"Dean, why don't we have a mom?"
The question Dean had dreaded for a while now had come during dinner. Dad was on a hunt, so he and Sam were eating left over beans they found under the sink. They were safe — the label said the expiration date was September 20, 2001.
Dean had hoped that Sam wouldn't start wondering why their family was different. But, a year ago, when Sam was three, he asked his first question, just out of curiosity.
"Dean, why is Dad always leaving?"
Dean told him that it was just because Dad had to work a lot of odd jobs to have enough money for the three of them, but he knew Sam wouldn't buy it for long, not when John always came back holding an arm or limping. He would have to tell him sometime. But, it wasn't something for a three year old to know.
That wasn't the only one either. He would ask why they were always moving, why Dad always had a gun with him-at three he already knew what they were called-what all the salt was for. Dean just begged him to stop asking. He couldn't build his little brother's life up on lies. He told him that he didn't want to know.
So, when the Mom question came up, Dean had no idea what to do. If he said she was just 'gone', Sammy would ask when she was getting back. If he said she was dead, Sam would not only be distraught, but he would ask how she died. He was too curious to not.
And Dean couldn't lie about the absolutely unfair death of his perfect mother, the woman who had cut the crust off his bread, who had sung Hey Jude to him every night, who had tucked him and told him that angel were watching over him. He couldn't tell Sammy not to couldnt put off the death of his mother. He couldn't.
Dean smiled at his innocent little brother.
"Angels are watching over her."