Title: Brother Knows Best

Summary: A hunt gone wrong leaves Dean and Mary with a certain floppy-haired, dimple-faced toddler on their hands. De-aged!Sam, Protective!Dean. Protective!Mary. Hurt/Comfort. Angst. Family feels.

Warning: Spoilers up to season 12.

Disclaimer: I don't own the show or any of its characters.

You didn't understand the true meaning of 'Where did it all go so wrong?' until you found yourself staring down into the watery eyes of your thirty-three-year-old son, who had been magically zapped back into his four-year-old self.

Mary could only blink and stand frozen as she peered down into the chubby-cheeked face with the adorable button nose that peeked up at her from behind a mop of unruly brown curls.

She had only spent about a month by Sam's side, but she'd already memorized all of her son's features- from the little scar on the side of his neck to the little mole above his lips- she'd studied all the nuances of her youngest son's face and she was sure that the little boy she was looking at was Sam.

Or a five-year-old version of him, anyway.

There was a rustle of leaves, a cracking twig and Mary whipped around, gun poised and ready to blow that damn witch's head off.

But it was Dean who bushwhacked his way through the thicket, picking leaves from his dirty-blond spikes and then freezing when he noticed his mother's expression.

"Are you alright? Where's Sam?"

Mary would have rolled her eyes at Dean's mother henning if it wasn't- for once- justified.

They had only just patched Sam back together after his run-in with the men of letters.

They had only just gotten him back and nursed him back to health after everything these crazy bitches had done to him.

And now he was practically a baby, swimming in the clothes of a six-foot-something man and looking up at her with these wide, innocent, puppy-dog-eyes full of confusion.

Dean followed his mother's gaze down to the pile of jeans and flannel on the ground where Sam had stood thirty seconds ago and Mary could see the exact moment when realization slammed into him with the force of a sledgehammer.

"Mom?" Dean sounded slightly panicked, but still calm- way calmer than he had any right to be- and damned if it didn't freak Mary more out than if he had started screaming.

Because Dean- the Dean she had come to know in the past four weeks- never grew quiet.

He wasn't the brooding and reflective type. That was all Sam.

Dean was vocal about pretty much everything: recounting tales from their childhood, tossing his head back in laughter, making fun of Sam's hair, charming the ladies- he was even talking with a full mouth sometimes (and Mary had the strong suspicion he was only doing that to annoy Sam).

So it was odd, to see him like this- practically frozen in place as he stared down at what used to be his little brother and was now… well, still his little brother… only littler.

"Is that—"

Dean didn't come around to finish his question when Sam's little face suddenly scrunched up in fear, replacing the shock that had been squarely written all over his features a second ago.

"W-where 'm I? I want my d-daddy! Where's Dean? DEEEAAN!"

Mary's eyes widened, heart thudding wildly in her chest.

Without having to think about it, she took a step forward, her mother instincts kicking in at the sight and sound of one of her sons in distress.

But Dean was faster.

"Woah, hey," Dean instantly tried to calm the toddler down, abandoning his gun on the muddy forest ground as he raised both palms in a non-threatening gesture. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you, kiddo."

The gentleness in Dean's tone, the way his usually gruff voice went soft and empathetic at the sight and sound of his little brother in misery, went unnoticed by an inconsolable five-year-old, but not by Mary, who stood and watched- in absolute wonder- as Dean slowly moved in on the child.

Sammy wailed and kicked his chubby little legs against the insurmountable mountain of clothes around him in a desperate attempt to flee from Dean's approaching form. "NOOO! Get away! I want my daddy. I want Dean. DEEEEAAAAAN!"

"Shhh… it's alright. It's okay, Sammy," Dean tried to calm the little boy down, even as fat tears continued to trail glistening tracks down his chubby little cheeks.

Mary shot a panicked glance around the woods, fingers tightening around her shotgun.

They were in the wooden outskirts of a lively town.

If they didn't do something to calm Sam down fast, a bypassing car filled with campers or a nearby hiker could hear the kid's broken cries and suspect something. They would sick the cops on them for sure. Or come to see what the commotion was all about and Mary wasn't sure Dean would be able to explain the situation away with a mix of charm and sarcasm the way he usually did.

"Daaaaaaaaadddyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy."

"Dean, do something!" Mary hissed, nervous shiver wrecking her spine at the sound of Sam's panicked wail.

Dean cursed and scrubbed a hand over his mouth in a way that reminded her so much of John her heart ached a little.

Then he apparently decided to screw cautiousness and moved forward in one quick stride, face grim with determination.

"Noooo! Get away, get awa—" Sam's shrill cry was cut off when Dean swooped him off the floor and lifted him up into his arms, pressing a large hand over the toddler's mouth to stifle his screams.

Mary's eyes widened a little and she sucked in a breath.

She knew that Dean would never hurt his brother- had witnessed with a mix of awe and fascination- how unnaturally close these two men had grown up to be- how much they could say with simple looks and barely-there touches, over the course of the past four weeks she'd spent with them.

Above all, she had seen Dean's boundless patience and devotion- the fierce protective streak that ran through him a mile wide when it came to Sam and the child-like hero worship she could see in Sam's eyes whenever he looked at Dean like the guy had hung the moon and stars.

And yet she couldn't help but feel stupidly, irrationally angry at Dean for snatching her little boy- her little Sammy- up like this, when he was already so blatantly terrified.

"Dean, careful—" she tried to intervene but Dean only shot her a look in warning.

"I got it," he said, leaving no room for protest and Mary deflated, face falling as she took a step back.

If there was one thing she had learned about her sons in the past month, it was that sometimes it was best to leave them to themselves.

For no one knew better how to calm Sam down, or how to coax Dean out of a nightmare, or which topics to generally avoid at the dining table (she honestly- honestly hadn't meant to hurt Sam by asking about if there was a special someone in his life) than the respective other.

So if Dean gave Mary a look that was practically spelling 'BIG BROTHER TERRITORY' in big, flashing neon letters, Mary was fine with that.

She would just have to quench down on her own protective instincts then- give Dean some room to work his special magic.

For a five-year-old little boy, Mary was surprised to see how much of a fight Sammy was putting up to struggle in Dean's hold.

The toddler was squirming wildly against Dean's chest and kicking his legs in a way that didn't seem entirely uncoordinated (was she imagining things or had he just aimed for Dean's kidneys?) and for an experienced hunter, Dean seemed to have a hard time restraining a kid the size of a teddy bear.

"Hey, stop it!" Dean said in a voice that was dripping authority, struggling to retain a firm grip on the toddler as his little arms and legs got trapped by the oversized shirt that now practically dwarfed him. "Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a friend of your dad's, alright? I know your uncle Bobby, too… and your big brother Dean."

Something in Sam's eyes flashed at that.

His struggles ceased and the panic slowly bled from the boy's features.

Dean exchanged a fleeting glance with Mary before refocusing his attention to the child in his arms.

"I'm going to take my hand off of you now, alright? But I'll need you to be quiet, kiddo. Think you can do that for me?"

Mary edged closer from the side, feeling safe to approach now that Sammy was finally calming down.

It was amazing to watch the kid go lax in Dean's strong arms- to see some of the previous tension seep from Sammy's posture as he stopped thrashing around.

That was until Dean let his fingers slip an inch from the toddler's mouth and then regretted it the next second when Sammy used his newly gained freedom to bite down hard on Dean's finger.

"Ahh! Son of a—"

"Dean!"

Mary had seen enough.

She barged forward just as Sammy had wiggled free from his grasp and caught the toddler around the waist in time to keep him from darting off into the woods.

"Woah, not so fast, little man," she picked Sam up, narrowly dodging the kid's elbow as he tried to hit her (seriously, had John taught a five-year-old self-defense?) and felt a deep sense of satisfaction as she propped her youngest up against her waist, bouncing him gently.

"W-who are you?" Sammy sniffled, still wriggling around in discomfort, but getting exhausted now that it was two against one; the fight slowly leaving him. "What do you want from m-me? Where's m-my daddy?"

"Sammy, I told you—" Dean approached them from the side, but Sammy shook his head.

"My daddy doesn't have friends like you! Y-you're a bad guy and my daddy and big brother are going to find you, just like batman. They'll save me and you'll be real sorry!"

