Mary took Dean through memories he could hardly believe he'd forgotten, and some he'd rather forget. His first hunt, Sammy's first hunt. His last hunt with John. Being minded by Bobby. Minding Sam. Nights in the Roadhouse. His days with Lisa and Ben. The first time John came home hurt from a hunt. First time Sammy came home hurt from a hunt. The night Sam left for Stanford, the night Dean brought him back. The last time Dean saw his father before taking the long drive to Serra Mall. Sam and the Demon Trials. Charlie. Jodie. Kevin. Cas. Tessa.
It was like being shown his greatest hits and hurts in inescapably vivid clarity. Some of them made him want to turn away and block his ears, but his mother was there beside him for every second. She held his hand, silently comforting him, urging him to watch his younger selves, see how tenderly he cared for his family. It was uncomfortable for Dean to watch himself, difficult to extricate himself from the emotions of the memory. And of what would follow them.
As Mary led him through memory after memory, some that made him want to weep with joy, others with shame, he began to feel a new strength spread slowly through him. Before, he had felt hopelessly week, kept going only by Mary's support and his burning desire to be with her, to see her for as long as he could. When he looked down at himself, he saw his bones press against his skin as though determined to break free. Now, slowly, his muscle was returning. Something warm and comforting was seeping through him, strengthening him, lifting his soul out of the darkness that tugged against his mind and making the shadow phantoms seem less threatening. His fear was slowly being consumed by the strange warmth, replaced by an odd calm and stillness he associated with the aftermath of total emotional exhaustion. The sinister presence he felt lurking just out of sight seemed farther away, smaller.
Not understanding what was happening to him, but reasonably sure he could believe in this odd new sense of security, Dean stood a little straighter, held his head a little higher. He began to feel the power of his limbs again, began to remember his training, how to fight, how to defend. He met each new memory with curiosity rather than apprehension. Mary's smile became wider and there was a twinkle in her eye Dean hadn't seen before, as though she were laughing at some inside joke.
Mary squeezed his hand as the last memory began to fade around them. The Panic Room materialised slowly surrounded them, replacing the old church where Sam had tried to cure Crowley. The room was brighter than when they'd left it, lit with a warmer yellow light than Dean remembered. A cot stood in the centre of the Devil's Trap, the blanket tucked neatly in place around the thin mattress. Mary sat down, gesturing for Dean to take the space beside her. The springs let out a groaning squeak as they took his weight.
"I've shown you all I can now, Dean. Soon I'll have to leave."
Dean felt tears prickle beneath his eyelids. The old ache began to throb in his chest. "Can't you stay?" he whispered.
Mary smiled sadly and reached up to run her fingers through his thick hair. "I wish I could, Dean, but I can't. I've done what I came to do. The rest is up to you."
Dean closed his eyes and leant into her touch. "I don't want you to go," he mumbled miserably, suddenly feeling very young. "There' so much ... so much I wanna say, so much I know Sam wants to know. We miss you."
Her thumb stroked his cheek gently. "I know, sweetheart. I miss you too. And I love you more than I can say. Which is why I have to leave you."
Dean opened his wet eyes and stared at her, confused. "Why?"
She withdrew her hand and fixed him with a serious gaze. "Do you understand now why I showed you all I did? Why I'm here?"
Dean frowned. "I ... I think so," he said uncertainly.
"Tell me."
"A lot of what you showed me ... they were things I've been thinking about for years. The mistakes I've made, the people I've lost. Others were things I didn't even know I remembered. Good things. Things I shouldn't have forgotten."
"Is that all?" she prompted, her eyes searching.
Dean took a deep, shuddering breath. His voice quavered. "I know I've done a lot of bad. I've screwed up so many times, hurt so many people. People I care about. I never wanted any of it to happen. But," he continued, blinking the blurry wetness from his eyes and looking up at his mother, "but it wasn't all on me. Before this last year ... before - before the Mark, all I ever wanted was to feel safe, to keep my family safe. Most of the time I couldn't, even with Sammy. I thought I let them all down. And sometimes I did, I know, but not always. It wasn't always my f-fault. So much of the crap I carry ... it's not mine to keep. Just because I live in this world full of evil doesn't," he hesitated, knowing he had to say the words yet somehow afraid to voice them. "It doesn't mean I am too."
Mary was smiling that tight-lipped smile he loved, the one that looked as though it couldn't contain her happiness. She reached up and pulled Dean into her arms, hugging him close as he sniffed and blinked away the tears. Just as in the meadow before, he had no defense in this twilight zone. He was as exposed as a raw nerve. His mother's embrace was a salve, helping him even out his breathing.
