[Fic] Hail Mary
Title: Hail Mary
Author: justmep2
Characters: Dean, Sam. Mentions of Mary, John
Genre: Gen, Angst
Pairing: None
Warning: PTSD
Rating: PG-13
Word-count: 1,048
Spoilers: Coda to 9x07 Bad Boys.
Disclaimer: Wish they were mine.
Summary: Dean never stopped talking after his mom died. Not really.
Author's Note: Dean broke my heart in 9x07 as he usually does, but it wasn't until the very end of the episode that this bunny came to sit on my lap and refused to leave. Dean knew how to make Timmy's mom ghost disappear and told Sam it was just a hail Mary, that he just got lucky. Not if you ask me.
A long(ish) drabble I wrote straight after watching the episode. Still not sure about it, to be honest, so I scheduled this post randomly.
Unbetad, not a native speaker.
"Hey, how… how did you know Timmy asking his mom to leave was gonna work?" Sam asked, turning to face Dean over the Impala.
"I didn't. Total hail Mary. Got lucky," Dean replied, forcing a weak smile to his lips.
"You just got lucky?" Sam asked again, sounding dubious.
Dean nodded in return and got in the car.
He wasn't exactly lying - Dean wasn't sure how he knew what to do, to be honest, but he knew better than to give it to pure luck. Luck was never something Winchesters were granted, no reason to believe it to be the case now. No, Dean knew how to make Timmy's mom leave. He just didn't know how.
As he got in the car and drove into the night, lost in thought about his time at Sonny's Boys Home, another thought came to mind. It didn't happen often - not while he was fully awake - but as much as he tried it was hard to shake off the images in his mind once they decided to make an appearance, trying desperately to think of something else and always ending up with the same rerun.
Take your brother outside as fast as you can!
Glimpses from that night kept coming back to him, clear as day; like thirty years never passed, his father words echoing in his ears as distinct as the minute they were spoken, the smell of smoke and burnt flesh flooding his nostrils.
He took a deep breath, shaking his head slightly and turning to look at Sam on the seat next to him ready to start a conversation - anything really, just to take his mind off the images.
His brother had other ideas. He was fast asleep, snoring softly; Dean swore the kid could sleep through the damn apocalypse if he wanted to. He thought about waking him for a second there but decided against it. Sam was still healing, Zeke doing… whatever it is he was doing, and anyway, waking him minutes after he fell asleep with no apparent reason would just prompt the flood of questions. Questions Dean didn't have answers to.
Instead, Dean turned the music on slightly and focused hard on not thinking, on avoiding what was lingering in the shadows of his mind.
Robbin. She's still hot. Not a bad choice even when he was 16. He could totally nail her if he was hanging around; Cas. What was he doing? Still working at the Gas-n-Sip probably, talk about weird. Adjusting. Wonder if anything happened with that boss of him? Not that it was something he wanted to think about, nope; Sam. Sam seemed better. And Zeke didn't say anything against taking the case, probably felt like it was safe enough to let Sam join in. How long 'till he'll feel like his feathery ass can to leave his brother? Not that he isn't grateful, but it was getting hard to keep this from Sam and the more he stayed, the less comfortable Dean felt about the arrangement; The arrangement. The night of the last trial. Angels falling, fire everywhere -- the fire. The smell.
Now, Dean! Go!
Here we go again.
On the third time the familiar loop occurred another image came to Dean's mind out of nowhere, one that didn't belong to that particular sequence. His childhood? Heaven? The past? No matter where from the memory materialized, his mother was there. Not as clear as the image from the fire but there, and if he concentrated enough he could almost hear her voice.
The route was deserted, the sound of the engine purring and Sam's soft snores the only thing breaking the silence - when did the music stop? - and her voice.
I'm here, baby. I'm here. Don't cry.
He was tempted to close his eyes, to focus harder on the voice, not sure if he was thinking of a memory or this being just a fragment of his imagination; not caring either. He was afraid that if he'll stop, if he'll do anything else but to hold to this memory the spell will be over and the image would go away.
Surely this couldn't be a real memory. He remembered some stuff from before, but this particular memory -
You're so brave. I'll never leave you. Don't cry.
And suddenly, like a lightning struck, it clicked.
The first night after. Dad crying on the sofa, him and Sam curled together in the next room. He wouldn't let go, not even after Dad said it was okay, that he needs to bath, to eat, to feed Sammy. He wasn't crying, didn't make a sound since, and suddenly the room went cold and she was there. Not saying anything, just looking at him, smiling sadly. "Mommy!" he called weakly, barely audible, careful not to wake Sammy and she just stood there smiling.
He was too young to understand. He seemed to have known about monsters all his life or at least since he could remember - almost nothing from before could be considered as a valid memory - but remembering seeing her didn't make sense. It didn't make since to him then and it didn't now. Was he dreaming? Imagining?
The bridge opened and the memories flood and there he was, there she was. Every night. Sometimes she talked. Sometimes Dean talked and she listened. He never talked to anyone else, didn't feel like he needed to. Felt like he should save it all to their stolen time at night.
A week after Dean turned six his father handed him a gun and told him he was a big boy now, and he should know how to defend himself, how to defend Sammy. There are bad things, he told him, bad things like the one that killed mom and could hurt them - Werewolves, Vampires, ghosts.
Dean asked what ghosts are and John was thrilled. Dean didn't talk much, not for the past two years, and he rarely initiated the conversation. So his father talked, explaining how ghosts were what's left of people who died, that they were bad things that needed to be salted and burned. His father was even more thrilled when Dean hit all the targets on that first practice.
