No idea where this little plot bunny came from; it's expanded on a very brief description of something from an earlier story. I think its name might be Pollyanna.
HELL-TV: The Family Channel – 'Thankful'
John was the one who had been a Marine, but anybody who really knew the Winchesters understood that it was Mary who was really the strong one. Anyone who thought about it a little more deeply might've decided that it was because Mary was the one who placed such a high importance on family.
When their house burned down when Sam was just a baby, she was the one who put him in Dean's arms and told his big brother to run outside and not look back, whilst she pulled her husband away from his fruitless effort to fight the flames and dragged him outside to safety just in time before the roof timbers began to collapse. Although they were all still in a state of shock, she insisted that they have a Thanksgiving dinner of take-out chicken, with a pumpkin pie for Dean, in the poky motel room into which they crowded, because, she reminded them all sternly, they were alive, and together, and had a lot to be thankful for.
When John fought the mental demons of Vietnam for years after his tours had finished, it was Mary who cared for their boys when he was too drunk even to remember their names; it was she who eventually pulled him out of the bottle he'd crawled into, and knit the family back together again. The Thanksgiving after John had been sober for a full year, little Sammy actually wanted to sit on his father's knee to watch the turkey being carved, and even offered suggestions, to the hilarity of the family.
When Dean turned into a devil-may-care, class-skipping car enthusiast, she was the one who read him the riot act, and insisted that at the very least he gain his GED, keeping his feet on the ground even as his talent and passion for high performance driving soared. The Thanksgiving after he received his results, Mary piped CONGRATULATIONS MR G.E.D. onto the pumpkin pie; this resulted in Dean attempting to claim the whole thing, and subsequently Sam and John sitting on him until she had cut it into equal pieces, her elder son howling in protest the whole time at being deprived of extra pie.
When Sam grew into a moody teenager with enough 'tude to fuel several rap crews, Mary was the one who stopped the fights with his father in their tracks, metaphorically banging their heads together before they actually started on each other with fists. The Thanksgiving her youngest spent with a female friend's family was a disappointment to Mary, but she realised that, raising two sons, sometimes it was necessary for a mother to pick her battles.
Her boys grew into men, and the chicks flew the nest, with their own lives to lead. She didn't feel the empty nest syndrome the way some parents in her situation would, though – Mary was as proud as hell to see both her babies go out into the world to make their own way. And if they could possibly contrive it, they always came back to the family home for Thanksgiving.
When Dean was offered a trial as a driver for a factory Formula One team, her parting gift was the money for the plane ticket.
When Sam left to join the Marines, her parting gift was a double-edged knife with ornate engraving on the handle that would have gotten him arrested in some states. (It was a very long time before he found out how she came to possess such a weapon, but he took it with him on every mission and it saved his life on a couple of occasions.)
It was Mary who, on the rare occasions when both her sons were home to visit, maintained decorum around the dinner table, no mean feat with her three boisterous menfolk affectionately trash-talking each other. Thanksgiving gatherings became a little easier once Sam married Jessica, and she had another woman on her side to help her double-team all that testosterone. It became a little easier again once the first grandchild arrived, because all she had to do was give them The Look – "You use salty language in front of Deanna, and I will make you all wish you didn't have balls for me to kick" – to pull them into a veneer of civility.
Dean lost his left foot, and nearly his life, in a horror race crash in excess of 200 mph. It was mid-winter when he came home to recover. John struggled to cope with the idea that his firstborn had been maimed. Mary sat in his hospital room with him, chatting as she knitted him socks to keep his stump warm, and brought him a large piece of her home-baked pumpkin pie, because it was his favourite Thanksgiving dish and the hospital food, as he told her long loud and bitterly, just didn't cut it.
Sam lost his left foot, and nearly his life, to an IED. John was the one who cried like a distressed child at the sight of his baby boy in ICU; Mary took hold of her son's hand, squeezed it, and told him firmly that when he woke up, and she knew for a fact he would, she intended to scold him for his carelessness over a belated family Thanksgiving dinner.
They did, of course, gather for that belated celebration, during which Dean and Sam ribbed each other mercilessly, each claiming that the other clearly had the more dangerous day job, until Mary declared that if the argument did not stop immediately, there would be no pumpkin pie for either of them. It was a threat she had used over the table since they were children, and it still worked most effectively.
People could look at the Winchesters, and marvel at what a strong woman Mary was.
They didn't know the half of it.
With Jessica taking the kids to visit Grandma and Grandpa Moore, but telling Sam to head back to his family because she knew how much it meant to him, both her sons arrived on her doorstep, loudly announcing their arrivals and demanding to be fed. It made her smile to see them both walk up the drive without limping, and then chuckle outright as they sat on the sofa, comparing prosthetics, than continue the discussion over the dinner table.
"I wonder how many normal families have to put up with this sort of thing," John noted in bemusement as Dean gave Sam a complete rundown of how he'd be happy to rebuild his little brother's prosthesis with much improved hydraulics.
"We aint normal," Dean observed, returning to his spiel without missing a beat.
"It could be worse," Mary shrugged philosophically, "Considering the tone of some of the conversations that have taken place at this table."
