Title: The Infinite Sadness
Author: la_folle_allure
Rating: R
Category: Angst
Pairing: Sam/Jessica, Sam/Dean
Spoilers: little bits from every episode, but nothing too major
Author Notes: Character pieces that follow pretty much through the entire series. Plus, lots of stuff I made up.
Warnings: WiP, slash, depression, angst, sadism, pretty incest at its finest and tons of other jewels.


The past has a funny way of catching up with the future.

The Infinite Sadness
Tuesday's Child: Jessica Moore

Tuesday's child is full of grace...

[ the first day ]

Jessica could remember the exact minute of the exact day she laid eyes on Sam Winchester.

She, along with Marshall, Abigail and Trent had just finished writing the Chaucer exam that they had been cramming for, for over a week and after almost three consecutive days of pouring over The Canterbury Tales, The Book of the Duchess and Troilus and Criseyde, Jessica needed a stiff drink or eight to reboot her English.

They had all been so elated to have finally finished the torture that was their final that they all stumbled rather drunkenly down Junipero Serra Boulevard and entered the quaint bar/café deal that was part of the Stanford campus. Jessica remembered that the lighting was a little too bright to be a proper bar and a little too dark to be a proper café.

It was trapped in the middle of being two completely separate entities and Jessica realized she definitely needed a few shots in her when she started to mentally analyze the juxtaposition between the dark and light of the room.

"Jess, we're at the pool tables," Trent smiled, Australian accent wrapping around his pearly whites. Jessica had such a thing for accents.

"I'm going to get a beer," she replied and he nodded, his eyes begging for one as well.

"One for me too Jess," Abigail's voice was so chipper and upbeat Jessica had to laugh. "Marshall wants a Corona."

"Do I look like a barmaid?" Jessica jokingly retorted, hands on hips in mock anger.

"You'd need bigger boobs for that," Marshall chirped as Jessica glared.

"Just for that, I can't guarantee your beer will be completely spit free."

As much of a fuss as she put up, Jessica didn't mind. She was the helpful sort, her greatest character flaw. If she saw a problem, she made it her business to fix it. That's how she ended up meeting Marshall, Abigail and Trent. She fixed their problems.

She would later add Sam's name to that list, but she could not claim she necessarily fixed him in any way shape or form.

It was there at the bar, that she first caught a glimpse of the man that would become her everything.

"Three Molson's and a Corona. Feel free to add as many cigarette buts as you can into the Corona" she told the bartender.

It was the soft chuckle to her left that revealed she had an audience. It took only a second for her to turn her head and it took another second for her to fall so completely and ridiculously in love that she almost couldn't breath.

Even years later, whenever someone spoke of Sam, Jessica would remember him the way he looked in the bar. Chestnut hair lightly tussled, long bangs obscuring his gorgeous green eyes that shimmered with mirth. He had been hunched over a relatively thick tome that Jessica had mistaken for an English novel, yet further inspection revealed it to be a book on the history of law. A lawyer.


"Something funny?" she quipped, smiling her most dazzling smile. The bartender returned with her drinks and Jessica absently handed him a twenty and turned her full attention to the teenager near her.

"Nothing really. 'm not much of a Corona fan myself," he had a slight Texan drawl that made Jessica's knees wobble slightly. His smile drove a spike through her chest.

God he was so… so… for an English major, Jessica found herself unable to find a word to properly describe how her stomach was twisting into knots or how her mouth felt dry and stiff.

She was suddenly hyperaware of how her long blonde hair was unwashed and stuck up in a rather ungraceful ponytail or how she smelt like dust and centuries old books that the library had or how she was wearing a sweater that was miles too large for her and how she was wearing no makeup or how her… God she was panicking.

She was about to pick up the beers and bolt rather ungracefully, her hands clammy and shaking. She was about to pick up the beers and get the hell away from this surreally beautiful boy when-

"I'm Sam," he interrupted Jessica's freak-out, turning his full body toward her, hand extended politely. "Sam Winchester."

"Jess," her mouth moved on its own accord although she did not shake his hand.

"Let me help you with those," he offered, shutting his book as he stood up. She could have groaned as he took hold of two of her beers, beckoning for her to lead the way. He was tall; a good foot taller than her. Jessica had another weakness for tall guys.

That was initially how Sam became integrated into their little circle of friends.

Jessica was so infatuated with him that Abigail had to sharply poke her with a pool cue to keep her from staring. As a result, her favorite gray sweater now sported an ugly blue dot.

Before Jessica could even blink, it was nearing two in the morning. Abigail had subtly ushered Marshall and Trent away, leaving Jessica plenty of time to spend with Sam.

"Can I walk you home?" he asked ever the gentleman, ever so shyly that Jessica almost cried. Her heart was thundering and she wanted to wrap her arms around Sam in the most painful way imaginable.

"I dunno, can you?" his faint blush deepened even though he smiled, looking at her through his bangs.

Jessica found it odd how she would bitch and gripe and moan to anyone who would listen to her about the ten-minute, uphill, walk to her residency. Yet, with Sam next to her, arm casually brushing against hers, she couldn't make the trek last long enough.

"I had fun," he said with earnestness, his smile translucent in the jet-black sky.

"Me too," Jessica looked up at him, fingers itching to brush away the wisps of brown hair.

Sam smiled again as he slowly took a few steps backward. He was going to leave.

Jessica didn't want him to leave.

"I want to see you again," she blurted it out so tactlessly she could have died.

Sam stopped dead; the expression on his face was adorably perplexed. "Me?"

Genuine modesty.

Oh man did she have it bad.

[ the thirteenth day ]

Jessica sighed as the hot water cascaded down her back.

She once again found herself at a loss for words, yet somehow fuck managed to summarize things quite nicely.

She wanted to cry. She felt like crying yet no tears would come. The feeling of sorrow that was uncurling in her belly was entirely her own doing and she hated how she couldn't blame Sam in the slightest.

You see, Jessica was an English major. She knew about unrequited love; she wrote thirty page essays on the subject and would superiorly laugh at the characters in novels and poetry that would undergo the pangs of loving a person that would never return their feelings.

Yet here she was, empty, alone, shivering in scalding shower and in love with a man that was in love with someone else.

She ignored it at first. It was so easy too. Sam was so smart and strong and caring and Jessica was so in love with him that nothing seemed to penetrate her blissful bubble of ignorance.

It was her first kiss with Sam when her pleasant little world shattered rather viciously. Suddenly, all the little details that she would have dissected to death in papers came flooding back to her. She had put so much affection and care and enthusiasm into that kiss, wanting it to be as classic as Scarlett and Rhett's.

Physically, Sam was there with her, hand lightly cupping her cheek, tilting her head back as warm lips caressed hers. He was as polite and caring as he always was, but Jessica felt completely off balance.

