A/N: This isn't tied to any specific canon timeline other than sometime in season 12. Individual scenes/snapshots jump time-weeks may have passed after each break. I've also chosen to completely ignore the fact that Mary is/was a hunter. I found that the characterization of Mary circa season 12 onwards was very similar to John; I always wanted to imagine the boys with a different version of Mary. So this is it! Hope you enjoy.
Time is Never On Our Side
"You're doing it again." Mary's soft voice interrupted Dean's subtle hovering.
"What?" Dean looked to her, fearful. His big, genuine eyes worried that he'd done something wrong. She recognized that look. That look hadn't changed.
"Taking care of everyone but yourself." He blushed, bashful—not proud. Never proud.
"Believe it or not, I know how crazy it feels to—" He edits himself—not quite ready for her to know the horrible things he'd done. He wasn't ready for her disappointment—he couldn't do it. Not yet. "I know how crazy it is to wake up not knowing who you are."
A pained smile formed on her face, her heartstrings tugging at the thought of him trying to console her. After all he was doing for her, how could she break him the news? The truth was that she did know who she was. The problem was that she didn't know who he was .
And yet-
there was that flicker…
she could see it in the tilt of his head and the glint of his eyes.
One bob of his head and a shift in his gaze, and suddenly he was four years old.
Standing at her feet, his fidgeting hands are committed to resisting the urge to pull on her dress. She can't see him clearly because tears are welling in her eyes. The sound of John's angry tone still ringing in her ears—the phone still wobbling on the receiver from where she'd slammed it a moment earlier. Her little Dean makes a quiet sound—something between a sigh and a hiccup. She looks down at him, his eyes filling with that familiar worry. Kneeling to meet his height, she was the first to widen her arms. His small form didn't hesitate in latching on, and Dean sniffled against her chest, loving the feeling of her heart beating under his ear. Without breaking from their embrace, Dean's confident voice attempted to assuage Mary's sadness. He needed her to know that he loved her more than anything: more than birthday cake, more than his trucks, more than Dad, and maybe even more than baby Sam.
"It's okay, Mommy. I still love you."
And the green eyes staring at her in that moment were the same eyes staring at her now. But she feared, more than anything, that his words were no longer true. How could he still love her? To him she must have been a phantom, a recurring nightmare, an imaginary figure of 'what could have been' taunting him every day of existence. And what was he to Mary? Truly?
He was a memory. Simply a memory. A sight, a scent, a sound, a touch...and it brought back the greatest feeling of love she'd ever felt. But it was old and out-of-reach.
"Dean?"
The name crept timidly off her lips, but he looked to her in instant acknowledgement. Tears on the verge of welling in her eyes, she wanted one moment before he pushed her away-one moment that she might only be able to ask for now.
"I'm not looking to overstep my bounds. But...in my eyes...you are still my baby. And he thinks I left him." The tears rolled down her cheeks. "I know we're not much more than strangers. But I'm asking if I can please hug my little boy…"
And Dean's eyes widened with more hope than he'd ever had. The tears brimming in his eyes didn't prevent him from widening his arms and stepping in to meet her embrace. This time, his heart beat against her ear, but they loved it just the same. Still unsure how to receive what he had so little practice receiving, Dean stood lifeless for a moment as Mary clung to him.
"I never meant to leave you."
She spoke the simplest of phrases and the tears streamed down Dean's face, his body jolting back into the moment. Without thought, his body tightened against hers and for the first time in his life, he felt safer than he did with any weapon at his side.
"I love you, Dean."
She didn't hesitate, didn't add any stipulations, and never tacked on a conditional phrase. Love. Just love. And Dean clung to her tighter—desperate to soak up as much love as he could before it left him. It always did.
( ) ( ) ( )
"Pizza? Do you do pizza?" Mary asked, timidly.
She was hesitant and disappointed in herself. She already had two pizzas, and hadn't thought to find out if they'd even like it.
"It's pizza! Everyone loves pizza." Dean's attempt at lessening her worry had the opposite effect and her face fell at hearing him state the obvious.
She should have known if her children liked pizza. She shouldn't have to ask.
Quickly shooting Dean a wide-eyed look of disapproval, Sam soon eased his features and offered a semi condolence to Mary. He was so afraid of scaring her away.
"What Dean means is— we love pizza. It's perfect."
Mary placed the warm boxes on the map table and stood awkwardly babbling—her nervous reaction.
"Dean didn't like tomatoes, oh my god he'd make such a mess spitting them out because he refused to let me take them off what he was eating. He didn't like the idea that I was eating a 'grown-up food' and he was eating 'kid' food."
Without missing a beat, Mary realized her mistake and tried to amend it.
