical, but frankly I'm certain he'll think it's a practical joke. I've been a doctor for 30 years, and I have never seen anything remotely like this."
Mary stared at the sigils, unlike any she had ever seen, and made a mental note (as if she could forget something like this) to get Bobby to lift the medical records and do his own research. Although the marks were etched into her son's bones, there was something about them that made her think of a pentagram and other protection symbols she knew. Despite their prevalence and placement, she did not feel they were sinister.
"Well, it's a hell of a mystery," Burton sighed and replaced the picture. "From the look of these scratches up close, they've been there for a long while and do not seem to be doing him any harm. For as medically fascinating as they are, my recommendation is pay them no attention, and frankly, I don't know what to tell you about them as I simply know nothing other than they exist."
Both parents nodded, dumbstruck on how else to respond. The important thing, both knew, was that Dean was recovering.
"Now, when you see Dean, you'll have to wear masks and a gown to keep the environment around him as sterile as possible until he's past these critical hours," Burton continued. "Once we get his white cell count back to reasonable levels, that precaution won't be necessary. Oh, and adults only allowed in the critical care unit so your other son won't be permitted to see his brother in there."
"Sam is going to want to see him," Mary offered. "John's right, they're very, very close."
"I'm sorry, the rules are absolute," Burton shook his head. "If Dean continues to improve, he'll be moved to another room. Your other son can visit him then. We're looking at 4 to 6 weeks of recovery from the surgery, which means a lot of bed rest and taking it easy. That means no summer camps or sports or frolicking with girlfriends, or whatever he does when school is out. He looks like he's an active kid so you'll need to lay down the law about resting. Now, the nurses will get you suited up to go see him. I'll be here for a while longer if you have any questions."
"Thank you," Mary said. "Oh, Doctor… I'm sure this is a very shallow question, but how much of a scar will he have?"
John looked at her oddly. She shrugged.
"I don't know how he'll react if he has a foot-long scar," she said. "He's a young teenager. I know it doesn't matter to us, but it might to him. He's… confident in himself. I just want to know if we need to prepare him for looking like he got into a fight with a chainsaw."
Burton nodded. It was not a shallow question. He had many parents gasp in horror and wonder about plastic surgery after their children had accidents that left zipper marks on their bodies. At least this one was asking upfront how to help the child deal with the mark rather than immediately thinking of putting him under the knife to make it go away with plastic surgery.
"It's four inches long in the middle of his abdomen," he said. "It will fade some with time, but he will always be able to see it. It's straight and will likely heal pink for a while. After that, it will fade to white most likely. He has a light complexion so that should help with the fading."
"He'll find a way to use it to his advantage," John offered and shrugged as both look oddly at him. "Scars attract attention—female attention. Call it a hunch, but I think he'll be fine with it eventually, Mary. Let's go see Dean and then we can call Sam."
oOoOoOo
The machines hummed and beeped quietly in the oppressive hush of the room. The rustle of the sterile gowns John and Mary were required to wear sounded harsh in the near silence. Mary walked quickly to the bedside and touched Dean's face, tears dripping from her eyes getting caught in the mask covering her mouth and nose.
He was pale and looked hollow. The smudges under his eyes were darker than ever and his freckles stood out prominently. He appeared much younger than his 14 years and as frail as he had the night he was born.
John heard Mary's shuddering breath as he held in his own. He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder then quickly embraced her as she turned and folded herself into him. She trembled as he held her and muttered reassuring words that echoed what the doctor had told them several minutes before they suited up to step into the room: Dean was going to be fine.
"What else is going to happen to them?" she wept.
John's heart ached for her. He was reeling from the shock of the emergency surgery and seeing his son in a hospital bed twice withing two weeks, but seeing his wife cry was nearly as hard. Mary cried when the boys first disappeared. She screamed and she sobbed and demanded answers and results. Then, she put on her warrior face again—the one she was raised to wear when faced with tragedy and adversity. Mary simply didn't cry anymore, not since someone stole her sons and took her heart in the process. John held his wife and felt her breaking in his arms.
