A mari usque ad mare - Epilogue (14/14)
A mari usque ad mare - Epilogue (14/14)
858/28,777 of R rated Gen (with an edge of subtext) crack!fic in which Dean revisits his past in unexpected ways. (Down By The Seaside)
Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue
Epilogue
A priori
I
Mary Winchester didn’t know what she was searching for. Until John.
She appeared to be just another small town girl with too many dreams. She gazed at his eyes and the tattoo, thought ‘grief,’ said ‘John,’ and stood firm.
She wasn’t leaving. She saw normal, and didn’t know why people looked elsewhere.
Tall, dark, and handsome. Eyes that stayed green, and a damaged heart.
Nothing simple. A husband and children? That was a risk worth taking.
She’d seen too much not to know when to say ‘stay.’
II
She spent her life trying to block one voice out. Music was the only thing that even came close to helping. So much so, that she wanted to teach, back when she still thought wishes could come true. Another year, another instrument to conquer. Still not enough. Till only her voice remained.
Then that dark Chevy purred into town, bringing him with it, yet another mystery. Afterwards she could never quite separate out John’s voice from the sound of his car. A two-part harmony in leather and Detroit steel shouldn’t have worked at all.
They argued and laughed over music more than anything else. But the real revelation was the way he said her name, so gently like he could break her in half with a careless word.
III
She hated bland. Chicken soup, porridge, rice, white bread and plain ice cream. Life was too short to be tasteless. She wanted character, interest, and flavour. She craved everything.
She wanted the back bite of curry, and the fire of chilli in winter. Pumpkin and nutmeg in the fall. Cherries, tamarillos, and pomegranates bleeding into her mouth in spring. The crunch and acid sweetness of an apple grabbed over a fence in summer.
John was all of that.
Even after he gave up cigarettes, and that Zippo was just a restless habit, he still tasted the same to her as in that first kiss. Sex and danger. Whiskey, honey, and smoke. Home.
IV
Heads of lavender interleaved between linen. Recently sanded blocks of cedar nudging boots on closet floors. The heavy smell of wax cut through with lemons as she helped polish a table. Rose petals in a carefully repaired bowl on the sideboard. The enticing waft of cinnamon and yeast as the oven door was briefly opened. They were the best and strongest memories of her mother. Even the rotten egg reek of sulphur hadn’t taken that away.
Engine fumes, the hint of grease, and the all-embracing acrid amber warmth of leather. So far from what she’d known she needed until now.
V
It was a point of pride. Her hands were strong and supple, and apart from that showed no signs that she’d ever done a day’s work in her life. They lied. She took full credit for that.
That was not their only deception. She had a reputation for reserve at odds with her smiling eyes. She was … shy … as she liked to excuse herself, outside of family.
It didn’t happen often, just enough to make her wary of unexpected contact, and the infrequent insights that accompanied them. Moments of sudden acuity leaving her with random traces, other people’s secrets and lies.
She liked to think of it as a genetic glitch, a short cut between object and experience.
John was different; with him she could only feel. But she felt everything.
VI
Day of rest. A concept that John had only just formed an uneasy alliance with. Outside, polishing his baby and still muttering about how the hell it had got into such a state.
Such a quiet few weeks. Funny how you looked back and nothing seemed to have happened. It was nice to have that kind of peace every now and then. Almost made up for those … other … years.
Mary turned the taps on over the sink, smiling out the kitchen window at her drifter and his first love.
Water, running through her hands …
Leaves falling … candles under moonlight … gun oil under her fingernails … highways … laughter, masking pain … the thud of the pool cue … an endless journey … one battle all their lives … Deus Archangelorum … two people, one spirit - her sons … audi nos …
No. Just more dreams. No.
Mary couldn’t stop herself crossing her arms protectively around her body. Her baby. Their first child. Something that she’d tried so hard not to want. No hostages, ever.
As she looked down into the dark depths all she could … see … hear … taste … smell … touch … and be … was the sea.
Inside, a wave broke on a more distant shore.
VII
Came another Sunday. Just the two of them curled up together under the tree. Small hands winging over her burgeoning stomach, face turned in to shadow a kiss, then back to listening intently again.
Curled up, content, watching John purring over his car.
Her son similarly focussed on what they both knew was his little brother, humming; calming the restlessness within. Eavesdropping on another world.
‘Where are you, Dean?’
