Archive of Our Own

Prologue

As irony would have it, the vampires were not the problem.

Not that taking out an entire nest was easy, not at all. But between the three of them, Sam, Dean, and Cas managed well enough; in the end there was a pile of headless bodies to burn and no one required stitches, so all in all it was a good day.

It wasn’t until they hit the diner that things turned sour.

It was only about another half hour back to the bunker but they’d missed breakfast that morning, having been more concerned with hightailing it out of town before the local authorities came upon the smoking pyre of vamp remains, and the brothers were ravenous. The diner was one they’d been to before; the same little old lady sitting by the door that had been there before winked pointedly at Sam, as she did every time, and Dean spent at least half the meal egging his brother to ask her on a date because he had “such a good track record with romancing the octogenarians.”

Rather than pelting his brother with sugar packets (as he had been known to do in the past when he was too tired to think of anything else), Sam smiled placidly and retaliated by waiting for the pretty waitress to come back around before mentioning loudly that if Dean was so lonely he should just try online dating, because the pool of potential romantic candidates on the internet were “so open-minded about those things.”

Concerned, Cas turned to face Dean, who was glaring at his brother. “What things, Dean? Is there something you haven’t felt comfortable telling me? You should know I am well-versed in the history of human sexual practices, and in my opinion you have nothing to be ashamed of.”

The waitress’s eyebrows hit her hairline as she looked between the three men, clearly speculating.

Dean bared his teeth at her in a poor facsimile of his normal smile, simultaneously kicking Cas under the table. “Sorry about them, they don’t get out much.”

“Did you just kick me, Dean?” Brow furrowed in consternation, Cas peered under the table in the vicinity of their knees. “That seemed uncalled for. Is it because I mentioned your sexual proclivities?”

“He has Tourette’s,” Dean said to the waitress, who muttered a skeptical “uh huh”, dropped off the check and left.

“Shut up, Cas,” he growled.

Sam stopped laughing long enough to admonish his brother. “Come on Dean, don’t yell at Cas. It’s not his fault you’re embarrassed by your,” he let out a snicker, “‘proclivities’.”

This time the sugar packets, along with several of the individual coffee creamers, went flying at Sam’s head.

“Hey!”

“You started it, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

Spats were normal for the brothers, but concern nagged at Castiel. “Are you embarrassed, Dean? Because you shouldn’t be. If it would make you feel better, I could tell you about some of the things other people have enjoyed in—”

“No, Cas!” Dean fairly yelled, calming himself when he seemed to remember they were in public. “It’s fine, I’m fine.”

“That’s good, then.” He turned his attention across the table. “And Sam, if you are participating in a ‘May-December’ romance,” air quotes, “then that also is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Sam’s muttered reassurances reached him through Dean’s guffaws and Castiel nodded once, pleased. He’d solved a personal problem for his friends, and felt a sense of accomplishment. It lasted all the way until they approached the counter to pay for the meal, and the same pretty waitress rang them up.

“Will that be all for you boys?” she asked, giving each of them an indecipherable look.

“That’ll be all, sweetheart,” Dean answered, and this time gave her what Castiel recognized as the uncensored version of his charming smile. It seemed to work, as the waitress’s posture relaxed, and she even ventured a smile back as she counted out Dean’s change.

“You sure? We got a special for Mother’s Day tomorrow, buy one pie get a second half off,” she offered, gesturing at a previously unnoticed sign by the register.

Cas watched curiously as Dean stilled completely for the length of several heartbeats, only his eyes moving, scanning the colorful advertisement. It depicted a large pie along with two small hand-drawn children, a boy and a girl, handing one to a beaming woman. On Dean’s other side, Sam was looking away, feet fidgeting slightly and shoulders tense. His discomfort was obvious.

Finally Dean broke the silence with a polite, “No thanks,” and offered the girl one last smile, but this time Cas could see its plasticity, and when Dean shouldered past him heading for the door his eyes were shuttered. Sam followed in much the same manner, leaving an even more perplexed waitress behind them.

As they left Castiel heard the elderly lady by the door call out, “Goodbye, handsome boys!”

No one said a word.

The ride back to the bunker was made in silence, with not even one of Dean’s ubiquitous cassette tapes to break it. Once arrived, the Winchesters emptied the car with their customary efficiency and dropped everything where it needed to go, before departing in separate directions, half-muttered excuses floating in their wake. Castiel was left standing alone in the middle of the library, staring after them.

Maybe it was something he said?

It didn’t take much time after the boys had scattered for Castiel to realize what happened. They had obviously become upset after being reminded that the holiday celebrating one’s mother was imminent, being forcibly reminded that they had no mother. Her death had been a turning point in their lives, sending them along a rocky path with which they still struggled. Being Winchesters, they were not properly emotionally equipped to deal with their grief, instead choosing to retreat into solitude and brood. The question now, was what to do about it.

