"Hey… Dad," Sam whispered back, forcing himself to relax into the embrace. The last conversation he'd had with the man replayed in his head—he'd tried to pick a fight, doubting his father when the man had actually given his life to save Dean's. "It's, uh… good to see you too."
John withdrew from the hug, still showing teeth in a foreign, bright grin. Again, he clapped Sam's shoulder, "You look good, son."
Sam's gaze raked over the man again, searching for any hint of a façade. "Thanks."
His father's eyes flicked to something behind him, "Jess! Good to see you too." He moved in for another embrace, and Jessica obliged with a warm smile of her own.
Dean caught Sam's gaze—he didn't look shocked by Dad being here and alive, but he did seem genuinely… happy. Perhaps misinterpreting Sam's look of confusion and surprise, he tilted his head toward the adjoining room, "Mom's in the kitchen—looking for a vase, I think."
Sam's breath stilled in his lungs. Mom? He hastened toward the kitchen in long strides, finding his vision narrowing until the peripheral had all but disappeared.
Then she was there—leaning against the counter as she filled a tall glass vase with water in the sink. She had a half-eaten cookie in her free hand, and she glanced over her shoulder at the sound of his footsteps as she took another bite. Immediately, she covered her mouth, embarrassment seeping across her face as she spoke through the crumbs, "Don't tell on me."
Sam replied with a soft, disbelieving smile. Emotion strangled his throat and stung his eyes. She looked a few years older than the pictures Dean and Dad had occasionally shared, but she was undoubtedly the same woman. The same woman who had saved the brothers from the poltergeist that had haunted the family's old house. The same woman who had died because a demon wanted to claim Sam with demon blood. The same woman who had died because of Sam's destiny.
He took a hesitant step forward, staring at her in awe.
He'd had the chance to meet her—or a younger version of her—a few months ago, thanks to the angels' time traveling capabilities. He'd never thought he'd see her again, after that. Never thought he'd meet the Mary that Dean remembered—that Dean and Dad would sometimes reminisce about in hushed tones when they thought he was asleep.
He must have been silent, gawking teary-eyed for too long, because Mary swallowed her bite, turned off the faucet, and asked, her brow furrowing in something wavering between amusement and concern, "You okay, Sam?"
Sam blinked, "Yeah, yeah… it's just…" Though he tried to temper it, his voice betrayed the gravity of his emotion, accentuated by the still-too-tight constriction in his throat. "It's really good to see you."
She set the vase on the countertop, confusion twitching across her face as she dried her hands on a dishtowel, "I know it's been a couple weeks, but you know you can always come over…" Something crossed her face, and she slowly closed the distance between them, staring at him with sympathy. Her own eyes threatened tears as she asked quietly, brushing the hair from his face, "Are you having one of your episodes again?"
"I…" he tilted his head, a frown contorting his face. Given the alarm and conflagration of emotions rampaging through his mind, all he could manage was a stuttering, "No… I… I don't know."
She nodded as though expecting the response, and without hesitation, wrapped her arms around him. The motion—though perhaps he should have anticipated it—was surprisingly jarring. Not because it was forceful or unkind or even fast… no, she practically radiated comfort, love, and understanding—like he'd always imagined a mother should, when he was younger.
"It's alright, Sammy. We don't have to do this tonight." She murmured, but she gave no indication of releasing the embrace.
In grade school, when the rest of the class was making Mother's Day cards, Sam had always wondered what having a mother felt like. He saw what mothers did—pack snacks and treats in their children's lunchboxes, help them with homework, pick them up on time, buy them a cool backpack or shoes or something stupid that kids cared about. Dean or Bobby or even Dad would sometimes do those things too. But he always wondered what it felt like.
This? This felt like home, like safety, like unyielding support. And so it was with little hesitation—almost an automatic reflex—that he protested, "No. No… I'm okay."
Sam smiled at her in an attempt at reassurance, trying to clear his face of the flood of emotions swarming inside. He didn't want anyone to leave, because he didn't know how long this would last. Demons had already stolen his chance—his right—to know his mother once, when he was just six months old. He wasn't ready to sacrifice another opportunity, even one he never expected to have.
