This one's for you, Di'nee. You know why.

Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie

1997: The Importance of Pie

Dean stood watching his dad shift in the hospital bed to try and get comfortable. Though it certainly wasn't the first time in his eighteen years that he'd seen his father in one of the generic hospital gowns—this one patterned with small, light blue diamonds on a white background—he'd never quite gotten used to it. It never ceased to make him feel worried and a little helpless, which in turn made him irritable and abrasive. Well, more so than usual. So, all in all, this was situation normal.

He watched his dad tug on the stiff white sheets that kept getting tangled around his legs, and tried to concentrate on breathing. He focused on relaxing the stomach muscles that had tightened into knots at the sight of his dad lying at the bottom of the concrete steps the spirit had tossed him down—for a teenage girl, she'd packed quite a wallop, and someday it might even be funny that a teeny bopper had taken down the great and invincible John Winchester—and getting his heart to stop trying to claw its way out of his chest. The aftereffects of the adrenalin that had coursed through his body, combined with the sick feeling in his gut at this vivid reminder that John Winchester was merely human after all, had left him feeling dizzy and shaken.

He wanted to help his dad with the sheets; wanted to double-check the stitches the doctor had put into John's head, to make sure they'd cleaned around the suture site thoroughly, though he'd overseen the entire procedure from his spot in the corner of the room. But he knew his dad wouldn't appreciate the hovering. So he stood, awkward and uncomfortable in world he wasn't used to, a world where his dad was disturbingly breakable. And it chafed that the most he could do at the moment was to glare suspiciously at everyone who came into the room, while surreptitiously watching the monitors they had John hooked up to. He made sure not to let Sam see him doing it, and every once in a while sent a reassuring smile or nod the younger boy's way. His fourteen-year-old brother was even more freaked than Dean.

Dean still couldn't get over just how quickly it had all gone wrong. One minute they'd been sweeping the darkened corridors of the local high school with EMF meters—he and Sam on one end, their dad on the other—the next John had been tumbling down the main staircase, landing bloody and broken at the bottom before Dean could even get off the iron throwing star he held ready in his hand. He'd quickly dispersed the spirit and raced down the stairs as fast as he could, finally jumping over the banister directly to the ground when his legs couldn't take the stairs as quickly as he'd wanted.

When he'd reached him, John had been unconscious and bleeding from a long gash in his head. Dean had felt the first cold fingers of panic when he'd been unable to get his dad to wake up, and for one soul-shattering moment had been sure he was dead. He hadn't dared take a breath until he'd found a pulse in John's neck. His exam had been quick but thorough, and he'd only distantly registered Sam running down the steps to join him on their dad's other side. In addition to the gash from where he must've hit his head on the edge of a stair on the way down, and which had already begun to create a small pool of viscous red blood on the floor, John also had one arm that was bent at an unnatural angle. Other than that, he'd looked okay. But he still hadn't responded to any of Dean's attempts to wake him up.

Sam's shout had alerted Dean to the fact that the spirit had started to materialize again, so he'd thrown the remaining iron star at her and dived for the duffel of supplies Sam'd brought down the stairs with him. He'd pulled out the container of salt they kept in there, and had quickly poured a thick circle around where Sam was kneeling next to their dad at the bottom of the stairs, making sure to give a wide birth around the pool of blood so it wouldn't dissolve any of their protection.

Then he'd yelled for Sam to put pressure on their dad's head to stop the bleeding, grabbed the iron poker Sam had tossed to him, slung the duffel over his shoulder, and taken off at a dead sprint for the gym at the other end of the school. He wouldn't have long before the spirit re-materialized, and while she couldn't get at Sam and their dad as long as they stayed inside the salt ring, it wouldn't take a genius to figure out where he was heading. Which was too bad really, because by all accounts, she definitely had not been a genius in life.

