Revelations

Doubtful

Dean sauntered into his gloomy room, evidently wounded and in search of his gun.

It was comfortably lying on the unmade bed, staring back at him between the wave of blue sheets as blue as unforgettable eyes. Eyes that would look hopefully at him without doubt. Eyes that pleaded sometimes and worried so much. Eyes that had stared back at him the last time they were in the same room whilst an ocean of blue turned into dark pools of pain. And so much pain.

He slowly picked up the gun, released the lock and turned the mouth upwards. No. God no. He wouldn't go out like this. You could keep pushing on and on after your world started crumbling and no matter how many wins there were, nothing felt right afterwards. Nothing except the burning inside from a fire that had been raging since Cas died and came back to him.

It was always Cas.

Cas fucked up everything that was normal. It was his fault entirely that everything went wrong, wasn't it? The times when they were on the right path, and then Cas came along, screwing with his psyche. Messing around with his damn mind. He felt like his heart was always playing games, knocking around one night stands and still unable to satisfy that craving.

When Cas was around, he slept deep and dreamt up disturbing scenarios of what could happen instead of what was normal. He woke up feeling hungover and distracted. So what was his ultimate solution? He needed to win back the upper hand. He needed to find his power again, and he began to command situations as if it was his right to move Cas around like a chess piece. He told him where to go, what to do, what to say. And when Jack fell out of their hands, when Cas refused to listen to him, Dean threw a fit because he hated losing control. He hated not knowing what was Cas' next move. He hated the fact that he could not predict where they were going to go.

But Mary's death was the biggest fall out because just before she died, he was angry with his own mother. Why? She saw right through his façade and was terribly expectant of Dean's happy ending. If his mother could have her own way, then Mary would have already thought about pushing along a budding romance. And that is exactly what she was doing when he found her about two days before her death, sitting in the open inside the bunker, feet folded on the floor.

She was perusing a magazine clipping and being sentimental all of a sudden, he made the biggest mistake by joining her on the floor.

"What're you reading?" Dean asked, beer in hand.

Mary beamed at him and turned the sheet of paper so that he could get an eyeful.

When Dean read the heading 'A Few Tips For Moms Who Have Gay Sons' his green eyes widened. "Seriously? Why on earth would you—"

"I thought that would be obvious," she smiled warmly at him and continued reading as if it was the most normal thing to do.

"Sam's not gay, although I've had my doubts but honestly I—"

"I'm not collecting tips for Sam, Dean," Mary said matter-of-factly. She turned her eyes to look at him bashfully. "I'm trying to find some way to get you to accept who you are."

He immediately felt as if he had been slammed in the face by a wooden baseball bat. Full force, no joke. And if looks could seriously inflame someone's soul, Dean would literally be a burning bush in that moment.

"Mom, that's not. What." He cleared his throat and the residue of beer resting in his mouth tasted like poison. "What are you saying exactly?"

"That you're in denial and I'm trying to find a way to reach you somehow," Mary said softly. "Before our lives go sideways, and something happens to me, I need you to be happy, Dean." When he sighed, she collected his face between her palms and squeezed affectionately. "Listen to me, okay? I'm your mother. I know you."