Mary felt a small laugh bubble up from her throat at the heart-warming speech from her fierce five-year-old.

As much as she'd freaked out in the beginning when she'd first realized what the witch's curse had done to Sam, she couldn't really deny how good it felt to get to see her baby as, well- as a baby, instead of the grown-up man he now was.

She also felt a pang of guilt and sadness at the fact that she'd missed out on this- on her own sons' childhood, but for the moment she decided to go with gratefulness instead.

Before she could keep herself from doing it, she reached up to card her fingers through Sam's silken tufts of thick, auburn hair in a bout of fondness. "You look so much like your father…"

The words were out before she could bite down on them and then her vision was blurring.

"P-please… I w-want Dean," Sammy's face scrunched up as the words tumbled brokenly from his shaky bottom lip and there was so much pure, blatant yearning in his tone that Mary couldn't help but send a questioning look up at her oldest.

Ball's in your court, Dean.

What do you want to do?

There was a moment of silence. Then Dean stepped forward and crouched down just far enough to be in Sam's line of vision.

"Sammy… " he said the name like it was his raison d'être – his sole reason for living and somehow in the depth of her heart Mary realized that maybe (just maybe) there was a kernel of truth in that thought.

"H-how do you k-know my name?"

"Listen, buddy. This is going to be hard to believe…" Dean huffed out a breath, "I'm your brother, I'm Dean."

Mary tensed at that, eyes shining with disapproval because why on earth would Dean decide to stick with the truth when there was no way a five-year-old kid could possibly wrap his head around it.

He was a child- at least for now. Which meant they could have made up any type of story- fabricated it out of thin air, just to put Sam at ease- to comfort him when he was clearly in need of reassurance.

But Dean just looked up at her with a look that said 'Trust me on this, mom' and Mary swallowed down her protest.

"You're a liar!" Sam pointed a pudgy little finger at Dean, his face scrunched up in an adorable little frown. Mary thought she'd never seen anything cuter. "My brother's nine and a half. He's not old, like you!"

Dean looked positively affronted by his brother's declaration.

He opened his mouth in visible shock, then closed it again, a slight frown marring his features. "I'm not that old."

Mary rolled her eyes at Dean in a fashion that clearly said 'Are you going to argue with a four-year-old? Seriously?'.

"Are too! Your face is all wrinkly and wrong like daddy's!"

Mary stifled a very inappropriate giggle against Sammy's baby-soft hair (it smelled of shampoo) and Dean gave her a look of the classification "bitch face".

Then he looked back at Sammy and forced a harried, shaking smile on his lips.

"Okay, then if I'm not your brother… how do I know that your favorite animal is the cheetah because they can run really fast and they have a really cool pattern on them? Or that you like your mac N cheese best when I add a bit of pumpkin spice to it?"

Sam's eyes went wide at Dean's words and with one hiccupping breath, the tears stopped coming.

There was still a flicker of indecision in his huge, hazel orbs, so Dean continued softly- almost too low under his breath for Mary to understand.

"If I'm not Dean… then how would I know that you nicked yourself with dad's serrated hunting knife after playing around with it?"

Dean pointed at a tiny- barely there- scar on the side of Sammy's thumb and Mary felt every trace of laughter vanish from her face as the reality of that statement fully sank in.

Her babies had been playing around with weapons.

John had left them unattended- had left guns and knives and freaking shotguns within their sons' reachability and they had gotten hurt because of it.

Something inside of her grew cold at the thought.

"Dean?" Sammy's voice was cracking, but there was something in it- recognition, maybe, Mary couldn't be sure.

Her ears were still ringing with Dean's earlier words, her mind was still busy painting out scenes of Sammy- cute and floppy-haired and so very innocent, with a blotchy face and tear-streaked cheeks and a bleeding from a cut in his hand and crying for a mommy that was no longer there to kiss it better.

"Hey, buddy," Dean smiled and this time it was a real smile- the kind of smirk she'd come to love in the past couple of weeks because it really, honestly meant that Dean was happy.

Then he held out his arms and Sammy all but lunged himself away from Mary and into his big brother's arms. "Dean!"