He'd reached the trophy case outside the gym just in time for her to re-materialize and throw him into it, glass shattering everywhere as he hit. Well, on the bright side at least now he wouldn't have to worry about picking the lock. Luckily, his thick leather jacket had protected his back from the glass, and he'd braced himself with the iron poker he still held in one hand when it'd seemed he might be in danger of sliding to the floor. His boots had crunched glass into powder as he'd lunged for the spirit, poker swinging like a bat in the hands of a major league ballplayer, dispersing her again. Her shriek had reached decibels only a teenage girl's could, and Dean had been tempted to check and see if his ears were bleeding.

Turning, he'd grabbed for the cheerleading uniform that was on display in the trophy case, tearing it down from its place of honor, and dumping it into a pile on the floor, right in the midst of all the broken glass. For good measure, he'd grabbed the pom-poms too—those would be fun to try and burn—and the picture that had been on display with them. At least they hadn't memorialized her friggin' megaphone. Piling those items on top of the uniform, he'd pulled out the salt from the duffel he'd dropped and sprinkled it liberally on the mound of memorabilia. He'd glanced around warily as he'd felt in the duffel for the kerosene, but no sign of the Pep Squad yet, so he'd doused the pile and watched in satisfaction as the uniform and picture quickly took to flame at the touch of his lighter.

He'd grabbed the poker again and stood at the ready while he'd waited impatiently for those freakin' pom-poms to finally ignite, which they'd only done after the strands began to melt and clump together, letting off the noxious smell of burning plastic. Finally though, the whole pile had been alight, and he'd taken off at a run again for his dad and Sam, needing to make sure they were safe, that the spirit hadn't gone after them while he'd been busy.

He'd sighed in relief when they'd been just as he'd left them. Then had felt his blood freeze up again when he'd taken in Sam's pale face and shaking hands and too-bright eyes, and realized that his dad still hadn't regained consciousness.

Now, hours later, Dean stared at his dad as he sat up in the hospital bed, bruised and definitely worse for the wear, but awake and alive and undeniably John Winchester. He'd already intimidated the nurse who'd come in to give him his pain meds, threatened to sign himself out AMA if they didn't get someone up there ASAP to set his shoulder so he could get out of there, and read Dean the riot act for dragging him to the hospital in the first place.

They'd stitched each other up before, and Dean knew they would undoubtedly do so again, but it'd worried him that John hadn't regained consciousness until after they'd gotten him to the car. It had gone against Dean's instincts to move his dad at all, not knowing how badly he'd been hurt, but since they hadn't exactly had a plausible explanation for what they'd been doing at the high school torching some poor dead cheerleader's personal effects, there hadn't been any other option open to them. Even once he'd come to, John had been groggy and disoriented, or he'd have no doubt ordered Dean just to take him to the motel and patch him up himself. Dean had decided to chance his father's wrath, rather than risk not getting treatment for what might be more than a simple concussion. Turned out it had been the right call—the initial CAT scan had shown that John had bleeding on his brain. They'd been able to get it stabilized without having to resort to surgery though, and had given him a healthy dose of morphine for the pain. Now that the worst was over and they knew their dad was going to be okay, the adrenaline and fear were starting to wear off, leaving both boys pale and a little shaky.

John looked at his boys, noting the tightness around Dean's mouth and the sheen of moisture in Sammy's eyes. At least Dean was trying to keep his game face on, for Sammy's sake. But John knew his boy, and this whole thing had rattled Dean. Badly. For his part, John had done his best to act like his normal self—lecturing, intimidating, gruff—in an effort to reassure the boys that he was fine. It had taken the edge off, but they still looked so young, rattled…vulnerable. He had to do something to get that look off their faces. He used the firmest voice he could muster up, "You heard the doc, boys. CAT scan showed the bleeding's stopped and I'm stable. X-rays were clear; nothing's broken. Just gotta set the dislocated shoulder, and I'll be good to go." He cleared his throat and gave them what he hoped was a reassuring smile, "Why don't you boys go down to the caf and get some food 'fore they close up shop?"

Sam and Dean looked uneasily at each other, clearly not wanting to leave him. They did that thing where they communicated without words, and finally Dean spoke up for them both. "Nah, think we'll wait up here with you."