Castiel spent many long minutes in quiet meditation, reviewing everything he knew about Sam and Dean Winchester, considering every possibility he could think of that might ease their minds over the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours and leave him with that earlier feeling of accomplishment, at alleviating a personal crisis for his friends. After about forty-five minutes, he had settled upon a course of action. Taking out his phone, he carefully composed a text message. When the reply came in the affirmative a few minutes later, he replaced the phone in his pocket and stood, heading for the nearest unused guest bedroom.

There was work to be done.

Sam

The bunker was riddled with rooms of all sizes and functions, many of which still went completely unused by the Winchesters, for the simple reason that they were only two people and only needed so many rooms. Whenever they had spare time between hunts though, Sam liked to spend time exploring the labyrinthine hallways, poking through dusty tomes and inspecting the artifacts of their legacy. During these mini-quests he’d found a variety of spaces, including several that appeared to have been used for individual or small group study, as opposed to the large communal library. It was to one of these rooms that he’d retreated after the incident at the diner, because he was fairly sure neither Dean nor Cas knew it existed and he needed to be alone for a while.

He’d snagged his laptop from the main room on the way, and sat with it open to a search engine. He’d been looking for a way to distract himself, to find something to focus on other than tomorrow. The specter of the holiday loomed in his mind, like a forbidden object not meant for his eyes.

Of course, the way Sam’s life ran, the borders of the search engine page were filled with ads for Mother’s Day paraphernalia. There were jewelry stores, chocolate shops, spas and nail salons. All foreign, all places he’d never even had to think of visiting except a couple times back at Stanford, when he’d needed a present for Jess. (Luckily she’d been the kind of girl who was happy with a trip to the movies and a walk through the park, so Sam’s time as a dedicated boyfriend had pretty much been golden.)

The most prevalent ads by far though, were the ones for florists. There were flowers everywhere, some in vases, some in cute little pots or ceramic animals. Some came with candy, some without, all vibrant splashes of color meant to celebrate the special bond a person had with his or her mother.

What kind of flowers did Mom like?

Bemused, Sam realized he had no idea. Nothing of hers had survived the fire, so he and Dean had grown up with no clues about what kinds of things she’d liked. They knew the basics of what kind of person she was, from John in his rare softer moments, and Dean had told him all the stories he remembered about her over the years; usually when they were alone at night, in some no-name motel, and Sam grew melancholy over a parent he’d never had.

He knew she was bright, and strong, and fiercely protective of her family. She’d wanted the best for her boys, wanted them to have everything she could possibly give them, and held family in the highest regard. He smiled faintly at that; even having grown up deprived of her influence, Dean was so much like her. It was a surprisingly nice idea, and Sam wondered if his brother even realized it.

He thought Mary might have liked sunflowers.

He wondered if Mary would have liked him.

He liked to think so; he was the baby after all, and wasn’t the baby of the family supposed to be the favorite? According to all the stereotypes, anyway. He snorted to himself.

Dad probably didn’t think so.

Sam had always felt like his father saw him as a disappointment, that he didn’t want to fall in line and continue in his footsteps like Dean did. No, he’d had to fight the system, butt heads and go his own way. But could it have happened any differently? Was there any way Sam could have just swallowed down the angry words and buried the defiance, the need to find something different? The burning need to be normal?

He sighed.

Probably not.

He pictured Mary laughing at the two of them, her frustrated husband and sullen teenage son, lamenting that they never got along because they were so much alike. Maybe if she’d been around things could have been different. Maybe his dad could have been different. Maybe he could have been different.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Sam knew, all too well, that depending on someone to be exactly what you wanted them to be and allowing yourself to be blinded by that ideal was dangerous and stupid (Ruby), and that if his mom had lived it wouldn’t have been an automatic guarantee of happiness. Even when she was alive his parents had had their problems; even four-year old Dean had picked up on it, enough that it followed him throughout his adult life and into Heaven, where Sam saw it firsthand.

But even if they weren’t the perfect family, he and Dean would have had two different examples to choose from, rather than just the one. They could have modeled themselves after John’s determination, but tempered with Mary’s levelheadedness. Maybe if they’d both learned that lesson sooner, they could have grown into more functional adults.

Maybe neither of them would have gone to Hell.

Sam let out an ironic laugh, listening to it echo in the stillness. What insane friggin’ lives we have.

Despite their…unconventional…upbringing though, Sam used to think he could do better. That he could get out, jump into the normal life with school and Jess, and change his future into something more palatable. Before she’d died, Sam had even spent a couple of weekends prowling the city’s jewelry stores, looking to see how much money he would have to save up for a ring. He’d even thought that he and Jess might…well.

Maybe it was stupid; he’d only been 22 at the time after all, with no idea how to be part of a functioning family unit, much less a parent. Still, even then, he couldn’t help picturing a tiny little girl, adorable blond ringlets bouncing. Her chubby fists clutched tightly around a masterpiece of construction paper, glitter, and raw macaroni, she would have run up to Jess and exclaimed excitedly, “Mama! Look what I made for you!”

