Dean awoke the next morning to the smell of a hot breakfast wafting into his bedroom. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smelled a home cooked breakfast, let alone tasted one. The closest he and Sam ever came to home cooking was staying in their hotel room and filling a bowl with cereal and milk.
A light knock sounded from outside his door, and at his beckoning, his mother peeked her head into the room. "I'll have breakfast ready soon. I just thought I'd come offer you a hand getting up."
Blurry eyes tried to focus on her as he debated on his response. He didn't need help. He'd never needed help. Dean was used to being the protector, the helper. Instinct told him to deny her offer, and it almost slipped from his lips before he saw her face give way to need. She didn't just want to help him. She needed to help him. She needed to feel a connection with the son who'd come so close to being lost to her forever. And as Dean gave it more thought, he realized he could use his own connection to her. He'd missed out on so many years with her, but here she was now. Standing right in front of him. His mother. How could he say no?
Slowly, Dean nodded his head, inviting her towards him with the motion. "Yeah, I think I could use some help. I, um...I had trouble with my pants last night, since I can't...stand...on my own."
Relief came over his mother as she crossed to the dresser. "What do you feel like wearing today?"
"Well, I feel like wearing jeans. But something tells me they aren't going be the easiest to get on. So what else is in there?"
She rummaged through the drawer and pulled out a handful of 'Adidas' track pants in every color ever made. "You've got a ton of these," she offered. "And t-shirts to match. They would be comfortable."
Dean shrugged, indicating that he didn't care what color she chose for him. None of them were anything he'd be caught wearing before, but at this point he'd take just about anything if it meant comfort and ease of wear.
As she returned to the bed, Dean pulled off the covers revealing his boxer covered legs arranged spastically on the bed. He swallowed the lump that seemed to form every time he looked at or thought about his uncooperative legs. In the beginning, he'd barely given it any thought, his mind steadfastly driven toward getting out of this dimension at all costs. But he was quickly discovering that his problem couldn't easily be pushed to the back of his mind. My fucking legs don't work anymore! his brain screamed. And unless I can figure out this whole mess I'm gonna be stuck like this for the rest of my life.
The pants went on with relative ease, despite Dean's continued reluctance for assistance. And then he grudgingly allowed his mother to help him into the waiting wheelchair. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the help, and he was really beginning to love spending time with her, but he'd never let another soul help him in his whole life. Clearing his head of the tender moments that threatened to be desired, Dean clasped the rims of the chair before his mother could circle around and grab the handles.
"So what did you make for breakfast?" he asked, wanting to show her that he still cared despite his misgivings about overindulging her desires to help. "It smells really good."
"Coffee cake - your favorite. And fruit. Poached eggs. Sausage and bacon..." she trailed off, blushing as she noticed Dean's eyes widen. "Yeah, well I guess I might have gone a bit overboard. I just... I wanted to do something special for you."
As she stepped towards the door, embarrassed and muttering that she needed to check on the food, Dean rolled forward and caught her hand. "Mom–" Mom. I can't believe I'm sitting here looking into my mother's eyes. "Mom, stop. I, uh– thanks. It sounds wonderful."
He watched her shoulders relax. And then saw her take a deep breath before crouching in front of him. Instead of releasing his hand, she clenched harder, joining their two with her other hand. It was as if something had clicked and she finally felt comfortable enough to actually talk to him, to talk with him about what had happened. "Sweetie are you OK? I mean really, truly OK?"
Instinct told him to break eye contact; ordered him to sever the emotional link that was becoming undeniable between himself and this virtual stranger that walked around with his mother's face. But lately his instincts hadn't been worth much, and he found himself staring harder into her eyes. He wanted to say yes. To assure her that, absolutely, he was fine. Better than fine. But he couldn't. Oh God, what is she doing to me? I'm turning into a freakin chick! "I'm not really doing all that well," he admitted, immediately regretting the confession. But what could he do. His mouth had taken on a life all of its own, and the words were just spouting like lava.
"Well sweetheart, why didn't you say something sooner? You know you can always come to me and your father with problems." She shuffled forward, releasing one of her hands so it could plant itself gently against his cheek, thumb massaging lovingly.
Dean shrugged again, struggling in his fight to quiet himself. "I know," he replied in hushed tones, finally able to break the eye contact, but still unable to break the spew of emotional admittances emitting from his cursed mouth. "I was just scared... of what you might think of me." Oh My God! What the hell am I saying? Where is this coming from?
Her face contorted into deep felt concern and love for her oldest son as the other hand reached up to his face as well. Flat palms firmly gripped his cheeks, making him look at her again as she spoke to him with unfaltering intensity. "Dean, honey, your father and I love you no-matter-what. We could never think anything of you other than how amazingly brave you are. How absolutely proud of you we are. I can't even begin to imagine what you're going through. But you've been so tough; you're so strong. That's the only thing we would ever think of you."