‘The sea.’
♒ ♒
858/28,777 of R rated Gen (with an edge of subtext) crack!fic in which Dean revisits his past in unexpected ways. (Down By The Seaside)
Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Epilogue
Epilogue
A priori
I
Mary Winchester didn’t know what she was searching for. Until John.
She appeared to be just another small town girl with too many dreams. She gazed at his eyes and the tattoo, thought ‘grief,’ said ‘John,’ and stood firm.
She wasn’t leaving. She saw normal, and didn’t know why people looked elsewhere.
Tall, dark, and handsome. Eyes that stayed green, and a damaged heart.
Nothing simple. A husband and children? That was a risk worth taking.
She’d seen too much not to know when to say ‘stay.’
II
She spent her life trying to block one voice out. Music was the only thing that even came close to helping. So much so, that she wanted to teach, back when she still thought wishes could come true. Another year, another instrument to conquer. Still not enough. Till only her voice remained.
Then that dark Chevy purred into town, bringing him with it, yet another mystery. Afterwards she could never quite separate out John’s voice from the sound of his car. A two-part harmony in leather and Detroit steel shouldn’t have worked at all.
They argued and laughed over music more than anything else. But the real revelation was the way he said her name, so gently like he could break her in half with a careless word.
III
She hated bland. Chicken soup, porridge, rice, white bread and plain ice cream. Life was too short to be tasteless. She wanted character, interest, and flavour. She craved everything.
She wanted the back bite of curry, and the fire of chilli in winter. Pumpkin and nutmeg in the fall. Cherries, tamarillos, and pomegranates bleeding into her mouth in spring. The crunch and acid sweetness of an apple grabbed over a fence in summer.
John was all of that.
Even after he gave up cigarettes, and that Zippo was just a restless habit, he still tasted the same to her as in that first kiss. Sex and danger. Whiskey, honey, and smoke. Home.
IV
Heads of lavender interleaved between linen. Recently sanded blocks of cedar nudging boots on closet floors. The heavy smell of wax cut through with lemons as she helped polish a table. Rose petals in a carefully repaired bowl on the sideboard. The enticing waft of cinnamon and yeast as the oven door was briefly opened. They were the best and strongest memories of her mother. Even the rotten egg reek of sulphur hadn’t taken that away.
Engine fumes, the hint of grease, and the all-embracing acrid amber warmth of leather. So far from what she’d known she needed until now.
V
It was a point of pride. Her hands were strong and supple, and apart from that showed no signs that she’d ever done a day’s work in her life. They lied. She took full credit for that.
That was not their only deception. She had a reputation for reserve at odds with her smiling eyes. She was … shy … as she liked to excuse herself, outside of family.
It didn’t happen often, just enough to make her wary of unexpected contact, and the infrequent insights that accompanied them. Moments of sudden acuity leaving her with random traces, other people’s secrets and lies.
She liked to think of it as a genetic glitch, a short cut between object and experience.
John was different; with him she could only feel. But she felt everything.
VI
Day of rest. A concept that John had only just formed an uneasy alliance with. Outside, polishing his baby and still muttering about how the hell it had got into such a state.
Such a quiet few weeks. Funny how you looked back and nothing seemed to have happened. It was nice to have that kind of peace every now and then. Almost made up for those … other … years.
Mary turned the taps on over the sink, smiling out the kitchen window at her drifter and his first love.
Water, running through her hands …
Leaves falling … candles under moonlight … gun oil under her fingernails … highways … laughter, masking pain … the thud of the pool cue … an endless journey … one battle all their lives … Deus Archangelorum … two people, one spirit - her sons … audi nos …
No. Just more dreams. No.
Mary couldn’t stop herself crossing her arms protectively around her body. Her baby. Their first child. Something that she’d tried so hard not to want. No hostages, ever.
As she looked down into the dark depths all she could … see … hear … taste … smell … touch … and be … was the sea.
Inside, a wave broke on a more distant shore.
VII
Came another Sunday. Just the two of them curled up together under the tree. Small hands winging over her burgeoning stomach, face turned in to shadow a kiss, then back to listening intently again.
Curled up, content, watching John purring over his car.
Her son similarly focussed on what they both knew was his little brother, humming; calming the restlessness within. Eavesdropping on another world.
‘Where are you, Dean?’
‘The sea.’
♒ ♒