Thanksgiving, Winchester Style or, The Importance of Pie
1978: Dean's First Thanksgiving
Mary Winchester looked up from setting the table for Thanksgiving dinner when she heard the front door open. She made a few small adjustments to the candles, fussed with the placemats, and stepped back, smiling at her handiwork. The good china was out and looked beautiful against the autumn colors of the linen tablecloth. The brightly-colored leaves, acorns, and baby squash were perfectly placed on the table runner in the center of the table, flanked on either end by candles in her mother's heavy silver candlestick holders. The good silver gleamed from its place next to the plates. All that was missing was the food.
She felt strong arms slide around her ever-expanding waistline and smiled as she leaned back against her husband. "Hey, you got here right in time. I was just finishing up."
John's voice was a low rumble near her ear. "It looks great, but shouldn't you be sitting down? Doc said you needed to stay off your feet."
Mary's voice was pure exasperated affection. "I'm pregnant, John, not disabled."
"I know," he rubbed his cheek against her soft blond hair, and pressed a kiss to her temple, knowing how that weakened her defenses. "But you're seven months pregnant, Mary. And with as tired as you've been lately…"
"I know, I know," she grumbled, not used to being inactive and not liking it much. "That's why I agreed not to spend the whole day on my feet, making Thanksgiving dinner. I'm being good." She stepped away and eased herself down onto the chair John pulled out for her. "Of course, I probably wouldn't be so tired if I wasn't as big as a house," she finished sardonically.
John paused from where he was helping her elevate her feet on an extra chair he'd pulled over and looked over at her petite frame, belly rounded with the child she carried. His child. His son. He felt his chest grow tight just looking at her, and when his voice came out, it was a little choked but fervently sincere, "I've never seen you look more beautiful."
Mary blushed prettily, ducking her head, and allowed him to adjust a small pillow behind her to take the pressure off her lower back before she changed the subject. "Speaking of dinner, John, where is it?" she looked around. "Did you leave it out in the car?"
There was a moment of silence, and John stilled behind her. She could almost picture him rubbing the back of his neck and shifting from one foot to the other. "Uh…not exactly?"
She sighed. There was definite guilt in his tone. "You forgot to pick it up, didn't you?"
He tried to cover, really he did; coming around to face her, expression the picture of innocence. "Course not, Mary, my love. I would never forget Thanksgiving dinner." He even flashed his dimples, hoping she would buy what he was selling.
"Don't you 'Mary, my love' me, John Winchester," she scolded. "You forgot to pick it up, didn't you? Even after I called and reminded you earlier?"
He sighed, busted. "I'm sorry, I just got distracted with the car I was working on and…look, I'll run out right now, okay?" He glanced at his watch and grimaced. The diner was closing early today so the owner could head home and get ready for company. By his calculations, he had exactly…twelve minutes to get there. He'd be cutting it close. "Does Edna know what we want?"
Mary nodded, eyes telling him she wasn't really mad. "I called earlier and talked to her. She was going to go ahead and get it all packed up so it was ready for you. Just in case you were running late," she cocked a brow, her grin impish. "But I forgot to ask for rolls. See if she has any of those homemade rolls she makes."
John nodded. "Will do." He turned to go, but her voice called him back.
"Oh, and pie! You can't forget the pie, John. I've been craving pie all day."
John was a typical first-time father, especially attentive and always willing to run out and get whatever random thing Mary happened to be craving. He treated it with the importance of a military mission, and this was no exception.
"Right, pie. What kind sounds good?"
"I don't know…pumpkin, maybe? Or, apple." Mary cocked her head to one side as she gave it some serious thought. "Ooh, pecan sounds good, too. Or, what about sweet potato? I could really—"
"Never mind," John laughed and held up a hand to stop her. "I should know better than to ask a pregnant woman to choose just one kind of pie," he teased.
"Hey, I'm eating for two here, you know." She did her best to look offended, but in truth she felt like she was eating for four. This kid had a massive appetite. It was like feeding a tapeworm.
"I know you are." John's face softened, filling with love as he bent down to brush her tummy gently. "We have a lot to be thankful for, Mary." He still couldn't get over how much. Was it even possible for one man to be so lucky?
"Yeah, we do." She rested her smaller hand on his, where it pressed against her belly, and felt the kick that was strong enough to vibrate through both of their hands. She grinned up at him. "I think your son's trying to tell you something," she laughed.
"Guess so. Boy needs his pie," John smiled, eyes twinkling, and gave her a kiss before standing. "I'm on it. I'll do some recon and see what Edna at the diner's got cooked up." He gave a little salute in parting and pulled on his leather jacket as he walked out the door.
Mary could hear the rumbling purr of the Impala as he started it up and pulled away. She sighed, hoping he wouldn't be long. She'd just had a snack, but she was hungry again already.
Sure enough, John made it back in record time—due mainly to the fact that Edna had been practically waiting at the door for him with his order—and they set the table with the bounty he'd picked up. There was turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade stuffing, sweet potato casserole with marshmallows on top, fresh green beans, Edna's special rolls, corn on the cob, cranberry sauce, and a couple of other things besides. It all looked delicious.
Mary laughed out loud as she began to unpack the last bag of diner fare. "What's all this?"
"Pie." John's smile was smug; he was very pleased with himself.
"John, there have to be three—no, four—pies here." The laughter was still in her voice as Mary looked up from counting. Her blue eyes sparkled with amused affection.
John just shrugged, dimples deepening. "You can never have too much pie, Mary. Besides, we've got a growing boy to feed."
Mary just rolled her eyes at this, still chuckling. John Winchester never did anything halfway; that was for sure. It was just one of the many things she loved about him.
And when later that night, after dinner was over, his petite wife managed to scarf down a piece from each of the four different kinds of pie, John just beamed proudly and leaned over to rub her swollen belly in approval. "That's my boy!"