Mary said nothing, but finally withdrew from the hug, cupping his face somewhat sadly, "Okay." After a heartbeat, she moved back toward the abandoned vase, though she cast him a few more glances as she carefully fit the bouquet inside.
"Thank you," Sam cleared his throat, pointing at the array of bright blue forget-me-nots and stark white lilies, "For the flowers. They're beautiful."
"I know you guys had roses, not lilies, but I thought it was close," she shrugged sheepishly, but her smile remained, "I'm glad you like them."
"Oh, they're perfect," Jessica entered from behind, resting a hand on Sam's shoulder. The casual touch sent butterflies aflutter in Sam's gut.
Dean and John filed into the kitchen after her, with Dean weaving toward the back door, "Steaks should be done any minute now."
"Well, let's eat, then," John declared, grabbing the salad bowl from the countertop and carrying it to the table. Mary followed, but Jessica's light touch and tilt of her head stopped Sam before he could join them. He glanced at her, concern knitting the question in the raise of his brow. His heart stammered in his chest, and he couldn't deny the fear that whittled away inside. Fear that she was about to pull him away. That she would reveal herself to be a reaper or an angel who realized he had somehow slunk into heaven, and had come to rectify the mistake.
She pulled him further into the kitchen, until they were out of view of the dining room, and leaned close against him, so she might whisper without being overheard. Her nearness, her touch, her warm vanilla scent—it made it hard to focus on her words. She pointed surreptitiously toward the dining room, though they were already out of view, "I put out the silver utensils, and I poured the glasses with holy water. We've also got the devil's trap under the doormat, but…" she shrugged and offered a weak smile, looking up at him in something of evaluation—as if checking his reaction.
At first, he frowned—was she expecting monsters?
"I understand if you want to check for yourself, I just… I thought it might help." She raised her shoulders again, still searching.
His face relaxed in realization: she wasn't expecting monsters—she just knew he was. She was trying to address his worries without raising red flags and alerting his parents that he'd lost his mind… again, maybe. Of course, now it seemed his mother already deduced it. As though she knew him so well—as though they weren't complete strangers who merely shared half their genes.
Sam put his hands on her shoulders, "No, uh… thank you." Then, confusion flickered across his face, "Wait—you know about… demons?" He'd never told her about monsters. He couldn't help but think it was part of what killed her.
"And ghosts, and shapeshifters, and werewolves," her tone was light and playful. Her beautiful, dark eyes were black holes, drawing him deeper, studying him with unending patience. He never told her about his life—his real life—both because he wanted to protect her, and because… selfishly, he didn't want to lose her. Didn't want her to think he was crazy and find her gone by the next morning. But now she knew—and she was still here.
Gosh, he didn't deserve her.
Sam pulled her closer, his tone shifting to mirror her teasing, "What about… wendigos?"
She laughed and shoved against his chest, still keeping her voice low, "Come on, let's not keep them waiting."
She intertwined her hand with his and led him into the dining room, where Mary and John already sat at each other's side, Mary whispering something in John's ear. Both chuckled, smiling. As though on cue, Dean entered from the back door, a plate of sizzling ribeye steaks in his hand.
"I'm glad at least one Winchester can cook," John remarked, eyeing the steaks approvingly.
"Hey," Dean mocked offense as he set the plate down in the center of the table, "Mom's meatloaf is the bomb."
John glanced at Mary, who suddenly refused to make eye contact as her cheeks flushed. It made John almost choke as he tried to stifle his laughter, to which Mary cleared her throat, "It looks great, Dean."
Dean grinned under the praise, taking the seat at the end of the table. Jessica moved to the other side, and Sam followed, sitting beside her.
In silent understanding, John stretched out his hands and Mary and Dean took one, then Jessica took Dean's other hand and reached for Sam's. With a furrow of his brow, he obliged, even as the others bowed their heads.
