Mary Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
momchester) wrote2015-11-13 08:40 pm
momchester) wrote2015-11-13 08:40 pm
Entry tags:
Maskormenace Memory event- Sam Reunion.
This memory will probably be triggered by the sight of a cup, or an open book- a memory calm enough, but soaked through in emotion powerful enough to bring tears.
Your stomach twists when your son Sam walks in the room- Sam, tall and strong, with pain and exhaustion shadowing his eyes even when he smiles. Sam, towering over you, so different than the little baby you left in that nursery the night you died. Sam, the one who suffered because you were weak. Because you made a terrible, stupid, selfish mistake, and now this man-
Then Sam speaks, laughs nervously, brings you tea. It's too sweet for words, too cute a thing. It reminds you of Dean when he was four, bringing you water in a dirty mug because he thought that's how grownups did coffee. All heart.
He brings you tea and offers to listen to your problems- cuts right to the core of it, of coming back and not feeling like you fit. And despite the kindness of the offer, your heart sinks to know that he understands this terrible feeling.
"I have so much to catch up on," you say to him sadly. "Mother stuff." You name a few things, but it's so shallow- there's so much you missed, an entire lifetime, every step that took this amazing person before you from baby to man. The sadness lines his face and crinkles his eyes, and you feel it welling up inside you. "I just have a lot of blanks to fill in."
Then Sam- oh, sweet Sam - he offers you a journal. You've never seen it before, but it's filled with John's handwriting- their dad, now gone. It helped us, he says. Helped keep him with us. You touch it with the reverence of a prayer, like it's a reliquary of some long-dead saint. The thought of him having twenty years to fill up this book, twenty years without you, breaks your heart. It's a lifeline, and a gift, and the sweet-sadness of John's absence and Sam's thoughtfulness almost makes you cry as you thank him. And when Sam smiles back, there's a light that turns on inside him, shining from the inside out. It's the first time you've seen his eyes light up like that.
Sam turns to go, but the question you've been holding back bursts out. "Dean said you got out of hunting... and yet here you are."
Getting out of hunting: the rare prize that so few ever get. All you ever wanted was for your sons to grow up normal and safe. To never know this life. Coming back from the dead, realizing that they grew up scared and savage without you- so you ask. You have to know why Sam would come back to this. Why he would abandon a safe, normal life.
Sam explains, "Well, this is my family. My family hunts, y'know? It's what we do." His easy acceptance of it breaks your heart just a little, and you turn to put the journal down.
"Mom?" His voice sounds different- wobbly, vulnerable. You look up wonderingly and see Sam on the verge of tears. "For me, just um, having you here- fills in the biggest blank."
For the first time since you came back to life, everything becomes simple. In his empathy, his emotion, his vulnerability touches your own like a raw nerve, and you feel a swell of pure, profound love for this man. This man- but no, in this moment he's like a child. A little boy who needs his mother. Your own grief at missing your family, at being separated across the uncrossable gulf of time, matches his own. And in your sadness, your love, you can't help but smile at his admission- to cross the room (because you know he never would, he wouldn't dare reach out without you showing him it's okay) and hug him.
For one moment, everything feels alright. It's temporary, and it's fragile, but it's a moment of goodness, and you try to sink into it. This fleeting feeling of family.
Your stomach twists when your son Sam walks in the room- Sam, tall and strong, with pain and exhaustion shadowing his eyes even when he smiles. Sam, towering over you, so different than the little baby you left in that nursery the night you died. Sam, the one who suffered because you were weak. Because you made a terrible, stupid, selfish mistake, and now this man-
Then Sam speaks, laughs nervously, brings you tea. It's too sweet for words, too cute a thing. It reminds you of Dean when he was four, bringing you water in a dirty mug because he thought that's how grownups did coffee. All heart.
He brings you tea and offers to listen to your problems- cuts right to the core of it, of coming back and not feeling like you fit. And despite the kindness of the offer, your heart sinks to know that he understands this terrible feeling.
"I have so much to catch up on," you say to him sadly. "Mother stuff." You name a few things, but it's so shallow- there's so much you missed, an entire lifetime, every step that took this amazing person before you from baby to man. The sadness lines his face and crinkles his eyes, and you feel it welling up inside you. "I just have a lot of blanks to fill in."
Then Sam- oh, sweet Sam - he offers you a journal. You've never seen it before, but it's filled with John's handwriting- their dad, now gone. It helped us, he says. Helped keep him with us. You touch it with the reverence of a prayer, like it's a reliquary of some long-dead saint. The thought of him having twenty years to fill up this book, twenty years without you, breaks your heart. It's a lifeline, and a gift, and the sweet-sadness of John's absence and Sam's thoughtfulness almost makes you cry as you thank him. And when Sam smiles back, there's a light that turns on inside him, shining from the inside out. It's the first time you've seen his eyes light up like that.
Sam turns to go, but the question you've been holding back bursts out. "Dean said you got out of hunting... and yet here you are."
Getting out of hunting: the rare prize that so few ever get. All you ever wanted was for your sons to grow up normal and safe. To never know this life. Coming back from the dead, realizing that they grew up scared and savage without you- so you ask. You have to know why Sam would come back to this. Why he would abandon a safe, normal life.
Sam explains, "Well, this is my family. My family hunts, y'know? It's what we do." His easy acceptance of it breaks your heart just a little, and you turn to put the journal down.
"Mom?" His voice sounds different- wobbly, vulnerable. You look up wonderingly and see Sam on the verge of tears. "For me, just um, having you here- fills in the biggest blank."
For the first time since you came back to life, everything becomes simple. In his empathy, his emotion, his vulnerability touches your own like a raw nerve, and you feel a swell of pure, profound love for this man. This man- but no, in this moment he's like a child. A little boy who needs his mother. Your own grief at missing your family, at being separated across the uncrossable gulf of time, matches his own. And in your sadness, your love, you can't help but smile at his admission- to cross the room (because you know he never would, he wouldn't dare reach out without you showing him it's okay) and hug him.
For one moment, everything feels alright. It's temporary, and it's fragile, but it's a moment of goodness, and you try to sink into it. This fleeting feeling of family.