Mama's Boys

If only looks could kill. Mary gave it her best shot as she watched the Brits walk off. She had half a mind to throw a dagger through the woman's back, but she knew that wouldn't really solve anything at the moment. Instead, she looked back to her boys. She might feel as if she didn't know them, but she did know how to take care of her sons. Every mother does. Yet, even so, she saw how Dean had already slipped his arm under Sam's shoulders while glancing protectively her way. Mary glanced down. She'd never wanted this life for them and it was clear they'd been doing it a long time. Without needing any prompt, Dean was already leading them out, trying subtly to almost lift his brother off up the stairs and then glancing back to her about every minute. How long had Dean felt like he was responsible for everyone?

Back at the Bunker, Dean made a clearly familiar beeline to the cooler, grabbing one beer for himself, tossing one to Sam, and then looking uncertainly at her before questioningly offering her one. She smiled, but shook her head, "No, thanks."

"Alright," Dean stated, starting to go help Sam.

Mary raised an eyebrow and asked gently, "What do you think you're doing?"

Sam gave her a look somewhere between surprise and amusement whereas Dean looked at he like she'd spoken in another language. She insisted, "Sit down, Dean. Let me look at you both."

Dean protested, "I'm fine."

"Sure you are. Sit," she insisted.

He tried to find the words to protest again, but conceded after a minute. "Stuff's in my bag. Rags and pills are in the top left drawer."

Mary just nodded, not glancing at Dean's bag. She grabbed the pills and one rag from where he said, but taking silk strips she'd torn from her bag. It was less abrasive than an old rag. She soaked the silk in cool water and filled the one rag with ice, tying it off with her hair tie. She walked back over, tossing the ice to Dean and inspecting Sam's feet. They were bad, mostly second degree burns with what looked like a few third.

Mary lifted his right leg, saying, "It'll help to keep this up." She wrapped the silk cloths around her youngest's foot as gently as she could, trying to tell herself that the fact he was wincing was actually a good thing. It meant at least some of the nerves would heal. She shook out two pills and gave them to him. "Take these and just let that soak for a few minutes."

"Thanks, mom," he appreciated.

Mary smiled and turned back to her oldest. "Let me see," when he started to object, she interrupted, "and let me be the judge of fine."

Dean removed the ice pack, but had to insist, "Mom, you're worse than I am."

"I'm fine. I'm more concerned about you boys."

After another second and a look with Sam, he conceded. As she looked him over, though, she knew he was right. Nothing more than a few bruises and scrapes. "Alright," she admitted.

She grabbed a round, blue bottle out of her bag and turned back to Sam. She gently unwrapped his feet. She dipped her fingers in the blue and applied it as tenderly as she could. "Sorry," she apologized as he let out a sharp hiss.

"It's okay. That actually feels better once its on. What is that?"

She smiled, "Old family recipe. I had some time to stock up." Shortly after she'd finished applying the cream, she'd stuck some steri strips on the cut on his cheek. She nodded and then glanced at Dean who sheepishly looked like he'd decided he needed permission to move. "Dean, I'm not sure if it's still your favorite," she said a little uncertainly, "but there's pie for you both in the fridge."

Sam laughed at that and Mary smiled, watching Dean jump up like it was Christmas morning.

Later that evening, Mary looked over from the stove. Her boys were tucked under blankets on the couch, laughing over something on the television. She still couldn't believe it all: that they were hunters, that two were such good friends, that they had this incredible place, that she was alive, and certainly the technology. But, since this was their life, Mary supposed they'd done a pretty damn good job and she was so proud of them. She turned back to stove. She'd told Dean earlier that she couldn't cook, which was mostly true. But, every mother still has their one specialty. And they'd earned it along with the restful night in. She realized they weren't the boys she'd left behind, but still they had let her baby them and she was grateful. It was one of the few things right now she knew how to do.

"Two tomato rice soups coming up," she announced as she walked over to the couch.

She grinned. She was learning that it was easy enough to make Dean feel better: just give him food. Sam she wasn't so sure about, but he seemed relaxed and for now, that was good enough for her. "You know, the first time I made this for you two, Sam you were more interested in throwing it at Dean than eating it. Dean, you just licked it off your face as if it was all the more for you." Between that and me in the kitchen, the place was starting to look like a disaster area when your Dad came in from the garage, adding the smell of gasoline to it. He had started to say something about the mess, but then decided to taste it himself. He didn't care for it and playfully tossed it at me himself joking, 'No wonder the kid's throwing it away.' Dean, you started laughing and saying 'More! And Again!' From there, it just kind of turned it to one big food fight." Mary had started to get lost in the memory when she came back, "Sorry. I just… there's so much…"

"It's okay," Dean said, smiling.

"I don't know about Dean, but I'd love to hear some stories," Sam encouraged.

"Well, alright…" And that evening was spent with blankets, soup and stories, getting to know her boys and them getting to know her. It would take time for them to really adjust to the new dynamic, but for tonight, it didn't matter.