Jess would have lit up in that way she had that made the entire room feel warm, and then later, in a perfect world, they’d all gather at his parent’s house so that Mary could receive her grandma’s present with a warm hug while he and Dean argued about which one of them was supposed to have picked up Mom’s gift.

Brow creased against the burning in his eyes, Sam managed a small, pained smile for the computer screen.

“It would have been nice.”

Dean

“Fuck!”

The loud exclamation echoed around the cavernous garage, echoing off the tall ceiling. That was the third time in the last hour that the goddamn wrench had slipped out of Dean’s grasp, and he grumbled at the now complete set of bruised knuckles on his right hand, shaking away the pain. Scrapes and bruises were nothing new when it came to keeping his baby in tip-top shape; hell, usually he welcomed them as a sign of a job well done, flexing his sore fingers around the steering wheel and smiling at the sweet purr of the Impala’s engine as he and Sam headed off to the next job. Now though, they just seemed to underscore the lingering shittiness of this entire day.

Staring moodily into the usually-soothing network of parts that made up the Impala’s engine block, Dean dabbed at his fingers with a rag and wondered for the hundredth time that day why he was even upset. So it was Mother’s Day tomorrow, so what. The same damn pseudo-holiday came around every year, and every year it passed with the same lack of fanfare or attention as Earth Day, or Flag Day, or National Fucking Cherry Slurpee Day, which was probably a thing somewhere. Point was, Mother’s Day had never applied to the Winchesters, it had never once popped up on the radar in the last thirty-plus years, and there was absolutely no logical reason Dean should be going all emo about it now.

Sure, Dean missed his mom, wished that he had gotten the chance to know her better (in more normal circumstances than, say, repeated trips to Heaven or back in time). Every kid wanted that, right? He wasn’t special in any way. But he’d accepted long ago that that kind of normal would never be for him, and yeah he might have experienced a few bumps in the road, but he’d long since adjusted to it and he liked who he was now, enjoyed his job and his friggin’ home, yeah they had a home now, so what was the problem? Everything was fine, nothing out of the ordinary, ergo there was no problem.

That didn’t explain why his limbs felt like they weighed a hundred pounds each and his chest ached and all he wanted to do was curl up on his memory foam and sleep, tucked in by a pair of loving arms and a fall of golden hair that smelled like apple shampoo.

Fuck he missed his mom.

Tossing the rag to the floor, Dean tugged a rolling stool over in front of the Impala with a noisy rattle and plopped down heavily. After a moment he got up again to retrieve a cold beer from the ice chest he kept in here, then resumed his seat and stared unseeingly at the gleaming chrome of the front fender, rolling the bottle absently between his palms.

Mary Winchester had been great. Probably the best mom ever in Dean’s opinion, not that he was an expert or anything. He snorted to himself. Not even close. But she’d done all the things moms were supposed to do: she cooked three meals a day, did the laundry, let Dean ride in the front of the grocery basket and pretend to drive, growling impressive zooming noises just like the Impala made; baked pies. Hugged him whenever he needed it, and even when he didn’t. Made sure to tell him every day how much he was loved, and what a special gift he was. Gave him Sam.

Pretty much anything a four-year old boy could ask for.

And everything a thirty-six-year old man couldn’t.

Because he was supposed to be past this, needing his mommy like this. He wasn’t supposed to look enviously at little kids who were mad because their moms wouldn’t let them stay at the park for an extra half hour, or smile fondly at the frazzled ones who made every promise they could think of just to get the kid to settle down long enough to get checked out of the store and go home, or get pissed at fellow moviegoers when they loudly whispered disparaging comments about the noise level of small children in the theater and their mothers’ obvious lack of parenting skill. He was supposed to be strong, independent, a completely self-sufficient badass hunting motherfucker who killed anything that got in his path and never wished for someone to cut the crusts off his sandwiches.

Dean Winchester was machetes and flames and blood. He was not lace and comfort and smiles. He was not a mama’s boy.

Not anymore.

He couldn’t afford to be, not with their lives, and especially not where John could have seen. Any mention of his mother or sadness or homesickness where John could hear never got a sympathetic pat or a commiserating “I know son, I miss her too”; no, all that got him was a cold command to man up and watch over his brother, because there were “more important things than your crying right now.”

So Dean manned up. He swallowed back the emptiness and the desire for parental approval, for unconditional love and support; instead he funneled all of that into Sam, into making sure he was the best big brother there had ever been and that Sam would want for nothing, or at least as close as he could come. Sometimes he didn’t quite make it; there was no money or Dad had been gone longer than expected, and Dean couldn’t very well just leave his brother alone, so he made do. He thinned out the milk and orange juice with tap water from the cramped kitchenette, or left purposely false dirty dishes in the sink and told Sammy he’d already eaten when Sam wanted to know why there was only one plate for dinner. If his stomach growling got too loud, he could usually keep it down by piling the extra pillow on top of his belly or guzzling down a couple glasses of water to fill the empty volume so Sam wouldn’t hear and find him out.