Dean's grin filled with a strange kind of warmth that Mary couldn't put her finger down on.

His eyes lit up with a wayward twinkle of fond reminiscence and when he expertly swung one strong arm around Sammy's middle to hold him and reached up with the other hand to cup Sammy's face, Mary saw something akin to practiced ease in the exchange.

She realized it then… the way Sammy's floppy-haired little head automatically slotted itself against Dean's collarbone, one of his tiny hands reaching up to fist in Dean's flannel shirt- that they'd done this a million times before.

This wasn't the first time Dean had talked Sam out of a tantrum.

Or held him against his chest with one arm, while he wiped away tears with his free hand.

Or whispered soothing words of comfort against the younger boy's ear.

Or made a joke to coax a dimpled smile out of the kid, even when Sammy didn't feel like it.

And it also wouldn't be the last.

It made more sense now, Mary thought. The way Dean had hovered after Castiel had healed Sam's mangled body once they'd gotten him back from the British men of letters. The way Dean had refused to leave Sam's side, even for just a minute, as his little brother slept through the days that followed. Barely ate… barely talked.

She had recognized it even back then, of course.

How close these two were- almost unnaturally so.

But up until this point right there- with Dean holding a de-aged little brother in his hands- cradling the little boy's head and looking like there was no greater person- no one as pure and innocent and good- as the kid he had raised like his own.

"Dean- we never told anyone about that—" Sam started, referring to the accident with John's hunting knife. "You said it w-was gonna be a secret. You told daddy it was your fault. That we were playing cowboys and Indians and daddy was so angry at you—"

Mary's expression fell even more and Dean sent her a quick, worried look, before effectively shutting his little brother up. "What do you say we're gonna go and get you something to eat, huh? I think I saw a Mickey D's on our way here…"

Dean's expression was deflective, the message clear: the less you know about our messed-up childhood, the better, trust me.

"Nuh-uh. Not hungry."

"Dean, we need to—"

"I know, give me a second," Dean cut Mary off with a soft glow in his eyes- if she didn't know it any better she would have said there was a twinkle of pleading in his eyes.

Almost as if to say that yes, this was messed-up and they would eventually need to recruit and talk and find a way to break the spell, but not right now.

Please, please just give me a moment to enjoy this.

It wasn't even a purely selfish motive, either. Not like the parents that wished for their children to always stay young and never move out from home so they wouldn't be left behind- but more than that, clinging to the innocence and the blessed sanctuary of child-like hopefulness that Sammy still had when he was five years old.

Blessedly unaware of the gruesome future his own life held in store.

Unbeknownst to the losses and horrors of the life Dean and Sam now lead.

Mary felt her heart splinter at the realization.

Later, when they had arrived at the bunker, she crossed her arms and watched Dean from afar as he prepared some weird concoction of food for his little brother, trying hard not to think about how often her sons had sat at a rickety motel kitchen, scraping clumpy fast food from paper plates while their father had been off somewhere, killing monsters.

She tried not to think about how often they probably ate mac N cheese or spaghettios, simply because they didn't have the budget for anything else.

And she tried not to think about how likely it was that sometimes, they didn't even have enough cash for these bare essentials, going to bed on an empty stomach.

Correction.

Knowing Dean, he would have never let Sammy go to bed on an empty stomach. He would have rather skipped a meal or two himself, that, she was sure of.

Her body grew cold at the thought.

Oh, Dean…

"Dean?" Sammy's soft voice was tinged with weariness as it drifted out of Sam's room in the bunker.

Mary had just started carrying the dirty plates back to the kitchen when Sammy's hesitant tone caused her to freeze in the hallway, hovering just close enough to overhear the conversation.

"You're still awake?" Dean was sprawled out on top of Sam's blanket, mindlessly carding fingers through Sam's hair and staring at the (oddly flat-looking) TV they'd put up in Sam's room. "Go to sleep, midget… it's getting late."

Sammy was nestled comfortably against Dean's side, chewing on his bottom lip.

Mary wasn't sure she could handle the cuteness of seeing Dean- buff and kickass hunter that he was- with such a small, cute-as-can-be version of Sammy.

