19Chapter 8
This time when hanging from the ceiling, Mary felt the flames. She felt everything. And with every excruciating sting, she screamed.
She knew the reason she was on the ceiling right now was her fault. She could have ran, fought all the demons and angels, but then her sons would be defenseless. And while she had trust in her boys, she wanted them to be as protected as possible. Even if that meant letting them have a sucky childhood, motel-jumping and being raised as hunters. She was sure John did the best he could do—well, under the circumstances.
She saw John below her, his face pale. "Take your brother and run as fast as you can!" John told Dean and turned in horror to look at his wife. Mary watched Dean's tiny arms grab Sam and the two run out of the sizzling building. Her heart felt as if it cracked. She should be outside right now, comforting her probably traumatized boys. But instead she was here, cemented to the ceiling, awaiting her brutal death.
Mary tried to breathe, but breathing took too much effort. The flames around her were suffocating, unbearable. Sam's nursery started to thin.
John looked stunned, unable to comprehend how Mary could possibly be burning on the ceiling. "I—I love you, Mary." Or at least that's what Mary thought he said. By each second, she was losing focus on everything around her. The fire separated her from John and she could no longer see him, no longer see anything but the fire.
Mary thought about adult Sam and Dean, about their destinies, and a small part of her wondered if she should have spent years running with her adult children. Did she make a mistake? Should she have sticked with her children? She thought back to when Dean visited in her the '70s as Dean Van Halen. He wanted to change the future. He wanted her to not get out of bed, to not set history into motion. But she ignored his warning and got out of bed anyway, a choice that will haunt her probably well into her afterlife. And this decision... returning to her death...
Something sour stirred in her stomach, but it was too late to change her decision. She was glued to this wall, feeling the fire scorch her skin—every touch feeling like narrow needles—and there was nothing she could do to prevent it.
She screamed and Sam's nursery started to slip from her vision. She tried to hold on for as long as she could, trying to pull herself off the wall with every strength she had in her, but it was no use trying. Azazel got her good.
Sam and Dean will be okay, Mary tried to reassure herself. They will live until well into their twenties, probably well into their thirties, too. They will be okay.
That's the last thought she had before everything—the nursery, her consciousness—faded altogether.
After all, fate was fate.
The end (for real this time)