It was the way he kissed her; as if her face was too small and her lips not the right shape. Jessica vaguely recalled a moment when she was four and she tried to fit two puzzle pieces together that just didn't go with each other. Even after she arranged it properly both pieces never quite matched up with their corresponding parts. The corners were a little worn and stretched and that's exactly how she felt when she pulled away.

She kept this revelation to herself, almost crying when Sam broke away, slightly dazed and eyes sparkling with happiness.

From that point on, Jessica knew her relationship with Sam Winchester would never work. She knew that no matter what she did, she would never be able to match up to the person Sam wanted.

For the first time in her life, Jessica found herself putting the desire to help Sam behind her desire for him. She never put herself first, except now she was. She was trying so hard to be everything Sam could have ever needed.

By God she tried. She tried so hard that some days she didn't even feel like herself. It was as if she was sitting in a theater, watching a girl who wore her skin. Everything was surreal and nothing felt right. Except Jessica wanted Sam.

She wanted to be with him more than she wanted to breath and it got to the point where she didn't care how many different forms she would have to take; she would be with Sam till the day she died.

[ day two hundred seventy-eight ]

They were moving in together today.

Jessica had been giddy the whole day, bouncing around with an unnatural amount of energy that made Sam laugh.

"Where do you want this?" he gestured to the large box filled with all her coursepacks and novels. The box easily weighted close to a hundred pounds and Sam was holding it as if it was full of feathers.

"Near the bookcase Superman," she joked, not noticing for the first time how her lanky boyfriend seemed to possess a strength that didn't seem to fit him. She remembered him playing three on three basketball with Trent a few weeks before. Skins versus shirts.

"Wow," Abigail blinked as Sam shucked his shirt, tone chest tanned and muscular. "Where did that come from?"

"You've been holding out on us Jessie," Clara joked, poking her in the side.

Sam looked up to find Jessica's eyes at that moment, smiling a truly unguarded smile as he jerkily waved before his attention was focused on the game.

Jessica loved it when he concentrated on something.

Sam always threw himself into whatever he did. There was a determination that became palpable whenever he set his mind to something. He would scrunch up his nose and his eyes would darken a shade.

It took every ounce of self-control for Jessica not to run over and molest her boyfriend for all he was worth. Seeing as how her self-control had never been that controlled, Sam would always end up with a feisty blonde attacking his neck as he studied.

"And this?" Sam asked again. Another box filled with her clothing.

"Bedroom," Jessica smiled to herself. Our bedroom. She could have squealed. In her zealousness, she accidentally backed up into an unstable shelf and the thing imploded like an A-bomb had gone off in it. Sam's bag dropped to the floor, papers and pens spilling out everywhere.

Sam had nothing. No personal items, no cute nick-nacks or books. He literally possessed the clothing on his back, a shaving kit and school bag filled with class notes. Jessica always thought it made him mysterious, as if he were running away from something and didn't have the time to pack his belongings.

But now, as she knelt down, collecting the wayward papers, Jessica found two pictures peaking out from their previous spot in Sam's agenda. She sat back, crossing her long legs as she examined them. One was of a devastatingly beautiful woman clutching onto a man with a nervous smile. Jessica's panic flared up, yet there was a date on the back of the picture. Mary and John 1981, Kansas. Jessica laughed at herself. ‘Sam's mother and father.'

She didn't really see the similarities, but figured he must be his father's son. The man's hair was nearing an inky black, but the shape of the eyes was kinda close to Sam's. The height certainly was anyway.

The last picture was the most recent one of the lot. A Polaroid of Sam making a face like he had just swallowed a years worth of sour Skittles as a blonde man laughed beside him, arm extended to hit his back. The Polaroid was worn, black and indistinguishable in certain areas. The blonde man's face was almost completely obscured by shadows.

She squinted, as if narrowing her eyes would make the picture clearer.

"Dean," Sam's voice broke her from her concentration and she let out a rather ungraceful squeak.


"The guy you're oogling is my brother Dean," there was no hint of jealousy in his voice, almost as if he was used to it.

"What are you talking about, the picture's all bla-" Jessica stopped mid-sentence, tongue rolling back in her mouth. The shadow was gone. In fact, the Polaroid was almost crystal clear.

That's when Jessica got her first good look at Dean Winchester.

If she wasn't oogling the picture before, she certainly was now. Dean was easily the most attractive male she had ever laid eyes on. He definitely inherited his mother's looks. He was beautiful yet ruggedly handsome and sexy, mysterious and playful and overwhelmingly good looking. Did Jessica mention he was super hot?

The Winchester's had some strong genes swimming around.

"'Kay, totally jealous now," Sam nervously laughed, taking the picture out of her hands. "You have no idea how many crushes I lost to him over the years. I absolutely refuse to let him take another. Especially one he's never met."

Even though the words were supposed to be possessive and reassuring, Jessica felt that unease uncurl in his stomach again. The same one she felt when they kissed.

"Sam, tell me about them," she almost begged. She had taken him to meet her parents the previous month, smiling haughtily as her sisters all glared at her enviously. Handsome and in pre-law. Her mother almost had an aneurysm and Jessica knew a place would be permanently set for him at their table.

Yet she knew nothing about Sam's family.

"Nothing much to tell," Sam was on the defensive. Lawyer Mode, as Marshall joked. Whenever he got like this, Jessica had a good two questions before he could turn the entire conversation around.

God he was going to make a fantastic lawyer.

"What were they like? Please Sam."

One more.

"Jessica, not right now, we have a lot of work to-"

"Please Sam. What were they like?"

Question's up.

Sam sighed somewhere deep within his chest. Jessica knew she had won this round.

"I never knew my mother," he said on autopilot, no emotion behind the words. "She died when I was a baby. My dad is an ex-Marine who cares more about drinking than his own son and Dean…" his voice softened, wrapping around the word as if it were a precious secret. "Dean is Dean."

There was a slight resentment that Jessica picked up, but it was drown out in a love so vast Jessica would never even be able to scrape the surface.

And just like that, she understood as if a proverbial veil had been lifted from her eyes.

‘You're in love with him aren't you?' Jessica wanted to ask, but she had used up her quota. She was surprised to find her mental voice held no spite or malice or judgment. Just sadness. Just an uncontrollable, earth-shattering sadness.

"I'm going to get the rest of your stuff," Sam muttered, feeling naked and exposed. Yet, before he left, he tucked the picture of himself and Dean into his back pocket so carefully that one would have expected the picture to be made out of porcelain.

Jessica sat there for a good twenty minutes. Sam still hadn't returned and she knew why. He was probably down at the coffee across the street, exorcising his demons with a machiatto instead of tequila. Jessica stood up, taking the remaining picture and placing it in an empty frame she had, wondering if she had one small enough for the Polaroid. Looking at the newly framed picture of Sam's parents, she knew she would never see that picture again.

She sighed, dropping to the bed sullen.

Mary, John and Dean Winchester.

The family neither of them seemed to know.

