Mother Mary Comes to Me
Title: Mother Mary Comes to Me
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2600
Spoilers: Veeeery general S6
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: A concussion and some Wraith venom conspire against Dean and make him see Mary were he should be seeing Sam. Unfortunately robo!Sam isn't willing to put up with his brother's delusions.
This is one of the products of yesterday's 13h flight from hell. It wasn't supposed to take that turn but sleepdeprived brains will take off in weird directions. Plus it's a very nice fill for Multiple Personalities for my angst_bingo card *is excited*
Dean comes to in a jumbled mess of pain and confusion and darkness and pain. He has a vague recollection of going after…something.
Great. Real helpful there.
It should probably worry him that by now he can work out he has a concussion without even opening his eyes. His neck and the spot right behind his left ear hurt like a bitch and if he tries to move onto his side it feels like maybe his hair might be stuck to a pillow with dried blood. Fan-fucking-tastic. At least it smells like motel room and Sam’s old socks and not like some sleazy witch’s lair some sleazy witch dragged him off to, to drink his blood or peel off his skin or pee in his mouth in her sleazy witch ways. Dean fucking hates witches. Thank God Sam brought him home to the motel room.
“Hey, you’re up,” he hears from the direction of the bathroom in a voice that is so most definitely not Sam’s, no matter how much Dean might accuse his brother of being a girl.
Right, so either some sleazy rookie witch has set up her lair in a motel that smells like a high school locker room, or the witches are all part of Dean’s imagination and he finally managed to get seriously injured during sex. Neither seems particularly likely, but hey, he has a concussion. There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation just beyond his grasp. Maybe if he sees the girl the pieces will magically fall into place. He is Dean Winchester after all and luck and good fortune and heaven are on his side and good things like that just happen to him all the freaking time.
“Get out of the bathroom,” he hollers, immediately regretting it when giant glowing elephants start tap dancing behind his eyes.
“Clingy much?” comes the amused answer from behind the door. Dean can practically hear the eye roll. But the door opens and then Dean’s jaw drops, because there she is all long blonde curls and white night gown and…and…
“Mom?”
Dean’s heart does a happy little dance and even though she can’t possibly be here, she is and the room around her is glowing and bright and lovely all of a sudden when before it was just another smelly nondescript mess of guns and used underwear and ugly wallpaper.
Mary Winchester is all sweet and smiling a slightly skewed smile that magically fills the gaping mom shaped hole that sometimes rips apart Dean’s chest, makes him feel warm and loved, like he’s never been broken in the first place. He feels his eyes burn slightly with huge, salty tears. He tries to blink them away, but his eye lids won’t cooperate, too busy staying open and drinking it all in.
“Mom,” Dean whispers again, louder this time and his voice comes out kinda strangled like he’s actually about to cry or something, but his face is split in half with the brightest little boy smile he can come up with.
“No,” she answers in that pretty voice Dean sort of almost remembers. “Sam.”
Sam? That’s right. Where’s Sam?
“Where’s Sam?”
Mary rolls her eyes in a way that makes Dean chuckle, because Dad always did say Sammy didn’t get his dark frowns from him.
“Dude, are you feeling okay?”
That sounded weird. Not very…motherly. Lisa never called Ben dude. Neither has any mother Dean’s ever seen on TV. Maybe it’s a Kansas thing, he figures. Dad called him dude (sometimes, when he’d let Sammy talk him into feeling guilty over being too much of a drill sergeant and not enough of a father.) So yeah, mothers in Kansas probably call their kids dude all the time. Dean just blocked it out in favor of honey, because he’s a big fluffy little girl with bows and glitter and shit.
“I’m…m’head hurts,” he answers her question, his heavy tongue slurring the words just a little.
Mary shrugs, like it’s no big thing, like she couldn’t care less and it’s not like Dean expected her to come kiss his booboo better or anything, but still…
“Wraith got you pretty good,” she explains and Dean tries to force his brain to pick up anything about hunting a wraith in the last view days. Nope. Nothing. Nada. “Body slammed you headfirst into the floor,” Mary goes on and Dean can’t really be mad a t her for chuckling slightly. Dean’s 6’2 ass being hauled around by some petite girl monster. Now that must’ve been a thing to behold.
“Concussion?” he asks, just to be sure. Thinks the word feels slightly big in his mouth, like he can’t quite wrap his tongue around it. Cotton candy word.
“Probably,” Mary shrugs again, shucking her hair out of her face in a way that’s just Sam. “Bled like a bitch, too.”
