TEACH YOUR CHILDREN
PART 6: Can't Know The Fears That Your Elders Grew By
Mary awoke feeling like something was out of place. She blinked until her eyes focused on the less-familiar walls of her private bedroom. That's what was wrong—she was alone.
The clock by her bedside told her it was only 6:15 in the morning. Too early, she thought.
Life before her death had never started so early. Mornings tended to begin around seven-thirty most days. Waking up on weekends after ten o'clock were her favorites. Luckily, Dean had been a fan of sleeping late like her.
Infant Sammy, of course, held his own schedule. It varied day-to-day, but he'd never been a fussy baby. And chances were, if he didn't wake her up then she'd find Dean curled up in the crib with him.
The memory made Mary smile. Stretching, she rolled out of bed. Who knew that her days of sleeping in would end now that her sons were older?
Mary grabbed a sweater, not bothering to change out of her sleep-pants, and made her way toward the kitchen.
Journaling before bed had made her nostalgic. She'd spent almost an hour staring blankly at the paper, unsure where to begin. Anger at John mixed with grief for her boys until the paper swam out of focus. There was too much pain to tackle in a single sitting.
So, she turned to her favorite method of sorting through chaos: lists. She made lists of important dates. Lists of places she'd planned to take the boys as they grew older. Lists of presents Dean had gotten for birthdays and Christmases. And once she started thinking of holidays, she lost herself in listing their little family's traditions.
Her own family had swung between going overboard in celebrating holidays and missing them completely due to hunts. And John's single-mother had tried her best to give him happy memories, but it had always been overshadowed by his absent father. Once she'd married John, they made their own traditions. Her favorite was spending holidays in pajamas.
With that thought in mind, Mary detoured to Sam's room. She came to a halt when she saw Gabriel leaning by her son's door. "Is everything okay?"
Gabriel perked up, gracing her with a broad smile. "Everything's fine," he quickly reassured.
She studied him for a second. "Then why are you standing out here?"
Gabriel shrugged, trying to be nonchalant and failing. "I wanted to be close. Just in case…"
Understanding hit her, and she pulled the archangel into a tight embrace. "Thank you for watching over him," she whispered.
Gabriel blushed. "Well, it was kinda my fault he's sequestered himself. The least I can do is make sure he's okay through the night."
"You may have triggered his behavior, but you weren't the cause of it." She sighed and scrubbed at her face. "Every time I learn something new about John, it makes me want to hitch a ride to Heaven so I can punch him. Hard, in the face. Repeatedly."
The archangel raised his eyebrows slowly. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."
Mary grinned. "I doubt I could do much damage punching you. But I have learned quite a bit about fighting angels from Dean and Cas' stories."
"Yikes. Yeah, I'm definitely working overtime to stay in your good graces!"
"Do me a favor? When Sam wakes up, tell him to either stay in his pajamas or pick his favorite pair to change into." Mary looked him over, taking in his jeans, jacket, and collared shirt. "And while you're at it, snap yourself up some PJs. You're way too overdressed for the day already."
"I thought humans usually dressed up for special occasions," Gabriel said, confused.
"Not in this family!" Mary turned to leave, then paused. "Is Dean still asleep? I need to give him the dress code memo too."
"Umm, he's still asleep as far as I know." Gabriel's eyes focused on something unseen—a sign he was communicating over angel-radio. "Yeah, Cas says he's still asleep, but should be waking up soon."
"I swear," she sighed, "I will teach these boys the meaning of 'sleeping in' if it's the last thing I do."
"Good luck with that," Gabriel muttered loud enough for her to hear.
Mary silently agreed as she made her way toward her oldest son's room. She opened the door as quietly as possible, and froze. Well, this is unexpected.
Dean was half-draped over Castiel with one arm wrapped around the angel's chest. Castiel held him close, his right hand lightly running through her son's hair. They were both fully-clothed, yet the moment seemed incredibly intimate.
Blue eyes met her own before she could back out of the room. He raised one finger to his lips, letting her know to keep her voice down. Mary nodded.
"Can you tell him to stay in pajamas today?" she whispered. It was too low for a human to hear, but angels were different. Gabriel could probably hear her at this level from outside.
Castiel frowned, but nodded.
Mary mouthed a thank you and made a hasty exit. She knew Gabriel often teased Dean and Castiel about being together, and they obviously loved each other, but the insinuations were always rebuffed. She had assumed their love was familial. Platonic and non-romantic.
She skipped into the kitchen, warm and giddy with happiness.
Raphael sat at the table, reading a book. "You look very pleased this morning, Mary," he said, smiling.
"I am!" She started the coffee even though she already felt wired with energy.
"And what has you so excited today? Is it this 'Thanksgiving' you mentioned?"
"Well, I am excited about Thanksgiving. We've got a lot of cooking planned for today, and Sammy's going to be with us in the kitchen instead of training outside."
Raphael put down his book. "Are we monopolizing too much of Samuel's time?"
A resounding Yes! echoed in Mary's head, derailing her giddiness. She watched the coffee brew, debating her answer. "I know his training is important—that he could be a danger to himself or others if he can't control his grace. But sometimes…"
"Sometimes?" Raphael prompted gently.
"It's still weird—him not being a baby. I feel like I send him to some elite kindergarten everyday when he should be napping and taking a bottle." She poured the coffee into a mug before it was done brewing. "It's been nice connecting to Dean. We are relearning each other, and I think we're both surprised to find how much we have in common. But he remembers me—there's a foundation to build on."
"And Samuel?"
Mary dumped sugar into her coffee, trying to squash the surge of jealousy. Everyone seemed to have an easy bond with her son except her. She joined the Healer at the table, slouching in her seat.
"I don't think I'm connecting with him as much. He has no memory of me—he barely has other people's memories of me." She took a sip. "The way Dean tells it, John rarely spoke of me. It's like I became this symbol—the murdered wife who must be avenged. The boys lost everything—their parents, home, future—and I was the reason."