It reminded her of how John used to be with his boys before… Well, before.

"I'm scared…"

Dean froze, turned his eyes away from the rerun of what Dean had cheekily proclaimed was a movie called 'Toy Story' earlier. He twisted around so that he was facing Sammy entirely, back turned towards the door, where Mary was peeking in through the gap.

They had decided to feed Sammy first, then get him to sleep.

Then, once the five-year-old was deeply lost in a comfortable slumber, they would talk and decide on their next move.

It had been painful for Mary to hold herself back.

Painful to watch Dean's loving interactions with his de-aged brother as he cleaned the kid's pudgy fingers and wiped the smears of food from Sammy's chubby little cheeks.

It had been painful to watch Dean fret and hover and attend to every single one of the kid's needs with so much ease and so much practice because Mary knew it should have been her doing all these things.

She knew it should have been her job to dress Sammy in the Superman pajamas they had bought at Wal-Mart (along with a stuffed cheetah and some tootsie rolls because apparently, those were Sammy's favorite).

She should have been the one going straight for the section with apple juice in the gas store and not Dean. She should have known that Sammy doesn't like any other flavor.

Just as she should have known that his favorite color is green and that he didn't need help brushing his teeth (because he Dean had taught him how to do it) and that he could tie his own shoes (because Dean had taught him that, too) and that nothing got him to calm down quicker than a few tunes of Metallica (of all bands!) hummed quietly into his ear.

She should have known all of that.

These were the things a mother was supposed to know about her children.

But she didn't.

Instead, she was hovering in the doorway like some creep- estranged and yet drawn to scene like a moth to the flame- and listening to the quiet conversation of the two sons that had created a microcosm just around themselves.

Sammy's bottom lip quivered and his face scrunched up in that tell-tale way that promised tears.

Mary felt her fingers clench tightly around the doorknob- the empty plate of what used to be spaghetti with ketchup still clutched in her other hand.

She didn't breathe when Dean sat up against the headboard.

Didn't dare to blink when her oldest gently untangled Sammy's pajama-clad body from the heavy-duty man-of-letters blanket and lifted him up into his arms.

"Hey… none of that. I told you I was going to fix this, didn't I?"

Sammy quieted down almost instantly at the touch- at the closeness to his brother.

Just like any kid would, Mary thought absently, when their parent would pick them up.

His huge deer-like eyes- so full of awe and worship- even now that Dean was practically a stranger to this little version of Sam, were full of tears as he bit down hard on his lip to keep from crying.

"D-do you think Dean is looking for me?" Sammy whispered, barely loud enough for Mary to make out the words. Her heart clenched in her chest. She knew exactly, what the little boy was asking, even before he clarified his question. "I mean my Dean. D-do you think daddy and him are worried because I'm gone?"

Dean looked stunned for a second.

Stupified.

Not because he didn't understand what Sammy was asking, but because he would have never guessed the kid would even question that.

Mary watched as Dean visibly pulled himself together for his brother's sake.

Like he always did.

He was strong, her boy… strong and brave and incredibly selfless. Especially when it came to his family. There was nothing Dean valued more than family.

It was one of the first things she had learned about him.

"Yeah, you bet they are…" Dean tried to smile, but the smile didn't reach his eyes- it was tinged with sadness.

"You think so?" Sammy sniffled, looking skeptical.

"I know so," Dean corrected with a fond ruffle to Sammy's unruly hair and even here- in such a wayward gesture- Mary could see the familiarity- the practiced ease and comfort of having done something so often before, that it had become second nature. "I know that for a fact, tiger… your dad and brother won't leave a stone unturned until they find you, you hear me?"

Mary thought about what happened.

Sam had been cursed, not brought back from a different timeline.

There was no nine-and-a-half-year-old brother and concerned father to wreak havoc on earth in an attempt to find their lost family member.

There was no one looking for Sam because Sam wasn't missing.

He had just been alternated… changed back to his younger self.

And yet, Dean's words didn't ring any less true. He was only pleasing the kid by telling him what he needed to hear in that very moment, more than that- he wasn't even lying.

