Mary sits in the back of the small Lutheran church and listens to the bell choir ring out "O Come All Ye Faithful", to the young woman singing Did you know that your baby boy has walked where angels trod?, to the familiar stories of Mary and Joseph and the census and the shepherds; John is beside her, paying attention only when the lights dim and the flame is passed from candle to candle—he only cares about the parts of the Bible that help him on the hunt, which the Joyful Mysteries don't—and strangers sit where Dean and Sam belong, but her boys were alive and doing their job as of this morning's check-in, and Dean and Sam are as good at their job with a combined fifty years of experience as John and Mary are with seventy-five hunting plus John's Marine tour, so she needn't worry about them.
John the Baptist (I baptize you with water, but he will baptize you with the Holy Spirit) and Mary the Blessed (blessed are you among women and blessed is the fruit of your womb) and their boys, one Jesus and one Judas Iscariot or Judas Thaddeus or the beloved disciple and damned if anyone knows which is which (take this cup from me and greetings, teacher; friend, do what you came for and here is your son; here is your mother and they know not what they do but mostly one goat for God and one for Azazel, one a sacrifice and one a scapegoat): they're the most fucked-up family that's lived since Jesus's own, but that's fair, since they're also the most burdened family since Jesus's own.
It's all right, because they're Winchesters—it matters not how strait the gate, they are masters of their fate: Sam and Dean will do what Jesus (self-evidently) couldn't, and Mary and John will be with them every step of the way (except for the bits such as now where the boys are en route to a haunting in Arizona while she and John investigate what might be, for all they know so far, Mr. Heat Miser in Pennsylvania, or possibly Mr. Snow Miser by the Chesapeake and there's just a limited amount of precipitation to go around)—but sometimes Mary needs a night to shed Mary Campbell the hunter and Mary Winchester of the Holy Fucking Family and the boys of the NYPD choir singing "Galway Bay": she's alive and so are her husband and sons and hundreds of innocents despite the world's best efforts to the contrary, and the bells are ringing out for tomorrow's Christmas Day.