"Your death may have been John's reason for revenge, but it was his decisions that robbed the boys of their father and a stable home. And their future is still quite bright." Raphael laid his hand on her back, and Mary felt warmth flow along her spine.
"It's not the future I'd planned for them, but you're right. They do have a future."
"Perhaps we can adjust Samuel's training so you have more time together. After all, he will be a fledgling for many more years. He is already grasping the concepts of control we are teaching him. There is no rush for him to learn everything immediately. We have time."
The thought both relieved and saddened Mary. Knowing that her boys had both died multiple times, and experienced unimaginable traumas, it was a relief to hear that they could now enjoy a long, bright future. But while most parents often dream of their children remaining young forever, Mary grieved over the fact that she would never see Sam grow up. Never experience the towering-but-gentle 'moose' she'd heard so much about.
"I have upset you," Raphael said softly.
"No, not really. It's just hard…the idea that Sam is going to be a child for the rest of my life." Mary looked up from her coffee. "But if the alternative is me having to watch my adult son's soul slowly fall apart, then I'll take an eternal-child and count myself blessed."
Raphael patted her back, then pulled away. "So, was it the prospect of cooking with Samuel that had you so excited when you entered earlier?" His attempt at returning the conversation to a happier topic was obvious. Mary loved him for it.
"Kinda," she said, grinning at the memory of Dean and Castiel.
"Hmm," Raphael hummed thoughtfully. "And the part that is not 'kinda?'"
Mary giggled before she could stop herself. "I may have discovered that Gabriel's teasing was more prophetic than joking."
"Regarding?"
"My son and your brother."
Raphael blinked. "You have two sons. And I have many, many brothers. And Gabriel teases enough to include every single one. You may need to be more specific."
"Dean and Castiel."
"Ah." Raphael smiled, relaxing back into his chair. "I had wondered."
"Really?" Mary asked.
"During the Apocalypse, Castiel turned his back on Heaven in favor of Dean Winchester. He literally fell from grace—his powers diminished as he was cut off from Heaven. Many of us believed that Castiel's flight through Hell to save Dean had created a bond between them. But it soon became apparent that it was more than that."
Mary shuddered at the thought of angels invading Hell to retrieve her boy. She pushed the image aside, focusing on what she'd seen that morning instead. "I thought they were together when I first…returned. They were so in sync, so close. And they took turns watching each other. It reminded me a bit of my parents. But when there were no other signs, I just figured that's how they were. And after I met Gabriel and you, I thought it was an angel thing."
"An angel thing?"
"Yeah, you know," she smiled, reaching out a hand to playfully rub his arm, "you guys are all touchy-feely. Castiel set up the communal bedroom my first night here, and Gabriel acted like it was completely normal. And I've heard stories about Heaven in its earlier days. It sounded like you were all very close and protective. So, I thought that was just how Castiel was with my boys."
"Well, when you put it that way, I suppose that makes sense." Raphael shook his head. "However, you did not know Castiel before he met the Winchesters. He was very isolated from the Host, even as a young angel. It seems he did not find his place until he met your sons. His grace lights up when he is around Dean—just as Dean's soul glows brighter when he is around Castiel."
"In that case," Mary lowered her voice to a conspiring whisper, "I definitely saw them snuggling together this morning."
"Saw who snuggling?" asked a voice from the doorway.
Mary whipped around to see Sam rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Morpheus hovered over his shoulder, filling the entrance to the kitchen. Gabriel tried to push the canine forward from the hallway, muttering about "giant fluffy oafs" keeping him from the coffee. Considering the archangel could easily move the pony-sized canine with his pinky finger, Mary knew he was having fun being dramatic.
"No one," she answered innocently.
Sam squinted at her—a perfect imitation of Castiel. He turned to Morpheus. "Did Mom come in our room earlier?"
Morpheus snorted. Mary couldn't hear his response, but she knew Sam was eliminating all possibilities. She saw the moment his sleepy brain caught on.
"Oh my God," Sam gasped, suddenly more awake. He glanced around the room, taking in each person present. "Where's Dean? And Cas?"
"Sam…" Mary tried to slow him down, worried she'd revealed too much.
"Oh my God!" he practically squealed. Sam turned and pushed against Morpheus' chest. "Move! I have to see."
Morpheus moved, and Mary's heart clenched as Sam darted past him. She had visions of how disastrous the morning might turn—full of screaming and embarrassment and grumpy boys everywhere. But before she could even yell for him to stop, Gabriel caught Sam around the waist and hoisted him into the air.
"Whoa there, mister," Gabriel laughed as he effortlessly carried the bundle of flailing limbs into the kitchen. "How about we give Deano the chance to wake up. If you run in there now, you'll scare him off. And then we'll be stuck with their love-sick staring for another decade or two before they try again."
Sam slumped in the hold. "Fine," he pouted, "but you're not the one who's already been stuck watching them for almost a decade. I have the right to be excited."
"I know," Gabriel said, his voice dripping with sympathy. "You poor thing. I can only imagine how hard it's been."
"Put me down, asshole." Sam gripped the archangel's elbow, trying to pry it off his stomach.
"Asshole?" Gabriel growled. He brought up his other hand and lightly dug his fingers into Sam's side. The boy squirmed helplessly, cursing and laughing at the same time. Gabriel carried him to Mary and grinned. "I believe this heathen belongs to you," was all the warning she had before Sam was dumped on her lap.
Mary grabbed him instinctively before he could fall. Sam stopped struggling the second he landed, looking stunned at the sudden change. She gathered him close, patting his back as he calmed his breathing.
"Yup, this one is definitely mine," Mary said with a smile. She wiped the tears of laughter from his red cheeks and planted a kiss on top of his messy curls. "I see you got my message about pajamas."
Sam picked at the soft fabric of the bright red pants. He wore the matching shirt—white, with a red Superman logo in the center. Dean had picked them out, giving a vague story about roofs and little brothers who thought they could fly.
"Are these okay?" Sam asked shyly. "I know they aren't the ones you wanted…"
"What do you mean, sweetie?"