[ day five hundred forty three ]

They had been together for two years now. For two entire years, Jessica braved the murky waters and became everything Sam needed her to be. It was so much easier now to simply pretend.

"LSAT scores!" she announced loudly as she jumped on the bed they shared, snapping Sam out of his twitching slumber.

Never in all her years had she known someone so adverse to sleep. Not only was Sam a blanket hog, he fidgeted like crazy.

"Wha?" Sam muttered thickly, sleep still clinging onto the handsome man. Jessica laughed at how wide his eyes expanded when she dangled the letter in front of him.

He tore through the envelope, devouring the words like a starving man. "Oh my God…"

"What is it? What did you get?"

"I scored a 174… Jess, 174!"

She squealed as he pulled her close, kissing her with the enthusiasm and glee of a man on top of the world.

"Sam that's amazing! Now we definitely have to go to Marshall's Halloween party!" she had bought a nurses outfit the other day and she would be damned if she didn't get to flaunt herself in it. "And no lame ass excuses on how you don't like Halloween."

"But Jess," he started in the creamy voice that could make paint peel off wall if he asked it to.

Did Jessica mention that Sam was going to make a fabulous lawyer one of these days?

"Overruled councilor," she firmly tapped his nose, kissing him again.

Marshall's party was pretty much a blur in Jessica's mind. She could only pick up certain memories as they floated away from consciousness. Like Marshall's comment on Sam's family; the one subject that neither could escape, yet never acknowledge properly.

Well, that would all change soon enough.

The sound of knuckles against flesh woke her and the large thud caused her to jump from whatever guise of sleep she had been under. Sam wasn't beside her and that's when she got up, fear bubbling in her throat.

"Sam?" she asked tentatively, flicking on the light to their excessively decorated living room.

She was greeted with the sight of her boyfriend staring another man square in the face. When Jessica's eyes focused on the other man, her heart almost stopped beating in her chest.

There, standing almost toe-to-toe with her boyfriend was the person Jessica had secret dubbed ‘hottest living thing ever'.


"Jess hey," he offered up an uneasy smile as his eyes flickered back to the blonde. "Dean, this is my girlfriend Jessica."

Jessica… Sam never called her Jessica. Always Jess. She felt cold, as if Sam was trying to scientifically explain her presence to a jury. But for posterity's sake, she smiled, swallowing down the bile. "Wait, your brother Dean?" she would like to thank the Academy.

As if she could ever forget who Dean was or what he looked like.

The newly identified Dean smiled, an absolutely devastating move. Sam was still looking at him, his expression one Jessica had never seen before.

And just like that, as Dean made some offhanded remark about her shirt, did Jessica realize everything.

Her hair was almost the exact color of Dean's. As he approached her, honey smooth voice lulling her, she noticed their eyes were almost the same shade of light blue and green, their lips both full and inviting. She noticed how they were almost the same height, possessed the same confidence, same tone and delivery of speech and mannerisms.

‘God,' Jessica internally choked. ‘He was replacing him with me.'

Everything began to make sense. Why he always kissed her with his eyes closed. Made love to her as if his soul left his body and he was simply going through the motions. Sam took a step toward Dean as if his body was trying to soak up the presence of his brother. The way his name rolled off Sam's tongue.

Jessica saw it all. It was being laid out in front of her mockingly. Right now, staring her square in the face was her rival for Sam.

And fuck, she never even had a chance. This wasn't fair. It was so unfair Jessica wanted to cry.

It had been Dean, all along.

Except she had been wrong about one thing.

Sam had never been locked in a battle of unrequited love.

Dean's voice and tone and entire aura screamed out to touch Sam. His fingers twitched as the electrified air between them snapped and sizzled. Jessica couldn't breath in that air without choking.

Even as Sam put an arm around her waist, holding her securely, she could feel him being pulled away.

And he wasn't coming back.

Even as Sam packed his bag, promising to be back Monday, she almost physically see Sam detaching himself from her; a sweater finally unraveling. Dean, the beautiful and unreachable Dean, was waiting for him outside, something both were aware of as Sam pecked her on the cheek.

‘I'm sorry,' the gesture seemed to scream. Before Jessica could call out to him, Sam was gone.

She collapsed on the bed they shared, gripping the blankets to her as she sobbed hysterically. She knew this was one fight she would not come out winning. She knew that from the beginning, but she had been so foolishly happy with Sam that she ignored it, even though it only seemed to damage the younger Winchester in the end.

‘Protect him,' Jessica begged to anyone that would listen. ‘Please protect him.'

[ the last day ]

The figure in black scared her. It scared her worse than any conceivable monster or myth she had ever read.

Yet somehow, she refused to scream, determined to be strong for Sam.

"Tell me where he is," the voice sounded like someone was scraping away ice from a window.

"No," Jessica shook her head, fingers balling into a fist.

"You are not part of this," it warned. "I will kill you if I have to, make no mistake about that Jessica."

God, it knew her name. She could have thrown up.

"Tell me where he is and I'll spare you the tortures he will endure."

"No," she refused a second time. She knew she would only get one more.

"Why do you refuse?" he suddenly hissed. "Because you love him? Is that why?"

Jessica looked at the floor. Her mouth was cemented shut.

The man chuckled, low and deep. "Pathetic. He never loved you, you know. He never will. He'll be in love with another till the very day I claim his life."

"I know," Jessica let a tear slip as she angrily brushed it away. She would not show this man weakness.

"Then why do you defend him still? Why do so many people insist on sacrificing themselves for this child? He cares for his brother and his brother only. I assure you Jessica," her name snapped like a burning fire, "your love is wasted. Do not waste your life for I will torment you until eternity burns out. Your pain will never cease and you will be begging me for death, but I will never give it to you."

"No," she choked out. She would rather die that have Sam suffer that fate. It didn't matter if he didn't love her. She loved him and he made her so happy that undergoing torture for the rest of eternity would be worth it.

Just as long as Sam would be okay.

"So be it," the man glared, his eyes blood red. Jessica saw the hook a second later and it took another second for the pain the register as she clutched at the gaping wound in her chest.

Later, she would only watch in extreme sadness as Sam returned to her, falling to the bed as if finally at peace. ‘Oh God, please don't look up,' she begged as she felt water leak from her eyes. Two red drops tumbled down, gravity taking over.

The blood hit Sam's forehead. The expression on his face was one Jessica would never be able to burn from her mind. Even as the flames licked her flesh, every nerve ending aware of the scorching heat, she would remember that expression hurting more than all the fires of hell.

"No!" Sam had screamed, only to have Dean arrive moments later to pull him from the engulfed room. Dean turned his hypnotic eyes upon her, as if aware she was still alive.

"Take care of him," she mouthed, uncertain if anyone could hear her.

Hours later, as Sam collapsed into Dean's strong arms, Jessica could still feel the misery of her death wash over Sam mixed with the elation to be held once again by the one person he about. Jessica smiled despite the fact she wanted to scream.

