Perfection
The Winchesters' kitchen, as it so often does these days, smells of freshly-baked pie. Mary's just popped a pie into the oven—her second attempt at a pie today, the first currently cooling on the counter. Baby Dean's in his high-chair at the table, watching Mommy with curious eyes. Every now and again his head dips in a light doze.
Dean feels comfortable here in this kitchen, in the presence of Mary; safe. What used to be constant glances over her shoulder are now infrequent. She's a hunter, still, the caution instinctive. But sanctuary is here—nothing bad can happen.
The front door closes, announcing John's arrival home. The loud noise rouses Dean from his snooze and his lower lip starts to tremble. Mary feels a flicker of anger at John for upsetting Dean, but it dissipates almost as soon as it arrives. Still with her oven gloves on, she picks Dean up and begins to rock back and forth.
"Hush, little baby, don't you cry," she sings gently, soothingly, into his ear, "Mommy's gonna bake you a lovely pie..."
By the time John makes his way into the kitchen Dean's calmed down enough to be returned to his chair.
"You're still making pies?" John asks without so much as a 'honey, I'm home'—not that Mary expected one.
She pulls her oven gloves off and sets them on the counter. Before she can answer the question John reaches for the cooling pie with a still-grubby hand. She bats him away with the flat side of a knife. "It's not for you," she says as if they'd had this conversation before—they have, several times.
He picks absently at the oily grime under his fingernails. "He can't even eat pie yet," John points out reasonably, gesturing in the baby's direction.
"Goo," Dean says, flashing them both a gummy grin. Both Mary and John smile back without even realising it.
"He'll be able to eat pie someday, and when that day comes I want him to remember it. My mom," Mary takes a deep breath, memories hitting her in a suffocating wave of smells and tastes, "she made pies all the time. I remember that—I want Dean to remember that, too. When I send him off to college, it'll be with one of my pies in his hand. The filling will be just right, the pastry not too stiff. Perfect."
John's hand wanders again, purposefully towards the cooling pie. Mary knows exactly what he's doing as she slaps his hand away with the knife. He had no intention of stealing some pie—he was just diffusing the emotional tension in the room, cheering her up, in his own indirect way. And she loves him all the more for it.
"Go have a shower," Mary smiles, waving the knife at him playfully.
He raises his hands in surrender. "Okay, fine." He turns to leave, lingers. Mary waits. "Just... don't worry about it, okay? You've got eighteen years to get it right."
She narrows her eyes in mock suspicion. "Are you buttering me up so you can eat failed pies?" she asks.
"What? No." John acts innocent, plays along. "No. I'd never do that." He stops lingering when she throws a towel at him—Dean giggles at them. They both listen to John's footsteps ascending the stairs.
There are several other attempts at pies in the refrigerator. Mary pulls out the one she thinks is the best, cuts a slice, and leaves it out on a small plate on the table.
Dean is not the only one deserving of the perfect pie.
THE END
Author's Note: I was originally going to have Mary bat John away from the cooling pie with a spatula, but then I remembered—she was born and raised a hunter, so it would be a knife. It's taken many draughts, but at last I'm happy with this one. I wonder if Mary ever perfected her pie... I guess we'll never know [cries]. I like to think this is the source of Dean's obsession with pie in later life. The guy really loves pie. Thanks for reading! :)