That night, Dean remembered, was the last time he saw his mom.
Author: justmep2
Characters: Dean, Sam. Mentions of Mary, John
Genre: Gen, Angst
Pairing: None
Warning: PTSD
Rating: PG-13
Word-count: 1,048
Spoilers: Coda to 9x07 Bad Boys.
Disclaimer: Wish they were mine.
Summary: Dean never stopped talking after his mom died. Not really.
Author's Note: Dean broke my heart in 9x07 as he usually does, but it wasn't until the very end of the episode that this bunny came to sit on my lap and refused to leave. Dean knew how to make Timmy's mom ghost disappear and told Sam it was just a hail Mary, that he just got lucky. Not if you ask me.
A long(ish) drabble I wrote straight after watching the episode. Still not sure about it, to be honest, so I scheduled this post randomly.
Unbetad, not a native speaker.
"Hey, how… how did you know Timmy asking his mom to leave was gonna work?" Sam asked, turning to face Dean over the Impala.
"I didn't. Total hail Mary. Got lucky," Dean replied, forcing a weak smile to his lips.
"You just got lucky?" Sam asked again, sounding dubious.
Dean nodded in return and got in the car.
He wasn't exactly lying - Dean wasn't sure how he knew what to do, to be honest, but he knew better than to give it to pure luck. Luck was never something Winchesters were granted, no reason to believe it to be the case now. No, Dean knew how to make Timmy's mom leave. He just didn't know how.
As he got in the car and drove into the night, lost in thought about his time at Sonny's Boys Home, another thought came to mind. It didn't happen often - not while he was fully awake - but as much as he tried it was hard to shake off the images in his mind once they decided to make an appearance, trying desperately to think of something else and always ending up with the same rerun.
Take your brother outside as fast as you can!
Glimpses from that night kept coming back to him, clear as day; like thirty years never passed, his father words echoing in his ears as distinct as the minute they were spoken, the smell of smoke and burnt flesh flooding his nostrils.
He took a deep breath, shaking his head slightly and turning to look at Sam on the seat next to him ready to start a conversation - anything really, just to take his mind off the images.
His brother had other ideas. He was fast asleep, snoring softly; Dean swore the kid could sleep through the damn apocalypse if he wanted to. He thought about waking him for a second there but decided against it. Sam was still healing, Zeke doing… whatever it is he was doing, and anyway, waking him minutes after he fell asleep with no apparent reason would just prompt the flood of questions. Questions Dean didn't have answers to.
Instead, Dean turned the music on slightly and focused hard on not thinking, on avoiding what was lingering in the shadows of his mind.
Robbin. She's still hot. Not a bad choice even when he was 16. He could totally nail her if he was hanging around; Cas. What was he doing? Still working at the Gas-n-Sip probably, talk about weird. Adjusting. Wonder if anything happened with that boss of him? Not that it was something he wanted to think about, nope; Sam. Sam seemed better. And Zeke didn't say anything against taking the case, probably felt like it was safe enough to let Sam join in. How long 'till he'll feel like his feathery ass can to leave his brother? Not that he isn't grateful, but it was getting hard to keep this from Sam and the more he stayed, the less comfortable Dean felt about the arrangement; The arrangement. The night of the last trial. Angels falling, fire everywhere -- the fire. The smell.
Now, Dean! Go!
Here we go again.
On the third time the familiar loop occurred another image came to Dean's mind out of nowhere, one that didn't belong to that particular sequence. His childhood? Heaven? The past? No matter where from the memory materialized, his mother was there. Not as clear as the image from the fire but there, and if he concentrated enough he could almost hear her voice.
The route was deserted, the sound of the engine purring and Sam's soft snores the only thing breaking the silence - when did the music stop? - and her voice.
I'm here, baby. I'm here. Don't cry.
He was tempted to close his eyes, to focus harder on the voice, not sure if he was thinking of a memory or this being just a fragment of his imagination; not caring either. He was afraid that if he'll stop, if he'll do anything else but to hold to this memory the spell will be over and the image would go away.
Surely this couldn't be a real memory. He remembered some stuff from before, but this particular memory -
You're so brave. I'll never leave you. Don't cry.
And suddenly, like a lightning struck, it clicked.
The first night after. Dad crying on the sofa, him and Sam curled together in the next room. He wouldn't let go, not even after Dad said it was okay, that he needs to bath, to eat, to feed Sammy. He wasn't crying, didn't make a sound since, and suddenly the room went cold and she was there. Not saying anything, just looking at him, smiling sadly. "Mommy!" he called weakly, barely audible, careful not to wake Sammy and she just stood there smiling.
He was too young to understand. He seemed to have known about monsters all his life or at least since he could remember - almost nothing from before could be considered as a valid memory - but remembering seeing her didn't make sense. It didn't make since to him then and it didn't now. Was he dreaming? Imagining?
The bridge opened and the memories flood and there he was, there she was. Every night. Sometimes she talked. Sometimes Dean talked and she listened. He never talked to anyone else, didn't feel like he needed to. Felt like he should save it all to their stolen time at night.
A week after Dean turned six his father handed him a gun and told him he was a big boy now, and he should know how to defend himself, how to defend Sammy. There are bad things, he told him, bad things like the one that killed mom and could hurt them - Werewolves, Vampires, ghosts.
Dean asked what ghosts are and John was thrilled. Dean didn't talk much, not for the past two years, and he rarely initiated the conversation. So his father talked, explaining how ghosts were what's left of people who died, that they were bad things that needed to be salted and burned. His father was even more thrilled when Dean hit all the targets on that first practice.
That night, Dean remembered, was the last time he saw his mom.