Mary could see that Dean had meant every word. Because, god forbid, if Sammy had ever gone missing during their childhood years (maybe at some point he had with their kind of upbringing- for whatever reason), Dean and John would have done anything to get him back.

Mary knew that.

Without a doubt.

For all the things she had grown to learn and hate about the way John had raised their children, the one thing she couldn't blame him for was loving both his sons with a ferocity that put other fathers to shame.

Even driven half out of his mind with his lust for revenge, John would have done anything to protect Sam and Dean. He would have put his own life down for them without a second's hesitation.

"What about your Sammy, then?"

Dean smiled at the way his little brother scrunched his forehead up in thought. Or maybe he smiled at the fact that Sam had just referred to himself as Sammy- something he doubtlessly wouldn't do as the thirty-two-year-old man he was today.

"Would you also do anything to get him back?"

"Yeah…" Dean said, voice wavering. "Anything at all."

Because as much as Dean obviously enjoyed this tiny, adorable version of his brother- as much as he was going to use ALL of this as blackmail material for the end of time- Mary also realized that things had never really changed between her sons.

While a nine-and-a-half-year-old Dean would have doubtlessly taken the world apart in his search for Sam, this older- much more mature version of Dean would do the exact same thing.

She had witnessed what Dean was capable of first-hand when it came to his brother.

The things he had done to get Sam back had been cold-blooded and gruesome.

Detached.

And it was hard to unify all these versions of Dean in her head- to somehow make sense of all these different facets of his character- on the one hand, the capable hunter and brutal killing machine, on the other one the charmer… the ladies' man, the conman… the brother.

Mary thought about how many monsters the boys must have killed in their young lives.

And how many other hunters whispered about them in Road Houses, recounting the Winchester tales with a mix of awe and fear, simply because they knew what Sam and Dean and even John had done- because of what their family was capable of.

But Mary also thought about this other side of her boys… about the way, Dean's eyes radiated warmth and happiness at the simplest of things- like getting a homemade meal or teasing his brother. About the way, Sam would roll his eyes and mutter bitchy protests, barely able to suppress his own joy at the badly disguised affection behind the teasing.

This was a side of them, she now realized, that only a few selected people in their circle of friends and acquaintances got to witness.

A side of their characters that was usually strictly reserved for one another.

Even close friends barely managed to graze the surface of the complex relationship these two shared. And ultimately, Mary was an outsider too.

A bystander. A witness.

Family, sure.

Loved, yes.

But in the end, she was still just standing in the doorways… on the side lane… watching these two interact in their very own, very fascinating way, like the only person on the surface of the planet that made life worth living was one another.

Mary was ripped out of her thought process when Sammy tried to suppress a yawn and failed, causing Dean to chuckle with an expression on his face that could only be described as fond.

"Alright, time for you to turn in, midget… c'mon," Dean lifted Sam up and then flipped him around, which caused the boy to giggle and squeal with laughter. Then he waited until the little boy had settled against the pillow and pulled the blanket up to his chin, covering his small frame carefully.

He switched the TV off (neither of them had paid the movie much attention, anyway) and rolled off the mattress with a slight wince and a roll of his neck.

"Are you going to leave?" Sammy asked in a tiny voice, distraught by the idea of being left alone.

A flicker of indecision crossed Dean's features. "There're some things I need to discuss with mo—" he broke himself off just in time. "With my friend…"

Mary tried not to let it hurt her.

Rationally, she knew that it didn't make sense to add that special brand of crazy to the kid's existing load of confusion. It would only make things more complicated.

Sammy wouldn't understand…

Mary wasn't even sure she understood any of what was happening so how was a five-year-old going to deal with the truth?

But there was another part of her that wanted to scream and yell and barge in there to tell Dean that he had no right to take this from her.

Sam was her son, damn it! Her baby!

She had never gotten to see him grow up so why couldn't she have this- at the very least?

Because you're not his mother.

You never were.

Not really.

"You'll be able to hear us, just down the hallway, alright?"

Sammy must have nodded because there was no response.

"Sleep tight, Sammy."

"Night, Dean."

Dean hesitated for a second as the little boy snuggled deeper into his blanket- eyes already half closed. And when he leaned down to brush a peck on Sam's forehead in a way that was so uncharacteristically tender- so nurturing and affectionate and motherly- Mary couldn't bear to stand there any longer.