And okay, that? Definitely not something moms are supposed to say. His mom is awesome.
“Do you want a drink?” she asks suddenly, already striding across the room towards his secret duffel full of the good stuff, like it’s a perfectly normal thing for him to be having a couple drinks to calm down even when he’s dealing with a head injury, which, okay, it is, but she’s not supposed to know about that.
“Water’ll be fine,” he croaks. Hopes she doesn’t realize how much of her son’s life is really just a growing pile of shitty issues.
She shoots him a puzzled glare and picks up a half empty bottle of water from the desk in the corner, muttering “okay. Weird. You goin’ cold turkey or something?”
Dean shrugs and looks away. He’d be shuffling his feet if he wasn’t lying down. Twisting his dirty, blood crusted fingers into a hole in the linen of his sheets will just have to do.
“What’re you doin’ here?” he asks to change the subject, all reverent awe and blushing and stuff.
“Looking after you?” she sounds like she’s actually not too sure herself. “I can go if you want.”
“No,” he yelps and yelps again when the loud sound makes bright stars dance before his eyes. “No, I don’t want you to go.”
“Fine,” she shrugs again and finally pushes the water into his shaking hand. She’s so close. She doesn’t smell like he remembers, but hey, whatever, she’s here. And their fingers are touching and Dean’s heart goes into a frenzy, because this isn’t Ghost-Mom or Memory-Mom or Zachariah-Mom, this is just Mom. Dean reaches out to touch her hair and gets his hand smacked away like that one time he tried to grab one of the cookies she’d made for some other kid’s birthday when it was still hot from the stove and he remembers that hurting then but man, it stings now.
“Dude, what's wrong with you?”
“Sorry,” Dean mumbles, resisting the urge to cradle his stinging hand to his chest and pout. He’s not sure why he isn’t allowed to touch her hair but if those are the rules he’s more than fine with that as long as he can just keep her.
Mary looks unsure what to do with herself for a minute. Dean wants to tell her to sit on his bed with him and then maybe later when he feels better they can go look for Sam or something. But then again, Sam probably wouldn’t care too much about seeing their mother again. She’s all Dean’s for now. He wonders if she’d make him some tomato rice soup if he asked real nicely. He isn’t exactly sick, but maybe concussions count too, he isn’t sure.
“Mom, could you - ?“
“Quit calling me that!” she snaps, looking wild and mad all of a sudden and rips the water away from his hand to slam it down on the nightstand with a resounding bang that blends together with the thumping her shout caused inside Dean’s skull. “I’m not your mom.”
She says it with such disgust, like it’s the most absurd, sick thing she’s heard in a long time. It twists Dean’s insides around and makes his head spin and the broken place in his chest opens up with an all new kind of hurt. Why would she..? Ever. She’s his…she’s the one person in the world who’s supposed to think he’s not expendable, who doesn’t want to get rid of him or use him for something or…
Possession, shoots through his head. Maybe. Maybe it’s not really her. He should have thought of that sooner, just his head isn’t really working all that well. She is dead after all. Maybe something took her body and is playing some sick game of Let’s Kick Dean When He’s Down. Probably. Hopefully. He couldn’t stand it if this was really her.
“Christo,” he whispers and Mary’s head whips around, but not in that demonic sort of way.
More in a “fuck you, Dean, I’m not possessed!” sort of way.
He ducks his head and keeps his eyes low. Old, hard wired reaction to parental disapproval, he figures.
Mary places a hand on his chest and pushes him back down onto his ratty pillow, like he’s some weak kitten and the only reason she doesn’t snap his neck and put him out of his misery is because she can’t be bothered.
“I’m calling Bobby,” she announces. “Don’t. Move.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, because he’s good at that.
He tries not to listen in on the phone conversation that’s happening not five feet from him. Doesn’t really want to hear can you just take him in, I have no idea how to deal with him? and it wouldn’t be that bad if I just left him here, right? and but he’s all clingy and shit. Nope, he doesn’t hear any of that. The sudden moisture on his cheeks is probably just sweat or blood.
Dean used to dream of seeing his mom again. Imagine what he’d say to her if they could have just one more conversation. What she’d say to him. Annoyed phone calls to Bobby to complain about his clingy behavior weren’t usually a part of those dreams.