"It's okay Sammy," Dean hushed lovingly, smoothing out Sam's unruly chocolate hair. "I got ya."

‘Protect him please,' she whispered in Dean's ear and he nodded as if he heard her.

With that, Jessica gracefully ceded any and all claim she had on Sam to Dean.

She never truly had him in the first place anyway.


The Infinite Sadness
Thursday's Child: John Winchester

Thursday's child has far to go...

[ the first day ]

John Winchester was born March 18, 1956.

Yet, he only considered himself truly born when he heard-

"Congratulations John," the doctor smiled proudly. "It's a boy."

Mary cried the most beautiful tears as Dr. Alberts handed her a little boy, swaddled in a bright blue blanket, completely covered in stuff John did not really want to think about at the moment.

"Hello Dean," she had whispered as the baby reached up with a chubby little hand and touched her cheek. Even though John had spent the better part of his adolescence in the Marines, he felt a tear well up in his left eye and the water flowed freely and unabashed.

"I have a son!" he roared with pride as he kissed his wife, thanking God not for the first time, for blessing him with such a perfect little healthy boy.

He remembered Mary handing him Dean and he remembered exactly how small the boy looked, lost in John's massive arms. "He's so tiny," he remarked, letting the screeching boy gnaw on his index finder. "Here's hoping he fills out enough to be a wide-receiver."

"He'll be tossing a football with you soon enough," Mary laughed, the sound filling John's heart to the brink.

"Sure he will," John looked down, making a face that the baby found amusing. His cries stopped almost immediately and he blinked the largest blue eyes John had ever seen.

They were the color of Mary's eyes. He had secretly hoped that no matter what gender, his child would look like Mary. She was and still remains the most beautiful creature John had ever laid eyes on; inside and out.

Hell, she was the first person to see past his gruff attitude and bland looks to the man beneath the uniform. Every day John found a new reason to love her. First she made him a husband and today, she made him a father.
He would never be able to find the words to properly express the feelings tat swim beneath his skin.

In a few years, he'll wish he had found the time to try.

"I have to take him now sir. You can visit him in the nursery anytime you like," the nurse smiled, gently taking the most precious gift John had ever received. "My! Aren't you a cute one!" Dean squirmed, his red little face contorted as if he was unsuccessfully trying to blink. "Mark my words, he's going to be a heartbreaker when he's older!"

[ day three hundred and sixty five ]

"Happy birthday little Dean," Mary cooed, bouncing Dean on her lap as the baby laughed and clapped his hands; his hyperactive feet itching to be on the ground. He was only a year old, but he had been running around like a crash test dummy for at least a month. "Happy birthday to you!"

"Hey there champ!" John glowed. "Look what daddy bought you!" he held up a little toy, so little in fact, that John could enclose it in his hand and it would be completely hidden. "Surprise!" his outstretched hand revealed a little plush football that Dean immediately grabbed and shoved in his mouth.

"Close enough," Mary smiled, removing the toy. There was a long trail of spit that attached itself to the ball, but John could have cared less.
Dean was reaching out for some tissue paper that Mary had wrapped his new pacifier in.

"Funny how he's more interested in the wrapping paper than the gifts," Mary noted. "Hopefully by the time he's ten, a roll of Christmas paper will have the same effect."

"Ah, when my boy's ten, we're going to throw him the greatest birthday party a little boy could have. We're talking clowns and magicians and ice cream. The whole she-bang."

"My, you sure have put a lot of thought into this sweetie," Mary's smile reached her eyes. She was already picturing it.

"What can I say Mary? I have a feeling that we're going to be this happy for a long time."

He kissed her then, with little Dean in the middle of them, tugging on the strings to his sweater and sucking on them enthusiastically.

John truly could not have been happier than he was at that moment.

It's a shame that he took it for granted.

[ day one thousand five hundred and eleven ]

"Push Mary!" John urged as his wife's face scrunched up in palpable pain. The delivery with Dean was so smooth and over so quickly that John was not prepared for this. Mary had been in labor for almost two day and her skin was rapidly losing color.

John was petrified.

"Get the anesthetic nurse," Dr. Alberts. "This baby does not want to come out."

The cesarean was almost more than John could stomach. To watch his wife be cut open like that make his stomach do all sorts of weird things.

[ day one thousand five hundred and twelve ]

Samuel Elijah Winchester was born right after midnight.

"I want to see him daddy!" Dean tugged on his pant leg persistently. "I want to see my little brother!"

"Come 'ere little man," John obliged, unable to deny those blue eyes anything. Now at four years, Dean looked exactly like his mother, right down to the highlights in his sandy hair. He was going to be a handsome man when he got there. "There he is, third one from the left."

"Him?" Dean was completely perplexed. "But he's so small! And he doesn't look anything like us!"

John chuckled to himself, a smile finally tugging his lips. "That's because he's still all wrinkly and baby like. Give him a few years Dean. You looked kinda like that when you were born you know."

"No!" Dean argued. "I looked like mommy when I was born!"

John just ruffled the soft blonde hair, not quite up for a debate with a four year old. Instead, he handed Dean a dollar and told him he could get anything he wanted from the vending machines, as long as he didn't tell his mother.

Dean was already gone, almost as quickly as John had pulled out the money. "Kids," he joked to the man who was now looking in the nursery. "You got one in there?"

"Yes," the man's voice was frigidly cold, the black trench coat completely out of place at the hospital.

"Same here. That's my little Sammy," he proudly boasted, pointing to the slumbering baby; quietest infant ever born according to the entire nursing staff.

"Sam," the stranger rolled the name off his tongue. "What a… quaint name."

"Daddy I got chocolate!" Dean came racing around the corner, brandishing the bag of M&M's proudly. He jumped into John's arms, smiling as he was caught.

"This is my other bo-" John began, turning back to the man in the coat, only to find he was no longer there. "That's weird," he muttered to himself, ignoring the shiver that raced up his spine.

"He still doesn't look like us," Dean pouted as dumped half the bag in his mouth.

Years later, John would find himself agreeing with Dean wholeheartedly.

[ day one thousand five hundred and seventy seven ]

The flames were unbearable.

For the first time in a long time, John Winchester was truly afraid. "Mary!" he screamed one last time in vain, knowing it was to no avail. Her body was cinders by now, burning away with the rest of the house.
Her blood was still on his hand.

That would be one of the few things he could recall with alarming clarity about that night.

"Daddy what happened?" Dean sobbed into his shirt. "Where's mommy?"

That was the first time in his whole life where John felt completely at a loss. How could he explain to a four year old what had happened, when a thirty year old didn't?

"Dean," he began and stopped on his name. He meant to reassure his eldest son that everything would be fine, but a heart-wrenching sob burst from his lips, the agony and impact of what had just happened finally pressing into his heart.

John could not think of a moment where the pain was more palpable. Even when he had been shot in the knee and the paramedics were forced to remove the bullet from his fractured kneecap without anesthetic hadn't been nearly as painful as watching the love of his life burn away into nothingness.