"Gabriel said you wanted me to wear the footie ones," he said, worry making his words come faster as he continued, "but I can barely move in them. And if we're gonna be cooking all day, I don't want to be sliding all over the floor while carrying stuff."
Gabriel snickered from where he stood by the coffee pot.
Mary shot him a glare. "It seems God's Messenger decided to add a few things to my message."
Sam twisted in her lap to also glare at the archangel. "You liar! I could have killed myself in that thing!"
Gabriel gave up snickering in favor of full-throated laughter. "It would've been your cutest death to date though!"
Mary's gut twisted at the casual mention of previous deaths.
Sam wrapped tiny fingers around her hand, and gave her a look of such understanding it almost broke her heart. His eyes were ancient in that moment. It seemed wrong on a face so young.
"Don't worry, mom," he said lightly. "Dean would kill me if I died before he gets the chance to make me cook."
"Wouldn't stick, anyway," a groggy voice said behind them. Dean made a bee-line for the coffee.
Mary smiled and shook her head at seeing him in t-shirt, robe, flannel pants, and boots. Baby steps, I guess, she thought. Maybe she'd be able to coax him into slippers by next year. Or Christmas.
Castiel stood awkwardly in the doorway, still in his usual attire.
Damn angels, Mary frowned. His clothes weren't wrinkled. But she knew he never changed them. This won't do.
"Alright, angels," she said, looking pointedly at Castiel and Raphael. "If you want to participate in the day's festivities, you gotta change."
"Change?" Raphael asked. Castiel looked down at his trench coat, and Mary was relieved he at least understood she meant clothes.
"Pajamas or bust, mister," Mary said firmly. She gestured at Gabriel. "He can help you figure out what to do."
Gabriel snapped, changing the other two's apparel without warning. Castiel seemed to marvel at the soft flannel pants—a blue version of Dean's green set, complete with matching robe. Luckily, he left the seraph barefoot instead of forcing him into identical boots.
Raphael blinked at the change. His usual white dashiki tunic and pants were now royal purple with gold embroidery, and looked soft as satin. Mary was surprised at how conservative Gabriel decided to go.
She looked to the younger archangel and found him grinning slyly. "We'll have to ease those two into more fabulous PJs. Don't worry, I haven't lost my sense of style. I'll have them in the ugliest Christmas sweaters I can find next month." He smoothed his hands over his own chosen set of sleepwear. It looked like someone had taken a simple set of cotton pants and long-sleeved shirt and tie-dyed them with every color available.
"I'm surprised you didn't put them in a onesie," Sam scoffed.
"Christmas," Gabriel whispered.
"Why would you make them wear ugly sweaters?" Mary asked.
Dean snorted as he took the seat across from them. "Welcome to the new millennium. Ugly Christmas sweaters are a thing now. Personally, I think all Christmas sweaters look ugly."
"God, I can't remember the last time we actually celebrated Christmas," Sam said. "It wasn't the year before…?"
"What?! No, it couldn't have been that long ago." Dean shook his head, frowning as he thought it over.
"Dare I ask, 'year before what?'" Mary looked between the two boys, but neither met her gaze. The angels all looked confused too when she turned to them for an answer.
Dean cleared his throat. "Uh, the year before my deal was up. Sam did his best to recreate our usual elaborate spread one last time."
"I think we went to a strip club a year or two ago," Sam said absently.
Dean spit his coffee all over the table. "Dude!" he yelled, half choked and coughing.
"Don't 'dude' me," Sam shot back, pushing a puddle of coffee back at his brother who shot back in his chair. "'Dude' you! You just sprayed coffee all over us!"
"Yeah, well you just told Mom I took you to a strip club for Christmas!"
"What, so I should lie and say we did something normal? We don't even know what 'normal' people do on Christmas, Dean!"
"Okay, you two!" Mary stopped them before it turned ugly. "There will be no fighting today, understood? No yelling. No stabbing with utensils. And let's keep the name calling to a minimum. Got it?"
Dean nodded hastily, his face beet-red with embarrassment. Sam continued to glare at his brother until Mary turned his face toward her. As soon as their eyes met, all the fight drained away.
"Got it," Sam said.
It was going to be a long day.
They ate a light breakfast of leftovers before getting to work. Mary placed the angels in charge of decorating the library for their meal. It was the most open and inviting space inside the bunker, and had the nicest long wooden tables.
Dean pulled out ingredients to get started, and Mary was glad they'd already worked out the general order the dishes would be cooked. Sam watched in silence from his chair at the table. Morpheus laid sprawled at his feet.
"So, Sammy," Mary started, walking over to him, "how are you at peeling potatoes?"
"No idea." He shrugged and stared at his hands like they were his enemies. "I've only done it a few times, and never as a kid."
"Never?" she asked, grabbing the bag of potatoes from Dean and the peeler.
"Not a lot of potato peeling opportunities when you're living in a motel," Dean said. His voice held a slight edge of warning, though he didn't look up from the marinade he was mixing.
They had talked multiple times about the boys' childhoods during the hours Sam spent training. Mary recognized Dean's attempt at steering the conversation away from darker topics. She decided to respect his lead—for now.
"Well, today is the day you'll make up for lost time!" The ten-pound bag of potatoes looked bigger than Sam when she placed them in front of him. Luckily, the peeler was small and easily fit in his hand.
"How many do I need to peel?"
"All of them," Dean answered.
"Seriously?" Sam looked ready to chuck the giant brown root at Dean's head.
Mary brought the tall garbage can over beside his chair. "Trust me," she said before Dean could say something snarky. "Once they're boiled and mashed, we won't have ten pounds anymore."
She watched Sam carefully begin, a look of intense concentration on his face. Satisfied that he'd be occupied for a while, she moved to help Dean. She felt secure in knowing that any kitchen mishaps could easily be healed by the team of overprotective angels in the next room.
They fell into an easy rhythm. Dean usually took point in the kitchen, leading her and Castiel in their cooking efforts. Mary didn't mind relinquishing control. Not when Dean obviously knew what he was doing, and loved doing it.