Those were the nights he felt the absence of his mother most keenly, when the lack of her presence was almost tangible and Dean would fall asleep wishing to find that the dingy motel room was a dream and he would wake in his comfy single bed, with the silly little angel figurine on his bookshelf and the sound of his mom’s voice singing along with the kitchen radio floating up from downstairs.

Those nights always made the tromp of heavy boots startling him awake all the more jarring the next morning, made the fruitlessness of their mission dig in a little more painfully.

He learned to deal with it over time though, and as heart wrenching as it was to visit versions of Mary that he could never have, be it in the past or in his greatest hits up in Heaven, getting to see a little more of her spark and her determination made him feel closer to her, and it got easier to carry. The thought of her still brought a pang, but it softened over time, so for the most part he just remembered how much she loved them, and how good it felt to love her back.

He wished Sammy had gotten to know her, even for a few short years like Dean’d had. She’d wanted so badly to meet Sam; deep down, Dean hoped she would approve of how he’d raised him.

“Little nerd turned out alright,” he murmured to himself, contemplating his still-full beer bottle.

The ache in his chest ballooned outward, filling his ribs and his arms and his head and his legs with a painful hollowness and pressing against his eyes, making them water and burn. Dean closed his eyes and breathed deliberately, in and out, then took a deep breath in and held it. He acknowledged the dragging sense of loss and the utter unfairness of missed opportunities, reminded himself of what she would have wanted for him, and nodded once, accepting. Slowly he let his breath out.

“I miss you, Mom,” he said. The fleet of vintage cars listened silently. “I wish things could’ve been different, that you could’ve been here to see Sammy grow up. To see me…do something else, I guess.” His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “Wish I could’ve made you proud.”

He opened his eyes and stared through the windshield of the Impala, seeing a younger, lighter version of his father smiling over at the passenger seat. His mom was there, twisted around and asking the backseat, “What do you think the doctor will say, Dean? Little brother or little sister?” Whatever the response was it made her laugh lightly, bringing out the creases around her eyes as she rubbed her belly in fond anticipation. “Well whatever this kid turns out to be, at least we’ll know it’ll have plenty of people to love it. Just like you, right munchkin?”

Dean didn’t bother to dry the tear tracks on his face, throat aching. “I love you too, Mom. Always.”

Castiel

Castiel had just mastered the art of the fitted sheet and was unfurling the clean-smelling flat sheet on the guest bed when he heard footsteps in the hallway.

“Cas.”

He glanced over his shoulder to see a tall figure in the doorway before returning to his task. “Hello, Dean.”

“What’re you doin’, man?”

“I’m making the bed, as you can see,” he responded.

Cas could practically hear Dean roll his eyes. “Yeah, but why? I mean how come you suddenly decided to take up maid service? Isn’t that like, beneath you?”

“Why would it be beneath me?” he questioned, moving around to tuck the trailing ends of the sheet under the mattress.

“Well correct me if I’m wrong here, but warriors of Heaven don’t usually go around makin’ people’s beds, am I right?”

“I suppose that’s correct, yes.” Castiel stepped back to review his work with a critical eye, tsking softly to himself and moving to straighten out the bottom left corner.

Dean gave an exaggerated sigh. “So I ask again, why are you in here making the bed?”

Castiel straightened to fully look at Dean for the first time since he’d entered the room. “It seemed logical, since the bedclothes were finished washing and drying.”

Dean was making the familiar exasperated face that Cas had learned meant he wanted to bang his head into a wall. It had been hours since the boys went their separate ways, and he’d neither seen nor heard anything from either of them until now. Dean looked tired, but not upset. More like the storm of emotions had passed, leaving him tired in their wake. His eyes were slightly puffier than usual, but they weren’t bloodshot and he was steady on his feet, no indications that he’d been drinking. Castiel decided to take that as a good sign.

Dean opened his mouth again, no doubt to chastise Castiel for being deliberately obtuse, but he cut him off.

“How are you feeling?”

Dean hesitated for a moment, then tried to play it off. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Castiel gave him a knowing look. “I’ve never had a mother of my own Dean, but I am aware that your relationship with your own was cut tragically short and that her loss still haunts you to this day.”

“What the fuck, Cas.” Dean gave him a funny look and made a strange noise in his throat, like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or yell.

“Furthermore I’m aware that the waitress at the diner inadvertently triggered your memories of her with her misguided offer of pie, as tomorrow is apparently some sort of human holiday dedicated to female parents.”

Dean looked as if he was about to speak, but no words came out. Castiel waited patiently.

Finally he asked, “Is this your way of saying ‘don’t worry, everything’s gonna be fine’?”

Castiel squinted a moment in confusion. “Of course things won’t be fine Dean, they rarely are where we are concerned. However nothing will have changed simply because you experienced an emotional reaction to the mention of your deceased mother. If it helps I believe Sam is going through something very similar right now.”

Dean continued to gape at him for a few seconds more, then shook his head disbelievingly and scrubbed a hand down his face. The odd snuffle-snort sounded again, this time accompanied by shaking shoulders.