"You. I mean you didn't like tomatoes…"
She'd said Dean as if it was a stranger that neither of them had met. In reality, she was the stranger. Dean looked to her with a half-formed smile, remembering hazy flashes of secretly hiding the red food in his napkin. Sam, an audience member desperate to participate, wanted to find a way to maintain as much normalcy as possible. Busing himself with opening the boxes and collecting napkins and plates, Sam ran out of activities too soon for his liking. Never had he felt so awkward. He was home, with Dean, and he was so nervous and anxious he wanted to slink out of his skin like a shifter. Devising an activity, he stood.
"I'm gonna go grab a couple of beers…" Sam exited before anyone could respond and he found himself in the kitchen, breathing heavily, trying to maintain composure.
It was Mom
The same Mom he'd dreamt about for years.
And she was scary.
She was scary despite her gentle movements and her considerate eyes. She was terrifying because she was nothing like Dad. She was everything Sam wanted her to be and it reminded him how much he had lost out on. So he was more petrified to face her than any ghoul, ghost, or clown. Never one to run and hide, though, Sam grabbed a six pack from the fridge and turned to head back but standing in the doorway was Mary.
Sam wanted to look at her and be reminded of some kind of peace and normalcy. He envied Dean that way-that his brother, for all he'd been through, still had some fleeting memories of what their life would have been. Sam believed, wholeheartedly, in this instance, that it was better to have loved a little than to have never loved at all. Loving wasn't really the process in question though. It was about being loved.
Dad had loved him. True.
Dean loved him.
Jessica had loved him.
Sam had experienced love enough to know that it was an irreplaceable force. And he had spent his entire life wondering if a mother's love would have been all he'd ever needed. Watching Mary stand on the threshold of the kitchen made Sam's heart leap and he didn't know what to do. What was there possibly to say? While Sam stood immobilized in the kitchen, Mary smiled bashfully.
"I can't believe how tall you are. I mean you were in the 100th percentile for pretty much everything but… anyways—I bet John wasn't very fond of the day you outgrew him."
Sam let a wide smile bloom on his face at the happy memory. Leave it to Mom to be able to pluck out one of the few positive moments of his childhood.
"I thought Dean's mood about the whole thing was bad enough but Dad's reaction—"
"Did he pretend like he didn't care but then he'd make you do stuff—?"
"Made me do stuff on account that I was bigger." Sam smiled knowing that they'd finished each others' thoughts. "That summer I must have carried every weapon and hauled all the salt bags and dug all the graves."
Mary's face fell at the recapping of his childhood summers.
"Joh-" She rephrased in an attempt to give him comfort. "Dad. I can't believe he really…"
"Hey. Don't blame yourself."
"Hard not to. And from what I've seen of you boys so far, it seems like maybe you got that trait from me."
Sam nodded with acknowledgement but not much else. He was still so overwhelmed. There were so many things he wanted to ask her—so many things he'd planned for an imagined scenario just like this one. Yet, here he was, and he drew nothing but blanks. What he wanted from her, he could never have. He wanted a fresh start, a clean slate, and for her to have raised him. But that was never going to happen. Any morsel of that dream existing had gone to Dean, and part of Sam hated him for it. For having those fractions of memories, those inklings of stability. But maybe, he thought, maybe there was an advantage to starting over completely. Maybe that way, he had less of a chance at disappointing her.
"We uhh...we probably shouldn't leave Dean alone with the pizza for too long." Sam said.
"He's a big-eater?" Mary clarified.
"You have no idea."
"Well—" Mary cut herself off. Again, forgetting who her audience was, she had been about to reveal what she was sure to be very unwanted information: if time spent breastfeeding was any indication, she wasn't surprised that Dean had a passion for eating. To a female audience, this fact may have been endearing. To either of them, it would be off-putting to say the least. Shaking her head in a casual fashion and dismissing the moment, Sam silently agreed with letting the beat drop. Re-entering the map room, they found Dean already eating. Mouth full, he was about to speak. Eying Mary, he closed his mouth in an effort to fake his way through having manners.
"Don't change your behavior on account of me! It's nice to just...watch you. I mean—I'll get to know you that way. In fact, there are a few things I'm willing to bet I already know about you."
Continuously attempting to not sound creepy, she followed it up with what she hoped were innocent enough examples.
"Like… … I bet Sam prefers to sleep on his belly or his side...he never wanted to roll onto his back. And you—" She referenced Dean, "Can't fall asleep on an empty stomach. Like to eat right before you go to bed."
Dean eyed Sam—sharing a private moment before proceeding. Noticing their silent conversation though, Mary became self-conscious.
"Sorry. You just did those things when you were…" She struggled to find the right words. "Little."