Music played softly in the background, courtesy of Gabriel. Covers of classic Christmas songs performed by artists she didn't know. But they were good, and she found herself humming along.
"Where do I put these when they're done?" Sam asked, holding up a perfectly peeled potato.
"Right in here!" She brought him a large mixing bowl for the finished products. "You did a great job for someone who's never done this before."
"Sammy's a perfectionist," Dean said.
"You're better than I am," she confided to her youngest in a whisper. "I can never seem to get all the peel off. It's probably a good thing I never cut your hair either—the only time I tried to use clippers was a disaster."
Sam looked horrified at the prospect, wide eyes darting between her and Dean.
"No one's gonna cut your hair," Dean reassured in a serious voice. "You're free to grow your locks out till they're as long and flowing as you want. Just don't ask me to braid them, because I suck at it."
"Oh, I wasn't…" she glanced at Dean, but he kept his eyes on his work. Turning back to Sam, she still saw lingering anxiety. "I wasn't implying you needed a haircut. I was just saying I should never be trusted with that task if it came up. For anyone—you, Dean, or myself!"
Sam stared her for a second, then nodded. "Dean's really good with hair," he finally said. "I don't know if he can trim or style long hair, but he's as good as a barber with clippers."
"Well, I'll be sure to turn to him if I decide to shave it all off," she said with a wink.
Sam snorted, the anxiety melting away. "Don't give him ideas. He's been dying to cut my hair for years now."
"Nah," Dean said, "I've been teasing you about your hair for years. But it looked good on you."
"Don't lie. You just liked stealing my shampoo because I have higher standards."
"I would never." Dean tried to sound offended, but his smile gave him away.
Mary went back to the counter and gathered her ingredients for the stuffing. She'd always used Stove Top, but Dean had insisted on trying a recipe he'd found. So, instead of a twenty-minute process, she resigned herself to at least a two-hour task. Starting with breaking bread up into tiny pieces.
"You know," she said, bringing everything to the table next to Sam, "I thought for sure Sammy would be blonde."
"Really?" Sam asked, surprised.
"Your hair was so light as a baby. I'd held out hope that Dean would get my hair, but it grew darker and straighter as he got older and I knew he'd end up with John's darker hair. But you looked so much like me—our baby pictures were practically identical."
"Poor mom," Dean muttered.
"Hey!" Mary shot him a scowl before turning back to Sam. "Don't listen to him. We were adorable babies."
"Hmm." He studied her, his eyes roaming over her face and hair as though cataloguing each feature, then dropped his gaze back to the potato. "Well, I don't think I really had blonde hair at any point. It was lighter than Dean's, but never full-blown blonde."
"You don't think?" How could he not know what color hair he had?
"Well, most of our family pictures were lost in the fire," Sam explained, "and Dad wasn't big on taking pictures. I didn't even know…" He cut off mid-sentence, looking suddenly sick.
"You okay, Sam?" Mary felt all her motherly instincts rear up at once. A glance at Dean proved useless. He gave a shrug and shook his head, just as confused as her.
"Yeah, yeah," Sam said, nodding too much.
"What didn't you know, Sam?" Dean asked in his "let us have it" voice.
"Nothing. It doesn't mat—"
"Sam." Dean drew the name out, warning his brother that he wouldn't drop it.
"It's stupid," Sam mumbled. He stayed quiet for a minute.
Mary and Dean waited him out. She doubted it was stupid—not if it was obviously upsetting him to this degree. A hundred thoughts flew through her own mind as the seconds ticked by, but none of them prepared her for his actual words.
"I didn't know you had blonde hair until I was eight."
Mary blinked, confused beyond the ability to think. She looked to Dean, hoping he had some insight into why Sam would say something so silly. But instead of uncertainty, she found shame.
"What," she started slowly, "does that mean?" Her hair was her trademark—the one thing that stood out to everyone she met.
"I-It was gonna be my first time staying alone while Dad took Dean on a hunt," Sam explained. "He told me to get some money out of his wallet for food. A picture fell out. You were holding me and Dean was leaning over your shoulder. I'd always pictured you with brown hair, like us, so I asked who you were."
Mary felt something inside her chest shatter, and she struggled to breathe around it. She wanted to ask about John's response. Wanted to demand answers from John and Dean and God Himself as to how this could happen.
But Sam's hands were shaking around the peeler. And Dean looked ready to crawl inside the oven. Her need to comfort and console outweighed her desire for answers.
"Well, guess what?" she said, forcing her voice to stay steady and light. Sam peeked nervously at her through his bangs. "I'm here now, and you can ask me anything your heart desires. Anything at all. No matter how silly or weird."
"Really?" There was so much hope in that tiny voice. Too much for so small a promise.
"Night or day. If you have a question, you ask it." She ran her fingers through his hair, needing to touch him. To reassure herself that he was right there in front of her. "You and I still have a lot to learn about each other. For instance, I don't know your favorite ice cream flavor."
A smile ghosted across his lips. "Mint chocolate."
"No!" Mary gasped. "That's my favorite." Tears filled her eyes even as she grinned. All she wanted was to have something in common with her youngest that wasn't linked to death or demon deals—even if it was ice cream.
"Yeah," Sam laughed. "Dean says it's like eating toothpaste, but I like it."
Dean cleared his throat. "Because it is. You're both weirdos."
"I'm okay with that," Mary said with a grin. She ruffled his hair once more, then took his bowl of potatoes back to the counter. There was another boy she needed to check on.
Dean tried to take the bowl from her, but she set it out of his reach. His eyes were red, but there were no sign of tears. He had too much practice hiding them.
"I'm a weirdo, huh?"
"Yup." He rubbed the back of his neck.
"Well, what's your favorite flavor, Mr. Normal?" she asked, taking advantage of his exposed side to dig her fingers into his armpit. It had been his most ticklish spot as a little boy. And still was, if the high-pitched squeal he gave was any indication. "What could possibly be better than cool mint with chunks of chocolate?"
"Anything!" Dean backed into the counter and ended up trapped.
"Anything? Really?" Mary let sarcasm infuse her voice as she reached for his other side, surprising another squeak out of him.