When Dean looked up at him again his expression was clear if a little rueful. “You’re somethin’ else, you know that Cas?”

Castiel wanted to ask what else, but he knew from experience that only mutual frustration lay down that path of questioning. Instead he returned to his self-appointed chore, retrieving the lightweight comforter from its pile on the floor and spreading it over the clean sheets. Unexpectedly Dean moved out of the doorway to grab the other side of the blanket and help.

“So what’s all this for, Cas? You spendin’ the night in here?”

“No, but since we have a guest coming I thought the proper etiquette was to ready a room. I laundered the sheets, dusted the corners and swept the floor. Do you think that will be sufficient?” he asked, suddenly concerned the room won’t be welcoming enough.

“No man, that’s fine, you’ve done more than enough,” Dean reassured him. “But who’s coming?”

Castiel straightened and faced him proudly, pleased with his efforts to aid his friends. “Well—“

“Guys, someone’s here!” Sam’s voice sounded from down the hallway, and underneath that a faint banging noise could be heard.

In response to Dean’s questioning look Castiel just motioned him back out. As they entered the main room voices from atop the stairs caught their attention, Sam’s pleased exclamation quickly followed by a bright head of hair popping up over the railing.

“What’s up bitches!”

Charlie

“So,” Charlie began, after hugs all around, including a slightly awkward one from their resident angel—angel, a real angel, she still couldn’t quite get over that, “looks like Cas was right, and you boys could use my special brand of awesome.”

“Is that what he said?” Sam asked, amused.

Cas looked slightly abashed, and man but he was a cutie. Y’know, for a badass smitey God-soldier.

“Those weren’t my exact words, but I believe the sentiment is the same.”

“Well look at you Cas, calling in reinforcements all on your own.” Dean clapped the angel on the shoulder with a grin, and if his words were actually slightly patronizing, well no one would know it from the frickin’ preening Cas was doing at the praise. She could practically see his feathers puffing up with Dean’s approval.

“Good job, buddy.”

“Yeah Cas, good call,” Sam chimed in.

Charlie grinned at her boys, adoring the shit out of them. It was tempting to pretend she’d come only to binge on video games and root beer, and thoroughly whip both their asses at Super Smash Bros.—again—but alas, duty called. She knew that if she didn’t keep things moving, they’d just stand around admiring each other until someone decided to break out the booze and completely ignore the progenitor-shaped elephant in the room. So.

“How are you guys, really?” she asked, gentle but straightforward. She looked at each brother in turn, studying their faces and looking for their individual I’m-repressing-because-I’m-a-manly-man-with-monsters-to-gank-and-no-time-for-sentimentality tells. (She had Carver Edlund to thank for part of that knowledge, and even if the books were a little overdone she had to give the guy credit—he got a lot of details right. Of course it probably helps when you’re getting the good stuff straight from God, but whatever.)

Dean’s chin came up just a bit and his shoulders squared, as if the direct question tapped something ingrained in him to stand at attention when he was being addressed. The casual observer probably wouldn’t have noticed, but it was a pretty sure bet everyone in this room did—except, possibly, for Dean himself.

Bingo. Cue defensiveness in three, two—

“We’re fine, Charlie. Not the first vamp’s nest we’ve taken out, won’t be the last. Did you really drive all the way out here for that?” Dean’s expression turned scrutinizing. “You haven’t been hunting on your own again, have you?” he asked, tone carrying a slight warning.

Also, a truckload of deflection.

Sam rolled his eyes a bit in his brother’s direction, exhaling through his nose. When he turned to Charlie, his eyes were softer, but resigned. Two for two.

“We’re good, Charlie. Nothing we haven’t been through before.”

Castiel, for his part, had edged a little closer to the brothers and was giving them his patented—according to the books—adorably perplexed stare, complete with furrowed brow and concerned head tilt. He opened his mouth, no doubt to gracelessly point out the blatant obfuscation in those answers, and Charlie hurried to cut him off.

Cute but clueless. That’s three.

“Okay, so let’s all agree that’s mostly true but also a steaming pile of B.S. and move on. I hope you guys don’t have any plans for today because I, in all my crowning glory and brilliance,” she couldn’t resist a little tip of her invisible crown, “have the perfect idea.”

Charlie paused for dramatic effect, taking in the three expressions of curiosity directed at her: Dean’s a little skeptical, and really would it kill him to just acknowledge his epically complicated feelings about his family once in a while, sheesh; Sam’s puzzled but open, because at least one of them had to be accessible; and Cas, well, to be honest she had no idea what Cas was thinking but hey, he was the one who’d called her here so he could just get with the program.

Picking up the plastic bags at her feet, Charlie held them out to Dean with a triumphant smile. “You, my friend, are going to teach us all how to bake pie. Apple pie, to be exact.”

Dean didn’t take the bags. “What makes you think I know how to bake a pie?” he asked bluntly, but not unkindly. He looked distinctly unimpressed, but Charlie got the feeling that was a carefully maintained look and he was just stalling until he decided how he should react. Normally pie-baking wouldn’t have been a big deal, but this weekend, if Charlie didn’t miss her guess, the idea of it hit a little close to home.