"My brave boy. I am so proud of you. Never doubt that, Dean, not for one second. I know I didn't want you or Sam to have this life, but what you've made out of it, all the good you've done ... no mother has ever been prouder. My boys, the heroes."
Dean smiled against her shoulder, holding her tightly.
"I know how hard this is for you, Dean. Believe me, I do. For one who acts so tough, you bruise easily. You feel the pain of those around you, and when they're people you love, you do everything you can to ease it, even if that means you carry it for them. You take their guilt and shame as your own without thinking to spare them, even if only in your own head. You protect them even when they're gone. You've been protecting everyone else ever since you were a baby, my sweet love." She pulled out of the embrace and took his face in her hands. Her own cheeks were streaked with tears, yet her voice remained steady and sure.
"But now it's your turn, Dean."
"What?" His voice sounded so small, so young.
"It's time you stopped being everyone else's shield, Dean. It's time you put yourself first. It's time you woke up."
"What do you mean?" The fear he felt creeping up inside him bled into his voice. He searched her face for answers, his brow furrowing.
Mary pressed her forehead against Dean's, her hand on his cheek. Reluctantly, he closed his eyes. He savoured her touch.
"Please," she whispered fervently. "Please, Dean, take care of my little angel like you do everyone else. Love him the way you do Sam. He's so kind, so brave. He deserves to feel safe. He deserves to feel loved. Take care of him the way you did Sam. Please, Dean, try to see yourself the way I do. The way Sam does. You are worth so much more than you believe. It's time you learnt to think differently."
She pulled back and nodded to the door of the Panic Room. Dean turned.
A small boy stood uncertainly in the doorway, eyeing Dean as though waiting to see if he'd attack. One tiny-fingered hand held on to the doorjamb, ready to push against it if he had to run. There was no mistaking the child's bright blond hair and rich green eyes. Dean was staring at himself.
He turned to Mary. "Is this a memory?"
"No, Dean," she said quietly. "This is you."
The little boy's eyes flicked from Dean to Mary with the air of someone trying to judge if they could make it passed a wild dog without being bitten. Suddenly, the boy pushed off from the door and ran, blond hair bouncing, into Mary's arms. She scooped him up and hugged him, kissing his forehead through his fringe. As one, they looked to Dean.
"Please, Dean. Just try. Not for me. For you. You are so precious to me. I can't bear to see you so hurt. Not my little angel."
Dean stared at himself in disbelief. Had this little boy been hiding inside his mind all these years? Had he seen all Dean had done? Suddenly, like a lake breaking its dam, memory after memory flooded through Dean, whipping past in dizzying speed. Everything Mary had shown him and hundreds more besides flashed behind his eyes as he stared into his own, young eyes that held a silent accusation.
This was the figure he had sensed in the clearing when he first arrived in this place. This boy who couldn't yet be seven was the one the demon had been chasing, the reason the phantoms had come for Dean. They distracted him, paralyzed him with fear and pain so he couldn't help the child escape.
He had seen everything. He had been there for every gunshot, every flick of the knife, every battle. Every tear. Dean had made him watch, he'd shoved a gun in his hands and called it protection while he charged into the fray without a shield.
Dean didn't need the boy to speak to understand the blame in his eyes. You've protected Sam all these years, but you never once thought of me. It's your fault that I'm hurt, that I'm scared, that I've always been so alone. It's your fault.
Tears flowing freely down his cheeks, Dean slid off the bed and knelt before his mother and six-year-old self. He took the child's hand gently in his own and looked up into the bright green eyes.
"I'm so sorry," he said, his voice deep and shaking. "I am so sorry I forgot about you, that I left you all alone in the dark. I'm sorry I drowned you in silence and drink, I'm sorry I put everyone else before you. You're just a kid; you didn't deserve any of this. None of this is your fault. I kept sacrificing you 'cause I thought it would keep you safe, but I was wrong. I just let my own fear poison you when I should have protected you from what I do. I'm so sorry I failed you. You deserve so much more. You deserve to be saved."
Dean stared into the boy's eyes for a long moment, and the boy stared back without blinking. Dean watched as the accusation and anger drained from the green-eyed gaze. A broad smile replaced it, lifting the rounded features and in one fluid movement, the young boy slid to the floor and wrapped his skinny arms tightly around Dean's neck. Dean hugged him back, enveloping him in his strong arms, burying his face against the scrawny shoulder.
"I'm so sorry, Dean," he whispered. "We deserve to be saved."