Dean stared for a long moment. She looked just as she always did. Blonde hair tumbling over her nightdress, smiling, eyes full of love. Dean drank in her appearance, savouring that look in her eyes. Then he remembered.

Slowly, gently, he pulled his arms out of her grip, curling them against his stomach and pulling his knees up to shield them. He fixed his gaze on his little toe and clutched at his ribs as he waited for the torment to begin.

"Dean," she whispered sadly, putting a hand on his cheek.

He quivered slightly. The touch felt so real. He could feel her warmth. Her voice was like a salve to the screaming that echoed inside his head. He frowned slightly at his toe as he began to shake again. He didn't think he could take this. Not her. Not her as well.

"Dean, please. Look at me." She pressed her palm into his cheek for a moment, not forcing his head up but silently encouraging it.

No. No, he couldn't. This was one face he just couldn't bear to see with black eyes. Send Dad back, or Bobby. Hell, even Sam. Anyone but her.

"Please, Dean." Her soft pleas were a torture in and of themselves. He hated refusing her. "Please, baby, let me see those big green eyes of yours."

He could hear her smile in her words. He couldn't blink; he just stared at his toe, paralyzed. A tear fell from his shaking lashes and splashed onto his arm. He flinched as though it had hurt.

"Oh, Dean. My brave boy."

She withdrew her hand from his cheek and though he wanted to beg her to leave it there, he remained silent. If he didn't react to them, they went away faster.

Silence fell between them for a time, save their breathing. Hers deep and steady, his loud and ragged.

Dean wanted nothing more than to look into her eyes again, but he was afraid they would turn black. He wanted to feel her arms around him, but was scared they would turn to knives.

Then she began to hum. Softly at first, hardly audible, not loud enough to startle him. Soon the unmistakable melody of Hey Jude filled the air around Dean. It warmed him, soothed him, reminded him of all those nights as a baby being gently lulled to sleep. He almost looked up then. Almost.

After a while, his shaking subsided. His shoulders ached from tension, but he couldn't relax them. She could strike at any moment.

Except she didn't. Time crawled by, but she never moved. Was this part of the game? Make him think she wasn't going to hurt him before it started? Try to convince him she was different? The last note of the chorus faded sweetly into the still air. Dean wished she would continue. It hadn't hurt.

Finally, she broke the silence. Amused exasperation coloured her tone. "Dean, how much longer are you going to make me wait? You used to run to hug me when you were little." She ducked her head lower to look into his averted eyes. "Too old for that now, huh?"

Dean couldn't help it – he met her gaze for a moment. She was smiling that tight-lipped smile that made her look as though she was fighting back a laugh. Her eyes twinkled under her lashes. They were blue.

He took a deep breath. His voice still shook. "Are you one of them? The phantoms?"

"No, Dean. I'm not here to hurt you, sweetheart. I'm here to help."

Tears blurred his vision. His fingers dug between his ribs, trying to distract himself from the ache in his heart. "How can I trust that?"

"You mean how can you trust me? That's a good question, I suppose. Every other phantom that's come has hurt you. Even John and Sam. But I'm not a phantom, Dean. I'm ... more of a memory."

"And they weren't?"

"No. They used your memories to take form. They were the demon, Dean. They weren't your family. But I am."

God, he'd never wanted anything to be true so much in his life.

"I promise you, Dean. I would never hurt you. I only want to help you. You have no idea how much it hurts me, seeing you like this. I just want to make it stop."

Dean could hear the tears in her voice. He could hear her pain.

He looked up. Her brow was bunched over her brimming eyes and she was biting her bottom lip to stop it quivering.

Screw the phantoms, Dean thought, as, in a rush, he uncurled himself and threw his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin, soothing her.

"It's okay, Mom," he whispered, and for the first time his voice was steady. "I'm all right. You don't have to cry."

He felt her chuckle sadly against his chest.

"That's my Dean. Always taking care of everyone else." She pulled out from under his chin and looked up at him, putting her hand against his cheek once more. He leant into her touch, closing his eyes and savouring the steady pulse he could feel in her fingertips. Her other hand pressed against his other cheek and he opened his eyes to meet her sweet gaze. "Never letting anyone take care of you."

Curling one arm around his shoulders, she drew him into a tight hug, resting his head against her chest. He could hear her heart beat out its steady rhythm. Slowly, he put his arms around her, hugging her back as she held him and rubbed soothing circles on his back.

"That's it, Dean," she cooed. "It's okay, sweetheart. I'm here. I'm here."

And for the first time in so long he couldn't remember, Dean Winchester felt safe.

The blue-white light had seeped into the Panic Room, illuminating its rough walls and two silent inhabitants. Slowly, the darkness receded into shadowy corners. Dean sat on the floor beside his mother. He was smiling.