A nurse entered the room to check the monitors and said Dean would be asleep for a while still. She recommended they prepare themselves for a long night if they were intending to remain. They would be allowed to go into the room for a few minutes at a time, but they could not stay in the room with Dean the whole time. John nodded, understandingly, and led Mary out.
They agreed, rather easily, to divide themselves between the boys. Mary would stay at the hospital mainlining coffee to watch over Dean. John would return to Bobby's to be with Sam. They parted with a promise that Mary would call as soon as Dean was awake or if anything happened before then. John felt confident it would not, but did not disagree. She was raw at that moment and a fight wouldn't accomplish anything. He privately commended himself for figuring that much out. In recent years, he had only reached those conclusions after the blow ups occurred.
oOoOoOo
Deep, colorful hues were seeping into the western sky as John parked the car in front of the house. He was barely out of the driver's seat when he was accosted by a small and formidable whirlwind of questions spewing from a skinny boy with a very determined and bitchy expression.
"You said you would call," Sam stormed. "You didn't call. Where is Dean? When can I see him? Is he really hurt? Did the doctors fix him? Where is Mom? Why didn't you call? Are you bringing me to see Dean? Why aren't you answering me?"
Rather than respond, John simply lifted the boy and hugged him tearfully and gratefully as he carried him to the house. Unlike the embrace with his brother hours earlier, Sam did not thrash or hit him to be let go. He also did not stop talking and asking questions.
"Why are you crying?" Sam asked, tears streaking down his reddened cheeks. "Is Dean dead? Where is he?"
"No, buddy," John assured him as he climbed the steps and entered the house. "Dean's not dead. He's going to be fine. The doctors had to do surgery so he's gotta stay in the hospital for a few days to heal and get medicine so he gets better. I didn't call because I was coming back here to tell you in person and see how you were doing. Your mom is going to stay with Dean tonight so it'll be just you, me and Bobby for dinner, okay?"
Bobby stood in the kitchen and nodded, appreciating the bare-bones update. Worry was etched deeply into the hunter's eyes.
"Can we go back to the hospital now so I can see him?" Sam asked as John put him down. "I'm ready to go right now. We don't have to wait."
John sighed and explained the no kids rule to Sam. He protested, loudly with another deluge of tears and a few colorfully disgruntled words he no doubt learned from his brother. He insisted he had to see Dean.
"Dean's not gonna like if they don't let me see him," Sam argued. "He can be a real pain when he doesn't get his way, just you wait. The doctors are not gonna want to take care of him if he gets mad at them. You have to let me go see him so that he behaves. He's gonna want to know where I am, and I need to see him."
The second part of that statement was the real issue, John knew. Sam had never spent a night without his brother at his side. The little boy might be more accepting of the strangers who he now knew as his parents, but his confidence seemed to ebb without his older brother there to reassure him. That added to the child's extreme worry over Dean and was draining to the boy.
"As soon as he's awake and feels up to it, we'll have him call you," John said, placing his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Right now, he's still asleep from the operation. After that, he's gonna need a lot of rest, but I will make sure to tell him how much you want to see him."
Sam looked like he wanted to protest but after a long minute of scowling and glaring he eventually nodded. As long as his father kept his word, things would be fine.
If not, Sam told himself, he already had his plan.
oOoOoOo
The world was fuzzy and dark. Dean struggled to open his eyes, but they were welded shut. Apparently, there was cotton stuffed in his ears because he couldn't hear anything clearly. Probably had a wad or two in his mouth as well from the way it felt.
He wasn't certain where he was, but he suspected it was a hospital. Why he was there was a little vague too, but he had a flash of rain and cars in the street. He wondered if he got hit while riding back to the church jail/group home from school. His heart began to race as he couldn't remember if Sam was with him. He liked to ride on the handlebars sometimes rather than the seat, claiming he couldn't see anything when Dean would stand up to peddle. Of course, when Sam sat on the handlebars, Dean could barely see where he was going. Still, they'd only fallen once, and it was kind of funny. Sammy only got a little scrape on his elbow, but he got a lot of puddle water in his mouth. The look on his face as he spit it out was hilarious.
But where was he now? If Sam was hurt, it was Dean's fault.
He fought hard to wake so he could figure out what had happened, but he surrendered quickly as he had no strength and felt numb in an odd way.
