Author's Note: Thanks to all of my reviewers, you've exceeded my hopes for this story and it makes my heart go pitter-pat! As always, I'm thrilled to hear how this chapter makes you feel and wonder about… please share. And don't worry Spuffy – I haven't forgotten "Worry & Care", I promise.

If for these last chapters, you could keep your mind open to my take on the world of spirits and the order of the universe… it'll make things much easier. I know I said this was only going to be one chapter, so if think of it as one chapter posted in a couple parts if it makes you feel better (it makes me feel better LOL). There ended up being a lot to talk about. Look for part two up as Chapter Nine in the next few days.

A nod to Faye for the hit-Sammy-with-a-metal-pipe concept : )

Thanks to Faye and Cynthia and Theresa for their beta-liciousness : )

This chapter's for my baby girl, who turned three today : )

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

xXx

Chapter Eight

"Sammy," she whispered, her voice as light as the cool breeze that blew through the dark room.

The sleeping form remained still, and she moved a little closer, sitting on the edge of the bed (close enough to touch him).

"Sam," she spoke again, this time a little louder, feeling slightly foolish at the human habit of trying not to wake the other person in the room. Even after all this time (though it wasn't much from eternity's perspective), she forgot that this sort of a visitation didn't allow anyone but her intended target to hear her. For her youngest son, this would be a dream… her oldest son wouldn't wake to her voice or her image, no matter the volume of the conversation that ensued.

"Sammy, baby," she said, her voice gentle but no longer quiet. "Wake up, honey." A smile crossed her face and she rolled her eyes. If it was anyone but her, she was sure the kid would have been out of bed with a pistol in his hand at the first syllable she'd spoken. John had taught them how to fight and defend, that was for sure. A shadow of heaviness crossed her heart. But there were so many things he'd kept from them; so many things he'd left… untaught.

Reaching out, she put a hand on her son's shoulder – he was broad and tall like her father had been, and it pleased her parents to no end. Daddy still grumbled that she hadn't carried on the Alexander family name, but mother was wistful when they watched Sam. He looked just like James Alexander did at that age, Isadora would say; and she should know – she'd married him when he was twenty-three. Maybe the name hadn't been passed down, but the genes clearly were, and the connection between the generations gave Mary a sense of comfort for some reason.

"Baby boy…" she hesitated.

Flat on his back, Sam was sprawled on the bed as only someone so tall could be. One arm was flung out, his hand trailing off the mattress edge, and the other arm was resting over his head. He slept with the sheets and blankets bunched up cozily around him, and his feet sticking out, and it was a silly, endearing sight. Sam had always hated being confined.

Dean was a swaddle-loving baby. The hospital nurses had shown John and Mary as brand-new parents the "foolproof" way to calm a fussy infant; you wrapped them so tight in a receiving blanket that they couldn't move. Supposedly this "swaddling" made them feel safe, like they were still in the womb. Dean quieted right down the instant you laid him on that blanket and started folding him into it. Sammy screamed louder and didn't stop until he'd managed to work at least one pudgy little arm out to wave in protest, or you gave up and set him free. There never were two peas in a pod, who at the same time were more starkly opposites, than Mary's sons.

She leaned over now, her fingers softly tousling his hair. And what hair it was! It was part of Sam's rebellion, whether he realized it or not, and a familiar longing rolled through her. He probably would have had a mutinous streak in him regardless of her death, she thought with a low laugh, but so much of his recalcitrance was rooted in the pain and confusion of losing her… things would have been easier for Sam if she'd been there.

It was puzzling that the suggestion to visit him had been given now, when he was at relative peace. The other times she had asked for permission to come to him were during some of his darkest and loneliest hours and each time the refusal, kind but firm, had come. She knew there was a reason, but she didn't for the life of her know what it was.

Sam stirred a little, turning his face toward the hand on his head, lines of worry briefly creasing the features, which looked so young in this unaware state.

"Sammy, wake up for me," she asked, rubbing his cheek with the back of her hand. "Please?" and then almost to herself, "I'm not sure how long we have."

As she stopped speaking, Sam's eyes flew open and a strangled gasp escaped his throat. In an instant he was scrambling backwards, flattening himself against the headboard and inching towards the opposite side of the bed.