Her heart ached a little, but she knew better than to show it. Bright smile still in place, she wheedled, “Come on Dean, if there’s anyone in the world who knows pie it’s you. You can’t tell me you’ve never baked one in your life, that would be like saying Kirk and Spock were just bros, we all know it’s not true.”

Dean looked taken aback, but before he could refute that statement (as if anyone actually could, please) Cas held out a hand. Charlie couldn’t see exactly what the three by five square said, but she knew what it was all the same. The writing was faded but still legible, still graceful; the edges were worn with years of handling, and the border was vaguely suggestive of the 1970s.

Clearly Dean knew what it was too, because after a lightning glance at Castiel’s face he accepted it, handling the card like it was made of the most fragile, precious glass.

“How did you…” Dean’s voice scratched and faded. He swallowed but didn’t say anything else.

Sam leaned closer, appearing similarly awestruck, but he managed to ask in a low voice, “Is that Mom’s recipe?”

Dean met Sam’s wide eyes, nodding slowly. Charlie crossed her fingers and prayed this went over well.

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean rasped. “God, I haven’t seen this in… what, almost thirty years. And you…” He glanced questioningly at Cas again, who, bless him, finally knew when to keep his mouth shut and only gave the brothers a small smile.

Tentatively, Charlie broke in. “So…” Sam and Dean looked up simultaneously, and wow that always made her head spin a little when they did things at the same time. “What do you say, handmaiden?” she asked gently, because she was asking for so much more than pie, and they all knew it.

Dean blinked and swallowed again, side-eyeing Sam, who had never looked more like a younger brother, before cracking the barest smile. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do it. Anything for Her Highness, right?”

Charlie beamed approvingly until her cheeks hurt. “Damn straight.”

After ushering all the people and supplies into the kitchen (and patting a relieved Castiel on the back), Charlie pretended to busy herself at the table while giving the brothers a moment. Winchesters weren’t exactly known for voluntarily opening up about painful events in their lives, so this was a pretty amazing breakthrough and she could be patient for a few minutes while they gathered themselves again. Sam disappeared into the pantry, while Dean spent two solid minutes in the cold air of the open refrigerator door, broad back unmoving except for his slow breaths.

Finally he stepped back, Sam reappeared, and things got rolling. After carefully propping up Mary’s recipe card against the wall, where it was easily read but safely out of the potential spill zone, Dean set to work. He preheated the oven and gathered all the ingredients Charlie had brought, as well as a few they’d already had, and patiently proceeded to walk the other three through each step of the pie baking process.

Castiel, inevitably, wound up with flour on his nose and in his already messy hair, and fuck if he didn’t look even more adorable than before. Sam, apparently deciding that Dean should be punished for laughing at Cas, coated his huge hands with smears of butter and chased his brother around the kitchen, attempting to grease up Dean’s hair. It ended in a draw, with both brothers facing off across the kitchen table, Sam with a fist-shaped bruise most likely forming on his ribs and Dean with butter hilariously snorted halfway up his nose. Charlie snickered at their antics and snuck a few apple slices to munch on, because it had been a long freakin’ drive and she was hungry, okay. It was hard work keeping these boys functional.

Finally, after only a few more minor mishaps, the pie was in the oven and the group had time to kill. They helped themselves to cold drinks and sat down while Castiel enlightened them all about the history of Mother’s Day.

“So even though she was the one who had begun the campaign and gotten Mother’s Day recognized as a national holiday in the U.S., Anna Jarvis resented the commercialism that overtook her idea and spent the later part of her life lobbying to have the holiday revoked.”

“Wow, that blows,” Charlie remarked. Sam hummed agreement.

Cas nodded. “She died at the age of 84 in a sanitarium, where she lived with dementia.”

“Jeez Cas, way to bring the room down,” Dean interjected sardonically. “Next you’re gonna say her kids stole all her money and started See’s Candy.”

“No,” Cas answered, “she never had any children. Anna never married.”

“She never married and had kids but her whole life was defined by Mother’s Day?” Sam asked incredulously. He looked at Charlie. “That totally blows.”

“At least she got a pretty sweet AI named after her,” Dean offered, looking around the room. “No? No takers? You guys suck,” he muttered, taking a swig of his beer.

“You’re an idiot.” Sam threw a napkin at his brother’s head, which Dean easily dodged.

“You know what sucked the most for me?” Charlie asked. “It was how all the other kids in school would look at me when I didn’t want to participate in the stupid crafts. Like, a popsicle stick picture frame is the greatest thing I could do with my time, right.”

Dean smirked, though it was a bit less irreverent than usual. “I usually skipped those days.”

“That’s because you’re a delinquent,” Sam chimed in.

A gleam entered Dean’s eye. “Yeah, Sammy here did all the school projects, especially the glittery ones.” He leaned toward Cas and Charlie, confiding, “Sammy loves glitter.”

