Sam often wondered if she had smelt nice. If she smelt of baking and flowers, like the mom's that he had read about in books.
When Sam was younger he had watched TV programmes with moms in them. He had fantasised about having a mom of his own, of having someone tuck him in at night, making sure he was warm and safe. Of having someone read him a bedtime story, soft hands on his face as he drifted off into sleep.
He had Dean of course and Dean had done a damn good job of raising him. Dean had taught him how to tie his shoes, how to dress himself. Dean had read him halting stories from a dog-eared story book; Dean had thrown the rough blankets over him at night. Dean had been mom and dad to him.
He appreciated it but it wasn't enough. Sam wondered what it would have been like to have soft, to have gentle, to feel tender touches rather than callused hands on his skin, to have someone nurse him through an illness with kind words rather than the harsh worried grunts from his dad and the silent, pale-faced concern of his brother.
Sam had often sat on the steps of his school and watched the other kids with their moms. Watched them skipping off to the shiny SUVs, watched them clutch at extended hands, take the treats that were offered. He had seen kids with clothing that was specially chosen, smart back-packs and up to the minute trainers. He was a thrift store kid, no careful eye to look at his clothing and decide it was too short or too long. No mom to take him to get his feet measured, no mom to buy him the latest fashion tee-shirt or the nicest jeans. Sam always had a hole in something or something missing. It wasn't that Dean or his dad didn't care, it was more that they hadn't got time for such mundane things. Moms made time, Sam knew that.
Now, lying on his motel bed, staring at the TV without really seeing, Sam swallowed hard and wondered what his mom would think of him now. Would she be proud? He doubted it. She had told Dean that angels were watching over him and they certainly seemed to be. But were they watching over Sam?
He bit down hard on his lip. Life wasn't fair, he knew that, but sometimes he wished, he just wished that he could see his mom, hold his mom, even if it were just for one minute, one second.
He had seen her just that once, in Lawrence, in their old house. She had apologised to him then, her hands close to his face but not touching. He knew now, what she had done, but it didn't matter, not to him. She was his mom and he wanted her, needed her, needed her as much now as when he had been a child.
Dean had gotten to see her. Dean had gotten to have his mom again. The first time it had been the Djinn and the second time it had been Castiel, but at least he had seen her again, held her again, smelt that mom smell, felt those tender hands. Sam hadn't been granted that privilege, hadn't been party to those memories, hadn't been able to meet his grandparents, his family, the only family he would ever have.
Sam often wondered if she had smelt nice. If she smelt of baking and flowers, like the mom's that he had read about in books. He wondered if he would ever know, ever find out. He wondered if he might one day be able to walk into the light and see her waiting for him, waiting for her baby, her son, her Samuel.
Sam was twenty-six years old. He had faced down demons, monsters, ghosts and even hell itself. But, deep inside of him, like all other little boys, he just wanted his mom to make it better.