"Dean!" he called, glancing across the room at his sleeping brother. "Dean?" his voice filled with panic now as he searched for any sign of life from Dean who usually slept light and woke to a threat with an eight-inch blade in his hand.

He tore his gaze from his unmoving brother to stare at the ethereal woman sitting on the edge of his bed. She hadn't shifted at all during his attempt at flight and warning. Sam stared as she silently, serenely watched him and then the recognition hit like a steel pipe to the head.

"Mom?"

She smiled, waiting for the fallout of emotion and confusion that was sure to come.

"You're dead," he whispered. "I mean, really dead…Missouri said you were…destroyed when you…saved Jennifer," he finished, clearly filled with incredulity.

She took a deep breath, wondering where to start. "As Mark Twain said, 'the reports of my death have been greatly –"

"– exaggerated," Sam said quietly, completing the thought.

Mary grinned, "That's my boy."

"Are you really here?" asked Sam, sounding fearful and childlike.

"Oh, honey, I'm here," she said, the plaintive note in her son's voice tearing at her. As she spoke, she reached out and placed a hand on the part of him closest to her – his ankle – but Sam flinched and she pulled back, trying to keep the sorrow from her expression. This was to be expected, and she needed to remember that he would need some breathing room as he adjusted.

"What's wrong with Dean?" Sam asked, nodding toward his brother's bed.

"Nothing's wrong Sam… he's not really there. I mean, he is, in the waking world, asleep in his bed, but he's part of the scenery in this dream," she said with slight amusement.

"Dream?"

"You've got a lot of defenses in that head of yours, kid," she explained. "It's more difficult for you to allow yourself to see me when you're awake. And this way, we're not as likely to be interrupted."

"So this," he gestured at the room around them, "is all in my head?"

"More or less. I could have chosen anywhere to meet you – usually people pick something like a meadow or a beach, or my favorite: a mountain top with a great view," Mary said, rolling her eyes.

"So instead of Hawaii I get a crummy motel room."

Mary laughed out loud and the beautiful, unrestrained sound caused Sam's heart to constrict. He looked away, out the window.

"Even the open window? Correction. Customized crummy motel room," he said under his breath, and his mother became quiet. He could feel her watching him and he ignored her, forcing himself to think about the window, trying to escape temporarily from this crazy, crazy moment.

xXx

They'd been here a couple days and the weather was unseasonably warm for the area. There'd been a knock on the door just after they woke up, and the manager was standing there apologetically. Half the rooms in the place had lost their air conditioning and in order to fix them, they had to shut the whole system down – hopefully only for twenty-four hours. He was sorry for the inconvenience; he'd discount their final bill.

Dean had been furious. They'd been trying to sleep in the closed, hot room for a couple hours when Dean had arisen steaming from his bed (literally) and grabbing his keys, stalked out to the Impala. When he returned, his hands had been full and Sam watched curiously as his elder brother sprinkled, chanted and hung stuff on the curtain rod over the window. It took about ten minutes, and then Dean opened the window as wide as it would go and fell back into bed. Sam couldn't remember ever sleeping in a room with an open window – ever. He chuckled as he went over in his head the things that Dean would risk life and limb for: Dad, Sam, innocent victims, and… uninterrupted sleep.

xXx

He turned his gaze back towards her, feeling more clear-headed, but still worried about this whole thing. It didn't make sense, and he couldn't help but wonder if this was a trick… a sick, twisted trap that some demon had thought up as torture.

"Ask, Sam. I may not be able to tell you everything, but I know you have questions, and I'll help you understand as much as I can," Mary said solemnly.

The pause was a long one, as he tried to decide the best way to question his (dead) mother, and she waited patiently for him to be ready. This would be a hard conversation – Mary had known it would be – and she was wanted Sam to as comfortable as possible. That meant letting him decide how much and how fast.

"How can you be here?" he started, deciding to get the logistics worked out first. "Was Missouri wrong?"

"I'm glad you found her," Mary said. "She's a good person. And to answer your question… she wasn't wrong, exactly. Missouri has a lot of gifts, and she honestly shares what she knows. But it's like the way scientists make pronouncements based on evidence. Sometimes their early conclusions are wrong because they just aren't far enough into the research to see the entire picture. Missouri knows more than most, but compared to what's out there in the universe," Mary paused, gesturing expansively, "it's not a complete picture."

"So…"

"So, my connection to the house in Lawrence was severed because my reason to be there was over, and that is what Missouri felt and what you saw happen."