John tried again. "Sammy's probably hungry, Dean. I'll be fine. You go." And it was a testament to how shaken up he still was that Sam didn't even object to the nickname. He just shook his head, wordlessly protesting the idea that he needed anything.

John turned to Dean, who was clearly torn between his instinct to take care of Sammy and his need to stay with his injured father. He took all the responsibility for their family on his own young shoulders. Always had, and Heaven help him, John had let him. Sometimes he wondered what Mary would say at what he'd done to her sweet little boy, at the weight he'd piled on those once-tiny shoulders.

Mary. She'd loved this holiday. Contrary to what his boys probably thought, John was very aware it was Thanksgiving today. He'd just been trying his best to push memories of other Thanksgivings, of her, out of his mind. Until he'd seen the spirit they'd gone to hunt standing there in front of him—curly blond hair, big blue eyes, flashing dimples—and suddenly his chest had been too tight to draw in air as he'd seen transposed over her the image of another fresh-faced teenage girl who'd once been full of spunk and life, and the pain—that same old pain that had become his near-constant companion—had been new again and had caught him off guard and the next thing he'd known he'd been flying through the air, crashing into darkness and dreams of a teenaged Mary burning on the ceiling of their old high school while their song played on in the background. Sometimes unconsciousness was not the escape it should have been.

And it suddenly hit John just how screwed up their lives were, that instead of a friendly holiday game of football like they'd told the doctor, they'd been out hunting down a homicidal spirit. Putting their lives on the line. No turkey dinner for them in a home warm with laughter and love; no day spent thinking of all the things they had to be thankful for; no happy ending.

John scrubbed a hand over his face, suddenly weary beyond words. "Take your brother and go eat, Dean. That's an order." He tried not to see the betrayed look Dean leveled at him as he steered Sammy out the door.

************************************************************

Sam and Dean barely made it to the hospital cafeteria before it closed. By the time they got down there, pickings were pretty slim and they had to take whatever was left. To Dean's great disappointment, this meant no yams with little marshmallows on top, as those were all long gone. Even worse, there was no pie by the time Dean got to the dessert section. He looked disgustedly at the offerings that were available—a bowl of lime jello and a piece of white sheet cake—and hoped Sam had fared better than him. While he paid for their dinner, Sam went ahead to get them a table. They had their pick—no one else was down there, and the staff was closing everything up to go home.

Sam looked up when Dean came over and set his tray down. "Well, at least the food doesn't look too bad. We've definitely had worse meals on Thanksgiving."

"That's for sure," Dean agreed as he settled himself into the seat across from Sam. "Hey, do you remember those TV dinners Dad used to bring home sometimes for Thanksgiving? Those were great." Dean smiled nostalgically. He was glad for the chance to lighten the mood. Sam had been too quiet since Dad had been hurt, and a quiet Sammy was a brooding Sammy.

Sam just gave his brother a look of amused affection, knowing what he was trying to do. "Those were terrible, man. And besides, that was you. Dad usually just ignores Thanksgiving till it's over." He picked up the roll on his tray and gave it a bounce against the table. It was hard as a rock.

Dean waved a hand, dismissing Sam's correction as unimportant. "He has his reasons, Sam. Thanksgiving…it's a hard time for him."

"As opposed to the rest of us, who are suckin' on lollipops and twirlin' candy canes?" Sam responded sardonically, with no small amount of bitterness.

"It's not that, man. It's just…Thanksgiving was a big deal, ya know? Before." Dean gestured vaguely with his hand, unwilling to clarify further.

"Yeah, okay." Sam nodded, and fell silent. He understood this to mean Before the Fire. Back when Mom was alive. He absently played with his small mound of mashed potatoes, flattening them with his fork, then building them up again into a small hill.

Dean watched him for a minute, amused, remembering a six-year-old Sammy who used to do the same thing. He grinned and shook his head. Kid might be a teenager now and chock-full-o-angst, but some things never changed.

Sam cleared his throat once. Then, "Dean, can I ask you a question?"

