Chapter Text
Sam wasn’t expecting the people to cheer when they hear Azazel is dead, but he’s glad none of them rush up to him, Dean, or Pamela. He’s had a long few days, and isn’t sure he’s got any energy left for people he’s not familiar with at this point. He’s content to have Dean lean on him — and he can’t believe the idiot took on Azazel while injured but he’s not disappointed with the outcome.
And it’s because Dean is leaning on him that Sam feels when the other man suddenly tenses, that he hears the word that slips out in a disbelieving whisper. “Mom?”
Sam freezes, his gaze darting around for who could have elicited that response, because he was pretty sure Dean said his mother was dead. What he sees is Pamela walking over to a woman standing alone on the steps of the cathedral with her eyes fixed on Dean.
“I’ve seen you before,” Pamela says. Sam sees the woman nod, her gaze going to Pamela for a moment before slipping back to Dean. “You said you were waiting for someone.”
“I was.” The woman’s voice is quiet, and Sam finds himself drawn to her. Dean seems to feel the same way, as the two of them inch over step by step.
“Last time, you said you couldn’t tell me who you were waiting for,” Pamela continues, and Sam’s starting to be confused by the conversation that’s going on. Something about it is off, but he can’t quite put a finger on what. “Can you tell me now?”
The woman nods again, a small smile forming on her face as she looks at Dean. “I was waiting for my sons.”
Dean pushes away from Sam and steps towards the woman, and Sam can see the tears starting to form in the other man’s eyes. “Mom.”
The smile widens. “Dean.”
Dean makes a movement towards her, then stops himself from reaching out. “You’re…you’re dead.”
“I am,” the woman confirms, and Sam feels like he shouldn’t be here, but also like he shouldn’t leave. “Azazel killed me and took your brother.” The woman’s gaze goes from Dean to Sam, and Sam is suddenly the subject of her soft smile and he doesn’t know what to do with that. “And now he’s returned to me.”
Sam can’t process what he’s hearing, because it doesn’t make any sense. Pamela on the other hand doesn’t appear to be having the same problem. “Oh my God.”
Sam looks over at Dean for help, but he’s staring at Sam like Sam’s everything he’s been searching for which doesn’t make any sense. “No,” he says, turning back to the woman, though he’s not totally sure what he’s denying. “No, Azazel said my mother abandoned me on the steps of Notre Dame.” Except, that’s not true, is it? Didn’t Azazel say something different, right before Dean killed him?
“Azazel lied.” The woman doesn’t sound mad, her voice calm, the smile steady on her face. “My name is Mary Campbell, and you are Samuel Winchester — my son.”
Sam blinks, then blinks again, then looks to Dean because this is all too good to be true. He’s just in time to be crushed by Dean’s hug, and now he can feel the tears starting to fall.
“Sammy,” Dean whispers into his hair, and Sam lets himself hug the other man back. Because he has a brother, and his mother didn’t abandon him — Azazel killed her. For protecting him.
“Oh, of course you’re a Campbell.”
Pamela’s voice pulls Sam out of Dean’s — his brother’s tight embrace, but the arm across his shoulders is heavier now, more possessive, like now that Dean’s found him he’s not planning on letting go anytime soon. Sam doesn’t mind, wrapping his own arm under Dean’s to rest on his left shoulder — because he’s not about to let Dean go anytime soon either.
Pamela is shaking her head at the pair of them, wry humor easily visible on her face. “You make a lot more sense now, I hope you know that. Both of you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dean asks, mock-offended.
Pamela just shakes her head again and turns to walk away. “I’ll explain another day. Come find me when she’s ready to move on, if she doesn’t manage to do it on her own. And come and find me regardless,” Pamela adds over her shoulder. “You both are going to need so much training.”
Sam has no idea what she’s talking about — he just knows that he’s looking at this woman — his mother — and he has no idea what to say. Neither does Dean, as the two of them just seem content to drink her in for a moment.
Their mother does the same, then speaks, her words directed at Sam. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
His mother’s — Mary’s — and God but he doesn’t know what to call her — her smile has dropped, and regret stains her features. “I left you with Azazel. I couldn’t bear to lose you, but he took you anyway.”
Dean’s hand tightens on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam suddenly knows exactly what to call her. “Mom—” —and he doesn’t miss the way her eyes light up with hope at him calling her something so simple— “you don’t have to be sorry. Azazel raising me, that wasn’t your fault.”
“I’m your mother,” she says simply. “It was my job to protect you. Both of you. And I failed.” Her smile comes back slowly, and Sam can’t hold back a gasp he feels Dean echo, because yellow blooms in her eyes, the same color as the sun rays, the same color as the vestments Jim pulls out three times a year on the holiest of days. “But I’m so happy you two managed to find each other again.”
A white light seems to bloom in her chest, growing brighter and brighter until Sam’s forced to look away. When he turns back, she’s gone, and a small yellow flower pokes out of a crack in the stairs.
The two of them are silent for a minute, then Dean pulls Sam into another bone-crushing hug. “Sammy,” he says again, a little firmer than last time. “I thought you were gone. And you were here the whole time.” His voice takes on an edge of wonder, but when he pulls back enough that Sam can see his face again, all that’s present on his face is a grin. “You and me, we’re going to need to go out for drinks soon and talk. And I’ll have to contact Dad.”
Sam feels his own grin form, a match to Dean’s — to his brother’s. “I’d like that.”
The two of them start walking towards Pamela, who’s waiting at the corner of the cathedral. After a few steps, Dean speaks up again. “You know, this is gonna sound weird,” he starts, “but I’m kinda glad Azazel called you Samael.”
Sam stops in his tracks and raises an eyebrow at Dean. “Why?”
Dean shrugs at Sam’s incredulous tone. “You know, Samael, Samuel — it’s not that big a change for you.”
Sam can’t help it — he lets out a snort. “Dude. He named me ‘poison of God’. You could have told me my name was ‘Phoebus’ and I would have preferred it to that.”
Dean lets out a chuckle of his own. “Alright — Phoebus.”
Sam casts his gaze up to the heavens and lets out a groan. “Oh God, why?”
“Because that’s what brothers do, Sammy,” Dean replies immediately, pulling Sam towards Pamela again. “And I have twenty years to make up for.”
So here is a riddle to guess if you can, sing the bells of Notre Dame —
What makes a monster and what makes a man?