Four

Mary slept in Sam's bed later that night after Dean had placed what seemed like hundreds of phone calls to his father's voicemail. Dean knew his father wouldn't answer, but he continued trying, not for himself, but for his mother's hopeful look that bringing his father back would solve all their problems. Nevertheless, it was always the same tiring message without response from the other side, and Dean had memorized his father's virtual words until they played throughout his head even when the phone was off. Dean tried to sleep that night, wanting nothing more than to merely let darkness take him away from the events of the day, but it had been useless. How could he sleep in the same room with a mother who had been dead for the last twenty-two years? To complicate matters that very same mother was sleeping in his brother's bed who had died not less than twenty-four hours ago. It was too much, even for Dean, who was resilient to most things that bothered others. For the first time since Sam had come back from college, Dean was beginning to understand how his father had turned to alcohol to block out the pain of life.

Dean didn't doubt that his mother had some sort of affection for Sam. After all, it was Sam who Mary ran back inside for when the dark man appeared next to Sam's cradle. It was Sam who Mary had literally died trying to save. John, too, had a bond with Sam, even if the relationship had been weakened slightly after Sam had walked out on their odd little family to go to college and make something of himself. It was John who had grabbed Sam from the crib while the ceiling caved in with the roaring flames. It was John who had bragged to their customers on hunting trips that his younger son was going to be a lawyer. But, above all, it was Dean who had run from the burning house when he was only a child with Sam cradled in his arms. It was Dean who had spent months and miles with Sam, risking their lives side by side and divulging the past secrets to each other.

In the end, it was Dean who was the most broken over Sam's loss.

After fitful tossing in the motel's bed, Dean pushed himself off his mattress in the darkness and walked to his duffel bag. As he slid the jeans over his pajama bottoms, he glanced over at his mother who was sleeping in her white nightgown under the sheets Sam had occupied not so long ago. Sighing heavily, he finished buttoning his jeans and grabbed his car keys from the motel's cheap table. He paused for a moment before walking outside, considering leaving a note for his mother. But he didn't know what to tell her in the note because he didn't know exactly what he was preparing to do.

Outside, he sat on the steps leading up to the room, clutching his head in his hands and letting his thoughts somersault in his head. There had never been any uncertainty that he wanted his mother back. He had wanted her back all his life and would have given anything for her, but now that Sam, the only person who had ever really understood Dean's life and lived it alongside him, was gone forever, everything seemed to be so wrong and out of place. There had to be some way to make things right again, but Dean's anxiety ridden mind didn't know how without defying everything he had ever known about life and death.

Some time—maybe even hours—later, a truck with a rattling engine pulled into the empty lot and parked with its lights facing Dean. Squinting, he raised a hand to his eyes and attempted to see the person who stepped out of the truck as the headlights died with the slam of a creaking door. It was a large man who approached Dean in slow, even crunches across the gravel parking lot. Cautiously, the skin on the back of Dean's neck began to prickle and he moved his hand to his pocket where a small switchblade laid, as the man moved closer, still only a silhouette in the darkness.

Then, the man spoke, "Get your hand off that weapon, Dean, it's just me."

It was a voice that Dean would have known anywhere. He pushed himself to his bare feet, peering into the darkness and shoving his hands into his pockets. "Dad," he said. There wasn't any need to question the man's identity. Dean knew his father's voice immediately after so many years of hearing it in his ears, and even after his father had left, Dean heard the voice in his mind, leading him to safety.

As John Winchester moved into the faint glow of an overhead light, Dean realized he had forgotten truly how long it had been since he had seen his father. The older man looked tired, even exhausted, with black circles under his eyes and the skin sagging around his face. He seemed to have lost the vengeful spark that kept him going for those long years after Mary's death. Dean thought his father looked worse than ever. There was a heavy scent of cigarette smoke in the air from the bars John frequently visited, and as John spoke, Dean tried to believe that it wasn't the smell of alcohol on his father's breath.

"I got your message," John said after clearing his throat.

"Messages, you mean."

"Yeah, all twenty-some of them." There was a pause. It would be one of the closest things Dean and John would get to humor. Theirs was a relationship built on respect and strength. Humor came only late at night after alcohol had loosened their tongues and minds. "Look, Dean, I came only because you sounded serious. If you're shitting me about your mother—"

"Dad, what kind of moron do you take me for?"

"Well, you've pulled some rather idiotic stints before, and I would hope that you had grown out of that teenaged phase by now."

"I wouldn't lie to you about something like this," Dean argued, feeling hurt that his father would doubt his words after the years they had spent hunting alone together after Sam left.

"So, tell me what happened, then."

Sitting back down on the steps with John beside him, Dean told his father what had happened, every detail that might have seemed too simplistic for a normal person, Dean recalled in the most vivid detail possible. He talked endlessly, and when he finished, John didn't say anything for a long time. Dean couldn't read if his father was angry or upset with him.

"And you just let Sam go?" John finally asked.

"I didn't want him to. He just…he just went on his own. I couldn't stop him."

"You were both being very foolish in how you dealt with this ghost."

"Dad, it's not a ghost, trust me. I know a ghost when I see one, give me that much. It's worse than a ghost."

John exhaled strongly, and his breath formed a wisp of condensation that quickly scattered in the cool night air. "So, Sam can never come back?"

"No."

"Now, Dean…are you sure this is your mother and not just a shape shifter or another being to play with your mind? This ghost…god…might have sensed how weak you were and gave you a substitution to later kill you."

"It's Mom. I know it is."

"And where is she now?"

"She's in the room, sleeping."

"And how is she?"

Dean smiled faintly, a mixture of sadness and love overtaking his facial actions. "Just like she never left, Dad. She's…Mom."

John nodded, accepting his son's words, then he moved towards the door as he pulled a gun from his belt. Even though Dean had proclaimed that the being wearing his wife's face, was indeed the Mary who had left him, John would take no chances. "This your room?" he asked, even though Dean was sure he was already knew and was just doing so to manage some bit of courtesy.

"Yeah, she's in there."

As John walked into the room, Dean rose to his feet and followed him into the room. He watched as his father slowly approached Mary and crouched down beside the bed. The gun was still held tightly in his hand, prepared to kill at any moment as John looked at Mary and carefully examined her sleeping form to assure himself that this beautiful creature really was his wife alive again. Hesitantly, he reached out and clasped her shoulder.

"Mary?" he whispered.

She stirred slightly, and her eyes opened slowly. They darted around the room in confusion before landing on the man in front of her. "John?" She paused, pushing herself to a sitting position. "John!"

Her arms flew around her husband while the gun clattered to the floor, and Dean watched as for the first time in over twenty years, life flew back into his father. His parents embraced, and as John clutched Mary to his battered body, Dean knew that it was the first time John had kissed a woman since Mary had died. His golden wedding ring glinted in the pale light that trickled through the room, and Dean noticed for the first time his mother's own diamond sparkling.

Dean bit down on his lower lip before turning his back on his parents' joyful reunion and walking out the door into the night.

He had work to do.