"No, it's no that—" Dean began. "You're just—you're spot on, actually."
…
...
Mary sat, and they all ate. Long periods of silence hung in the room, stuffing the air with an uncomfortable awkwardness. Not knowing how to break it, though, they remained that way.
That is until Mary made a decision on all their behalf's.
"There are so many things I want to know. And I'm sure there are an equal number of things that I probably don't want to know. And I'm sure you have questions and qualms and needs and complaints and I know I haven't been here for you—the way a mother should always be there for her children. So I'd like to try my best to make up for it. In whatever way I can. For all of our sakes."
"Mom—" The word caught in Sam's mouth, but his heart fluttered at being able to use it as an address, rather than as a reference. "There's so much I want to talk about. So much I want you to know, and so much I want to know...but before we do anything, I need you to know that I don't blame you. For any of it." Sam's short speech finished with a flash of his puppy eyes, but Dean's visage remained impassive. Only Sam could detect the tinge of anger in his gaze.
Dean was ready to have something good in his life. He was ready to have Mom back, he was ready for a win. But the anger that had been his one true companion wasn't ready to back down. Because in so many ways, Dean had always taken care of himself. And the only way he could take care of himself, was by always expecting the worst. And it meant that he was bitter, and stern, and pessimistic, but his anger had protected him. It had protected him better than anything else. He wasn't about to let that go. He couldn't afford to. No matter how much his heart craved peace. So Sam's pleas about forgiveness and reconciliation hurt Dean. They hurt him because Dean couldn't afford to give Mary the same kind of pass. How long had he hated her? Truly, truly hated her? Hated her for leaving him with Dad. Hated her for making it so he was the one who had to look out for Sam. Hated her every time he had to make a meal. To comfort Sam. To comfort Dad. To make sure their family didn't fracture any more than it already had. Because of her. All because of her.
And yet, staring at her, Dean felt a peace that was strong enough to challenge his anger. A light bright enough that some shadows vanished.
So he nodded at Sam's words and they ate.
( ) ( ) ( )
"That looks like it hurt."
While putting away dishes in the kitchen, Dean had reached to a particularly high shelf and his shirt had ridden up just enough that Mary could see a deep scar above his hip. Not knowing what she was referencing, Dean let out a confused grunt.
"The scar from the Rawhide." Sam filled in Dean's gaps and continued drying plates.
Mary's face twisted in partial disgust. Misinterpreting, Dean tried an attempt at pitiful self-deprecation.
"If you think that's bad, you really don't wanna see my calf. Or Sam's elbow." Dean let out a dry, breathy laugh and Mary's face fell further.
"No, not that. I just would have rathered it was from falling off your bike…"
Trying to assuage her depression, Sam asked for her attention and rolled up his sleeve. Along his left elbow was a deep, crooked scar about four inches long. Mary's fingers reached out to touch the rough skin.
"This was from a hunt?"
Sam grinned, happy to relay good news.
"This is from falling off a shed when I was five." Sam explained.
"He was dressed up as Batman and I told him not to jump so high but Batman never listens to Superman, or big-brothers apparently." Dean added what little color he could and moved on.
"It's not all-bad, Mom. Promise. You should get some sleep." Dean couldn't help but fall into routine as the care-taker.
"Feels like something I should be saying to you...but you're right. I'll uhh...I'll see you in the morning. I promise."
Mary walked out of the kitchen and Sam approached Dean, disappointment blooming on his face.
"Should I not have done that? I don't like lying to her, Dean."
"It wasn't all lies, Sam. There was good stuff. It wasn't blood and guts all the time."
"The scar wasn't from the shed, Dean."
"I know, Sammy."
"When Dad left us alone in that warehouse with the—"
"Sam! I said I remember, ok? We're gonna just pretend—for once—that our crap isn't as crappy as it is, alright? Cause Mom's back and I'm not sucking her into our dark, smelly, horrible world. She didn't want this for us when we were little and I don't want this for us now. From here on out we are Brady Bunch meets the Waltons with a side of the Cleavers."
"You wanna start over?" Sam asked.
"Damn right I wanna start over."
"Okay." Sam replied.
"Okay?"
"That's what I want too. I don't think we're gonna get it for very long but I'm ready to try."
"Good."
Both boys finished in the kitchen, and made their way to their respective rooms. Mary was down the hall from them and both boys noticed, independently, that she'd left her door open. Both following suit, their doors stayed open for the night.
Once settled, Sam swallowed dryly, and tried to absorb as much of the hope and love he was feeling.
"Goodnight, Dean." He called out from his bed.
"Goodnight, Sam." Came Dean's reply.
And waiting, they finally heard the sweetest sound.
"Goodnight my boys."