They were… praying? Prayer was hardly a foreign concept to him—he used to pray every day. But it wasn't because anyone in his family was particularly religious. In fact, he wasn't sure he ever saw Dad or Dean pray even once. Maybe neither were eager to seek out a God who had allowed Mary to die so callously. Yet now, he supposed, she hadn't died…? Maybe that left them a little more open-minded.
John spoke low, his voice serious and rough, "Lord, our bodies, minds, and souls are yours forever. Amen."
Everyone—even Dean—chorused agreement, prompting Sam to repeat the word a second late. Jessica squeezed his hand before releasing it.
Apparently not perturbed in the slightest by the prayer, everyone began serving food onto their plates and passing bowls around the table. It took Sam a few seconds to join. He couldn't quite remember the last time he'd had a formal, "family" dinner. Sometimes, Bobby would cook chili for the boys when they were younger, and they'd eat together. Occasionally, Dean, Dad, and Sam would end up eating at the table at the same time. When he was eleven, he'd joined a classmate's family for thanksgiving. That was probably the closest he'd gotten to this.
"So, Sam," John began as he cut into his ribeye, "How's the office? You still enjoying it?"
Sam took a sip of water to stall, even as Jessica filled his wine glass, then her own. The office? "Yeah, um… yeah, it's a lot of work, but it's great." He surreptitiously glanced around the table to ensure no one was surprised at his vague response.
"He actually has a trial coming up in a few weeks," Jessica offered, "He's going to make partner in no time."
Trial. Lawyer. He was a lawyer?
"They know they've got to, if they want to keep him around," Mary commented, reaching for a roll.
He chuckled, stabbing a steak with his fork and shifting it to his plate. He hadn't thought about law school in months, maybe years. It all seemed so… pointless, now. Especially when he realized he'd never really had a chance at that life—at a normal life—not when demons had circled him from birth, not when their blood flowed through his veins. Not when his destiny sentenced him to bring the world to its knees as the Devil's meatsuit.
"If they don't, Sammy's gonna ditch us for California and get rich." Dean tossed him a wink, keeping his voice light.
"I think you're stuck with us," Jessica replied, glancing at Sam to allow him to interject or correct her, but he barely heard her. "I don't think we have plans to move any time soon. Actually, we were just talking about repainting the exterior of the house the other day."
"Oh, really? What color?" Mary asked, and Jessica began explaining her ideas, but Sam stared at his plate.
Something about the tantalizing aroma of the seared meat made his hand tremble, gripping the steak knife. He could almost feel the scorching flames cooking f-l-e-s-h—
"Hey, Sam," Dean's voice interrupted his thoughts, causing him to glance up—slightly too fast. Dean hid it well, but Sam could see the concern lurking beneath his casual mask, "Can you pass the butter?"
Sam blinked, staring at the plastic container for a few seconds before registering Dean's request. Then, hastily, he passed it down the table.
"They must be really overworking you, huh?" John noted. At Sam's glance, he added, "You look exhausted, son."
He winced faintly, "Sorry, it's just… been a long day, I guess."
Jessica chuckled at that, but her normally cheerful tone was colored in a layer of sorrow. His eyes flicked to her, finding her face torn in the same duality. Suddenly, he felt the need to apologize—anything to restore her usual joy.
"But I'm glad everyone's here. It's…" He breathed an exhale, "It's really good to see you all."
"We wouldn't miss this," Mary raised her wine glass in their direction, then took a sip and nudged John, "Remember our fifth anniversary?"
Sam froze, then his gaze snapped to Jessica, and she caught the surprise before he could even think to try to conceal it. She answered the silent question with a subtle nod and sad smile, her hand reaching for his under the tablecloth. He took it, his thumb tracing over the warm wedding band on her finger.
His chest felt hollow. Five years? He'd missed—or maybe even forgotten—five years with her?
"It wasn't quite ribeye," John remarked in answer to Mary's prompt, fitting a piece into his mouth.
Mary turned to Sam and Jessica, explaining, "We'd only just recently bought our house, and we couldn't really afford anything fancy, but John had… well, something special planned."
