DON'T SHOOT THE MESSENGER
PART 3

Mary prepared coffee while she and Castiel waited in the kitchen for the others. Nerves ate away at her stomach as she kept picturing Sammy's face in his crib moments before her death. Before a demon had bled into his mouth to prepare him for Lucifer. For the destruction of the world.

No matter how many times the angels argued with her that it wasn't her fault, Mary knew she would always carry that weight on her shoulders. It was her choice to accept the demon's deal that sealed her youngest son's fate. My whole family's fate, really, she thought to herself. Sam lost any chance at a normal life as he was placed on a path filled with manipulation. Dean lost his innocence and childhood. And John lost himself.

Her hands clenched as she thought of what her husband had done to their children. She wasn't naive—being raised in a stable family of hunters didn't mean she hadn't met other hunter families in less stable situations. The Campbells had a reputation for being a powerhouse of information and contacts. It was normal for her family to house hunters passing through. Some needed help with a hunt or lore. Some came to pass on a message or lead from mutual friends. Most were solitary wanderers, but occasionally they got a small family—refugees of the supernatural war.

The parents were always angry and terrified, eyes bloodshot from not sleeping, usually heavy drinkers, and single. But the impressions that stuck with Mary were of the kids. Unnaturally silent and suspicious of strange adults, siblings clinging to each other, skinny bodies in over-sized dirty clothes.

She knew there was a chance her boys hadn't been exactly like those other children she'd met. But she remembered Sam and Dean at the store, both completely unsure of themselves and emotionally conflicted over such a mundane task as basic clothes shopping. She saw how Dean was used to making Sam his number one priority, whether it was in a crisis or simply getting the boy fed and dressed. It was clearly a deeply ingrained part of the brothers' relationship—even the angels deferred to Dean's judgment.

Every time Mary pictured the boys as children, she saw John and her fury would make her shake again. No matter how many excuses could be given to him for circumstances being beyond his control, there was no excuse for considering the murder of their baby. And for him to tell Dean that it was their son's responsibility to carry out? Completely unforgivable.

"Mary," Castiel's rumbling voice startled Mary out of her dark thoughts and back to the present.

She jumped when she realized he was now standing right next to her, "Yes?"

"I wanted to make sure you were alright...and let you know the others will be joining us in a few minutes," he looked worried.

"Right. I should probably calm down so I don't overwhelm Sammy," she said, trying to smile and control her anger, "I was thinking of John," she offered in explanation.

The angel nodded, though still concerned. "I understand. Is there anything I can do?"

Mary gave a laugh, "Thanks, but I got this. Sometimes, parents just have to stow their crap and focus on their kids." She poured herself a cup of coffee for something to do. "Would you like some coffee, Castiel?"

"No, thank you. Angels do not need to eat or drink or sleep."

"We may not need it, but that doesn't mean some of us haven't learned to appreciate the finer things on Earth." Gabriel's cheerful voice rang through the kitchen as he entered.

Dean was right on his heels looking awkward but determined. Mary watched him glance her way before he sought out Castiel for some sign of reassurance. He must have received it because she saw some of the tension drain away. She worried Sam might have stayed behind when she didn't see the boy, but then she finally spied him standing behind his brother's legs. He hesitantly returned her smile when he caught her looking at him and she had to shove down the images of similar children.

"Good morning boys," Mary said nervously, "we would have made breakfast, but I didn't want to be responsible for destroying the kitchen."

"Well, it's a good thing I'm here then! I've been a master chef in no fewer than 57 countries, during at least seven separate centuries. Cassie, you want to learn the art of making the perfect omelet?" Gabriel didn't wait for an answer—just hooked an arm through his brother's elbow and led him away from the entrance.

"Mom," Dean started, but Mary shushed him and wrapped her arms around him. She felt Dean's shoulders tighten at her touch, but his muscles melted as she spoke.

"You don't have to explain anything. We can talk about later if you want to, but for right now let me just say this," she took a steadying breath, "I am so sorry. John should never have even thought those words, let alone said them to you. I can't imagine..."

"Hey, it's okay, Mom," Dean whispered as he clutched at the back of her robe, "We know. Sam and I've talked about it a few times over the years and we know what he said was wrong. We've had time to work through most of it, although I'm sure we'll find something to rehash down the road. So try not to worry about it too much, okay? It wasn't your fault."

"Don't you dare try to comfort me, Dean Winchester. I'm the parent here," she said with a half-laugh and a playful slap to the back of his head, "Besides, I haven't even reached the 'worry about it' stage. I can't get past 'angry enough to punch walls.'"

"Well, our family's known for our tempers."

"Are we now?" Mary asked as she felt Dean's feet shift, and his left arm drop. Thinking he wanted to end their hug, she started to relax her hold but he just held tighter with his right arm.

"Oh, yeah, we're legendary from Heaven to Earth to Hell and all the places in between. You'll fit right in."

"Good to know," was all she say through the happiness from his words. Her son just patted her back, then straightened up with a little smirk. When she raised an eyebrow at his expression, he nodded his head to a space below on his left.