Sometimes he’d lie awake at night with his little brother’s curls tugged under his chin and his father snoring in the bed next over and he’d make lists of things he remembered about her. 1. She smelled like cookies and flowers. 2. She made the awesomest tomato rice soup. 3. She loved it when Dean’d play with her hair. 4. She couldn’t carry a tune to save her life 5. She called him honey. Nobody’s called him honey ever since and if they did he’d probably punch them in the face. 6. She told him angels were watching over him.
It’s a crappy short list, Dean used to think even then. If it weren’t for the pictures Dad had in his wallet that night he probably wouldn’t even remember what she looked like. You’re supposed to remember better, more important things about the most important person in the world.
Now he’s not so sure he wants that one last conversation with her. He’s had a few of them actually and for every time he remembers Mary’s soft ‘Angel are watching over you’ he now has a memory of being judged and discarded in favor of a conversation with her youngest and being told she was glad to die so she could get away from him and...
Actually he’s pretty sure he’s had enough final conversations with his mother to last a lifetime. The woman sold her unborn child like a prison bitch for a couple smokes. He probably shouldn’t even like her all that much.
Still, he can’t bring himself to screw any blonde girls and he can’t help but scowl at Sammy’s meager attempts at chicken soup when Dean gets sick and he still thinks the fact that McCartney’s voice doesn’t break every single time he hits a high G ruins the whole song.
“Alright Bobby, if you say so,” he hears Mary sigh into Sam’s cell phone. She shoots an exasperated frown in the direction of Dean’s bed. “Yeah, okay, I’ll put up with him.”
Dean quickly drops his gaze back onto his wringing hands. He doesn’t want her to put up with him. He wants her to sit with him and cuddle him and let him play with her hair and tell him he’s the most precious little boy in the whole world and that she won’t ever leave him again.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mary walk back into the bathroom. He hears her rummaging around in their medi kit and manages to wipe most of the tears off his face before she returns to sit awkwardly on the side of his bed.
“Bobby said to give you these,” she says, waving a small orange bottle in front of his face in one big bright blur that makes his head ache. “Said you’d be back to normal once you’d slept it off.”
“Slept what off?” Dean asks groggily.
“Well, the concussion for one,” Mary explains, roughly rapping her knuckles over Dean’s forehead. “And the wraith venom that’s got you all turned around.” Now she’s poking at a sloppy bandage on Dean’s neck that he didn’t even notice before.
He winces when he registers the burn tear across his throat and she tells him to stop being a whiney little bitch, so he shuts it down and focuses on the little bottle in his lap instead.
The letters sort of swim together into a blurry mess, but he’s pretty sure it’s the last of the Codeine Sam stole from some doctor chick he banged a couple months ago. Dean’s face falls when he thinks about Sam who isn’t Sammy anymore and does and says things Sammy would have been appalled by and who’d still be better, less hurtful company than Mom.
It’s stupid, is what it is. Mary isn’t acting any worse than back-from-the-cage-Sam. It’s just that Dean has somehow convinced himself that she’d be at least a bit happy to see him again after so many years, when obviously she’d probably prefer to burn all over again if it’d just get her rid of him.
“Oh please, tell me you’re not gonna cry again.”
Dean shakes his head, not trusting his voice enough to answer out loud. He screws open the prescription bottle and dry swallows the last two pills, since it’s not like Mary is about to get up and get him the water she put away earlier.
“So uhm…” Mary starts, slapping her palms down on her thighs is an uneasy gensture. Dean’s eyes zero in on the dark red, wet stain marring the white of her nightgown. “So, Bobby said to deal with this until you fall asleep. What do you need me to do?”
Dean shrugs and tries to pry his eyes away from the thick, still not congealed blood. He should tell her to leave, tell her that she doesn’t need to stay here and hold his hand when she clearly doesn’t want to, but he just can’t. He wants her to stay here and hold his hand and more importantly, he wants her to want to stay.
“Should I…sing?”
Yes, please.
“Nah, ’s okay.”
“I could make you soup or something. Moms make soup when their kids get sick, right?”
Dean shakes his head weakly, not really fighting the thick fog that’s slowly seeping into his mind. “’m good,” he mumbles. “’m almost ‘sleep anyway.”
He turns slightly onto his side so he doesn’t have to see her get up and walk away from him again. Still, he hears the not so quietly muttered “thank fuck. Thought I’d never get rid of him.”
And with that Mary walks past his bed and out the front door without saying a single word about angels watching over him. And when Dean finally does fall asleep, he dreams of his Mom, glued to the ceiling, surrounded by her fiery halo.
She’s smiling. Glad she’s finally getting away from him.