Of course, odd covered a lot of this day. Dean was certain he had a concussion despite the fact that his head didn't hurt. He figured he must have had his brains splattered on the road, which he hoped didn't mean the same thing happened to Sam. After all, if his head wasn't turned into pudding, how could he explain the strange dream that kept rolling through his head?
Dean felt a different kind of ache in his chest, but he knew it wasn't from the accident. It was the dreams. He hadn't had these dreams in many years, longer than he could recall even. He dreamed he was home, or with his family again, and not just Sam. He could see his parents' faces again. Of course, it was not the happy sort of dreams he used to have (even though those used to make him cry, but only because they weren't real); no, this dream was awful. His mother and father found him and didn't want him. They hated him. He felt tears leak from his sealed eyes, and he felt more than he heard himself whimper.
A voice he didn't recognize said his name, then there was a burning sensation in his arm. After that, the dark world started swirling again until he couldn't think at all.
oOoOoOo
The 48 hours following the surgery raced by in a blur. Mary spent the first night at the hospital. John spelled her the second night. Dean woke up several times but was not lucid during any of them. The doctors explained the heavy painkillers and exhaustion (due to the blood loss and the trauma) were the cause. They assured the Winchesters that Dean's latest round of tests showed his white cell count was improving as the mono was abating. His fever was gone so that he could be moved from the critical care unit to a regular room.
During Mary's watch, she only left Dean's room to get coffee and to make calls every few hours to report in at the house. In her call that morning, she assured Sam (multiple times) that Dean was much better and that he could come see his brother that day, as soon as Dean could stay awake long enough for a visitor. Sam was not convinced and let her know that if she didn't call with that information soon he had his own plan, and he would implement it. What that meant or what the plan entailed she did not know, but she gave John a heads up to be on the lookout for… anything.
She hung up the payphone (pediatric rooms in the hospital aggravatingly didn't have phones) and walked tiredly down the hall, massaging her stiff neck and rubbing her hands over her weary face. She was tired of the hospital, of waiting and of everything getting in the way of her putting her family back together. That mishmash of emotions radiated from her face through a bitchy scowl that had nurses and doctors ducking to stay out of her path. Unaware of how she appeared, she entered Dean's room and was startled to find her son awake. He locked eyes with her and appeared fearful. She gasped as she hurried to the bed, shaming herself for leaving him alone. She saw heart-wrenching despair in his eyes as he looked at her and blinked furiously as unruly tears erupted from his eyes. He turned his face away from her quickly.
"Oh, Dean," Mary said. "I didn't know you were awake."
"Obviously," he said in a small voice. "Why am I here?"
He had awoken and thought for a few long and confused minutes that he was still in Chicago, but as the cobwebs cleared from his head he noted that the hallways weren't filled with nearly enough screaming or other psychotic freaks to be a hospital in Chicago. That's when the previous days all tumbled back into place. He was in South Dakota, but his family wasn't with him.
"You were sick and your spleen was enlarged," she explained. "It ruptured. You had surgery to repair that damage, but you're okay now."
Dean shivered. He didn't feel okay, especially as his cloudy memory showed him flashes of sparing with John (which was actually kind of cool because he did good... until the crying part, but he could ignore that) and then he remembered being in the kitchen when it started growing dim before everything went dark. The next thing he was aware of was waking up in this strange room by himself. His lashes were thickly matted with tears as he looked warily at Mary. She looked displeased and sighed like she was pissed.
"What do you want?" he asked, swiping his hand clumsily across his watering eyes.
"Want?" she repeated. "Nothing. I mean, well, I've been waiting for you to wake up."
Dean scoffed and turned his head away from her. She looked at his hurt expression and realized the problem. He had woken up, alone, and scared; he thought she had left him, that John had left him. He might be a cocky, confident, standoffish teenager, but what she saw before her was a hurt, young boy who needed his family and felt more alone than she could possibly imagine. As if to confirm, her suspicions and fears, Dean dismissed her.
"You don't have to stay," he said, coldly, still trying to hide his tears. "Go ahead and leave."
"Oh, baby," she said softly, rubbing his arm, "I don't want to leave."