Sam only giggled.

[ day three thousand six hundred and fifty two ]

"Aim just a little lower," John instructed as Dean nodded, tipping the barrel of the shotgun slightly. "And release!"

The shot was deafening and Dean rubbed his arm where the kick had impacted. There would be a bruise there tomorrow.

"Nice shot Dean!" Sam chirped merrily, chestnut hair tumbling in front of his eyes. Dean smiled, taking a mock bow in his brother's direction.

"You still need more practice," John informed the blonde. "You're still not anticipating the recoil and it's throwing your aim off. What'll happen if a werewolf comes barreling at you and you aim the way you have? It's straight through the heart Dean, not close to the heart. He'll maul you to death.

"Again," he commanded and Dean followed, lining up his shot again. Bang. "Better. Sammy, I don't see you practicing with your sword."

"My arm hurts," the six-year old pouted. Dean's grip on his gun slackened momentarily at that expression. Sam was the only one that could distract Dean.

"What would you rather have happen to you Sammy," John knelt down, grabbing his youngest son's shoulders tightly. "Would you rather the undead chase you and eat you alive or would you rather be able to reach for your sword and fight them off? Because let me tell you Sammy, they don't care how tired you are or how much you hurt, they will come after you and they will kill you without thinking twice. Do you really want that to happen?"

"It'll never happen," Sam argued defiantly.

"And why is that Sam?" John's temper was flaring, having no patience for a petulant child.
Sam would drive him to the bottle and he knew it.

"Because," jade green eyes held the conviction that only a six year old could possess, "Dean will be there to protect me."

John sighed, drained. "I'm going inside for a little while. Dean, pick up that Colt and show me what you got. And Sam, you keep practicing your swordsmanship or else I'll-"

"Fine," Sam huffed, interrupting him.

As he turned to enter the makeshift house he had established for training, he took one final look at his children. Even through the glass, John could make out what they were saying. Dean had just said something that made Sam erupt into a fit of laughter but he picked up the sword and gave the thick oak tree a few solid whacks.
Dean watched Sam for a few moments before returning to his shooting. His face was set in a deep concentration, one that no ten-year-old should have had to undergo.

Three shots were fired in rapid succession, all hitting their target flawlessly.

Sam cheered and Dean showed off, spinning the gun on his index finger. His eyes were blinding.

He was looking more and more like Mary as each day passed and John was having a hard time looking his son in the eyes. The memories were too painful, overshadowing the good to the point John could not remember ever being happy.

Yet a promise made a lifetime ago wafted through the air and he choked, reaching for the bottle of vodka that was on the counter. A long swig clamed his nerves and drown his emotions.

"Happy tenth birthday Dean," he whispered to the window as he trudged off, collapsing on the beige and olive knit couch.

[ day six thousand five hundred and seventy ]

"I swear to you Sam, if you leave now, you better not come back!"

"Why in the hell would I stay?" such venom for an eighteen year old. "Since the day I was born you've dictated my life, turned me into one of your expendable soldiers on your stupid crusade! I'm sick of it! I have a chance to really do something with my life dad! I have a chance to be normal!"

"Normal?" John scoffed. "Sam you were never normal, you will never be normal! You can run away all you want but you'll never be able to hide from the truth!" he saw Dean flickering in the background, keeping eerily silent and hidden.

"God," Sam choked out, the sound mangled. "You're pathetic."

John stormed over to him, staring him straight in the eye. He grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him in close, breath hissing and eyes flaring. Voice deliberately low so Dean couldn't hear. "And you're no son of mine."

Sam was packed and gone before he woke up the next morning.

John didn't regret a single word.

[ day nine thousand four hundred and thirty one ]

John Winchester stared at the passage, his face unreadable.

He rubbed his eyes harshly, willing the sleep and fatigue away as he stared down at the words etched in Latin.

They were still the same.

"Oh God…" he muttered, fumbling for his journal on instinct. He paused mid-reach.

"No," he told himself soundly. There would be no need for it anymore. He had discovered the truth about Constance Welsh; he had already salted her remains finally putting an end to the woman in white. From that point on, he knew Dean would pick up his trail in a few days and join up with him.

He had to leave right away. He had to make sure that this was a mistake, mistranslated. Anything.

Dean 35-111 he scribbled on the last page of his journal, confident in his son's ability to discover and decode the message.

Right now, he had Mary's killer to track down.

He would be damned if anything got in the way of that.

[ the last day ]

"Get out of my way Dean!" John bellowed, gun barrel firmly raised and dangerously poised; shoot to kill in one blow.

"Dad this is insane!" Dean's voice was hysterical. Behind him, Sam coughed up a mouthful of blood, clutching his broken shoulder. "Put the goddamn gun down!"

"Dean Winchester, if you know what's good for you, you will get your ass over here right this instant and let that monster rot!"

Dean's resolve was bordering on panic. He did, however, firmly hold his ground, acting as a shield for his injured brother.

‘Not brother,' John reminded himself with a kick. ‘Monster.'

"Dad!" Dean shouted again when John did not lower his rifle.

"Dean do not make me shoot through you. You know just as well as I do that this gun will tear through you like tissue paper and still have enough power to hit him."

John had never seen Dean look that lost before. His outstretched arms were shaking ever so visibly.

"Dean," Sam spluttered through a mouthful of blood. He was fading quickly.

"Don't touch him!" John shouted, but Dean glared at him. He fell to his knees wrapped his arms around his younger brother.

‘Not brother!'

"Dad this is fucking insane! Sam needs a doctor! This isn't some fucking two-bit poltergeist we're talking about; this is your son!"

"He is no son of mine!" John bellowed out with the fury of a million avenging angels. "He's the one that killed my Mary! He's the reason why bad things happen in the world! And I'll be damned if he pulls your soul to hell with him!"

"No," Dean refused to believe him. "You're wrong. Something's possessed you and you've just fucking lost it!" yet even though he said the words, John could see the pieces fall into place in Dean's mind. The full body tremble revealed Dean and he were finally on the same page.

"He's the son of evil. I should have put it all together that first night in the hospital, but I was so naïve then. I was supposed to train you, turn you into the ultimate demon slayer."
John aimed, correcting for the recoil. Just like he always taught them.
Sam was crying, clinging onto Dean with all his strength. It was as if he was willing himself to fade into Dean for protection.

"Dad…" he pleaded.

God how John wished that were true.


The shot was loud.

It covered up the sound of John's heart breaking.


The Infinite Sadness
Friday's Child: Mary Winchester

[ the first day ]

Mary Elizabeth Winchester never would have thought her life would only begin the night she died.

People around her were always wondering just what had happened. Mary wishes she could somehow find an answer, but she can't. Concerning that night, she just remembers the fear that lodged itself in her throat as she ran up to Sam's nursery; ran up to the man that was now alone in the room with her youngest child.