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2600
Spoilers: Veeeery general S6
Disclaimer: Not my boys. Kripke broke them long before I ever got to them.
Summary: A concussion and some Wraith venom conspire against Dean and make him see Mary were he should be seeing Sam. Unfortunately robo!Sam isn't willing to put up with his brother's delusions.
This is one of the products of yesterday's 13h flight from hell. It wasn't supposed to take that turn but sleepdeprived brains will take off in weird directions. Plus it's a very nice fill for Multiple Personalities for my angst_bingo card *is excited*
Dean comes to in a jumbled mess of pain and confusion and darkness and pain. He has a vague recollection of going after…something.
Great. Real helpful there.
It should probably worry him that by now he can work out he has a concussion without even opening his eyes. His neck and the spot right behind his left ear hurt like a bitch and if he tries to move onto his side it feels like maybe his hair might be stuck to a pillow with dried blood. Fan-fucking-tastic. At least it smells like motel room and Sam’s old socks and not like some sleazy witch’s lair some sleazy witch dragged him off to, to drink his blood or peel off his skin or pee in his mouth in her sleazy witch ways. Dean fucking hates witches. Thank God Sam brought him home to the motel room.
“Hey, you’re up,” he hears from the direction of the bathroom in a voice that is so most definitely not Sam’s, no matter how much Dean might accuse his brother of being a girl.
Right, so either some sleazy rookie witch has set up her lair in a motel that smells like a high school locker room, or the witches are all part of Dean’s imagination and he finally managed to get seriously injured during sex. Neither seems particularly likely, but hey, he has a concussion. There’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation just beyond his grasp. Maybe if he sees the girl the pieces will magically fall into place. He is Dean Winchester after all and luck and good fortune and heaven are on his side and good things like that just happen to him all the freaking time.
“Get out of the bathroom,” he hollers, immediately regretting it when giant glowing elephants start tap dancing behind his eyes.
“Clingy much?” comes the amused answer from behind the door. Dean can practically hear the eye roll. But the door opens and then Dean’s jaw drops, because there she is all long blonde curls and white night gown and…and…
“Mom?”
Dean’s heart does a happy little dance and even though she can’t possibly be here, she is and the room around her is glowing and bright and lovely all of a sudden when before it was just another smelly nondescript mess of guns and used underwear and ugly wallpaper.
Mary Winchester is all sweet and smiling a slightly skewed smile that magically fills the gaping mom shaped hole that sometimes rips apart Dean’s chest, makes him feel warm and loved, like he’s never been broken in the first place. He feels his eyes burn slightly with huge, salty tears. He tries to blink them away, but his eye lids won’t cooperate, too busy staying open and drinking it all in.
“Mom,” Dean whispers again, louder this time and his voice comes out kinda strangled like he’s actually about to cry or something, but his face is split in half with the brightest little boy smile he can come up with.
“No,” she answers in that pretty voice Dean sort of almost remembers. “Sam.”
Sam? That’s right. Where’s Sam?
“Where’s Sam?”
Mary rolls her eyes in a way that makes Dean chuckle, because Dad always did say Sammy didn’t get his dark frowns from him.
“Dude, are you feeling okay?”
That sounded weird. Not very…motherly. Lisa never called Ben dude. Neither has any mother Dean’s ever seen on TV. Maybe it’s a Kansas thing, he figures. Dad called him dude (sometimes, when he’d let Sammy talk him into feeling guilty over being too much of a drill sergeant and not enough of a father.) So yeah, mothers in Kansas probably call their kids dude all the time. Dean just blocked it out in favor of honey, because he’s a big fluffy little girl with bows and glitter and shit.
“I’m…m’head hurts,” he answers her question, his heavy tongue slurring the words just a little.
Mary shrugs, like it’s no big thing, like she couldn’t care less and it’s not like Dean expected her to come kiss his booboo better or anything, but still…
“Wraith got you pretty good,” she explains and Dean tries to force his brain to pick up anything about hunting a wraith in the last view days. Nope. Nothing. Nada. “Body slammed you headfirst into the floor,” Mary goes on and Dean can’t really be mad a t her for chuckling slightly. Dean’s 6’2 ass being hauled around by some petite girl monster. Now that must’ve been a thing to behold.
“Concussion?” he asks, just to be sure. Thinks the word feels slightly big in his mouth, like he can’t quite wrap his tongue around it. Cotton candy word.
“Probably,” Mary shrugs again, shucking her hair out of her face in a way that’s just Sam. “Bled like a bitch, too.”