Dean said nothing. Mary held her breath, waiting for a response. When none came, tears slid liberally down her face.
"I'm so sorry I wasn't here when you woke up," she apologized. "I was down the hall calling your father and brother." She saw him perk slightly at hearing Sam mentioned and knew he had not tuned her out entirely. "I was only gone for a few minutes. I'm here now."
"I don't need you," Dean lied as the exhaustion began to overtake him again. "I'm fine."
"No, you're not, but you will be," she assured him. "Your father and I are going to take care of you and see that you get better. We just got you back. We aren't ever letting anything take you away from us again."
"Whatever," he grumbled. "Where's Sam?"
"With your father and Bobby," she said. "They're coming to see you in a bit. Sam really missed you."
"Bobby coming, too?" he asked.
His desire to see the grouchy, old hunter was apparent and led even more weight to John's argument that they settle in Sioux Falls so that the boys had a larger support system than just their parents. Mary was growing on the idea as well. While she and Bobby did not agree on everything, she did not doubt his knowledge and prowess as a hunter. Having someone with his skill near her family was reassuring even if it looked like her oldest son preferred the man's company to that of his parents at the moment. Well, she reasoned, Dean met the guy and called him a crazy uncle so that would be his new title; Mary felt certain the hunter would accept it, too.
"Of course, Bobby's coming," she said. "He's been worried about you."
Dean nodded slightly and continued to stare down at the sheets. Mary watched him, her heart breaking at the sad and lonely expression on his face. The pain in her chest at seeing it made up her mind. Without a second thought, she did what she had intended the moment he got out of the car at Bobby's two weeks earlier. She gently climbed onto the bed to sit beside him. Ignoring his shocked expression, she carefully put her arms around him, cradling his head against her. Her tears persisted as he tried to move away, but their close proximity and his own body aches held him in place.
"I don't care of you want this, Dean," she cooed softly. "I am your mother, and I have been waiting 10 years to hold you in my arms again. It's been agony keeping my distance from you for the last two weeks, and I can't take it another second."
She hugged him as tightly as she dared then kissed his cheek before resting her chin along his head. She stroked his soft, spiky hair slowly and rocked him gently. She felt him shudder as he choked back a sob.
"I have missed you so much, sweetheart," she said gently, her voice saturated with emotion. "I never stopped crying inside. When I lost you and your brother, part of me just died. You and Sammy were my world and suddenly my world was gone. I couldn't find you, and it made me feel dead inside. Then your father found you both, and my heart started beating again."
"I'm not the little kid that you lost," he said sniffling dejectedly.
"Yes, you are," she told him. "You're Dean Winchester, my son."
"No, I mean…," Dean began.
"I know what you meant, but you're wrong," she said. "My little boy grew up into a very capable (and a bit cocky) young man, but you're still my Dean. You will always be my Dean—not matter what. I know we can't get back the years we lost, but we have the rest of our lives to make new memories and that's more important."
"What if I'm not someone you want to know?" he asked in a small and scared voice.
"Oh honey, you are," she assured him. "I don't care about anything you've done to get by and survive while you and your brother were missing. Sweetie, you did the most important and amazing thing for me, and I love you all the more for doing it: You took care of yourself and Sammy. That wasn't supposed to be your job and no one told you how, but you did it. You did it well, and your father and I are so very proud of you for it, Dean."
He trembled in her arms and twisted the sheets in his fingers nervously.
"But there are things you won't like," he said. "Like my teachers always hate me. I got sent to court once. And I had a…"
"Girlfriend?" she teased. He looked at her with a scrunched brow. Mary shrugged and smirked. "Well, someone gave you mono. Was she in your class?"
Dean's face burned hotly red, but she suspected it was more at her forgiving him so readily than for the mention of a girlfriend. Mary chuckled, not unkindly and cupped his cheek lovingly.
"Well, I hope she didn't get too ill from her virus, but I don't appreciate her making my son sick," Mary said matter-of-factly. "You know that you've broken up with her by the mere fact that you've moved and changed your name, right?"
Dean looked back at her strangely and blinked at the new, lighter shift in the conversation.
"She didn't know my name anyway," Dean replied. "I made one up, and she thought I was 16."