"Fine! Butter pecan!" he laughed, batting at her hands.
"Is that your final answer?" She wriggled her fingers threateningly at him.
"Yes! Yes! Butter pecan, final answer."
Mary sighed. "I guess that'll do." She tugged him forward into a hug, whispering, "I love you. You know that?"
"Not sure why sometimes," he said under his breath.
"Well, I guess it's a good thing you've got me around now," she squeezed him tighter, "so I can explain it to you in detail every single day until you understand."
Dean looked torn between horror and delight.
Mary kissed his cheek. "Now, you better get that turkey cooking, or dinner will be late. You haven't even started your pies."
That got Dean moving.
Mary grabbed a new bowl for Sam to fill with the remaining potatoes and returned to the table. No one said anything for a while after that. The music filled the silence, accompanied by the sound of chopping, peeling, and stirring. Mary tore up the bread, wishing it was John's face.
"Hey, Mom?" Sam's voice cut through her violent thoughts after several minutes.
"Yes, baby?" she responded, unable to keep herself from using the affectionate term. It was worth it to see the light flush of pleasure across her son's cheeks.
"Um, why are we all wearing pajamas?"
"Oh." She'd forgotten all about that now. Her last Thanksgiving had been spent wearing new sleepwear to compensate for her growing belly. She'd been almost four months pregnant, and full of hope. "Well, your Dad and I didn't have a lot of family traditions to carry on, so we made our own."
"Really?" Sam looked at her with bright eyes, hungry for any scrap of history. "Like what?"
"Like pajama dress-codes for all holidays. We'd watch 'White Christmas' on Christmas Eve, and pick one present for each of us to open. And instead of 'Auld Lang Syne' we'd listen to 'Another One Bites the Dust' by Queen."
"Oh my God," Dean laughed.
"Yeah," she winced, "probably not the best choice in hindsight."
"What else?" Sam asked eagerly.
Mary settled into her chair, and told him stories of his own family. The family he never knew. The father and brother and mother he never knew.
Handmade ornaments made each year for the tree. How John always made his out of scrap car parts, welded with care in the garage. How she'd planned on making molds of Sammy's handprints and letting him paint them for his first ornament.
Stories turned to other holidays. Fourth of July was for camping in remote areas, away from the fireworks that set off John's memories of war. Valentine's Day had a strict rule of "no flowers or candy or cards," and instead was spent slow-dancing in the living room. They planted something new in the yard every Easter—a tree one year, a rosebush the next.
"We tried to think of little things we could do together. Things that didn't cost a lot of money, and would mean something to us." She wondered if the tree and rosebush had survived the fire.
It took her a moment to realize the sounds of food preparation had ceased. Sam's eyes were enormous, barely blinking or breathing as he listened. Dean's face rested on his palm as he leaned forward, his elbows on the counter.
"Keep going, you two!" she said with a laugh, pleased with their reactions. "We're never going to finish at this rate."
Mary stood, bringing her bowl of bread chunks over to the counter.
"I can't believe Dad made ornaments for a Christmas tree," Sam said, shaking his head.
"I actually had to reinforce the 'one ornament per year' limit on him. Every single year, he'd come home with several. I made him pick one, and he gave the others away as presents." She remembered the horribly misshapen lumps of metal from their first year together. "He'd already started working on them for Christmas before the fire. He wanted to make two—one for each of his boys."
"Are we going to make ornaments this year?" Sam asked.
"Of course! Why wouldn't we?" Mary stole the celery from Dean's side of the island and began chopping it into tiny pieces.
"I don't know. We've never done Christmas in the bunker. Or anywhere, really." Sam shrugged. "I don't know much about decorating a tree."
"Yeah, last time you did it, you covered it in air fresheners. Pine tree air fresheners," Dean laughed. "You decorated a tree with tiny trees."
"Well, excuse me! If I remember correctly, your preferred method was stealing a decorated tree."
"One time, Sam. One time." Dean threw a chunk of celery at the boy. It bounced off Sam's shoulder and landed in the floor. Morpheus raised his head and ate it, just like he'd done with each potato peel that went astray.
"No one is stealing a tree this year," Mary reassured. "I'm sure between myself and the angels, we can handle getting a tree of our own and decorating it."
"I may have to add an air freshener, just for old time's sake," Dean whispered loudly.
Mary sighed, but nodded. She couldn't imagine her boys, these boys, never decorating a tree. Dean was almost forty! How did that happen?
"So, I know holidays weren't the greatest," she began tentatively, "but did you have any traditions you'd like to incorporate? Or something you did one year that you liked but didn't get to do again?"
Her question was met with a stretch of silence. Dean finished preparing the turkey and set it to cook in the device he'd bought the week before. Without a word, he got the pie dough from the fridge and began rolling the first one out. Sam just stared at the potato in his hand, lost in thought.
"I think," Dean started slowly, "that the only 'good' holidays we had were spent with other families."
Sam made a noise and his hand slipped with the peeler, catching his thumb instead of the potato. Mary dropped everything, and looked for a towel. But Dean was already around the counter and looking at the damage.
"That wasn't…I wasn't calling you out, you idiot," he said gently. "Mom, can you go get one of the angels? This isn't deep, but it'll hurt to hold anything if we just clean and wrap it."
Mary knew they could just pray to the angels and they'd be there instantly. But Dean's eyes were desperate, and she understood he needed a minute with his brother. She nodded and left, longing for the day when they could have a conversation without pain.
God, can't I give them just one fucking day where they don't have to worry? Can't You? she prayed angrily. I know healing isn't easy, but we aren't exactly dealing with a scraped knee here.
The day already had too many highs and lows for her to count, and every moment seemed fraught with emotional disaster. It was like navigating a minefield. She paused outside the library, wiping the moisture from her face. Once semi-presentable, Mary turned the corner and walked through the entrance—and froze, panic twisting her stomach.
The room was a disaster. Mismatched decorations seemed to have exploded along the walls, ceiling, and bookshelves. The tables were pushed to the sides with chairs haphazardly piled on top. The angels stood at ground zero, arguing loudly. And everything was covered in glitter.
