At first, Mary thought that John was going through a normal nightmare. After all, anyone had them, but from the moment he opened his eyes and moved to put his face in his hands, Mary knew that nothing about this was normal. She knew Dean had nightmares about his stay in Hell, not because she had seen them, but because he had mentioned it offhandedly in a few posts on the message boards that were visible for her to see. Her heart ached for her son, that he had to endure such things...so she couldn't understand why it had never occurred to her that John might be suffering through the very same thing alone in his room. Were she being honest with herself, she hadn't allowed herself to think about it, because she couldn't handle the thought of John hurting quietly only one floor above where she couldn't help him.
A hundred years. God, it was such a long time. She thought that her stay trapped in the house had been hellish, but it was nothing in comparison. Mary put a hand on his back, her fingers running in soothing circles as she waited on him to recover, to uncover his eyes.
"Are you alright, John?" The words sounded so woefully insufficient even to her own ears. Of course he wasn't alright...but what could she ask? What could she possibly say to the man who had suffered in hell for decades in order to save their son?