And okay, that? Definitely not something moms are supposed to say. His mom is awesome.
“Do you want a drink?” she asks suddenly, already striding across the room towards his secret duffel full of the good stuff, like it’s a perfectly normal thing for him to be having a couple drinks to calm down even when he’s dealing with a head injury, which, okay, it is, but she’s not supposed to know about that.
“Water’ll be fine,” he croaks. Hopes she doesn’t realize how much of her son’s life is really just a growing pile of shitty issues.
She shoots him a puzzled glare and picks up a half empty bottle of water from the desk in the corner, muttering “okay. Weird. You goin’ cold turkey or something?”
Dean shrugs and looks away. He’d be shuffling his feet if he wasn’t lying down. Twisting his dirty, blood crusted fingers into a hole in the linen of his sheets will just have to do.
“What’re you doin’ here?” he asks to change the subject, all reverent awe and blushing and stuff.
“Looking after you?” she sounds like she’s actually not too sure herself. “I can go if you want.”
“No,” he yelps and yelps again when the loud sound makes bright stars dance before his eyes. “No, I don’t want you to go.”
“Fine,” she shrugs again and finally pushes the water into his shaking hand. She’s so close. She doesn’t smell like he remembers, but hey, whatever, she’s here. And their fingers are touching and Dean’s heart goes into a frenzy, because this isn’t Ghost-Mom or Memory-Mom or Zachariah-Mom, this is just Mom. Dean reaches out to touch her hair and gets his hand smacked away like that one time he tried to grab one of the cookies she’d made for some other kid’s birthday when it was still hot from the stove and he remembers that hurting then but man, it stings now.
“Dude, what's wrong with you?”
“Sorry,” Dean mumbles, resisting the urge to cradle his stinging hand to his chest and pout. He’s not sure why he isn’t allowed to touch her hair but if those are the rules he’s more than fine with that as long as he can just keep her.
Mary looks unsure what to do with herself for a minute. Dean wants to tell her to sit on his bed with him and then maybe later when he feels better they can go look for Sam or something. But then again, Sam probably wouldn’t care too much about seeing their mother again. She’s all Dean’s for now. He wonders if she’d make him some tomato rice soup if he asked real nicely. He isn’t exactly sick, but maybe concussions count too, he isn’t sure.
“Mom, could you - ?“
“Quit calling me that!” she snaps, looking wild and mad all of a sudden and rips the water away from his hand to slam it down on the nightstand with a resounding bang that blends together with the thumping her shout caused inside Dean’s skull. “I’m not your mom.”
She says it with such disgust, like it’s the most absurd, sick thing she’s heard in a long time. It twists Dean’s insides around and makes his head spin and the broken place in his chest opens up with an all new kind of hurt. Why would she..? Ever. She’s his…she’s the one person in the world who’s supposed to think he’s not expendable, who doesn’t want to get rid of him or use him for something or…
Possession, shoots through his head. Maybe. Maybe it’s not really her. He should have thought of that sooner, just his head isn’t really working all that well. She is dead after all. Maybe something took her body and is playing some sick game of Let’s Kick Dean When He’s Down. Probably. Hopefully. He couldn’t stand it if this was really her.
“Christo,” he whispers and Mary’s head whips around, but not in that demonic sort of way.
More in a “fuck you, Dean, I’m not possessed!” sort of way.
He ducks his head and keeps his eyes low. Old, hard wired reaction to parental disapproval, he figures.
Mary places a hand on his chest and pushes him back down onto his ratty pillow, like he’s some weak kitten and the only reason she doesn’t snap his neck and put him out of his misery is because she can’t be bothered.
“I’m calling Bobby,” she announces. “Don’t. Move.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he mumbles, because he’s good at that.
He tries not to listen in on the phone conversation that’s happening not five feet from him. Doesn’t really want to hear can you just take him in, I have no idea how to deal with him? and it wouldn’t be that bad if I just left him here, right? and but he’s all clingy and shit. Nope, he doesn’t hear any of that. The sudden moisture on his cheeks is probably just sweat or blood.
Dean used to dream of seeing his mom again. Imagine what he’d say to her if they could have just one more conversation. What she’d say to him. Annoyed phone calls to Bobby to complain about his clingy behavior weren’t usually a part of those dreams.