She remembers stopping at the door, paralyzed in utter fear as the man reached out to touch her baby. His hand was deformed as if melted off. The smell of rotting eggs was so strong Mary almost passed out.

"Get away from him!" she screeched, running over frantically. Sam was cooing, completely obvious to the danger that surrounded him.

Or at least Mary thought.

"I have no quarrel with you bearer," the man's voice came out in scratchy rasps, like a jogger in winter. "Leave now and spare your life. Stay and you will perish in agony."

"Get away from my son!" Mary cried again, the panic seeping from her pores.

Mary went to reach out and grab Sam, but the man caught her wrist in his waxy hand.

"Foolish woman," it hissed and Mary knew that she had somehow hindered its plans; whatever they had been.

She was just about to sign in relief as the man released her hand and took a step back as if departing. That breath never reached her throat though, for a millisecond after, the most overwhelming agony tore through her stomach.

Mary screamed.

The pain was a blinding, one that she would never be able to describe properly. It just stung and tingled and ached and burned worse than the cesarean and delivery combined. To make matters worse, something reached out, plucked her from the ground and stapled her to the ceiling. She felt something closely akin to nails being driven through her bone, holding her firmly in place.

She screamed again, but something had reached in her mouth and stripped her voice from her.

‘I'm going to die,' Mary thought to herself, letting the panic well in her.

It was in that instant that she recalls John running in. His concern was washed away as he looked upon his smiling little baby boy, completely convinced the scream he heard to be nothing more than a nightmare.

But that feeling of relief was obliterated as soon as the flames erupted and consumed Mary's still sensitive flesh.

After that, everything went black. She felt disjointed and fuzzy, as if her corporeal form had dissolved.

Mary suspects the fire attributed to that notion.

Yet here she was, purely in the figurative sense of the word.

She had been expecting the light, the tunnel and the angels; the entire Kubler-Ross experience. Yet what greeted her after death was… nothing, really.

She would have felt disappointed, but the fact she was dead finally set in and she could have thrown up.

But there was still one lingering fact that comforted Mary and would continue to comfort her no matter what lay before her: she had died saving her son, her little Sammy.

In exactly thirteen years, that thought would no longer be able to comfort Mary.

[ day eighty one ]

Mary has stopped trying to visit John in his dreams.

No matter how many times she reassures him that it's her, his suspicion and paranoia take over and Mary is shut out of his brain entirely.

She will admit, the training and the hunting was probably a direct result of her entering John's dreams, spooking him and making him aware of how ghosts and demons truly did walk the mortal coil.

She never wanted it to be that way though.

She just wanted John to stop blaming himself. There was no way he could have saved her, no way anyone could have saved her even though it was so obvious John wanted to be in that room, letting the flames eat away at him as well.

Now, Mary tries a different approach.

Sam was still too young, so she went to Dean, sitting beside his bed as he cried. He cried every night until Mary was certain he would never be able to cry again.

"Mommy," he sobbed brokenly, fist clenching his blankets firmly. He was trying to hard to be mature about this, trying to be strong and brave.

Her little angel.

Her little warrior.

Mary felt tears stream down her cheeks; the sight of her little boy in so much pain unbearable.

"Oh Dean," she cried, wrapping her translucent arms around him, pulling him close to her chest.

Mary only realized right then and there what she had truly done. She had sacrificed herself for one son, completely forgetting about how the consequences her actions would affect the other.

It was at that exact moment that Sam began to cry softly as if sensing his brother's anguish. Without so much as a thought to himself, Dean got up; sluggishly making his way to the makeshift crib that held the baby and patted his head like a wayward puppy.

"Shh Sammy," the tears were so visibly evident in his voice, but the beginning of a bravado was being formed. "You don't have to cry anymore. I'm here."
Sam's whines stopped almost immediately as Dean touched him. Pudgy little fingers reached out, grabbing onto Dean. Sam's innocent little laugh made Dean smile as he carefully reached in and picked him up.

He was so careful to mind Sam's neck, was so delicate in holding him close, but not constrictively. Sam was cooing, wide green eyes slipping shut as he found security in his big brother's arms.

Mary thought it was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen.

"Protect him Dean," she whispered tearfully to her beautiful little boy.

Dean nodded, as if hearing the words; his arms instinctively tightening around the now slumbering body of his little brother.

If only Mary had known then what she knew now.

She would have advised Dean to burn him till there was nothing left.

[ day two thousand nine hundred and sixty three ]

Mary is looking at Dean.

She would normally be engulfed in sadness at not being able to hold him, but for now, she was content in watching her son sleep.

The peace didn't last long.

Dean was having a nightmare.

Mary watching on, frustration curling in her stomach. She wanted to be there for him; she wanted to gently sit on the edge of his bed and stroke his hair till he sleepily slipped out of his imposed world of nightmares and into one that was much more suited for an angel.

And Dean was an angel.

He was so utterly perfect that he made Mary's heart heave painfully in her chest.

Mary could see the inner goodness that was abundant in her son. It radiated off him as bright as a neon sign in the middle of the night.

"Hush Dean," she tried to comfort, yet her son's twitching only increased. No twelve-year old should have had to know the horrors that he experienced, experiences on a daily basis.

It wasn't fair; it was cruel.

Before Mary could try to sooth him again, the door to Dean's room opened slightly and a small figure entered, as silent as a mouse.

‘Sam…' Mary gasped internally, not expecting the boy to be up such an hour. It looked as if he hadn't slept a wink.

"Dean," Sam whispered, reaching out to touch his brother's forehead. The second his small fingers came in contact with skin, Dean's body stopped moving; his eyes opening.

"Sammy?" the sleep in his voice tugged on the word, drawing it out.

"Dean," Sam's voice was almost pleading as the tears welled up in his eyes.

"Hey, what's wrong?" Dean asked, sitting up. "Did you have a bad dream?"

Sam shook his head, shaggy brown lock fluttering in sync.

"Then what is it Sammy?" no anger in his voice, just a heartfelt concern.

Sam didn't answer with words. Instead, he climbed up on Dean's bed and wrapped his arms around him.

Mary's breath hitched.

"Dean I don't want you to get hurt," Sam cried, small fingers digging into Dean's back.

"Hey! Who said I was going to get hurt?" Dean's tone tried to be playful and reassuring, but Sam didn't believe it.

"I don't want you to go away like mom did," Sam repeated, the tears falling rapidly now, as if he was disarray.

"Sammy," Dean voice was so soothing, his hand gently rubbing between Sam's shoulder blades. This seemed to almost immediately calm the distraught child. "I promise you, I'm not going anywhere."

Dean simply held onto Sam, letting the tears dry themselves out. Within a few minutes, Sam was curled up asleep, arms still securely fastened around Dean.

Mary's smile could have shattered her face. Dean was leaning up slightly, fingers lightly combing through Sam's unruly hair.