"What the actual Hell?" she asked slowly.
All three angels instantly stopped fighting and turned to her. Gabriel had Christmas lights wrapped around his arms, all lit even though they weren't plugged into anything. Raphael wielded a branch of holly like a sword. And Castiel looked like he'd taken the brunt of a glitter bomb—the air shimmered around him when he turned toward her, causing a cloud of the stuff to fly off him.
"I can explain!" Gabriel said. The multicolor lights all started blinking.
"There is no explanation for your lack of taste!" Raphael said, poking Gabriel with the branch.
Castiel sighed, blowing more glitter off his face. "I believe they are having 'artistic differences' over how to decorate." Bursts of color bloomed around the air quotes, like tiny fireworks.
"Well, work them out and get this cleaned up! We can't eat if the tables are covered in chairs and glitter. It doesn't have to be perfect—just nice!"
"Is everything alright? Did you need us for something?" Raphael asked, concern coloring his voice.
"Actually, Sam cut himself on a potato peeler," was all she managed to say before all three angels began moving toward the doorway. "Wait! No one leaves this room until the glitter is gone. You'll leave a trail through the bunker, and Dean will stab everyone if a single speck touches the food."
"Why didn't you pray?" Gabriel asked, snapping away the mess. The tables returned to their normal positions with the decorations neatly stacked in the center.
"Because he wanted the chance to talk to Sam without me there," Mary huffed.
Understanding lit in the archangel's eyes. "Are they having a tough time with all of this?"
"Aren't we all?" she countered, then scrubbed at her face before more tears could form. "They know nothing, and I mean nothing, about who we were as a family before I died. And every time I tell them something new, it's like I'm entering a minefield. I can see how much it hurts them to hear about the John I remember. But they keep asking for more—especially Sam."
"What happened?" Raphael asked.
Mary gave him a brief run down of the conversation that led to Sam slicing his hand. She saw Castiel wince. "What?" she asked the seraph. "What do you know?"
Castiel sighed, and told her about her sons' experience in Heaven during the Apocalypse. "Dean was quite angry to find Sam in a memory of spending Thanksgiving with strangers. He did not understand that Zachariah was controlling their Heaven—emphasizing Dean's love of family and Sam's desire for normalcy. Dean resented Sam for a long time. I do not know if they ever discussed it afterwards."
"I'd say not, if their reactions were anything to go by," Mary said. "Do you think they've had enough time to talk it over? I don't want to barge back in, but I couldn't see how bad the cut was either."
"I'll go," Castiel said, surprising her by taking charge. "I am capable of healing a simple cut. And I have first-hand knowledge of the issue they are discussing. It may be less awkward. Meanwhile, please give these two guidance on how you wish the room to be arranged. I fear we will be eating in the kitchen otherwise."
He sent a quick glare to his older brothers before leaving the room. It would have been more impressive if he hadn't been wearing a robe and slippers. At least the robe still twirled the same as the trench coat.
"Alright, you two," Mary said with her hands on her hips. "Let's discuss these artistic differences and get this done."
Both archangels turned, stopping her tirade with concerned looks. Raphael pressed a warm palm to her cheek and tutted. "Decorating can wait."
"What's wrong, Mary?" Gabriel asked, gently taking her hand.
"What isn't wrong?" Mary let out a laugh that turned into a sob. She managed to tell them of Sam's confession and Dean's reaction. "It's so much worse than anything I imagined," she cried into Raphael's tunic. "And I've imagined awful things! How do I fix this? How do I even start?"
"By doing exactly what you did," Gabriel answered. "You're filling in the blank spaces—both past and present. You're giving him the history he never knew, and being the parent he still needs today."
Raphael rubbed her back. "Their wounds are deep and old, and some must be reopened before they can heal properly. The fact that they feel safe enough to voice these things to you is a miracle. Both of your sons have come so far in a short period of time—and your presence is a heavy factor in their progress."
"God, how do you always know what to say? You're like a poet," Mary sniffed and stepped back to wipe her face.
"Hey! I thought I was supposed to be the Messenger with fancy words, bro. Quit stealing my best lines," Gabriel teased.
"Then perhaps you should not keep changing the simple messages entrusted to you," Raphael said with a raised brow.
"You're no fun." Gabriel pushed Raphael out of his way and studied Mary's face. "Let's clean you up, okay mama? Can't go back in there with a blotchy face."
He held her face and wiped away her tears with his thumbs. Mary's skin tingled as cool, refreshing energy swept over her. The itchiness disappeared, and her eyes no longer felt swollen. She could even breathe freely.
"There. Much better, if I do say so myself."
"Thanks," Mary said, feeling lighter. "But don't think that this gets you out of fixing this room!"
Twenty minutes later, Mary returned to the kitchen. The archangels had reached a compromise between traditional and modern decorating methods, and she was washing her hands of it. Maybe the boys had the right idea in decorating with air fresheners.
The sight that greeted her in the kitchen melted away any lingering frustration or sadness. Dean had moved Sam onto the counter next to him and they were working on the apple pies together. They grinned at her from flour-covered faces and she was powerless to do anything but feel joy.
"All better?" she asked.
"Yes, Cas healed the tiny cut and I am no longer in danger of 'bleeding out into our food.'" Sam gave his brother an exasperated look. "Even though it quit bleeding before Cas even got here."
"Hey, safety first!" Dean said.
"Do you require any assistance with the food?" Castiel asked. Mary hadn't even seen him kneeling in the floor next to Morpheus. "Or should I return to the library?" His eyes held a spark of fear—or a piece of leftover glitter.
"I think we can put you to better use in here." Mary waved him toward her. "I'm trusting you can handle cutting up sweet potatoes."
"Yes," he said in relief.
"Why? What happened in the library?" Dean's eyes swept Castiel from head to toe as though searching for signs of injury. "Did those two do something?"
"Artistic differences escalated into decorative warfare," Castiel answered.
"What does that even mean?" Dean asked.