John feigned discomfort as he shifted in his seat, but his eyes glittered with adoration as he gazed at Mary, clearly reminiscing.
"But, like he said, Winchesters… aren't exactly known for their culinary expertise." Mary continued, her lips tweaking in a smile, "Your dad almost burned down the kitchen trying to—" She frowned, "What was it you were trying to make?"
"Lobster thermidor," he answered somewhat embarrassedly, rubbing his nose. Sam could hardly recognize the man before him.
"Right—that was it," she laughed, "I came home, and the smoke alarm was going off, little Dean was crying, John was trying to scrape the burnt char off the bottom of a pan."
Jessica raised an eyebrow toward Dean in something of mock accusation, "Like father like son, hmm?"
Dean held up a finger, as though to signal exactly how many times it had happened.
"Anyway, John was planning on making some boxed spaghetti for Dean while we had our… thermidor, but we ended up pulling Dean's highchair up to the table and all having spaghetti and meatballs together by candlelight. And pie, of course, for dessert."
The thought of his mother, father, and one-year-old brother eating spaghetti together, laughing. It both warmed his heart and hurt, somehow. Like it was a reminder of what he stole from his family when he was born—of the curse he brought upon them.
"I should've just brought you someplace nice," John acknowledged, smiling, but embarrassment still framed his expression.
"No, it was perfect," Mary assured, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. Hearing John talk about Mary on the rare occasion was one thing, even when the longing and grief swelled heavily in his voice. Witnessing their unrepentant love was another. The man that Sam had known as Father was a mere shell of the man sitting across the table. And given the constant glances John stole in Mary's direction, the way he hung off her every word, and the unfettered devotion in his eyes… maybe a shell was all that was left to raise Sam, when the man's heart was killed inside his own home.
Jessica squeezed his hand, apparently similarly touched by his parents' affection, before she released him to resume eating.
"So, Dad," Dean prompted, reaching to heap a mound of mashed potatoes onto his plate, "You need any help around the shop? I was thinking of hanging around town for a little while."
"Sure," John leaned back in his chair, a glimmer in his eyes, "Actually, I've got a beauty waiting on parts there now that I could use your help with."
Dean's eyebrow cocked with interest, "What kind we talking?"
"1970 Chevy Corvette Stingray. Cherry red." The shop. Dad was a mechanic—that was right. He was a mechanic before Mom died… if she had died?
Dean whistled, "What's wrong with her?"
"Someone threw an electric fan in her, wrecked the engine."
Dean tsked, "I'll swing by tomorrow, get a look at her. Sure she'll be purring like a kitten again in no time." A small smile curled the corners of Sam's lips; when he was young, Dean had devoted himself to learning how to repair the Impala—and then any car, really—as a way of mirroring his father, or perhaps of seeking his approval. But it rapidly seemed to go beyond that—Sam could tell Dean enjoyed the craft, that he liked being able to fix things. He couldn't help but think that, sometimes, Dean would prefer it to hunting.
"Careful," Jessica warned, "Your Baby's going to get jealous."
Sam glanced over her, both admittedly surprised and comforted at her ease around his family. He rarely spoke about them with her, before—she knew enough to understand why, and generally never brought them up. Given what she did know at the time—including some of the choice words he'd exchanged with his father in their last conversation before he'd left for Stanford—he wasn't entirely sure Jessica even wanted to get to know his family. How many times had he considered and reconsidered whether to share the news of their hopefully imminent engagement with his father? How many times had he concluded that Dad wouldn't care, or, more likely, that he'd throw the news back in Sam's face with another scolding about abandoning his family, this time for a girl?
But now, here Jessica was, keeping up with the Winchester banter better than even Sam, tonight. And here Dad was, celebrating Sam's fifth anniversary with seemingly nothing but love and pride.
Emotion crept along his throat, drawing it tighter. His eyes slid around the table, landing on each face, warm and smiling. He still didn't understand how he'd gotten here—whether he was dead or not. But right now… maybe it didn't matter.
Just as long as it didn't end.