Well, at least someone showed an interest in this :)

So, anyway, a couple of weeks ago I was reading a story on (here) where John was talking to Sam and thinking about why he liked asking Sam questions. Sam was like his mom, and it gave John an idea as to how Mary would have answered. Sometimes, it even seemed like she was speaking through him. A lightbulb went off in my head, and this story resulted. As always, reviews are appreciated. Seriously. Don't make me beg...

He sat in a chair, watching her every move, totally transfixed. Dean had never realized it before, but he'd never seen Sam cook. It was almost fun to watch.

"Honestly," Mary sighed, shaking Sam's head as she stirred the pot that sat on the old room's stove, "I tell you I'll make you anything you want to eat and you pick Spaghetti-Os."

"What can I say," Dean shrugged, "it's a classic." He smiled, loving the idea of someone actually fixing him what he wanted. Most of his eating habits had been dictated by what Sam had been in the mood for while they were growing up, and the change was more than welcome.

After Dean had finished his morning breakdown, the family had headed to the local superstore for supplies. The whole situation had still been new, and the hunter had wound up following his mother around like a lost puppy, unable to keep his eyes off her- even though she didn't exactly look like herself.

Still smiling, Dean checked his watch. It was almost noon. The day seemed to be passing too fast, his time growing too thin. "How long did you say you were gonna stay, mom?" he asked, loving the way the last word felt on his lips.

"I'm not sure, honey," she replied, turning to give him a sad look. "It depends on a lot of things. Unfortunately, I don't have any control over it."

His shoulders slumped as she turned back to the stove. "If you had control…?"

"I would stay in a heartbeat," Mary smiled, walking over with a bowl of pasta and running a hand down the side of his face, "you know that."

He smiled up at her. "Yeah. Yeah, I do." He looked down at his lunch, wishing for time to slow, wanting just a few more days before life and reality and deadly deals took over once again.

"What do you want to do today?" she asked, sitting down with her own bowl.

"You're asking me?"

"Of course." She made it sound like it was common sense, like he always got his way, like people actually cared about him.

Dean shrugged. "I don't know. Just… hang out, I guess. Spend time together. Talk, maybe."

Mary nodded. "You looked surprised that I would ask."

"Wasn't expecting it."

"Why not?"

He glanced down at his lunch. When he looked back up he saw, with some amusement, that she was using Sammy's puppy-dog eyes to the fullest extent. "People don't tend to ask me stuff like that," he said.

"Any idea why?"

Dean sighed, weighing his options in his mind. He could lie, tell her that he had no idea, tell her that everything was fine and his life was full of lollipops and candy canes. But she was his mother and he'd missed her and lying wouldn't be right.

So he told her the truth, knew that she wouldn't laugh at him or get mad or walk away like so many before. She would wrap her arms- Sam's arms- around him and comfort him and tell him that he wasn't worthless, that everyone was wrong, that people did care about him. He would believe her. Of course he would believe her. She was his mother.

"They don't care. It doesn't matter what I think because I'm always wrong."

"That's not true."

"I'm not like other people. I've tried my whole life to figure out what's wrong with me and I can't do it. I do everything that people ask me to, and they still walk away. They leave. You, and dad, and Sam, and Cassie, and Jo. Everyone I ever thought cared about me left. Why?"

"Oh, honey." She slid out of her seat and walked around the table to sit beside him. "That's not true. I came back for you, your father loves you so much more than he'd ever show, and I know for a fact that Sam cares deeply for you."

"How?"

She smiled. "I'm in his head, remember?"

"Then why's he been ignoring me?"

"He's just trying to help," she said softly, wrapping an arm around him and resting Sam's chin on his head as he leaned into the embrace, "trust me, after this, he'll be around more."

He nodded, wrapping his arms tightly around her and burying his face in his brother's chest. "Why leave, though?"

"There are some things that people have no control over. I didn't have a choice. Your father saved your life. Sam thought you wanted him to be happy-"

"I do."

"I know. It'll be ok. Everything's going to work out. Sammy's not going to leave you again."

"If he can last the year."

"He can last."

Dean looked up at her, eyes shining. "Mom, I'm scared."

"I know you are," she breathed, pulling him closer and stroking his hair, "we all are."

o0o0o0o0o0o

He was surprised that he could still look at her without feeling his face heat up. He'd bared his heart and soul and insecurities, revealed that, somewhere deep down, he was broken. He should have been embarrassed, shouldn't have been able to look into his brother's eyes without feeling the shame that came with showing weakness.

It was different than it normally was, though. In the past, when Dean had broken down, he'd recovered quickly with some sort of joke while Sam stared at him like he'd sprouted wings.

This time… this time seemed better, not so fragile, so meaningless, so wrong. He'd actually been comforted,really comforted, for the first time since his mother's death. He'd left the moment feeling better instead of worse, worth more instead of less, complete instead of empty. She'd seemed to understand. She hadn't judged him, hadn't laughed, hadn't left. She wasn't like everyone else, and he'd realized with pain that he missed her because of that.

"You all right, son?"

Dean started, that anticipated heat finally creeping into his face. He hadn't realized he'd been staring. "Yeah. Just lost in thought, I guess." He averted his eyes, staring down at his hands, which were folded, as if in prayer, in front of him.