Dean angrily swiped at the tears that had dared to fall from his eyes. Great. Just freakin great. I'm crying like a little baby, now. Terrific. But no one had ever talked to him like that. Not even Sam. The sincerity; the love; the admiration. He'd never before had anyone speak to him with the emotion that only a mother could exude. And not just any mother. His mother.
"You really mean that?" Dean asked, feeling like he was four again, wide eyes staring at his mother after she had scolded him for the china incident. Her final words in that conversation had been words of forgiveness and love. She was angry with him for his carelessness, but she would always love him. Nothing would ever change that. But then she'd died, and Dean hadn't been given the opportunity to test that bond...until now.
"Sweetheart, of course I love you," She assured him. "Always and forever. You're my son." She stood, drawing Dean's head toward her and kissed the top of his head. He leaned into her, reveling in the kiss and wanting more. He wanted to feel her strong, mother's arms wrapped tightly around him. He wanted to remember what it felt like. He needed it.
The embrace lasted for several minutes while Dean completely dropped his guard, allowing emotions that had been bottled inside him for years to finally emerge. He hadn't realized just how much he missed his mother until he'd gotten her back. All those years that he'd had to improvise, being both mother and father to himself and Sammy as their father focused one hundred percent on his hunting efforts. He remembered the nights he'd woken up from a nightmare, only to lull himself back to sleep for lack of a mother's soothing words. He remembered being sick, flu's, colds, chicken pox; but he'd had to push through them of his own accord. She wasn't there to feed him hot soup and insist that he take his medicine and just be there to care. That had been his burden, and his alone. There were nights when Sam had fearfully called out for help, and Dean found himself wishing a mother was to wrap her arms around the small boy and reassure him that everything would be alright. But he'd had to shoulder that weight as well, and no amount of explaining why Sam didn't have a mother to comfort him could ease the pain in either boy's mind.
The pictures Dean had flipped through in the family photo album flashed into his mind, too, and Dean realized there were emotions he hadn't even realized he was bottling. Yearnings for what wasn't, but could have been, now slammed into his subconscious with the weight of a thousand boulders. The birthdays his mother had missed. The dances she'd failed to ready him for. All the soccer games and baseball games he'd never actually played because she wasn't there to enroll him in the teams. She wasn't there to encourage him. She wasn't there to support him. She just wasn't there. Because she'd been killed by a demon. And because she wasn't there, his father hadn't been there either. Dead or alive, his father had always been with his mother; her spirit.
But she was here now. "Come on, your breakfast is getting cold."
Sniffling through the residual tears, Dean finally allowed her to release her grasp and lead him to the dining room, suddenly feeling empty as their connection was broken. Sam was already floating around the table, barely containing his desire to munch on the array of delicious foods arranged on the table.
"I pulled the coffee cake from the oven," he announced as his mother appeared. "I didn't want it to burn."
Their mother smiled warmly, standing on tiptoes to reach her younger son's cheek, painting it with her trademark peck. "Thank you, honey. Can you call your father for me?"
Sam nodded, sprinting from the room in search of the missing link to their breakfast feast, calling loudly for the man.
"Dean, honey, come to the table. Here, let me help you." He allowed her to glide the wheelchair into the empty gap at the table that used to contain one of the six matching carved Oak chairs. His chair. His place. Not only was there an actual dining room table, but he had a designated spot there. Dean had history there.
Sam returned to the room with his father in tow and Dean sat back, continuing to watch the familial exchanges that were going on around him. "This smells wonderful, dear," his father voiced, kissing his wife on the lips. "You did a great job."
She smiled, stars of happiness sparkling in her eyes. "Anything for my boys," she announced. "I'm just happy to have my whole family together again."
"I know how you feel," John answered his wife. "And I'm especially grateful that Dean's back with us." He pulled out a chair, the one beside Dean, and sat down, his strong hand reaching out and squeezing Dean's shoulder affectionately as he did so. "You sure had us scared there for a while, son. You have no idea how glad we are that you're awake and back home."
Dean grinned at his father. His father. The father that he would have become if things had gone differently twenty-two years ago. "I'm glad to be here, too, Dad."
An extremely hungry Sam took that opportunity to reach across the table, grabbing at the plate of greasy bacon only to find his hand swatted by his mother. "Can't you wait just a minute," she teased playfully, but with a hint of sternness in her voice. "At least give your brother first pick."
"But Mooom," Sam whined, again reaching for the bacon. "I'm starving. You guys took forever to get out here. He's not gonna miss a little bacon."
"It's alright, Mom. I don't mind," Dean offered, eagerly soaking up the interaction. "I think I'll have a piece of coffee cake first."
She served him a large square of the gooey cake and then set an egg on his plate as well. He speared a bite with his fork, chewing slowly as chatter and conversation and laughter filled his ears. Sam had begun telling an amusing story he remembered from his law class and their father was heartily laughing at the tale. And Dean smiled to himself, all thoughts of ghosts and demons and alternate dimensions pushed to the farthest regions of his brain. None of that mattered right now as he experienced true happiness. All his life he'd wondered what it would be like to have normal, and now he knew. This was normal.