"How old was she?" Mary wondered.
"Sixteen," Dean offered proudly. "Cheerleader over at a private Catholic school. Her name was Karen… or Sharon… No, maybe Sheryl."
Mary stared back at him as worry washed over her features. Accepting her little boy wasn't a little boy anymore was one thing. Realizing he was a Casanova who lied about his name and age to get tongue time with a 16-year-old cheerleader rocked her back on her heels.
"Uh, so do we need to have a talk about…," she began uncomfortably.
"Sex? Oh, don't bother," Dean waved her off. "I know all about it." Mary blanched with shock and fear. "When they put you in group homes, you get the full talk from your caseworker so then they can tell you about perverts and what they might do. Sam knows, too. He threw up afterward. I don't think he'll want a girlfriend until he's really old, like 30."
Mary chuckled at both his words and their frank delivery. She wasn't sure how she felt about his knowledge and lack of embarrassment about discussing sex with his mother, but figured part of his comfort was their lack of any close relationship at that moment. She suspected much of his bravado would evaporate once they fell into a more typical parent/child routine.
"But you didn't get sick hearing about sex?" she asked.
"Me?" Dean said and tried to shrug but wince in pain at the attempt. "Nah. Sammy's just too young to understand. He still thinks girls are icky. He'll probably like the type who spend all day in the library; probably the only place he'll be able to meet one anyway with his head stuck in a book all the time."
Mary pulled him close again as she shook her head. They were far from fixed, far from healed, but he was at least talking to her. Why he was and whether it was simply part of some plan to test her, she did not know. Nor did she care. Dean was talking to her, not at her. That was something.
"You know," he said half-heartedly, "I don't really like hugging all that much."
Mary noted that despite his words, he did not move away or release his grasp of her. She took his words for precisely what they sounded like: teenage bluster. That she could combat. Taking a page from her husband's book, she chose to barrel right at the problem with a full frontal assault.
"Well, it was either give you a hug, or I was going to bathe you," Mary remarked casually and smiled boldly as his eyes went wide with the horror and embarrassment she had expected when discussing the topic of sex.
"What?" he gasped and gaped. "No. No, you're not…. No, not ever…"
"What?" Mary smiled back at him, enjoying this form of discomfort and panic on his face. "Now you're shy?"
"You can't…," he shook his head as felt himself blush deeply. "I'm not a baby. I'm not gonna… You can't." He glared at her hotly with wide and wary eyes then scowled as he realized she was laughing. Even Dean knew he sounded childish when he told her: "You're not funny."
"But you are," she said as she tapped his nose lightly. "That's the same face and protest you used to give me when we used to play 'I got your nose.'"
"Well," Dean turned his head and tried to hide his own smirk, "you can't do that either. I'm not a baby. I'm grown up now."
Mary leaned over and defiantly kissed his head again as she pulled him into another only mildly protested hug.
"But you will always be my baby, Dean," she assured him. "Now, don't worry. I promise I won't try to bathe you. I'll still try to dress you, but…"
"Stop it," he grumbled. "Dress Sammy. He's kind of like a girl. He whines sometimes and if his hair gets any longer, people really will think he is one."
Mary did not bother to scold him. Brothers, she figured, were permitted to pick on each other. Dean's love for Sam was unquestionable. She would just need to make sure their picking and spats didn't go beyond words for a while. Dean, despite his wakefulness, needed time to heal.
In keeping with that need, Mary held him close as they sat quietly. Eventually, she caught him fighting a yawn. Rather than blatantly call him on it, she cradled him in her arms more firmly and started humming softly the song she used to sing to him as a lullaby: Hey Jude. It was as if the song possessed some mystical power, or perhaps the programming from his earliest days was still active but just buried deep in his mind. Dean turned his head toward her and yawned again. His lids grew heavy as she continued to hum and stroke his arm gently. She felt the alertness in his muscles release as he drifted off.
"I will be here when you wake up, sweetheart," she promised him softly. "Sleep well. I love you, Dean."
He nuzzled his face into her neck, the same way he had as a little boy, raising joyous tears in her eyes as he murmured back in a barely audio voice: "Okay, Mom."
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