"You'd been there since… it happened?" he asked, uncertain now of what he knew.

"Off and on, when my presence was useful. It was sort of like… the little piece of the universe that I was responsible for making sure was all right. I didn't know when or how, but I knew that there was something else I needed to do there eventually," Mary said.

"Were you trapped?" Sam questioned, his slight agitation evident.

"No, sweetie," Mary answered quickly, seeing the troubled look in her son's eyes. "I wasn't trapped. It's one of those things that most people on this plane assume because of what they see. I had a charge. I was supposed to try and protect or comfort those on my… "home turf", I guess you could call it," she said with a smile. "But I came and went." A shadow crossed her countenance. "Sometimes I went home just because I missed you. There are a lot of memories for me there… memories of you and your dad and Dean."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out and he closed it again, staring down at his fingers that without realizing it were tracing the rust-colored cabbage roses printed on the bedspread.

"I've spent time in a lot of places though." Souls aren't "trapped" by locations per say. Sometimes they are so angry or confused or malicious or heartbroken that they choose to stay in a certain place… but they aren't stuck anywhere except by their own perception."

Sam pondered that for a few minutes, and Mary noted his body language subtly changing, relaxing.

"So where… are you? I mean, physically – I mean, actually."

She smiled at the confusion of his terms, and for the first time since she'd arrived was rewarded by a shy smile from her baby.

"People call it a lot of things, but the afterlife is much more than simply Heaven or Hell, Sam. Underneath the world you can see with your mortal eyes is a world of… spirit. It's not just one single place… it encompasses more space than the galaxy, and yet is as individual and personal as this room. The afterlife is what you've created while you were mortal… it's not something that probably makes total sense unless you've been there," she said with a grin and something in her look reminded Sam of his brother. "So even though you're brilliant, you're not dead and so that's about all I can really tell you."

"You… still exist," Sam said; a statement and not a question. "What happened to you… at the house?"

"You can't destroy a soul, Sam. Period."

Sam started at this, "Then what do we do to them?"

"You can banish them or bind them to something that keeps them away from a particular place or person… you can cleanse places and people so that no trace of the energy is left… and you can cast out those who would possess. One of these things has happened when you think you've obliterated a non-corporeal entity. Wiping a sentient creature clean out of existence – even a corrupt, fleshless, supernatural one – it takes much more power than either Latin or rock salt holds, in order to do that."

"But you were… we saw you burning … Missouri described it as one of those arcane battles to the death and that you had to sort of…overload your own energy to kill the thing." He was sitting cross-legged on the bed now, arms folded as he leaned against the headboard. It wasn't a totally at-ease position, but neither was it a running-screaming one.

"It would take more time than we have to go over the finer points of energy transfer and spiritual expulsion," she said gently. "And it's not really what I came here to talk to you about, Sammy."

"But –,"

"Some day, sweetie, I promise."

Sam stared hard at Mary, searching her face with a pain and stoicism that made her want to sob. "Why did you come? Why now? Why did you wait so long?"

This time it was Mary that looked away, and then she shifted, climbing onto the bed and assuming a position like his, crossed legs but leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees.

"I wanted to. I tried, Sam. There are… rules. Much of what happens in the spirit world is… organized. There are things to be done, much like there are in this life, and if you're on the side of Good, we work together to make sure the work gets done. Manifestations, interventions, protections… the list is as long and varied as there are individuals…" she stopped, leaning back on her hands and stretching her legs. "Anyway, not the point. The point is, there is a plan. There are instructions to follow," she sighed. "I'm not explaining this well, am I?"

"Not really."

"I had a post, Sam, and I know your father has taught you what that means. There were people whose job it was to watch over you and your brother, and even John… but I had other things to do. And the Plan takes into account where it is each of us will do the most good –," she broke off, and Sam, who was looking again at the ghastly roses, brought his gaze up to her face.

His mother was hugging her arms around herself, folded tightly against her chest. Her eyes were shut tight and as her chin rested on her knees. He watched with detached grief as tears spilled over and slid down her cheeks. They sat silently for several minutes as Mary tried to check her emotions and Sam resisted reaching for her.