"Is there any way to stop you?" Dean asked wryly. It was a question he'd heard in various forms millions of times throughout their lives, and he'd never yet been able to stop Sammy from pursuing something he was curious about.

"It's about…Mom." Sam looked up at his brother, tentative. Not wanting to hurt Dean, but needing to know.

Dean sighed and looked away.

"It's just…I wish I could remember, ya know?" Sam pushed on. "Anything. I mean, I remember the stuff you used to tell me sometimes, when I was little, to help me get to sleep. But…I don't have any memories of my own of her." Sam was morose and Dean felt a pang in his heart, not just of loss, but of Sammy's loss.

He sighed heavily, set down the fork he'd been using to cut up his turkey, and ran a weary hand over his face. He so knew he was gonna regret this. "Okay, Sammy. It's Thanksgiving, so…okay. One question." He gestured with his hand to motion him to get on with it. "Out with it. Let's get this over with." Sam looked so startled at his capitulation it was almost comical. Except that nothing was comical right then.

Taking a moment to gather his thoughts and decide what he most wanted to know and how to phrase it so as to get the most information out of Dean without hurting his brother any more than necessary, Sam finally settled on, "Do you remember anything? About those Thanksgivings…Before? With her?" He looked down at his plate again, fork twirling in the gravy this time, as he waited to see if Dean was going to answer him. After a moment went by in silence, he looked up to watch his brother, hazel eyes beseeching.

Dean's throat worked and he swallowed a couple of times before answering. When it came out though, his voice sounded normal, if softer than usual. "Not a lot. It's more a general feeling than specific memories, ya know? A feeling of being warm, happy, safe…loved." The last word was a whisper. He looked over at Sam, whose eyes had filled with sympathetic tears at the sight of his big brother's pain. He paused a moment, swiped at his eyes and cleared his throat. "And pie. There was always lots of pie. I do remember that." He gave a lopsided grin. "Guess that's why I like it so much now, ya know? It's like…as long as there's pie on Thanksgiving, all's right with the world." Dean snorted a laugh. "Or as right as our screwed-up lives get, anyway."

Seeing that Sam was still listening intently, Dean continued. It felt kinda good to talk about Mom. Besides, they were already having a caring-and-sharing moment, so why not go for broke? "Y'know, I had to do a paper for school once, when I was little, about our family's Thanksgiving celebrations. Dad told me Mom used to have us go around the table and say something we were thankful for each year. Like a tradition, ya know? He said she always said the same thing—'Her boys.' That's what she used to call me 'n dad. Her boys." Dean smiled sadly, wishing he could remember it for himself. Wishing Sammy could remember their mom, and how much she'd loved him.

Sam smiled wistfully, trying to imagine it. "I'm sorry I never got to have Thanksgiving with her. With all of you."

"You did, Sammy." Off Sam's surprised look, Dean clarified, "That last Thanksgiving, she would've been pregnant with you, right? So you were there, man. I know it's not the same, but…" Dean rubbed the back of his neck in discomfort at the emotional waters they were treading. Still, he pushed on. For Sammy. "She meant you, too. She was thankful for you."

"Really? You think so?" Sam's hopeful face looked much younger than his fourteen years at that moment, eyes filled with longing for what he'd never known.

"I know." Dean said firmly, then cleared his throat again. "Anyway, that's it. That's all I can remember." He shrugged, as if it was inconsequential, but the movement was tight with pain. The green eyes he fixed on his little brother held anguish and self-condemnation. "I've tried, man, but…I just didn't hold on to the memories tight enough, I guess. Didn't hold on to her tight enough."

Even at fourteen, Sam knew that wasn't true. He didn't know anyone who held onto those he loved tighter than Dean. "Dean…" He started to say something, to protest, but Dean just held up a hand to ward it off. Sam noticed the sheen in his brother's eyes, and knew he was at his emotional limit for the day. So he did what little brothers do best—he distracted him. "You remember that casserole you brought home that one year?"

"Do I?" Dean gave a wet laugh. "Ugh, that thing was terrible. Tasted like something died in it."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, well, that's what ya get for tryin' to run a con on the motel owner."

