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Mary doesn’t know how to be a mother to sons that are years older than her. She doesn’t know how to hug them right when just a few hours ago those tall, wide-shouldered strangers were a little boy she could lift up and swirl through the air and a tiny baby whose head she had to support.
Her husband and her babies, gone in the blink of an eye, and all she has left are those strange, strange men.
Dean-o, kneeling with his hands behind his back, and Sammy, gripping big brother’s hair tight.
They are in the middle of the library, out in the open, and the angel—the literal Angel of the Lord who apparently is her eldest’s ‘special friend’—doesn’t seem fazed by the display at all. As if it is normal for big brothers to kneel at their baby brother’s feet, head on their thighs and letting themselves be pet.
The angel, too, is odd. Mary doesn’t know if she likes him.
“What are they doing?”
“Taking care of one another,” Castiel says. “Be quiet.”
Sam lying in his crib, finally silent after crying for hours, Dean knelt in front rocking gently.
“Sh, Mommy. He’s sleeping.”