"I didn't tell John for four days, not until I'd taken about five pregnancy tests. I wanted to be sure. I wish you could've seen his face – I should have thought to take a picture. His jaw dropped and his eyes went wider than I'd ever seen them, and for a minute he just stared at me, looking from my face to my belly." Mary laughed at the memory and the sound made Dean's grin widen. "Then, after so long I thought I'd broken him, this huge smile lit up his whole face and he scooped me up in his arms and danced me around the kitchen, laughing like a madman. I don't think I'd ever seen him so happy."

Dean gazed at his mother, transfixed by her words and the joyous life glinting in her eyes as she spoke them. It made her look younger.

"And then when you were growing, I had the biggest cravings for cheeseburgers. I swear – we kept that Biggerson's open single-handedly." She laughed again, pushing her hair back from her face. "We spent two months getting the nursery all ready, bargain hunting for cots and baby clothes. Your dad found a tiny cowboy hat in one store and begged me to let him buy it. He was so excited. I was too, but also terrified." She glanced over at him, her eyes alight with the memories. "I didn't know how to be a mom. I was still getting used to a life without hunting.

"But then you arrived." She beamed, her eyes brimming with tears, and she reached out her hand to Dean's head, stroking his temple with her thumb. "All my fear just disappeared when I saw you. You were so tiny. They wrapped you up and brought you over and you fit so perfectly in my arms it was like they'd been made to hold you. I remember thinking, 'Wow. He's so beautiful.' I was so happy to be your mom, Dean. And when you wrapped your tiny little fingers around mine and held on so tight, I knew I had someone special in my arms. You opened your eyes and looked up at me, and you yawned and just went to sleep, still holding on to me. You were so tiny, so helpless. And I kept thinking of all the ghosts and werewolves and all the monsters I'd grown up having nightmares about and I promised myself right then that I would always protect you from them. That I'd always keep you safe."

Tears were trickling down her cheeks and choking her words now. Dean felt tears of his own burn behind his eyes as he watched her.

"I'm so sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry I couldn't keep that promise."

Dean shook his head, taking her hand in his. "It's okay, Mom. You don't have to be sorry. It wasn't your fault."

"I know," she said, smiling as she blinked back her tears. "I know. I just wish I could have been there for you and Sam. I wish I could have saved you from all of this." She gestured grandly to the room, sniffing.

Silence fell between them for a time. Dean wanted to hear more. John had never spoken of his early life. He never spoke about anything before the fire.

Soon the smile returned to Mary's lips.

"You know, Dean, one of the best things about being a parent is watching your baby become a person. Seeing their personality develop and take shape. By the time you were two, I knew exactly who you'd be."

"You did?"

"Oh yes. Without a doubt. There was this one day: I was sick with a bad cold and John was at work. I'd just got you settled in your room, playing with your toys on the floor. I left the door open and lay down in bed for a quick nap – just ten minutes before lunch. About half an hour later I woke up coughing. It wasn't half as bad as it sounded, but you came running into my room asking me what was wrong. I said I just needed a drink and you left. Then you came back with a glass full to the brim of apple juice – your favourite. I knew the carton was almost gone, so you must have fitted every last drop into it. It had dribbled down the sides a little but you got it up the stairs to me anyway. And you gave it to me and sat up on the bed beside me and didn't leave until I'd drank it all."

She chuckled and looked up at Dean. "That's when I was sure."

"About what?"

She smiled. "A mother can see the truest core of her child, Dean, for good or for bad. And do you know what your core has always been, Dean?"

"No." He was afraid to hear the next words.

"Love."

There was a pause.

"Love?" he asked, confused.

"Yep. Love, Dean. Even when you were little, it was obvious. You have such a big heart. Even after everything you've been through, you put everyone else first. You've spent your life saving others, helping them feel safe. All those times you've saved Sam. I mean, you sold your soul for him, Dean. What else could there be but love?"

Dean glanced away uncertainly. What else? Try evil, shame, guilt, blood ... He was a killer. Any love in him had been turned sour by his poisonous soul.

Mary took his chin in her fingers and turned his head to look her squarely in the eyes. One eyebrow cocked slightly in a way he remembered meant she was serious. "You, Dean Winchester, are not evil. You never have been, nor will you ever be. You are a good man, Dean. And a great one. You love me, don't you?" she asked suddenly.

"Of course I do, Mom. You know that."

"And do you trust me?"

"Yeah …?"

"Then trust me in this: you, my little angel, deserve to be saved."

Dean looked from one bright eye to the other, searching the loving gaze for any hint of a lie. He saw none.

"You really believe that?" he asked, his voice lower than a whisper.

"I know it, Dean," she replied firmly. "I know it."

A small smile tugged at Dean's lips.

"And better yet," she continued after a moment, "I can prove it to you."