She looked down to find wide hazel eyes shifting between her and Dean. Mary noted that Dean's left hand was gently working the tangles from Sam's hair, and further down her eldest son's barefoot was carefully pinning one footie of his brother's pajamas to the ground. The sight left her a little giddy when she recognized the action as one she'd used regularly on Dean as a toddler. The stretched-out-of-place fabric proved he'd stopped the boy mid-escape, but the stunning uncertainty on her youngest son's face told her that something more than Dean's foot was keeping Sam in place.

A glance back up to her eldest got her the nod she needed to know it was okay to approach Sam. It made her chest ache to know she would be a stranger to her youngest for a while yet. The conversation last night provided her with a lot more context for her boys' lives but it had been hard to reconcile the others' descriptions of Sam with the little boy she'd bathed and dressed. In his sleep, he'd nestled into her like he recognized her—either as his mother or a source of safety. But the child she'd held in her arms was different from the one standing before her now. In the light of morning, she could see the weight of age in his eyes.

Kneeling down, Mary rested her hands on her thighs to keep from reaching out to him. She saw Dean start to step away when he made a grunt noise and shifted back into place. He had the barest hint of a smile on his face, like he was purposefully trying to keep a neutral expression. Looking back down, Mary realized that Sam had his fingers unconsciously curled on the side hem of Dean's sweatpants. It was a testament to the brothers' level of non-verbal communication that the barest pressure was enough to keep Dean in place. Thinking about it, she realized they had probably been having a silent conversation throughout her entire spoken one.

"Sam, I'm sorry if my reaction this morning upset you. I was not mad at you and I will never agree with John's words," her palms began to sweat and she wiped them against the robe's fabric in a nervous habit. How could she not know how to speak to her own child? Dean was easier because he knew her, remembered her enough that it showed when he looked at her, and Mary recognized her little boy in that look. But Sam and her didn't have that shared memory.

"I do that," Sam said, looking down.

"You...get angry?" she asked.

"Well, I do that too," he glanced up through his messy curls then gestured toward her lap, "but I meant that. My hands sweat when I get nervous and I'm always wiping them on my pant legs." He said it with in a tone crossed between matter-of-fact seriousness and the awe of someone who'd just received a revelation.

"Oh, really?" she said, surprised by the sudden change in topic.

"Kid's not joking. Never seen anyone who sweats like he does. I would threaten to cover him in deodorant every night so I wouldn't wake up drenched because someone couldn't sleep unless he plastered himself to me." Dean grinned at the memory.

Sam glared up at him and his brother's cheeky smile faded, "You did do that, Dean! You took one of Dad's new sticks and used almost the whole thing on me. Including my hair!"

"Oh yeah!" Dean's smile beamed back in place, "I forgot about that. That was awesome."

"How old were you?" Mary asked, trying to picture them.

"It was not awesome. I smelled like Old Spice for weeks," Sam insisted to his brother, then turned to Mary. His voice was quieter, a little shy like he'd forgotten for a second that she was there, "I think I was about five or six, so Dean must have been at least nine. Old enough to know better." The last bit was said with the now-familiar dramatic scowl.

"Yeah, but dad's reaction," Dean's breath hitched as he tried not to laugh while talking, "He...I thought he would kill me, so I tried to stuff you under the blankets and hoped he wouldn't notice. But the second he walked in the room, oh god..." he trailed off as he couldn't fight the laughter anymore and sank to sit on the floor next to them.

"Hilarious, jerk," Sam mumbled but resigned himself that his brother wouldn't be deterred.

Dean scrunched his face up in a re-enactment of John's reaction, "'Did my cologne break? Oh god, how are you guys breathing?' Dad shoves up the window and starts tearing through his duffle, trying to find where the smell was coming from. He sees the deodorant stick sitting out on the sink and hears Sam giggling from under the blanket where I'm trying to smother him into silence. Then, he walks over to us and flings the blanket back," tears pour down Dean's cheeks as he gets caught in another laughing fit, "And the smell, it's like a cloud rising and it's so strong that Dad's eyes start to water and he just stares at Sam like he's an alien."

"That's because there was chunks of waxy goop smeared all over me! And all the lint and dust stuck to it so I probably looked disgusting." Sam's scowl grew and was joined by hands on his hips.

The description only made Dean laugh harder and the sight made Mary's heart flutter with joy, "What happened?" she asked, grinning.

"When Dad was done howling with laughter? Just scooped him up, and dumped him in the bath. Then he threw the deodorant away. Told me he didn't want know what happened and to never do it again. But I'll tell you what—he never did wear Old Spice again. Started using things with almost no scent to them."

Mary could see it—her boys getting into their dad's bag and doing something so mischievous and normal for little kids. And she recognized some of her John in there. Maybe he wasn't a complete caricature of the other hunter parents she'd encountered. Maybe there were enough moments like this for them growing up to keep the horrors balanced.

"Why are you all on the floor?" a gravelly voice spoke from behind Mary. She jumped but the sudden intrusion didn't phase the boys even though it seemed like they hadn't noticed Castiel's approach either.

"I'm standing, Cas!" Sam protested, turning his scorn on the angel.

She tilted her head all the way back in time to see Castiel nod, "My apologies, Sam. You are all a lot lower to the ground from my perspective."

