Three Conversations, Sort Of
K Hanna Korossy

The clang of the bunker door closing behind Mary had completely faded by the time Dean finally spoke, still turned away from Sam.

"How did you know?"

Sam dragged in a breath. "What?" He was still trying to fold the idea that their mom had walked out on them into something that made sense.

Dean's head cocked, face in profile now. He looked like stone. "That she was drowning." He twisted back all the way now, and there was nothing stone-like about his eyes. "I've known her almost five years more than you, and I didn't see it."

Partly because he didn't want to, but Sam would never say that. He shuffled in place instead, hands stuffed into his jeans pockets, eyes stinging. "I guess…maybe that's why." Off Dean's look, he hurried on. "I never knew her as a kid—I only met her as an adult. I didn't see her through anything but grown-up eyes." And what he'd seen reminded him so much of Dean, it made his throat hurt, but Sam wasn't going to say that, either.

Dean processed that for a long moment. Then he turned heel and stalked out of the library.

Sam sniffed, rubbing his eyes, and wondered crazily if this was how it felt when your parents got divorced.

00000

Castiel contemplated the closed door, the rarely locked lock he could open with just a turn of the wrist. He knocked instead.

Silence within. But he felt no hostility from inside, so he opened the door.

Dean was lying on his back on the bed, one arm folded under his head, staring at the ceiling. Headphones on his ears played some of the cacophony he called music, but Castiel knew something about drowning out the noise in your head. Dean probably hadn't heard the knock, but he seemed unsurprised at Castiel's presence, just pressed something on the device on the bed beside him and pulled the headphones off, sitting up.

"I just wanted to…check in on you," Castiel offered. "I heard about Mary." For all the challenges to his belief, Dean couldn't seem to stop praying in times of distress.

"I'm fine, Cas." Dean's eyes shied away, bouncing to the photo by his bed of him with his mother, then just as quickly to the floor.

"I'm sorry. I'd been afraid of something like this."

His friend's eyes cut back to him, suddenly uncomfortably sharp. "You knew it was coming, too, huh?" He made an unhappy sound. "Everyone but me, I guess."

"She asked me how long it took me to feel like I 'fit' on Earth, like I belonged."

Dean rested one arm on his splayed knee and rubbed his other hand down his face. "She said she missed Heaven, the little-kid versions of us." He shook his head. "Even if they aren't real and we are," he finished bitterly.

"Ah," Castiel said, nodding. He understood better now. "Like Buffy."

Dean blinked up at him. "What?"

"Buffy Summers. She was the main character in a television show in—"

"I know who Buffy the Vampire Slayer is, Cas," Dean snapped. "What's she got to do with Mom?"

The knowledge of pop culture Metatron had given him was a blessing and a curse: it filled Castiel's memory with a sea of useless information. But Dean often seemed to rely on such references as an emotional shorthand, so Castiel continued. "After Buffy died, her friends brought her back with a spell. She had trouble readjusting to life, and her friends believed it was due to the trauma of her death and afterlife. But really it was the fact that she had been torn out of peace in Heaven and, in comparison, found life on Earth to be—"

"—Hell," Dean finished roughly.

Castiel shifted; perhaps this was not the best example. "I only meant—"

"No, you're right. Amara brought her back for me, 'cause she thought I needed her. She never thought about—I never thought about—if Mom wanted to come back."

Castiel frowned; he had an idea he was making things worse instead of better. "I'm sure she—"

"Yeah, I'm sure she will." Dean replaced the headphones over his ears and lay back down. "Close the door on your way out, Cas."

He did. Still surprised at how much he could hurt for another person, even a human.

00000

Sam was walking into the kitchen as Dean was just leaving with a beer and a slice of cake—cake, not pie, because things weren't screwed up enough—in his hand.

"Chili's on the stove," Dean tossed back over his shoulder as he passed his brother.

"Why didn't you—?" he heard from behind him until Sam gave up and went in to eat.

Because he didn't want to look at Sam's huge sad eyes as he ate, that's why. Didn't want to hear yet again that Mom would surely be back soon, just needed some time, or, worse, clumsy small talk that circled around the elephant in the room. Because Dean just…couldn't.

He shoved his bedroom door shut behind him, flinching a little at the bang, like he was some petulant teenager slamming his door. Another phase Mom had missed. Not like she cared.

"Some girl you picked, Dad," he muttered to the room, regretting the thought the moment it was spoken. The bitter in him just kept overflowing. But, man, he wished he could talk to his dad about this, just for a minute.

Dean's brows drew together as he set the beer and cake on his desk. Well, there was always… He dropped into his chair and opened his laptop.

Mary—Mom—had taken Dad's journal with her, something else that made Dean's stomach twist to think of. But Sam had long ago digitized Dad's notes, along with Bobby's, Rufus's, and every other hunter's journal they came across. He'd even made them searchable, but Dean knew what he was looking for, a passage he'd read dozens of times since they'd inherited John's records.

It's Mary's birthday today, and even though it's been more than four years, it still hurts like a son of a bitch. I can't even look the boys in the eye today. Sammy takes after me, dark features, the passion and mule-headedness, but sometimes the way he stands or moves reminds me of his mom. Dean, though…he's Mary's kid through-and-through. She and I used to joke about that, that after how hard she'd worked for the kid, it was only fair he took after her. I see it all the time the way he looks after Sammy, after me, the way he makes me wanna crawl under a rock when I'm dropping the ball. And how he gets quiet, goes someplace inside when he's upset. Takes Sammy into their room, or out for a walk. I bet in 10 years he'll be taking off for long drives like Mary used to when she needed some time.

God, I miss her.

"Yeah. Me, too," Dean whispered.

He'd always loved this passage because it felt like a connection to his mom. But it had new meaning now. Long drives. Quiet. Needing time. Maybe he felt so mad because some part of him understood. Because he didn't do that with people he loved unless he was at his limits. Sam was all sound and emotion; you knew where you stood with him. Dean stuffed it all down until he was ready to explode. Until Mom, apparently, was ready to explode.

"Okay, Dad," Dean murmured. It didn't really make him feel better. It still sucked that Mom felt like that, and he missed her in an all new way, like a fresh scab ripped off. But he kind of got it. Knew that it didn't mean a lack of love, at least.

There was a rap at the door, and Sam stuck his head in. "I think I found a case." His eyes concerned but not asking.

"Okay," Dean said, rising to his feet, relieved. "Lemme grab my stuff." Finish his cake and beer.

At least think about texting Mom, just to say hi.

The End