"Oh Sam. The hardest part of being gone has been being gone from you boys and your daddy. I've watched you your whole lives – that much at least, I could do. And not the blink of an eye has gone by but that I've wished I could be with you… holding you and protecting you and just being your mama." The passion and heartache in her voice was raw, and she searched Sam's face for any hint of softness.

Sam did not respond and he wore a mask of impassivity. Even though she could read him inside and out if she chose, she didn't want to intrude any more than she had to. Let him show her what he would, and decide how much he shared. He deserved the dignity of that, after all the fairness fate had snatched away from him over the years. Still, she had to try and get the issues on the table. This might be a one shot deal and she didn't want to leave things unsaid… un-dealt with.

Taking another deep breath, she sat forward, one leg folded under her and one hanging off the bed. "Will you talk to me? I know this is hard, sweetie and I know you're angry with me –"

"You do?" he snapped, his eyes blazing and brilliant, like his father's could be. "I'm angry? And why would I be angry? It's not like you picked being gutted and burned above my crib, right? So what would make you think I'm angry with you? The demon, yes. Dad, for what happened after, yeah. Even Dean sometimes, for making so many sacrifices I didn't ask him to make… but you? You're the only one that didn't have a choice, Mom – it's not like you abandoned me."

His rage had exploded and he practically catapulted away from her and off the bed to stand with his back turned against her lonesome, patient face, his arms folded tightly in both offense and defense.

Mary's whispered voice carried to him, "You were a baby, Sammy, and I left you."

"You didn't leave!" he roared, whirling on the woman now standing behind him, his stature menacing in and of itself.

She flinched at his fury, but her eyes met his steadily. "I did."

An inarticulate cry of anguish escaped him and his face crumpled into the face of a child whose psyche had been cut to a near-lethal depth.

"It wasn't of my own choosing; but your mother took off and left you, Sam – left you at the mercy of a broken, vengeance-struck father and a four-year-old brother."

Stumbling to the foot of the bed, Sam sank down, leaning forward with his head in his hands.

She hated for both their sakes that his walls had to be torn down. It wasn't easy facing more than twenty years of your child's pain and horror. She wished that she understood why this timing was important; why after so many years she was finally here when being with her family all along would have saved them so much trauma. Or if she'd come to Sam as a kid, or even as a teenager… it would have helped… it could have helped them all.

Mentally shaking herself, trying to focus, she made no move toward Sam but started talking again.

"It's alright, Sam. It doesn't have to make sense, what you're feeling. In all of us there's a child, filled with the pent-up emotions of our growing-up. Most people never really resolve that stuff... When we get to be adults, we dismiss those childhood anxieties and torments as ridiculous because those little-kid fears and frustrations don't make sense to our seasoned brains. The feelings are just… there, and I'm not here to judge you for them."

Sam didn't move, but as she took a step closer, she could see him breathing hard, trying to control himself, his hands shaking. It was too much for her and she crossed the space between them in an instant, sitting beside him and taking him in her arms.

Mary was surprised that he didn't flinch or back away; she had fully expected him to. Instead, he dissolved against her, awkwardly because of their difference in size, but nonetheless. She hadn't held Sam since he was six months old, and she thanked the universe for the solidity in this dream-space which allowed her to do so.

It was a strange feeling, remembering the baby that he was, seeing this man and knowing that they were one and the same. He was so much… bigger… how could it be that holding him felt just as it always had? She rocked him, whispering into his hair the things she'd told him when he was tiny, reassurances and declarations of adoration and again, she felt like she was in two places at once. Now, and then. And she wept too.

She didn't know how long it had been, when the emptiness that fills a soul done crying began to envelop them and she leaned back and wiped the drying salt from his face. He didn't look at her, and she felt him withdrawing some, so she stood to retrieve the box of Kleenex from the nightstand, offering it to him as an olive branch and an out.

"If I can hug you, then your nose can run – some days you wonder who makes up the rules, huh?"

This attempt at lightening the mood was rewarded by a red-nosed half-smile and there was instantly heat again behind her own eyes. He was not a baby anymore – and while she knew John would shrink from Sam's emotionality and bemoan the boy's weakness, Mary couldn't help the surge of pride she felt in the young man before her. In spite of the hunter' life, he'd managed to keep some vestige of softness that reminded her of her husband in the early years of their relationship.