Sometimes he’d lie awake at night with his little brother’s curls tugged under his chin and his father snoring in the bed next over and he’d make lists of things he remembered about her. 1. She smelled like cookies and flowers. 2. She made the awesomest tomato rice soup. 3. She loved it when Dean’d play with her hair. 4. She couldn’t carry a tune to save her life 5. She called him honey. Nobody’s called him honey ever since and if they did he’d probably punch them in the face. 6. She told him angels were watching over him.
It’s a crappy short list, Dean used to think even then. If it weren’t for the pictures Dad had in his wallet that night he probably wouldn’t even remember what she looked like. You’re supposed to remember better, more important things about the most important person in the world.
Now he’s not so sure he wants that one last conversation with her. He’s had a few of them actually and for every time he remembers Mary’s soft ‘Angel are watching over you’ he now has a memory of being judged and discarded in favor of a conversation with her youngest and being told she was glad to die so she could get away from him and...
Actually he’s pretty sure he’s had enough final conversations with his mother to last a lifetime. The woman sold her unborn child like a prison bitch for a couple smokes. He probably shouldn’t even like her all that much.
Still, he can’t bring himself to screw any blonde girls and he can’t help but scowl at Sammy’s meager attempts at chicken soup when Dean gets sick and he still thinks the fact that McCartney’s voice doesn’t break every single time he hits a high G ruins the whole song.
“Alright Bobby, if you say so,” he hears Mary sigh into Sam’s cell phone. She shoots an exasperated frown in the direction of Dean’s bed. “Yeah, okay, I’ll put up with him.”
Dean quickly drops his gaze back onto his wringing hands. He doesn’t want her to put up with him. He wants her to sit with him and cuddle him and let him play with her hair and tell him he’s the most precious little boy in the whole world and that she won’t ever leave him again.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Mary walk back into the bathroom. He hears her rummaging around in their medi kit and manages to wipe most of the tears off his face before she returns to sit awkwardly on the side of his bed.
“Bobby said to give you these,” she says, waving a small orange bottle in front of his face in one big bright blur that makes his head ache. “Said you’d be back to normal once you’d slept it off.”
“Slept what off?” Dean asks groggily.
“Well, the concussion for one,” Mary explains, roughly rapping her knuckles over Dean’s forehead. “And the wraith venom that’s got you all turned around.” Now she’s poking at a sloppy bandage on Dean’s neck that he didn’t even notice before.
He winces when he registers the burn tear across his throat and she tells him to stop being a whiney little bitch, so he shuts it down and focuses on the little bottle in his lap instead.
The letters sort of swim together into a blurry mess, but he’s pretty sure it’s the last of the Codeine Sam stole from some doctor chick he banged a couple months ago. Dean’s face falls when he thinks about Sam who isn’t Sammy anymore and does and says things Sammy would have been appalled by and who’d still be better, less hurtful company than Mom.
It’s stupid, is what it is. Mary isn’t acting any worse than back-from-the-cage-Sam. It’s just that Dean has somehow convinced himself that she’d be at least a bit happy to see him again after so many years, when obviously she’d probably prefer to burn all over again if it’d just get her rid of him.
“Oh please, tell me you’re not gonna cry again.”
Dean shakes his head, not trusting his voice enough to answer out loud. He screws open the prescription bottle and dry swallows the last two pills, since it’s not like Mary is about to get up and get him the water she put away earlier.
“So uhm…” Mary starts, slapping her palms down on her thighs is an uneasy gensture. Dean’s eyes zero in on the dark red, wet stain marring the white of her nightgown. “So, Bobby said to deal with this until you fall asleep. What do you need me to do?”
Dean shrugs and tries to pry his eyes away from the thick, still not congealed blood. He should tell her to leave, tell her that she doesn’t need to stay here and hold his hand when she clearly doesn’t want to, but he just can’t. He wants her to stay here and hold his hand and more importantly, he wants her to want to stay.
“Should I…sing?”
Yes, please.
“Nah, ’s okay.”
“I could make you soup or something. Moms make soup when their kids get sick, right?”
Dean shakes his head weakly, not really fighting the thick fog that’s slowly seeping into his mind. “’m good,” he mumbles. “’m almost ‘sleep anyway.”
He turns slightly onto his side so he doesn’t have to see her get up and walk away from him again. Still, he hears the not so quietly muttered “thank fuck. Thought I’d never get rid of him.”
And with that Mary walks past his bed and out the front door without saying a single word about angels watching over him. And when Dean finally does fall asleep, he dreams of his Mom, glued to the ceiling, surrounded by her fiery halo.
She’s smiling. Glad she’s finally getting away from him.