This follows the events of episode 5x10 "Abandon All Hope" but it's not necessarily a tag. I hope it makes sense and isn't over-the-top odd or schmoopy.

Enjoy! Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Thanksgiving Mourning

By: Vanessa Sgroi

Banging and clanging in another corner of the house woke him from a restless sleep. Bobby Singer ran a rough hand over his face, fingers scritching through his beard. With a lot of twisting and maneuvering and not a little heartfelt swearing, he hoisted himself into his infernal wheelchair, settling with a grunt. He wheeled for the door, pausing only to jam a well-worn trucker hat on his head.

The noises that woke him emanated from the kitchen, and he followed the audible trail like it was breadcrumbs. Rolling into the kitchen, he spied the giant that was Sam Winchester pawing through his cupboards. "What in tarnation are ya doing in here, boy?"

Sam jumped, straightened, and looked somewhat guiltily over his shoulder. "Sorry, Bobby."

"For what? You planning on stealing that frying pan you're holding? Or were ya gonna bean me with it?"

The younger man thunked the pan in question down on the countertop. "Uh, no, I…uh…well…"

Bobby crinkled his brow. "Well what?"

"I…I decided to cook us Thanksgiving dinner."

Bobby blinked, nonplussed at this surprising revelation. His gaze traveled to the calendar on the wall, confirming the date before sliding to Sam once more. He studied the youngest Winchester noting his pallor, the biconcave cheeks, the purplish circles under his oh-so-expressive eyes. The boy was grieving hard as was his older brother. Both Winchesters looked utterly hollowed out. Bobby's own grief was slightly more muted as he'd not been present in Carthage to experience the carnage and subsequent loss of friends and allies. He adjusted his cap and said, "Ya must be planning on performing a miracle then 'cause I know I had nothing resembling Thanksgiving food in the house."

Sam eased backward, resting his hips against the counter. "I was…up early. I made a run to the 24-hour market."

Bobby grimaced. The nearest 24-hour supermarket was a good 45 minutes away. Considering the clock on the microwave showed it to be 6:48 in the morning, Sam must have gotten on the road somewhere around 4:00 a.m. Proof that barely sleeping opened up a lot of free time.

"So ya got to feeling domestic long before dawn, is that it? Should I rustle up an apron for ya?" he teased.

Sam's cheeks reddened a bit. "Yeah. I mean I just wanted…I dunno… I wanted to…do…something. Something normal. Something…safe." Sam's tormented gaze drifted to the floor.

Bobby got it; he understood completely. "Well, now ya idgit," he mumbled gruffly, "I dunno if safe is exactly the word considering you're cooking, but if you're determined, let's get to it. Just try and keep it down a bit so we don't wake that brother of yours."

"Too late," a third voice interjected from the doorway. Dean shuffled into the kitchen and over to the coffeepot, his movements stiff and slow.

"Sorry, Dean. I didn't mean to wake you." Sam bit his bottom lip.

Dean filled his mug and took an appreciative sip before answering, "You didn't. Wasn't really sleeping."

Bobby noticed Dean wore the same weary, anguished, despairing look as his younger brother with one difference. There was an element of terror underlying Dean's. Bobby and Sam both were very aware from this past week of nightmares that it was the Hellhounds Meg had loosed upon them that put the terror there. The grizzled hunter hated seeing the two boys he loved like sons hurting so, but he knew there was next to nothing he could do to ease the pain of their situation. "Pour me one of those why don't ya."

Dean fulfilled Bobby's gruff request and raised the pot in Sam's direction, filling Sam's mug when it was offered up. "So did I hear right? Sam's making Thanksgiving dinner?" He returned the coffee carafe to its warmer and settled down in a chair at the table.

Bobby nodded. "So it seems."

"I bought all the stuff," Sam pointed as he spoke, "potatoes to mash, a jar of gravy, a box of stuffing, a bag of frozen corn's in the freezer. I even remembered a can of that jiggly cranberry stuff." He turned and opened the refrigerator. "And here's the turkey." Sam pulled the giant bird from within and held it up.

Bobby's eyes goggled in amazement. "How big is that thing?"

"Twenty-four pounds." Sam smiled enough to show off a shallow dimple.