"It means that Raphael insisted on a traditional setting while Gabriel wanted something more," Castiel shuddered, "festive."
"Oh God," Sam tried to muffle a laugh, "that sounds horrifying."
Castiel nodded gravely. "It was."
"Well, you're safe with us, buddy" Dean assured, patting the angel's shoulder.
Sam snickered. Mary tried to give him her sternest mom-look of warning. But it backfired, sending Sam into louder laughter.
"What is wrong with you?" Dean looked at his brother, completely flabbergasted by the boy's giggles. "Did I miss something?"
"No, no, everything's cool. Buddy." Sam sobered himself suspiciously fast. "He's safer with you, and you're safer with him. We're all safer, in fact. Safety in numbers."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "Are you drunk?"
"I wish," Sam said wistfully.
"That is not advisable," Castiel said. "It requires a massive amount of alcohol for an angel to become intoxicated and we do not know how it would affect one such as yourself."
"It was a joke, Cas." Sam tossed a piece of apple at the angel. "Besides, I don't think I could physically drink a liquor store like some angels."
Castiel caught it easily, and returned it to the bowl.
"Don't you start with your brother," Mary whispered in Sam's ear, "I just stopped two other brothers from destroying the bunker. I'm not doing it again in the kitchen."
"Okay, seriously, what's going on?" Dean demanded.
"I believe it concerns our sleeping arrangements last night," Castiel said.
"What?!" Dean flushed. "How…I don't…"
"It's okay, Dean." Sam's voice held no traces of teasing. "Really. I'm happy for you, okay?"
"Happy for what?" Dean asked, trying to sound confused. But it came out panicked.
Mary regretted saying anything to anyone that morning. She had no idea what Sam and Dean's stances were on sexuality. It hadn't been a topic of conversation. Her own generation had been either violently opposed to gays or extremely accepting—the hippie movement had tackled more than just the Vietnam War and the music industry. And while she knew this modern era had advanced with things like gay marriage, it still wasn't accepted by everyone.
Sam scooted forward on the counter, maneuvering to sit in front of his brother. "Calm down, idiot. I'm happy that the two people I've loved the most in this world are maybe going to stop dancing around each other and me."
"Sammy, nothing happened!" Dean's voice cracked.
"Nothing has to 'happen.' I'm just happy that you let him stay with you last night," Sam sighed and pushed his hair back from his face. "You have no idea how frustrating it's been these past few years. How many times I watched you let Cas leave here, knowing that you preferred he stay. How many times you two pushed one another away in the name of keeping each other safe. How many times I wished you'd both just suck it up and admit that you'd rather be by each other's side than apart!"
Castiel frowned. "I did not know you felt that way, Sam."
"Yeah, well, I wasn't going to say anything. It wasn't my place. But I preferred having you here too." Sam gave the seraph a half-smile. "Safety in numbers, right?"
"Dude, you should have said something," Dean muttered.
"Yeah, right. You can barely look at me right now, and Cas isn't even in danger of leaving!" Sam scoffed, then a flash of worry crossed his face and he turned to Castiel. "Right?"
Castiel's face softened at the sight of Sam's distress. "I promise I am not leaving."
"I'm just glad you have a reason to stay." Sam's shoulders sagged in relief. "Beyond the fact that you have to protect the new…kid, or whatever. You deserve to have your own reason."
Mary moved to the side, and took over Castiel's work on the sweet potatoes. Dean resumed rolling out the dough and patting them into pie pans, but his attention stayed riveted on the two. He offered no illusion of privacy—Dean was part of this conversation.
"Sam, I do not stay simply because you need protection. And I have seen you as a brother since before you became a literal sibling. I would have stayed even if Chuck had not changed you." He took Sam's hand, inspecting the place he'd healed. "But our lives would not be the same. We would all three be hunting Lucifer. All four, if we included your mother. And we may not have Gabriel and the others back either, which means Heaven would still be weak and scattered."
"Making me an angel didn't fix Heaven, Cas," Sam looked embarrassed at the very thought. "And I just meant that it was good…"
"That I have a reason to stay?" Castiel raised a brow. "Do you think our lives would have slowed down enough for us to realize that reason if we were hunting right now? The fact that we are dedicating an entire day to food and relaxation instead of preparing weapons means that we all have the chance now—to decide what we want instead of disasters dictating our every move."
"And you want this," Sam asked carefully, "here, with Dean? And me, and mom?"
"My family is here. I will not return to Heaven, even if Michael demanded it." Castiel's firm tone gave no room for disbelief.
Sam looked at Dean. They stared at each other, exchanging silent words not even Castiel could understand. But the angel was used to it, and patiently waited till they finished. Finally, Dean nodded and Sam smiled at Castiel.
The boy pushed the seraph's hands away. "Fine. Fine! Go help with food before Mom reassigns you to decorations."
Castiel leaned down, and said something to Sam in Enochian. Mary didn't understand the words, but they turned Sam's face pink. Then, Castiel spoke again and Sam tried kicking the angel away with his feet.
"No!" Sam yelled, and Mary dropped her knife in surprise. "No, I do not need details! Go away!"
Castiel smirked and returned to the sweet potatoes. He picked up Mary's knife, still grinning at her startled expression. "I believe I can take it from here."
"Right," she said, still dazed by the whole exchange. I gotta learn Enochian.
Dinner was a masterpiece. Mary sat at the table, exhausted and full of food and cheer. She couldn't remember being more content.
The turkey and ham had been perfect. Platters of green bean casserole, sweet potatoes with marshmallows and brown sugar, mashed potatoes covered with caramelized onions, stuffing, and homemade rolls covered the center of the table alongside white and red taper candles. But the real winners of the night were the pies—apple, pumpkin, and pecan.
Gabriel and Raphael were engaged in a heated debate over what kind of evergreen tree to use for Christmas. Folklore seemed to be as much a part of the discussion as the scent and texture of each species. Listening to them bicker like normal brothers made it easy to forget they were actually big-bad archangels.