“Sam,” Castiel said, a hint of reproach in his voice. “You never shared that with me. Did you think I would judge you? Are you ashamed of your affinity for glitter? Because as far as I’m aware, you shouldn’t be.”

Charlie cracked up at the look on Sam’s face, like he wanted to loudly deny his alleged love of glitter but he couldn’t get mad at Cas for taking Dean’s idiocy seriously, so he was stuck looking constipated and opening and closing his mouth uselessly.

“I had to participate,” he finally mumbled, “the teachers wouldn’t lay off me. And as I recall, Dean,” Sam’s voice strengthened, “I gave most of those projects to you, and you said you loved them.”

Dean fidgeted in his chair but didn’t deny it, and Charlie let slip a quiet “aww”. Or at least she thought it was quiet, until Dean shot her a glare. She just shrugged. How was she not supposed to think that was cute?

“Yeah, well. You couldn’t give them to Mom, and it’s not like Dad was around, so.”

The timer on the oven went off, and Dean got up to turn down the heat and reset it.

“What is it like?” Castiel’s gruff voice suddenly asked, causing all eyes to zoom in on him, and Charlie realized he hadn’t said anything for a little while. “Having a mother, I mean,” he clarified.

Nobody said anything for a moment, and Cas started to look like he was sorry he’d asked.

“It’s just that I’ve never had one. Angels have only our Father, and there is no need for more. Mothers are an Earthly construct, born of biological necessity,” he explained matter-of-factly, and now Charlie really felt like crying, because no one had ever noticed that Cas had the least concept of a mom of all, and how crappy a way to live was that.

Sam recovered first. “Well Cas, I didn’t really get to have my mom either, but the one good thing about our lives being so messed up is that I got to know her later on. And I don’t know what other people’s moms are like, but ours was pretty awesome.” He looked to Dean for confirmation, who just nodded. “She was beautiful, and strong, and she loved her family more than anything. She gave her life for us,” he finished softly, into the silence that had fallen over them.

“Mine used to read to me,” Charlie broke in, mindful of the delicate thoughtfulness of the room. She felt a booted foot nudge hers under the table and peeked up from her intent study of Castiel’s backwards tie to see Dean giving her an encouraging look; he already knew most of this story. She nudged him back.

“That wasn’t all she did, obviously. She made my lunches and drove me to school and she and my dad took turns making dinner every night. But then she would tuck me into bed and lay down with me, and we would read. A chapter a night,” she reminisced, losing herself for a moment in the remembered feel of soft sheets and the smell of white heather perfume. “It was our special time together, just to two of us. We would go on adventures with the characters, and visit all kinds of different worlds. We got to be explorers and commit daring feats of bravery, and when it was over she would still be there, saying goodnight and promising to read more tomorrow. Her favorite was The Hobbit.”

Sam gently took her hand and placed a napkin in it, giving her fingers a reassuring squeeze. Oh, apparently she was crying. How embarrassing.

Dean came to her rescue, somewhat unexpectedly. “Our mom used to sing,” he said, meeting Sam’s faintly surprised gaze. “She liked to keep the radio on, and she always sang. While she was cooking, or cleaning, or doing laundry, or coloring with me, or whatever. She always liked it when I sang along with her,” he recalled with a smile. “She especially liked to sing to you,” he told Sam, “before you were born. She’d talk to you about whatever she was doing, and say how excited she was to meet you. She tried to get me to talk to you too, but it was kinda weird,” he admitted, generously ignoring Sam’s shiny eyes. His own weren’t exactly dry, and Charlie was thinking about reaching for another napkin herself.

“Sometimes she’d even get Dad to dance with her in the living room,” Dean chuckled a bit, “and man he could not dance. He kept tripping over her feet, but she always laughed and said it was okay. Said it was more important to be happy than talented.” Dean opened his mouth to continue but the words seemed to stick in his throat.

“The Beatles,” Sam said, voice wavering a bit. “You said she used to sing ‘Hey Jude’ to get you to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Dean agreed, and the obvious silent bonding the brothers were doing over the handful of memories they had to share between them threatened to unravel Charlie completely. Who said this would be a good idea again?

Dean scratched absently at the tabletop for a moment before speaking again, a curiously hesitant edge to his words. “She also used to say angels were watching over me.”

It was obviously supposed to be wry, ironic even, but the glance Dean dared at Castiel’s face was more questioning—dare she think vulnerable?—than anything.

“She was correct,” Castiel agreed, inclining his head solemnly.

Dean seemed reassured by that, relaxing back into his chair and into Sam’s side, because somehow, without anyone noticing, the two brothers had migrated together during Dean’s speech until their shoulders were touching. They weren’t looking at each other but both seemed to need to point of contact, grounding them, and it reminded Charlie of nothing so much as two little kids huddling together at night to keep the thoughts of monsters at bay.

The bitter irony was frakking astounding.

