A/N: It's been a long time since I've written Supernatural fic but this has ben hanging round half-completed for ages so I thought I'd have a go at finishing it up. I hope you enjoy - reviews are love .
The growth of things
It is when the woman and her companion are gone that she is finally able to look at Sam.
Her Sam, who is looking back at her as though she's about to disappear, whose blood-stained button-down and hunched-up frame make her want to destroy the people who have hurt him and at the same time do nothing else than move closer until she is near enough to touch him - this man, this stranger who is hers.
She doesn't though. She can't, shouldn't, wouldn't. So she waits, and it is Dean who clasps a hand around the back of Sam's neck, who tugs him unerringly forward even when Sam stays rigid, body gone taut but his gaze flicking between her and the empty stairs and the shards of the tarnished mirror on the wall, back and forth and back again.
Then, from one moment to the next, it's as though all of Sam's strength has left him. He slumps bonelessly against Dean's shoulder and it's as though they are magnets as he follows his brother's pull, allowing himself to be tugged in, tired eyes closing with a shudder as a sigh runs through him, like he's letting out a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding.
They stand that way for a moment, these brothers, these sons of hers, in an embrace that feels too private, too much theirs to interrupt. And it sends a jagged twist through her gut because Sam's her little boy, her baby, and it should be his mother there to hold him when he hurts, not little Dean, who just last night - a lifetime ago - hadn't known how to tie his own shoes.
The angel, Castiel, has no such compunction. He clears his throat and after a moment Sam and Dean break apart. She finds a strange little laugh bubbling up inside of her as they do, for it's funny almost, how they step back from each other so quickly, as though speed will help them regain the composure they've clearly so nearly lost. For Sam's eyes are red-rimmed as he stares now at the , and there is no way to hide the obstinate, trembling set of Dean's jaw, just like when her .four year old had stubbed his toe and refused to cry.
Dean is the first to look over at her. 'Guess it was lucky you came along,' he says, voice a little hoarse, and it surprises a real laugh out of her, one that brings forth a flashing, cocky grin on Dean that reminds her so, so much of her John's. The humour fades quickly however, for Dean is soon lowering his hand, up to this point still clasped loosely about Sam's neck, to instead rest low in the hollow of his back.
He pushes his brother forward. 'This is Sam,' he says simply, and the words are needless and silly and so much like something that her John would say it makes her stomach hurt.
But knowing this moment for what it is, she forces a smile onto her face, quickly feeling it grow and turn real. 'Sammy,' she says.
It's her first word to him in thirty-three years, so it's not really a surprise that he startles, shaggy head jerking up as he takes a step back as though he'd forgotten she was there. Yet the step turns into a stumble and before she knows what's happening he's on the ground, his long (so long) legs sprawled out before him, and she has just a moment to take in how gangly and stork-limbed he is all over before she lays eyes on the mess that has been made of his feet.
Something thick, slick and grimy is sliding down the back of her throat. There's charred flesh and burnt skin and all of a sudden she can smell it, smell the smoke, taste the heat, and she's back there, pinned to the flat of the nursery ceiling with flames catching at her loose hair as a yellow-eyed demon drops bright red beads of blood into her baby's mouth. . .
Sam's low grunt of pain as he tries to stand calls her back to herself with a jolt, and she forces herself to push the memories of that night aside to deal with later. She was helpless to help Sam then, but she can do something for him now, and she makes herself bend down to examine the scorched wounds visible around the edge of a fouled-up bandage that's turned grey with grime. The other foot looks in little better condition, all blood and grazes as though Sam's been walking around barefoot . . . which, she realises, he probably has. There's blood on his clothes too and cuts on his forehead and cheek and she can see now the marks previously hidden by his grey-green button-down. Someone had done that to him, had done that to her boy, and that thick, slimy thing is crawling back up her throat until finally she straightens up and turns away, walking over to the edge of the cellar where she can press her forehead against the cool stone wall.
It helps, almost, and she is able to let herself listen as Dean helps Sam up to his feet again. There's a bitten-back gasp she's almost certain Sam didn't mean for anyone to hear, followed by Dean's muffled curse, then Castiel is speaking, muttering something about being doubtful he can fix everything at once.
She snorts. Nothing could fix this, she finds herself thinking, and then she questions herself, because surely being back alive, with her boys grown and together, is more than she could ever have hoped since she saw that demon staring at her from across Sam's crib. She must believe that if she believes in anything, she tells herself firmly, and it because of that she is able to push the first taunting voice aside and turn back instead to where the angel has his fingers pressed against Sam's forehead.
Sam blinks, wavers, and she could have sworn that a second ago he had a cut on his temple, right near where the angel had touched him. But the skin there is smooth, unblemished, and Dean is grinning at her, saying 'Cas may not have a harp, but he sure comes in useful sometimes.'
She nods, because it's all she can do, and follows her boys - Sam no longer limping as badly - up the stairs of the dingy basement and out towards the Impala that is shining black as night under the midday sun, a dark blotch against the cornflower blue sky and the gold of the surrounding fields.
Dean, one shoulder still braced underneath Sam's own, pulls the back door open to ease Sam down on the leather seat, and before she can call a warning she sees Sam's head bump against the edge of it, eliciting from him a wince she doesn't think Dean notices. She does though and strangely it makes her feel better, as though there's still something she can do, that she has a purpose here along with Dean, and because of that she's able to gather her up courage and take those last few difficult steps so she is standing beside her boys, before kneeling down to look her youngest son in the eye.
'Can we try this again?' she says to him softly.
Sam's eyes well suddenly with silver-wet tears. She's not sure if it's the brightness of the sun after the darkness of the cellar, or the pain of his wounds that have yet to be healed, or even just the sight of her alive after burning up on the ceiling above his crib, but she knows then that whatever has caused this, whatever this all is, it's worth it to be able to see those tears in his eyes, to be able to reach up a hand and smooth them away with her thumb.
That done, she reaches up with her other hand so she is cupping Sam's face, and she says what she's been thinking ever since she saw him tied to that chair in that god-damned cellar.
'Hey, Sam. You got tall.'
End