Dean kept pushing more pie on Castiel. He insisted the angel taste every available combination of pie, ice cream, whipped cream, caramel, and whatever else he could mix them with. Castiel obliged him, carefully tasting each bite.
At this rate, we won't have any leftovers, Mary thought.
Most precious was the sight to her right. Sam's eyes had grown heavier throughout dessert, but he'd fought valiantly. Now, his head rested against her side, one hand curled around Morpheus' small form in his lap.
Mary heard a "click" and looked up to find Dean taking their picture with his phone. He turned the phone sideways and took three more, then grinned. "Man, I've never had so much material to blackmail him with before. I'm gonna be set for life if he keeps this up!"
"Keeps what up?" Castiel asked quietly.
"Cute shit," Dean said, snapping another picture—this time of Castiel. Then, he turned and got the archangels too.
He'd been taking pictures throughout the evening, declaring himself their official photographer. Mary wondered if he'd like an actual camera. She added it to the growing list—right under "house shoes that are not combat boots." It was good to know that, between the archangels and the credit card scams her sons thought she knew nothing about, money wasn't an issue.
"Should we put him in his bed? Or…?" Gabriel looked at them, hopeful someone would pick the "or" option.
"Or the 'nest' you made?" she asked, only slightly teasing.
Castiel had let the term slip one day in the kitchen. Once Dean had quit laughing, he'd explained that angels tended to create nests in Heaven—a space carved out for their flock to rest away from the main flock. Technically, the communal bedroom would be considered a nest-within-a-nest, with the entire bunker being considered their flock's space.
Gabriel startled at her words. "You…you…"
"…have learned quite a bit about angels recently, thank you very much," Mary finished for him. She looked to Dean, silently asking his opinion. His grin softened as his eyes shifted to the lightly snoring boy beside her, and he nodded.
"Yeah. He shouldn't wake up alone in the morning."
Mary relaxed. She didn't want to wake up alone either. "Do you want to get him settled while we clean this up?" There was no way she could pick him up without waking him—not at the angle they were sitting.
Gabriel snapped, and the food all disappeared. The table was spotless, but still decorated. "There," he said smugly, "no more work today."
Dean expertly scooped Sam and Morpheus out of their chair and carried them to the bedroom. Mary followed with the angels close behind. Her feet and back ached from all the cooking they'd done, but it was a good ache.
She felt like weeping at the sight of 'her' bed—the luxurious twin mattress tucked in the corner of the room right next to the larger bed where the boys slept. It had only been one night, but it felt like an eternity since they'd all been together in here. Mary sank into the softness, unable to stop the groan as her muscles relaxed.
"You sure you don't want your own room?" Gabriel teased.
"I'm not moving and you can't make me," Mary sighed, stretching out on top of the covers. "I ate too much and everything hurts, and I think this has been the best day ever."
"Are you in pain?" Raphael asked, coming over to sit on the side of her bed. He raised two fingers to her forehead. "May I?"
"Yes, please!" She knew how stiff all her joints would be by morning. "But I'm still not moving. Even if you zapped me with enough energy to run a marathon."
Raphael chuckled, and brushed his fingertips across her brow. Warmth flowed through her, like sinking into a hot bath. It eased her joints and muscles, making her feel heavy and boneless. "There is no need for running—only sleep."
Sleep called to her, pulling at the edges of consciousness, and she almost allowed it. But something else remained before she could go. Reaching up, Mary clasped Raphael's hand before he moved away.
"Thank you, Raphael. You're such a kind and gentle soul. Or angel. You've healed more than just our physical wounds."
Raphael looked surprised. "You do not need to thank me, Mary. I do it gladly."
"But it's Thanksgiving. You're supposed to say what makes you thankful." She looked at Gabriel where he'd flopped on the couch by the foot of her bed. "Thank you, Gabriel, for always saying what we need to hear, and not just the words we want. Even if you change the messages around on occasion."
Gabriel blushed fiercely and scooted down on the couch. For once, he was at a loss for words. Mary took that as a compliment.
"And Castiel—I have so much to thank you for, I don't know where to start." He opened his mouth, an objection clearly on his tongue, so she pushed forward without letting him interrupt. "So, I'll just say thank you for loving my boys. And being there when they had no one else in this world."
Castiel's lips tightened, but he said nothing. After a second, he simply nodded and bent down to kiss her forehead. Dean's hand appeared on his shoulder, pulling him back gently.
"Alright, you. It's my turn," Dean said. Mary grinned, ready to tell him all the ways he made her thankful. But he cut her off. "Nope, I said it's my turn and I don't normally do this shit, so shush." He knelt by her bed, taking a deep breath. "Thank you, mom, for giving us the best Thanksgiving we've never dreamed of having. And for being amazing. Not everyone would come back from the dead and take up mothering two virtual strangers, even if they were her kids. But you did, and I want you to know that it means the world—to me and Sammy."
"Dean…" Mary felt pure joy rise up, threatening to drown her.
"Nope, chick flick over!" Dean gave her a quick peck on the cheek and stood up, his knees popping.
Raphael stood waiting with his fingers raised. It was a testament to both Dean's newfound trust in the angels and his degree of exhaustion that he only considered the offer for a few seconds before nodding. Mary watched as the effect washed over him, and all his muscles relaxed at once.
"Thanks, Doc," he muttered, patting the archangel's shoulder as he stumbled toward the bed.
Castiel was already laying down in his usual place. Mary could barely see Sam curled around Morpheus in the middle. It took Dean only a moment to get under the covers, and then he was asleep.
One of the angels silently turned off the lights, and that was all it took for Mary to follow.
AUTHOR'S NOTES:
Here, ya heathens-take it! Almost 10k of holiday angst and cheer!
This chapter almost killed me. I rewrote it about three times in a week.
Also, you can direct all weeping flames toward ScrollingKingfisher, who told me there needed to be "more inner turmoil" for Mary in one section, which led to about 5 extra pages of pure angst.
AND
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO NATHYFAITH
I LOVE YOU GIRL!
Come be my friend on tumblr: theriverscribe AND/OR spn-bythegraceofgod