Author's Notes: This is a bit of a series. It starts off mostly as a little Mary and Ellen drabble, but it has been growing ever since.

Will post warnings at the tops of each chapter. :)

"You doin' okay, Mary?" Ellen asks softly.

The bar is quiet, save for Joanna's rambling — she's just turned three, attitude through the roof, wandering over to Dean as he sits on the floor to visit her; he always seems to gravitate toward her, and Mary can't help but wonder if it's because he's lonely, or if it's a quiet need to be a big brother after being stripped so quickly of a younger sibling. She tries not to think that it hurts, because she wants to believe Dean can get passed what he'd seen all those years ago in their old house. She wants to believe it will all heal over: a scar, but a faint one.

For him, at least. She can't afford to let Sammy go. Not after what had happened. Not after the fire, the smoke, the loss of innocent life that she should have protected. It was her job. It was what she walked away from this life for, and…

Ellen's looking at her, eyes soft. "Mare-bear?"

She smiles softly at the nickname, rubbing a hand over her shoulder. "It's nothing."

Ellen had been there from the start — ever since John had gone and crossed paths with the Harvelles. Bill was a good man, and Ellen was a wonderful friend. A mother. Someone who could imagine that pain, who could absorb it and feel that loss like a sharp knife in the heart. Mary couldn't help but confide in her, even after her and John had become estranged in his obsession. Even after she'd ran him off, when he asked her why he wouldn't teach Dean the trade.

Even after all this… letting Dean become what her family had been… what John's turned into… It's something she couldn't allow. John leaving, looking into the thing that could have taken her boy? That's one thing. But shoving a shotgun in a nine-year-old's hands and expecting him to stand attentive, to eventually go out night after night and either come back bloody or drunk? It's terrifying. Even more so when she can see John's face in Dean's.

He couldn't crumble into what his father was. She loves John, even if she sometimes hates him, but… Dean could not be the man his daddy'd been when he walked into the hunter's life. She breathes a sigh at the thought, and Ellen sits down at the bar herself, reaching out and tucking a stray hair behind Mary's ear.

"Don't think it's nothing, hon," Ellen says. "I got a two dollar bill that says John's gone and done something stupid again. You're upset."

She smiles and laughs softly, but her eyes are sad as she glances to Dean. He's got Jo sitting on his thigh, showing her how to clap her hands in a rhythm. It's good to see him smile. She lives for those moments, even if it's bittersweet sometimes. It's been five years and the loss weighs heavy. Sometimes Dean asks about Sammy. Most days, though, he just looks at the pictures with a solemn stare.

Mary leans into Ellen's shoulder, accepting a small drink poured for her.

She hates this stuff. But the burn is good tonight.

"Tomorrow… Tomorrow's Sam's birthday," she says, voice low. She tries not to let it tremble, but her eyes sting despite her stubbornness. She hasn't sobbed openly since the night of the fire, and she doesn't plan to do it now. She has to move forward, but the past is only five years away, and her baby's tiny voice always returns to her in May. "It's Sam's birthday, and he would have started kindergarten this year, and — John left. Didn't… say why, didn't leave any details. Just. Left. I know we're not — together like we used to be anymore, but…"

Some nights, she really could hate him.

"Oh, sweetie," Ellen pulls her close, chin against the crown of her blonde head. Mary closes her eyes and breathes a sigh when lips press against her hairline, all sweetness and care and compassion. It's so strange, to watch Ellen threaten hunters out of her bar one moment, and then tenderly comfort someone the next. "Your fella is an asshole. I'm sorry about that. It was an important day."

"Mom?"

Mary glances over quickly to Dean, eyes wet but tears not shed, and she's quick to wipe away the lingering trace of them. Dean's looking at her with that tentative expression, and she could really kick herself for making him worry like that. She just smiles and puts her hands on his cheeks. "I'm alright, angel."

She'll explain to him when it's Sam's birthday, officially. They'll remember him, they'll love him, and then… they'll keep trying to move onward. It's all they can hope to do, save for pray for the day that John's rampage of revenge ends with the death of the monster that had dissected their family like this, left their insides torn open and exposed. Ellen ruffles Dean's hair, is about to make her own remarks when the phone rings.

It's John. Ellen bites a "don't you use that tone with me, Winchester", but ultimately it's not for her — she gives Mary a look before the corded phone is in her hands. As Dean returns to Joanna's side, helping her stand up to adjust her crooked ponytail, John's voice is rumbling, harsh, urgent.

"Mary. Mary, oh god. I found him. I found him."

She closes her eyes, throat tight. "The yellow-eyed man?"

"No, Mary — Sam. I, I found Sammy. He's alive, and I know where he is, Mary. He's alive. He's fucking alive."

It feels like the world around her shatters, splinters into pieces.

The flames in the recesses of her mind recede.

Sammy will be five tomorrow.

Sammy.

She cries out in disbelief and joy and anger and pain and fear, and Ellen has to grab onto her tightly before she can crumple to her knees.