John was a "man's man". A marine and a mechanic and a barbeque and football man… and yet he was the most tender person she'd ever known. When the situation called for gentleness and compassion, he had no equal. He'd been a wonderful husband (oh, they argued when they needed to – no one was perfect), and even now, after all that had happened… she would not have chosen a different man to father her sons. She knew almost from the start that John Winchester was the man of her dreams – that he was "the one" – and for better or worse, marrying him had been the right thing. Not that she couldn't work up a fair amount of anger about her children's childhoods… but still, she loved him. And the good in him was still there, even as he tried to forget what it felt like.

"So…" Sam began with some sarcasm, "did God just want us to be friends, or is there a purpose to all of this?"

Snapped from her reverie, Mary looked at her son. "You know, the funny thing is, I'm not sure."

"How can you not be sure? They wouldn't let you come and then they just… sent you on down with no explanation?"

"Pretty much," she said dryly.

"No instructions on how we're supposed to save the world?" he asked, mostly joking.

"Sorry, kid," Mary grinned.

"How long are you in town for?" Sam questioned, the strangeness of the conversation making the words sound warped in his ears.

His mother laughed and flopped down the bed next to him. "I don't know… I don't really know much at all, as you might be noticing."

There was a little silence between them and then Sam spoke again.

"This is weird."

"Yup."

"So can we, like, go somewhere? Or do we have to stay here?"

"Like, you want to go to Hawaii, or you want to go for a walk?" she asked with a smirk on her face that reminded Sam of Dean, in a way.

Startled by the comparison, he looked away and took a deep breath, recovering and turning back to her almost right away. "Well, this probably seems strange, but I'm feeling kind of hungry…"

Mary stood up and ruffled his hair. "Sure thing, Sammy. We can go anywhere we can get to from here. Even Hawaii I suppose, if there's time," she smiled, walking over to the door. "I just can't 'blink' you anywhere," she said rolling her eyes and removing the chain lock. "Another embellishment of the powers of the dead."

"Um, Mom –"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not exactly dressed," he said, pointing to the t-shirt and paisley pajama bottoms he was wearing.

"Aw Sammy, where's your sense of adventure!" She chided, again reminding him eerily of his big brother. He looked so horrified that she walked back over to him and put her hands on his shoulders, looking him seriously in the eye, yet unable to keep the humor out of her voice. "Honey, it's a dream. You're never going to see these people again. They're all props, remember?"

Sam visibly relaxed and glanced over at "Dean", who appeared to be sleeping peacefully. He flashed Mary a sheepish smile and they headed out the door. After all, she was still wearing that same white nightgown – the only thing he ever remembered seeing her in.

xXx

As they sat in the diner he'd eaten his birthday dinner at, Sam ordered a double-bacon-cheeseburger with onions and mushrooms, a side of shoestring potatoes and an extra large Oreo cookie milkshake. Mary grinned and raised an eyebrow at him.

"What?" he demanded a little defiantly. "If I'm dreaming, I might as well forget about clogged arteries and have a 'Dean special'."

Mary gave a shake of her head and laughed, "I'm not here to nag, Sammy."

Seriousness moved across his features and he picked up the fork that lay near his left hand, letting it weave and twist unconsciously between his fingers.

"But you're not sure why you are here," he said quietly, a statement and not a question this time.

"No. I mean, there are lots of reasons I'd like to be here… just seeing and talking to you, making sure you know how much I love you, and that I am always as close as I can be to you and Dean and your dad… but I don't know why I'm finally able to talk to you now." Leaning forward she rested her head in her hands in the universal gesture for weariness. "Let's try a different direction. Why do you want me to be here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, unless the powers that be are in the indulgence business these days – which I highly doubt – then most likely I am here because of something you need or want from me."

Sam shook his head and looked away. Mary understood the reaction, but asked anyway.

"Why do you think it's not about you?"

He snorted and gave a short, unpleasant, laugh. "Since when are the fates concerned about what I need?"

Mary didn't answer and they sat in silence as the waitress brought Sam's food, then left them alone. His appetite gone, Sam pushed the food away almost immediately. He stared out the window, his countenance so bereft that his mother longed for the table to dissolve between them.

"I really do wish I had better answers for you, sweetie," Mary finally said. After another moment, she stood and came around the table, taking Sam's hand and pulling him up. "Let's walk."

"Where?"

"I don't know, I'm just tired of sitting here," she smiled. "Your father never met a diner he didn't like, but me? Not so much."