"Dude, there was no con involved! I just told her Dad had to go out for work and we were there all alone on Thanksgiving, and you were whinin' for Thankgiving dinner but I didn't have any to give you. That was all totally true! Can I help it if she felt sorry for us and decided to feed us?" Dean tried to look innocent.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Dean, well I guess your little sob story got a different result than you'd planned, huh?"

"What? So it's my fault the woman decided to feed us a science experiment?" Dean huffed, indignant.

"It wasn't a science experiment, Dean. It was a casserole," Sam reminded patiently.

"Not like any casserole I've ever heard of," Dean emphatically denied.

"Well…" Sam grimaced, not believing he was actually defending the casserole, but knowing the banter was doing his brother good. "I guess she thought it would be easier to just combine all the Thanksgiving dishes into one, rather than cook them all separately."

"Sam, that thing was nasty, man. She had turkey in there with mashed potatoes and stuffing and corn and green beans and who-knows-what-else, all covered in a layer of biscuits." Dean shuddered at the memory.

"Yeah, it was pretty awful." Sam chuckled as he remembered Dean's face when he'd tried it.

For his part, Dean could still remember Sammy nearly gagging as he'd bravely choked down a bite. "Pretty awful? I was trying to figure out whether we needed to do a salt and burn on it or an exorcism."

Sam huffed a laugh at the mental image that invoked. A companionable silence fell over them as they sat eating their turkey dinners. Without him having to ask, Dean raked all of the green beans from his plate onto his little brother's. Sam returned the favor by letting Dean have most of his stuffing.

When he was done eating, Dean pushed his chair back a little from the table with a satisfied sigh.

Sam looked up from the last of his green beans. "Time for dessert?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, maybe we can hit the vending machine on the way back to dad's room. Get some peanut M&M's. They were out of pie."

"Yeah…or we could eat this." Sam grinned and pulled out the container he'd stashed on the chair next to him so Dean wouldn't see it. "I got the last piece when we went through the line."

"Really?" Dean's eyes lit up and a huge grin split his face. "Way to go, Sammy!"

Sam laughed. He was glad he could do this for Dean, especially with what he'd just told Sam about why having pie on Thanksgiving was so important to him. He would've happily let Dean have the whole slice of pumpkin pie, but Sam knew his brother would never take it, not if there wasn't enough for both of them. So he divided it into two pieces and slid the larger one over to Dean, who dug into it with gusto, showing more enthusiasm than Sam had seen from him all day. The delight on his face made the cares of the day fade away, and Sam smiled at him fondly as he ate his own pie.

Dean made quick work of the pie and beamed at Sam when he was done. "That was awesome, Sammy. Thanks!"

Sam shrugged, though he glowed at Dean's praise. "No big deal. I seem to remember you doing it for me—more than once. Remember those sodas you got last year?"

Dean laughed. "Yeah, those things were great."

"They were awful, Dean! Even you couldn't finish most of the flavors," Sam teased, smiling at the memory of what his brother had done for him the year before, coming up with an ingenious way for him to have Thanksgiving dinner even though his throat had been too swollen for him to eat. Dean was always doing stuff like that for Sam. Taking care of him.

"Whaddya talkin' about, Sammy? It's a miracle of modern technology—pie in a bottle!" Dean grinned in satisfaction. "I can't help it if you insisted on trying all the healthy crap—dude, real brussel sprouts taste terrible, did ya really think the soda would be any better? And what kinda freak voluntarily eats their vegetables anyway?" he razzed.

In response to this insult, Sam tossed the hard roll he had left over from dinner directly at Dean's head. It hit with a solid thunk.

"Hey, man!" Dean glared at him in mock indignation. "That could've put out an eye! It's all fun and games, little brother, till somebody loses an eye." He smirked, "You'd better watch it, y'know what they say about paybacks."

Sam just laughed. "Bring it on, big brother. Bring it on!" Then he turned and ran from the room with Dean in hot pursuit, intent on retaliation.