"I'm always going to protect you," Dean promised, not for the first time and certainly not the last, to his sleeping brother.

Sam only replied by snuggling in closer.

And that's how it all started.

Mary would have given her soul to have it end there as well.

[ day three thousand eight hundred and thirty-three ]

Mary is looking at Sam.

There is a growing unease in her stomach.

She can't particularly associate it with any one feeling, but looking at Sam, she knows Dean is in trouble.

Over the years, Sam began to finally fill his slender frame, lithe muscles beginning to form under supple flesh. Now, at ten years, the outline of the man Sam would eventually resemble was complete.

His shimmering jade eyes had slanted slightly and were filled with emotions and intentions no ten year old should have ever known.

Whereas Dean's skin lightly tanned, Sam's skin seemed to absorb heat, burning his flesh a seductive golden brown. His hair, usually long and unruly was now a deep chocolate color that framed his pretty face. His lips were always pulled in a mysterious little smile that revealed rows of stunningly white teeth.

He was exotic in a way no ten year old should have been. Tempting in a way that made adults uncomfortable.

Dean had just stormed into the house, anger palpitating from his broad shoulders. There was a nasty looking gash across his left eye and was bleeding freely down his cheeks.

Mary gasped loudly; aware of the fact no one could hear her concern.

Sam had looked up from the gun he was loading, horror filling his frame.

"Dean!" he screeched in horror. Dean ungracefully flung himself down on a chair in the kitchen and was gingerly peeling off the faded black jacket he wore. He hissed in pain as the material peeled off the scabbing cut on his arm.

Sam dropping to his knees in front of his older brother; distress evident in every shaky motion. "What happened!"

All it took was one touch from Sam for Dean to immediately calm down; the anger vanishing.

The feeling of dread unfurled in Mary.

She wrapped her arms around her to ward off the shiver.

"Don't worry about me Sammy," Dean forced a smile. His full bottom lip was cut, the bruise on his chin now evident.

"Dean," Sam's voice pleaded, eyes filling with alarm.

Dean signed, giving in.

Sam was the only one that could affect Dean this way.

"Just another ghoulie, that's all," the blonde promised, blue eyes reassuring. He was so willing to take on this burden, this insurmountable pain.

"Why won't you let me help you?" Sam begged, fingers lighting grazing the cut above Dean's eyebrow. "Please Dean, I can't watch you get hurt like this."

"Hey," Dean's voice was sharp as he quickly snatched Sam's wandering fingers. Although his tone was reprimanding, Mary could sense the inner fear, the unfathomable anxiety. "Do you want this to happen to you?" he was panicked, making sure each word annunciated drove home. "Do you really want this life for yourself?"

Sam's eyes glimmered over with tears, his head dropping in shame.

"I don't want this to happen to you," Dean whispered, the anger gone as he gently forcing Sam's face up; their eyes locked. "I don't know what I'd do if you ever got hurt."

"Dean," Sam's voice hitched as he absently licked his lips.

Mary was startled at how much wanton fervor backed the word.

As if watching a movie in slow motion, she saw Dean's grip on Sam's fingers slacken and her youngest boy slipped free, bringing them up to gently touch his brother's swollen lip.

Forest green eyes were glazed over with carnality, a slow burning passion. "Dean," he breathily whispered again and before Mary could even blink, Sam had leaned up and pressed his lips against Dean's.

Mary's eyes widened, the gasp stuck in her throat.

Dean's eyes fluttered shut, losing himself in the sensation of Sam's eager mouth devouring his.

It was only then that Mary could once again see that light that was stored within Dean. It was swirling and stretching and leisurely floating up, out through his lips and into Sam's mouth.

He was consuming Dean's light.

Mary began to tremble, utterly helpless to stop the fleeting essence that made her first born so angelic and divine.

Mary had no idea where her little boy, her ten-year-old boy, knew how to do the things he was doing, but as Sam pushed Dean further back onto the chair, mouth still firmly attached to his older brother's, Mary couldn't help but realize that it had always been Sam that could control Dean like this.

The slender brunette could control an angel.

Mary didn't want to think about what that made Sam.

[ day four thousand seven hundred and twenty three ]

At fifteen, Dean had developed into what Mary could only describe as beauty personified.

His perpetually short blonde hair was flaxen and soft, shimmering gold in the sun. His eyes were the most beautiful shade of sky-blue emitting his every emotion. He was strong, able to fight off armies of the undead, yet gentle and considerate. He could charm his way into and out of any situation and one flash of his smile had people eating out of his palm.

Everyone could just tell that Dean was something ethereal. Looks of desire and longing and promises of redemption danced on the faces of everyone he came in contact with. Everyone wanted something from him, whether it was salvation or gratification and Dean tried as best as he could to please everyone.

He took up the misery and desperation of the people he helped, acting as a filter as they sobbed to him, revealing enough secrets and darkness to fuel a millennia worth of lives.

But it was because Dean cared. Because he genuinely wanted to help and guarantee that no other little boys or girls would have to grow up the way he had.

Mary kept that in mind as she watched him on a hunting trip, searching for a monster that ate wayward fisherman.

They had been so close to killing it when Dean had been dragged under the freezing rapids. He had been under for such a long time that Mary started to scream and John began to panic.

Mary had never seen John panic.

"Dean!" she cried out, praying to God he would emerge.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, frantically rushing through the pulsing water, trying to seek out his brother's body. "Dean!" Mary had never heard such desperation in her life; it was almost as if Sam was dying himself.

In many ways, he was.

"Let him go!" Sam brokenly screamed at the top of his lungs. "Let him go!"

And just like that, Dean's body floated up to the surface, face down and unmoving.

John swooped down, pulling Dean up with all his strength. The blonde coughed up a mouthful of water, face and lips stained blue.

Sam's arms were around him, as painful looking sobs escaped his body. John could not get Sam to let him go.

Even now, as Dean rested in a warm bed, Sam's arms were still glued to him.

"I'm fine now Sammy," Dean promised.

"It was going to hurt you!" Sam sobbed. "It thought you were too pretty to eat but it was going to hurt you! It was going to play with you until you bled!"

Dean never asked how Sam seemed to know this.

Mary was just beginning to figure it out.

"Hey hey hey! Don't talk like that!" Dean admonished, securing his arms around Sam as if to ward off the demons that chased him.

"I don't want them to touch you anymore!" Sam stated, grinding his teeth together. Tears poured from his clenched eyes.

"Sammy," Dean's fingers brushed away shaggy brown hair, calming the boy down just like he had when Sam had been a baby.

Sam licked his lips and Mary saw it.

She saw what had flickered behind slanted green eyes.

"Sammy," Dean's voice was hoarse, a whimper as Sam pushed him down, long legs wrapping around Dean's hips. Sam's tongue flickered out across Dean's neck, and Dean moaned, low and feral, desire building.

"They can't touch you anymore," Sam threatened. "You're mine and not there's."