"Holy crap, boy, what in Harry's hairy ass are the three of us gonna do with a twenty-four pound turkey?"

Sam and Dean traded looks and Bobby's gaze flicked between them. He rolled his eyes. "Oh, right. Silly me, I forgot who I was talking about for a minute there. You two piranhas have it picked clean to the bone before sundown tomorrow." He wheeled to the oven and turned the knob to start it preheating. "Well, let's get this mini-Pterodactyl going if we wanna eat at some point today."

"Pie! Hey, Sam, did you bring pie?"

The younger man's face fell. "No. They were sold out."

"Aww, man, no pie? Thanksgiving and pie just go together."

"I bought one of those little frozen cakes you like though. The Fudge Stripe one."

"If ya go out to the freezer in the garage, you'll find a white bakery box with a homemade pecan pie inside—courtesy of Frannie Jenkins up the road. Ya might as well go bring it inside."

"You were holding out on us, weren't you, old man?" Dean smirked.

"A man's gotta right to protect what's his, especially when it comes to homemade pie," Bobby growled, good-naturedly. "I know what it's like when Hurricane Winchester blows through this place."

Dean hurried from the house, sans coat and shoes, returning several minutes later, triumphant. He reverently placed the white box in the middle of the table. "It looks awesome." After topping off his coffee, he sank back down in his chair.

Bobby squinted at him. "Ya didn't try to eat some of it, did ya?"

Affronted, Dean exclaimed, "Would I do that?"

"Yes." The answer came in stereo from Sam and Bobby.

"Okay, I might do that. But this one's frozen anyway."

Sam snickered while Bobby rolled his eyes.

"How's that turkey coming, Sammy?"

"Uh, okay, I guess." Sam turned from the sink holding the now dripping bird.

"Didya take the giblets out?"

"Huh?"

"The giblets. Heart, liver, gizzard, and the like."

"Umm, no. How?"

Bobby huffed. "Stick your hand up inside there. They're in a little bag."

"I gotta stick my up the turkey's butt?" Sam looked a little unsettled if not the slightest bit green.

"Oh, for cryin' out loud, some big bad hunter you are. Gimme that." While Sam held the turkey, Bobby reached inside the cavity and quickly located the bag of giblets, pulled it out, tossing it into the sink. He also found the neck in the little cavity in front and tossed it into the sink as well. "We can cook 'em up for the dog later." He washed his hands and dried them on the dishtowel before shoving a roasting pan in Sam's direction. "Get it in here. Pat it dry with a paper towel, and slather it up with that butter there on the counter."

Dean, who'd been watching the proceedings with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, suddenly scowled when Bobby plunked the five pound bag of potatoes and a peeler in front of him. "What's this?"

"Get to peelin'. We ain't the only ones workin' for the meal around here today."

"Aww, man."

The day wore on and the savory scents of home-cooked food filled the old house. The comforting smells assuaged neither the Winchesters' grief nor their guilt, and it did nothing to lessen the despondency that covered them like suffocating, moth-eaten wool cloaks. But it did allow them to breathe—for a little while. For a few short hours, on this Thanksgiving holiday, Sam and Dean Winchester could breathe. And for now, that had to be enough.

Later, as dusk painted the horizon deceptively calm shades of lilac and pink and as the brothers finished their first piece of pecan pie, Castiel appeared, his blue eyes full of turmoil. He stood exactly between the two occupied chairs. He stared impassively at each Winchester for a few moments before speaking. "I sense that neither of you feel you have anything to be thankful for on this day."

Sam's turbulent gaze, brimming with sorrow, met the angel's. Dean simply glared at him, steely-eyed. "Gee, Cas, whatever would give you that idea?"

"I have something I feel compelled to say."

"Oh? Then spill," Dean gestured to their pie and coffee, "we were kinda in the middle of something here."

"Remember to be thankful for each other." Castiel disappeared with a whispery flutter of wings as soon as the last syllable passed his lips, leaving the brothers looking at each other with expressions filled with equal measures of puzzlement and appreciation.

After a few seconds, the corner of Dean's mouth finally tipped up in a slight grin. "Gimme another piece of that pie, little brother."

Fin