She turned around and took a deep, steadying breath before hurrying down the hallway towards the kitchen.

Dean was still walking on eggshells around her.

It didn't surprise her to hear him knock against the door frame before entering.

It was just weird because the bunker was their home and not hers.

Mary shot him a look over the shoulder. "How often do I have to tell you—"

"I didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't," she said, not unkindly. She returned towards the task at hand- washing the same plate over and over again, even long after it had been scrubbed clean.

"He finally asleep?"

"Yeah," Dean moved closer and sat down at the kitchen table. "Yeah, uh… turns out he was pretty worn out."

"So should we start looking into the lore or—"

"Mom."

"I could try to find this book on Wiccan craft that Sam showed me the other day and do a counterspell—"

"Mom, stop it."

Mary flinched when a hand grabbed her wrist mid-movement, holding it in place.

She looked up to see Dean standing right next to her – towering over her with these big, expressive, jade-colored eyes (when had her babies grown up to be so handsome?).

"Here, let me…"

Mary watched with a strange sense of detachment as Dean gently removed her tense fingers from where they were clenched around Sammy's dinner plate and put the dish aside.

She felt her eyes fill up again and then she was clenching a shaking palm over her mouth, trying to breathe through the hurt she'd been holding at bay ever since that stupid witch had turned Sam into a little kid, driving home the fact that she hadn't been there.

She hadn't been there for her sons when they needed her.

She hadn't been there.

Not for any of it.

Not even a little.

"It's been a long day, maybe you should—" Dean's sentence tempered off into stunned silence when he turned back around from the sink to look at his mother and notice the way she had shrunken in on herself, fat tears rolling incessantly down her cheeks.

She was shaking, shoulders quivering and then a first sob tore from her throat.

"Woah, hey… what's—Mom? What's going on?" Dean's voice was insecure- wavering just the tiniest bit- just like it used to waver when he was a kid and asking her if she was alright after a fight with John.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, steadying her, lending reassurance- just like he always had- and Mary cried even harder, unable to stop the onslaught of emotions she had barely been able to suppress this past couple of weeks.

"Alright, hey, it's alright… shhh. It's… it's okay, mom. Let it all out..."

Dean pulled her in against his chest and Mary went willingly, clenching his shirt and burying her head in his neck and just holding on for dear life.

She wanted to tell Dean that she was sorry.

For not being there.

For leaving him alone to deal with a wayward father and a little brother and a whole lot of other issues she didn't even want to think about.

She wanted to thank him for taking it on himself to raise Sammy… for sacrificing- what she suspected- must have been a huge junk of his own childhood, of his own wishes and hopes and dreams just to hold their family together.

Most of all she wanted to tell him how proud she was. Of the man, he'd become. Of the man Sam had become- because Sam was incredible and she wasn't even sure if he had turned out that way if she hadn't died and John hadn't gone on a rampage and if it hadn't been for Dean's efforts.

Instead, she said nothing at all and held on to Dean as her shoulders continued to quake and her heart continued to break in the most painful of ways.

She cried for the longest time until she had no tears left and Dean's incessant stream of reassurances had turned into low hums of a familiar tune.

Hey Jude, don't make it bad...

She squeezed her eyes shut so tight it hurt.

Once she had calmed down, they would pretend nothing had happened and find a counter-spell or something… anything to get Sam back to his normal self.

Take a sad song and make it better...

Then Dean would make jokes about how adorable Sammy was and how tiny and about how cute he looked in his Superman pajamas, on to which Sam would reply with the patented eye-roll and thin-lipped look of disapproval.

They would bicker over Mary's food and share a beer or two.

Remember to let her into your heart...

Mary would watch them and scold them and bask in their presence- soak it all up and cherish every single moment spent with her boys like it was the last one.

Then she would excuse herself for the night… lie in bed and listen to their hushed voices and muffled laughter from behind a closed door.

She would brush a thumb over her wedding band.

Then you can start to make it better...

Shed another tear.

And go to sleep.

The End.

Hope you guys enjoyed this! Reviews make me happy!