"Sam," Dean's voice was whiskey smooth. He wanted to say something, but Sam's hot little mouth always silenced him, eliciting a low moan or growl in its place.

"You're so beautiful Dean," Sam purred worshipfully, his eyes darkening with pleasure and desire; someone else's words escaping Sam's mouth.

"Sam," Dean repeated, eyes so drowsy and sated, almost as if he was being drugged.

"Everyone wants you Dean," Sam muttered, teeth gently tugging on Dean's lips. "They're always looking at you and it makes me so mad," he accentuated the word with a gentle roll of his hips.

"God," Dean ground out as Sam's thin fingers slipped under his flimsy white shirt.

"Close enough," Sam had murmured, aware of the fact Dean couldn't hear him.

But Mary had.

"Sammy please," Dean was fighting. Mary could see the spark of fire ignite as Dean carefully pushed Sam from his body, pinning the smaller boy to the bed beneath them.

"I want you Dean," Sam's eyes were too old for him. A long leg snaked out, wrapping itself around Dean's waist.

"You don't…" Dean began, catching his breath, "you can't…"

"Shhh…" Sam cajoled, fingers locking around Dean's neck as he brought him down for another kiss. "You're so beautiful Dean," he repeated breathily. "You're the most beautiful person ever."

Mary choked at the look Dean sent Sam.

"No," Dean refuted, lips seeking out Sam's as if he had found salvation. "You. It's always been you Sammy."

She could see Dean's feelings, his attraction to the smaller boy. His love and lust mixing; a dangerous concoction.

There was a darkening aura encircling Sam, one that glowed violet and continued to dim as clothing was peeled away, voices deepening.

Once again Mary was forced to witness the shimmering light in Dean slowing escape his body, fueling Sam's desperate kisses and knowing touches.

The darkness was closing in on both of them and Mary was so positive she saw Sam smirk; a cruel and evil expression on his young face.

Mary could only wonder for a second time how Sam, how someone so young, knew how to do the things he did. His movements were so confident and experienced, his expression one that no twelve-year-old should have known.

"I love you," Sam had whispered as a needy whimper escaped his lips.

Mary knew that truer words had never been uttered.

"Oh Sam," Dean's voice was so needy, so willing and pliant. The light was emptying quickly.

Mary had to turn away, unable to watch the fading.

And it was with that, did Mary's twelve-year-old son seduce her sixteen-year-old son.

She cried, for the first time in years, realizing how she had lost both to the shadows.

[ day eight thousand three hundred and sixteen ]

Mary hadn't meant to scare Sari.

She just wanted to go out and talk to the young girl, reassure her that there would always be someone to protect her as long as she stayed in the house.

For the first time in twenty years, Mary tried to manifest a physical form, something that would be less frightening than a disembodied voice.

She should have known that her body would have been flames. Mary could have hit herself for being so stupid.

But her accident turned into a mixed blessing, for before she knew it, her boys had come back home.

It was such a shame that their visit was hindered by an ill-tempered poltergeist that had long overstayed its welcome.

[ the last day ]

Mary was determined to finish this once and for all, no matter how much pain it inflicted.

"Sam!" Dean's voice was bordering on hysterical. Mary could hear the axe slicing through the pine door like butter. She had no doubt that her eldest would have scratched his way through the door if need be.

God Dean wanted to save Sam so badly.

Mary's heart clenched in her chest.

He was going to suffer so much…

She turned the corner, seeing Sam for the first time in almost five years. His entire body was pressed up against a cupboard door, the tendons in his neck flaring as he viciously tried to struggle against the invisible bonds.

Sam was truly scared.

And he had every right to be.

"Sam!" Dean's voice echoed, more assured, the panic now replaced with a fury that made hell burn. "Sam!"

He suddenly caught sight of his brother and stormed over. There was such an unholy light in his brilliant blue eyes; one that made Mary take a step back. His gun was cocked with every intention of decimating her spirit. His jaw was set in a hard line that made Mary choke back a sob.

There was so little light left in him, drained away till there was only a sole flame, flickering dangerously.

‘This is your fault,' Mary hissed eye lowering on the trapped adult.

"No don't! Don't!" Sam begged, pain crawling through every nerve in his body.

"What?" Dean was confused. "Why?" he demanded, never losing the gruffness in his tone.

"Because I know who it is…" Sam almost whispered, eyes glistening. "I can see her now."

And just like that, the flames erupted and Mary found herself once again inhabiting her old body, a body that suddenly felt like a used Halloween costume.

Dean's hand shook. It shook so badly she was scared he was going to go into shock.

But John had trained him perfectly.

The gun dipped ever so slightly, the relief and the misery and the happiness and the infinite sadness all washed over him at once. "Mom?" he sounded so lost and frail, as if he was finally receiving the gift he had waited for his whole life.

In some ways, he was and still is.

Mary smiled reassuringly, though she doubted she kept the bitterness out of it.

She approached her first-born son, the love and joy and pride she kept bottled up all these years finally finding an outlet. She knew he could sense her; she knew Dean would be able to hear a lifetimes worth of praises with just the blink of her eyes.

He smiled at her and Mary's world hollowed out. The gesture was so pure and beautiful, just like her little angel.

"Dean," she whispered, praying and wishing and hoping that he would be strong enough to face the evils that stalked him.

Walking away from Dean's piercing blue gaze was the hardest thing Mary had ever done in her entire life.

But she didn't have much time and she had bigger things to address.

Like the bargaining of her son's soul.

Sam watched the small display of affections, keenly acute to what was being secretly spoken. He was happy for Dean and Mary knew that he knew his message wouldn't be as kind.

"Sam," she spoke aloud.

His face darkened as she stepped up to him, a tear falling from his eye.

‘Please leave my son alone,' she begged, infusing her words with the suffering and misery of a lost life.

‘I can't,' Sam replied in turn, desperation and weakness and sorrow genuinely evident. ‘I can't!' another tear fell as if he was acknowledging his own greed and desire and the pain he was going to inflict.

Mary sighed. She looked at Sam, although she was truly looking at Dean. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Dean's words out of Sam's mouth, for Sam knew exactly what was going to happen.

He had known since he was eight.

Mary turned away from him, for the second and last time, walking away from the boys she had watched and loved as her own.

And God, it was the most painful thing she had ever done. It was worse than dying.

"You," she hissed to the bothersome poltergeist, "get out of my house."

Her gaze lowered slightly until she was looking directly in the mirror Jenny had hung in the adjacent room. She was looking at Sam and Sam was looking back.

Mary inhaled, eyes freezing Sam as she tried to keep the venom out of her voice, spitting her final warning.

"Let go of my son."

Sam's entire frame trembled as if the words were being driven into him like little spikes of poison.

This time, when the flames consumed her, she wasn't scared.

Mary felt the pain sizzle her skin and the heat breath a whole new brand of fear in her lungs, but she refused to be scared.

You see, this time, she knew she was dying for the right son.