After their quick lunch, Dean and his mother had laid out on their beds; Dean to watch TV, Mary to flip through the only book the brothers possessed on wishes. It had been quiet, neither one speaking until she'd felt his eyes on her.

"What were you thinking about?"

Dean shrugged. "What happened at lunch. I don't know if you know, but I'm not usually one to talk about stuff like that."

She put the book down and turned toward him. "Stuff like what?"

"All that emotional crap Sammy seems to like so much."

"Any reason why?"

He shrugged again. "People see what's really in here, they run. It scares them. It scares Sam. Opening up just makes everything worse."

She nodded. "But today?"

"Today was different. No one's ever done that before. No one's ever tried to help. Today was like… like I was worth something." He wasn't quite sure why he was still talking, why he was spilling his guts again when a simple 'whatever' would have sufficed, but it felt right and it felt good and it felt freeing.

"You honestly think you're worthless?"

"I sold my soul to resurrect the dead, didn't I?"

"But why? What could possibly make you think that, Dean?"

"My own brother looked me in the eye and told me."

Mary shook her head, Sam's hair flopping slightly, covering his eyes. "What color were the eyes you looked into?"

"Black. But that doesn't matter. It was still him. Just like it was still dad." Damn, once he got going, he really couldn't stop, could he? Still, it felt different than it usually did.

"You know where those things really came from, don't you?"

Dean sighed. "Demons read minds, so… me?"

She nodded, sitting up on her bed and stretching before moving to sit beside him. "You. You have such a low opinion of yourself, it's like you have no idea what an incredible person you've become."

"How's that?" he asked.

Mary smiled. "Well, you were willing to give up your life and soul for your brother. That's very rare. Especially since you think he hates you."

"How did you-?"

She put a hand on his head and ruffled his short hair. "There really have been angels watching over you."

"And you let Sam die?"

Mary stared at him for a second, and Dean was sure she was going to pull Sam's hand away and leave. Instead, she smiled sadly. "I said watching over, not interfering. I couldn't have helped. And how did this become about Sam? I thought we talking about you."

Dean managed a weak smile. "What can I say, I'm a subject-changer by nature. Be glad I'm not cracking a dirty joke."

"You're a wonderful person, whether you see it or not. Stubborn as your father and unable to actually see yourself for what you are, but wonderful, nonetheless. I want you to remember that."

"Sure."

"You still don't believe me," she said, "but I can't let you die believing that you're worthless. Without you, Sammy wouldn't be alive right now."

"Without me, dad wouldn't be dead, altering the timeline we know, and possibly saving Sam anyway."

"Without you," she said softly, leaning close so he could hear her hushed voice, "who would have taken care of them? Who would have made sure the baby was fed? Who would have tended your father's wounds? Walked Sammy to school? Made sure they were all right?"

"Somebody would have-"

"You are worth more to this family than you'll ever know, Dean, more than they'll ever know. Without you, there would be no them."

He gulped, staring at her, at Sam, at the handsome features that looked so earnest, so sure, so determined to make him see the truth. Maybe he had taken care of Sam while their dad was out hunting, but so what? Anyone could have done that. And John could have stumbled into an emergency room if he was hurt badly enough. Right?

But John had hated hospitals. They asked too many questions. And he never trusted strangers with his sons. It was why he'd left Sam with Dean so many times. It was why he taught Dean to cook, taught him first aid, taught him to shoot. Without those skills, people could die.

Without someone to perform those skills, people could die.

And a light bulb went off in his head, everything clicking together, past and present and future making so much sense. Suddenly, they didn't hate him like he'd always thought. Suddenly, he was needed, as caretaker and nanny and medic, as father and mother and brother and son, as soldier and commander. He'd been needed.

"You get it, don't you?" Mary asked, shocking Dean out of his revelation. "You know?"

Dean nodded, his mind still reeling, realizing that he'd never heard his brother's voice sound so soft and comforting as it did then. "Can't believe I missed it."

She leaned away, rubbing a hand across his back. "Everyone missed it. It's not your fault."

A slow smile crossed the hunter's face. "None of it is. The things I always blamed myself for…" he trailed off, staring up at her, up at Sam. Something felt different, felt lighter. Something he'd always carried, something heavy that had weighed down on him for longer than he could remember, had lifted. It felt good.

"Better now?" Mary asked, smiling at her son. Dean nodded. "Good."

o0o0o0o0o

Dean laid back on his bed and watched the shadows flick across the ceiling as his mother pulled the ratty motel comforter up to his chin. "You're not gonna be here when I wake up, are you?" he asked.

Mary sighed. "Maybe. Maybe not. If I could, I would be. You know that."

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Good." She sat down on the bed beside him, staring down at him, and smiled. "Even though you might not see me tomorrow, I want you to know that I'm still going to be here." She ran a hand down the side of his face, her smile brightening as he leaned into the touch.

"Yeah," he muttered, eyelids fluttering despite his best efforts to keep them open.

"You have to trust that things are going to be better."

Dean nodded weakly, smiling as she began to stroke his hair, singing softly to help him drift off to sleep. He couldn't remember ever feeling so safe before, not since the fire. He was comfortable, loved. Someone actually cared enough about him to help him navigate into the soft darkness of sleep, to stay up and watch him and make sure that nightmares didn't plague his dreams.

His final thought before letting sleep take him, a thought that would normally have made him shudder with disgust, was that Sam actually had an ok singing voice.