"What the hell are you wearing?" Dean asked, on the verge of going into another laughing fit.

"Gabriel said it was necessary," he answered, and Mary thought she could detect a trace of annoyance for the first time in the angel's voice.

She got back onto her feet and turned to look at what Dean was talking about. She laughed before she could stop herself. Castiel had lost the trench coat and suite jacket, and rolled up his sleeves. A black apron with the words "Kiss the Cook" in bright red letters was tied around his neck and waist. And it probably was necessary because it was covered in flour...and possibly a whole egg.

"Wow," was all she managed to say. Hopefully, the kitchen was still standing.

Dean stood and looked Castiel in the eye and quoted John again, "I don't want to know what happened. Just don't do it again."

"What happened? Don't do what? I was only assisting Gabriel in making breakfast. Is that not something I should do again?" Castiel's frown deepened when Dean just laughed harder and slapped the angel on the shoulder. A large plume of flour burst from the fabric.

"Ignore him, Cas," Sam answered him when Dean walked away without another word.

"Does he think he's 'being cute?'" Castiel asked with exasperated seriousness and using his air-quote gesture.

The laughter bubbled out of Mary and this time she did nothing to stop it. In all her limited time spent imagining angels as a girl, none of her musings came close to the two she now knew. This awkward little warrior who protected and loved her boys from within a cloud of constant befuddlement, and the archangel with a foul mouth and sharp wit who was cooking them breakfast.

Sam's laugh joined her own and it was music to her ears, "He thinks he's adorable."

"Y'all better get in here before Dean eats everything!" Gabriel's voice called through the kitchen.

Mary looked down to see Sam struggling to straighten his pajamas and nodded to Castiel, "We'll be right there." For a second, he seemed torn about leaving them, but then gave her a smile smile and returned to Gabriel. Kneeling back down, she gently held Sam's arm to steady him as he pulled the twisted fabric back into place. "You're very good at that, you know," she stated.

"At what? Failing to properly wear clothes?" Sam asked with a huff, but the little grin made the sarcasm warm instead of biting.

"No, you're good at derailing a conversation," she whispered conspiratorially.

Sam's head shot up, grin fading to a firm line of worry. "I'm sorry, I didn't...I saw you doing that thing that I do, and I just wanted...to say something. I don't know. I'm sorry."

"Hey now, I'm not scolding you, Sammy," she reassured, leaving her hand on his arm to keep the connection, "I'm complimenting you."

"You...what?" he asked, the worry now shifting to confusion.

"You didn't just get sweaty palms and a death scowl from me. And while your father may have changed after my death, I doubt he developed a talent for subtlety. I can see some of him in how Dean takes everything head on—whether it's a crisis or a conversation. But you and I? We come at things with much more nuance. We prefer to do all our research ahead of time instead of barging in and demanding answers. Am I right?"

Sam nodded and a smile slowly grew, lighting his eyes. "Yeah," he whispered.

"Then as one master to another, I want to compliment you. And I also wanted to finish what I was saying," she held his gaze until he nodded again, "I know that we are strangers—or maybe more estranged relatives who have only heard of each other. But I already love the person you've become, Sam. You are patient and kind and selfless."

"Not always," Sam blushed.

"Well, we're all human." The words came out before she could stop them. Sam's blush drained away and his eyes dropped to the ground. Cursing herself, Mary brought both her hands up to rest on Sam's neck, her thumbs gently running along his jaw to nudge his face back up. "Sweetheart, I also know that in the black-and-white world of hunting, there is often little tolerance for shades of gray. I'm sorry that you were made to doubt yourself. That John made you doubt yourself," she felt him give his head a little shake and she wasn't sure if he was trying to deny her words or John's actions, "I will be eternally grateful to a God I never believed in for saving you. If it means you aren't completely human because of His actions, then that is just fine. Anything that gives me more time with you, that lets you heal, is a blessing in my book."

Sam hesitantly brought a hand up to wrap around her wrist, but he didn't draw her hands away from his face. Instead, she felt little fingers move along her skin, cataloging the bones and pulse point. "You really mean that?" he asked shyly.

"I really do."

Footsteps behind her drew Sam's attention and she saw him nod at whoever had stopped a few paces away. "We're coming. And you better not have eaten everything!"

Mary smiled. Of course it was Dean, who was probably frantic when they hadn't joined him after a minute or two. Standing up, she turned to smile reassuringly at Dean. The minute amount of tension that eased from his eyes was a sudden unexpected victory for her in a morning full of floundering. She patted his shoulder as she walked past and heard him start talking quietly to Sam.

"You good, man?"

"Yeah, Dean, I'm good." She heard a brief scuffle and a frustrated groan. "Quit stepping on these foot-things, you jerk, or I'm cutting the feet out! I'm not joking, Dean."

"What would you tell mom, huh? That Cas chewed them off?"

There was a pause. "Do you think she'd buy it?"

"Maybe. I probably would."

Laughing to herself, Mary thought maybe she hadn't completely missed the boys' childhoods after all.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Thanks again to everyone who's been commenting!
Y'all are amazing and I've felt humbled and blessed by all of you.