The remaining minutes until the pie was done were spent in contemplative silence, each breathing in the cinnamon-scented air and lost in thought. When the obnoxious beeping of the timer intruded, no one moved right away. Dean bumped shoulders with Sam, looking over him once in a move so practiced that he probably didn’t even realize he still did it, before he got up to take the pie out. Charlie got up too, needing to move, and couldn’t contain her surprise when Castiel rose also only to envelop her in a warm hug.

“Thank you for sharing your story with me,” he murmured in her ear, and damn these boys and their angel because Charlie never cried, she wasn’t that kind of girl, and here she had to stave off a fourth round of tears.

She didn’t really know what to say to that so she just hugged Cas back, hard, because he seemed like he needed it. Sam came around as she stepped back from the angel and gave her a one-armed hug, bringing her in so she was reminded once more that the top of her head barely reached his chest. He clapped Cas on the shoulder and squeezed, probably harder than most people could take comfortably, but Cas just gave him a crinkly-eyed almost-smile and Sam moved off to gather up plates and silverware.

“It smells delicious, Dean,” Cas said as Dean came back over to them. “I hope the molecules live up to their promise.”

Charlie didn’t know if she was meant to follow that train of thought but Dean just rolled his eyes affectionately and grinned. “Yeah, me too buddy.” He bumped shoulders with Cas too before sliding an arm around Charlie’s shoulders and dropping a kiss on her temple.

She leaned her head on his chest, taking comfort in this little cobbled-together family. She wouldn’t trade them for anything.

On the other hand, she didn’t think any of them could take any more sentimentality right this minute.

Pulling back with a steadying breath, she asked Dean, “The pie has to cool for a while before we can eat it, right?” He nodded. “Okay.” Going back to the table Charlie rummaged in the last grocery bag that was so far untouched. Triumphantly she produced a bottle and faced the others.

Now it was time.

“Who wants to get drunk?”

Epilogue

As luck would have it, whiskey and apple pie went together fairly well. (This was a revelation to all of them except Dean.)

At least, nobody threw up and the pie tasted amazing, and even Castiel commented that the cinnamon and nutmeg molecules were much more complementary to the green apples than peanut butter was to grape jelly, which was uproariously funny to everyone else. The two-thirds empty whiskey bottle may have helped, but who were they to say Cas was wrong?

Happily drunk, Charlie proposed a toast. “To moms everywhere! Thank you for being… being… momly!”

Sam snickered.

“And thanks for getting knocked up and bringing us into the world,” Dean declared grandly, waving his shot glass in the air.

Charlie giggled, while Cas attempted to frown.

“Means pregnant, Cas,” Dean explained, unasked.

Cas appeared to be puzzling out that particular bit of slang. “So… if ‘knocked up’ means conceiving a child,” and none of them could contain their laughter at hearing the gruff angel utter the phrase ‘knocked up’, “is that then the result of the mother and father, ‘knocking boots’?”

Dean almost fell out of his chair he was laughing so hard, while Sam looked a bit poleaxed. “Oh my god Cas, I never even thought of that! You’re so smart, so smart and logical with your angel logic,” he said admiringly.

“Where did you hear about knocking boots?” Charlie whispered, just in case The Universe heard her talking about sex with an angel.

“I heard it from Dean,” he answered, and yeah, they should have seen that coming. “What I don’t understand is, why do these people need to knock on the door during intercourse? Did one of them get locked out? Why don’t they have a key?” he asked Dean, confused by human idiosyncrasies in regards to procreation once again.

“I don’t know man, maybe it’s just for people who are super polite,” Dean answered, barely hanging onto his straight face.

“Oh,” Castiel said, appearing to accept that after a moment. “Okay.”

“Happy Mother’s Day!” Sam declared out of the blue, standing and refilling everyone’s glasses. “To pie!”

“To pie!” Dean cried in his battle-warrior voice.

“Pie and dysfunction!” Charlie added.

This sent them into another round of giggles. When the bottle was empty and the humans were all swaying, someone suggested it was time for bed and everyone immediately agreed. It still took another few minutes for everyone’s limbs to regain enough coordination to stand up and walk down the hall, but they managed it, leaning on each other.

Cas brought up the rear, significantly less intoxicated than his friends but still feeling warm.

“I made up one of the guest rooms for you,” he told Charlie, indicating the appropriate door.

Charlie gasped, delighted. “You’re so awesome Cas!” She spun to throw her arms around his neck, but only managed to stumble sideways into Sam and Dean and knock her wrist painfully into a door frame.

“Ow,” she moaned, giving her wrist a forlorn look. “I wish you could have a mom too Cas,” she said, apropos of nothing, “so you could be messed up just like us.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said.

Dean stood her back up on her feet. “You want messed up? Just wait until Father’s Day.”

After Sam, Dean, and Charlie were settled and the bunker was quiet, Castiel retreated to the library. He had nothing to do for the next several hours while the others slept, so he went searching for a book, but nothing caught his interest. Finally his gaze alighted on a tattered paperback that had been left on one of the chairs. When he saw the title, he picked up the book and made himself comfortable. As long as he was careful, he was sure Charlie wouldn’t mind.

“In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort…………..”