"Dean, no," Sam rolled his eyes and huffed, shooting his brother one of the bitchy faces he'd been cultivating since before he could walk, "This has been custom fitted to me, and it works fine."
"Yeah, but it could be better," Dean insisted, stabbing another potato, "The first time you get sand in the guts of it, it'll seize up, and you'll be stuck, like a great big emo one-legged scarecrow. Or walkin' around in circles."
"I've tested it under field conditions," Sam replied a little smugly. "It's designed to keep shit out of the workings."
"Sam! Language!" snapped Mary, glaring at him.
"Look, it's like everything supplied to the military," Dean waved his fork expansively, then subsided as his mother turned her stern gaze on his terrible table manners, "It's provided by whoever says they can do it the cheapest, right?"
"That doesn't matter if it fits the specs," Sam protested, "And it does just that. It does the job, and there's a chance I can go operational again."
"Operational?" John's eyebrows rose. "You can do that?"
"Well, maybe not if I wanted to join the paratroops," Sam smiled, "But these things have come a long way since you were in. They might not let me, though," he added, "I'm being headhunted as instructor material, and they're not being subtle about it."
"Take it as a compliment," suggested his father, "They want you to teach the youngsters what you know."
"That won't take long," grinned Dean. "I can just see it now, Sergeant Sammy, tellin' all these little baby Marines what to do, and they'll be told, if you don't get it right, we'll feed you to the great big emo bitch..."
"Dean! Language!"
"I know you know I was promoted last year," Sam growled, "So that's 'Major Winchester' to you."
"Oooh, I go all tingly when you come over all military like that," Dean grinned as infuriating as he knew how.
"God, you're an asshole."
"Sam! Language!"
"How did a great big girl like you get in, anyway? Hey, you know what I've always wondered, how do you manage it, if you're in the field, and all of a sudden, oh no, you realise you're on your man-period?"
"Dean!"
"Fuck off, bro."
"Sam!"
They turned to see their mother giving them the expression they thought of as the Death Ray Stare.
"Any more talk like that from either of you," she said quietly, "Will not be tolerated at my table. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mom," they chorused, because no matter how big her sons grew, they knew better than to cross their mother.
Well, if they didn't, they should have. Really, Dean should have known better.
But when the topic of conversation turned to the modifications being made to his car's cockpit so that he could resume his competitive racing career, it became apparent that he had forgotten.
Being a mechanic by trade himself, John was interested to hear the details of the changes being made to the clutch and brake so that Dean could drive as hard as ever.
"The test runs have gone without a hitch," Dean enthused, "I got my driving leg fine-tuned, it works perfectly..."
"Is that the one that makes you look like a pirate with a peg leg?" interrupted Sam solicitously.
"Shut up, bitch..."
"Dean!"
"Sorry, Mom, anyway, it looks like we're all good to go..."
"All you need is a parrot on your shoulder."
"I said shut it, bitch..."
"Dean!"
"Sorry, Mom, so, I just got one more thing to take care of, and I'm good for next season."
"What's that?" asked John, "Does the clutch need modification? I woulda thought that was the obvious point for any problem to crop up."
"Actually, it's my stump," Dean replied matter-of-factly.
"Oh, honey," Mary said with concern, "You need another round of surgery?"
"No, nothing like that," Dean answered. "But I was looking at it the other day, and realised, that there's something that I really should do."
"What?" pressed Sam. "You got scar tissue in the way? I had a really good result with those silicon wrap things."
"Nope," Dean told him.
"What is it, son?" asked John.
Dean took another forkful of turkey, and spoke around it. "I'm gonna get it tattooed so it looks like a dick."
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Then Mary Winchester was in motion.
Anybody who knew the family knew what a strong woman she was.
Of course, when they said that, they usually meant that she was mentally and emotionally strong.
Or maybe they wouldn't have been terribly surprised after all to see her seize her six-foot-one son by the ear, and then frogmarch him to the kitchen, prosthetic leg be damned, where she bent him over the sink and washed his mouth out with soap, whilst her husband and her other son howled with laughter almost loudly enough to drown out Dean's frothy gargling of astonished protest.
Dean couldn't have known that, in a previous life, Mary Winchester had been a Hunter. She had chased down and faced down all manner of supernatural monsters: vampires, werewolves, rugarus, a couple of wendigos, even demons, and she'd slotted every one of them. Even the yellow-eyed bastard who'd killed her parents.
Maybe her father had been right, she mused as she held Dean's head under the tap – she still remembered her Dad's snort of disbelief when she'd said she wanted to get out of the life. "You can take the girl out of the Hunt," he'd growled, "But nothing will take the Hunt out of you."
Yes, family was important, she mused fondly, holding her struggling son pinned to the sink, and she was a woman who knew what it meant to be thankful for it.
It was even more important than good manners.
But maybe only just.
So, whaddyareckon? Is HELL-TV a goer? Do you have any almost-history prompt you'd like the plot bunnies to tackle? Let me know in the reviews, because Reviews Are The Delicious Roast Potatoes On The Dining Table Of Life!
