Fic: By My Darling Abide (SPN, gen)
Title: By My Darling Abide
Author: tigerlady
Pairing: Gen. (Well, John/Mary, but as in canon.)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: 4.03 In the Beginning
Summary: Mary doesn't forget.
Notes: Thank you to stillane for taking a look at this. Any mistakes are my own. 2000 words.
Mary's hand shakes as she settles the receiver back into the cradle. John's hands are warm on her shoulders a second later; she hadn't heard him come into the room, but somehow, she'd known he was there.
Skills learned in childhood never truly fade away.
"The doctor's office?" he asks.
She can only bring herself to nod.
"It's okay, it takes time." He turns her to face him, and if the lewd expression on his face is a little too plastic, a little too put on, well, she appreciates the effort. "We'll have fun trying."
She shakes her head and reaches for her throat. Searching for her voice. "We don't need to."
"I want to," he says--but then his eyes widen as he gets it. "Really?"
She nods. John lets out a whoop that reverberates through her ears, into her chest, and then he scoops her up into his arms so that her feet dangle off the ground. She can only hang on tight and squeeze her eyes shut as he swings her around. Dizziness hits her hard, and she half hopes that morning sickness makes an appearance all over his shoulder.
The thought seems to occur to him at the same time. He sets her on her feet abruptly, murmuring "sorry, sorry," as he steadies her shoulders. He bends his knees, tipping her chin up so he can peer into her eyes, and the motion is so like what her dad used to do when he was checking her after a hunt that her stomach does roil for a second. But then John's hand drifts to her cheek, and his grin melts the fear away. She smiles back up at him and welcomes his enthusiastic kiss.
They link hands, pressing them together to her belly. It's going to be okay, she thinks, relaxing into John's arms. Whatever it takes, her family--this family--will stay safe.
****
The morning sickness she does have doesn't last long. Instead, she begins waking in the middle of the night, stirred by a fear that her earlier certainty can't overcome.
The life of a hunter is far behind her. John's world is her world now, and even though they've only moved across town from her childhood home, it's the difference between staring at the midday sun and being trapped in a cold, black cave. She has friends who spend their days talking about babies and balancing the check book. Neighbors who don't weave spells into their thresholds. She has a good life now, a real life, and it's all she ever wanted.
In the middle of the night, though, some part of her can't help but remember the past. She can't help thinking about what's out there, waiting. Each night the fear has her rising, holding her breath as she slips away from John's embrace. She's drawn to the hall, towards the nursery--but there's no reason to enter. Not just yet. Instead, she lays her hand on her growing belly, assuring herself that the baby's okay, and paces downstairs. If John wakes up and follows her down, she'll tell him she's hungry. (She doesn't crave pickles, thank goodness, but she's made sure to stock up on Neapolitan ice cream these days.)
Part of her has always rebelled at the idea of God. After the evil she's seen, the idea of an all-powerful God just doesn't make sense. But in the middle of the night, when she can barely breathe from the memory of gleaming yellow eyes and the taste of sulfur on her tongue, she takes up vigil in the creaky wooden rocker John bought the day after they found out--and tries to believe.
In the middle of the night, every night, she prays to God. Prays to God for the sake of her baby.
*****
One Thursday night--Friday morning, actually--she wakes later than usual. She's seven months along, and it's all but impossible to be anything close to sneaky as she pushes herself out of bed. By now, though, John is used to her restless patterns. He doesn't stir, so she stands there for a minute just looking at his beautiful face. The love-smitten heroines in the movies John takes her to always swear that they'll do anything for their men. Mary stares at John, and worries again at what exactly her anything is going to come to.
Not yet, she tells herself. Ten years hasn't passed yet. She knows that. But she knows it will. So she turns away from John and eases her way down the stairs. Covers her shoulders with the afghan her mother crocheted when she was four, settles into the rocking chair, and begins to pray.
A gust of wind rattles the windows. Mary opens her eyes, startled out of her devotional trance. She reaches back, gripping the chair arms for the leverage to propel herself upwards so she can check on the weather outside--but the sight in front of her freezes her in place.
There are shadows on the wall. Great black shadows climbing up her perfect white walls. Shaped like a wide curving V, but jagged along the edges. Like nothing she's ever seen before, be it monster, spirit, or demon. Slowly she turns her head, but there's nothing behind her to cast such a shadow. Nothing that she can see, anyway.
The window rattles again, hard. A screeching builds up all around her, like a thousand artisans cutting on glass all at once. Mary covers her ears, but she can't block the sound out. Under it all, she thinks she hears words. Son, it sounds like, and the fear triples in her heart.
"Go away!" she screams. Peripherally she's aware of a crystal vase, the one she bought on sale at Meier's last month, popping like a cherry bomb. "Go away, leave him alone!"
Her chest is so tight she has to pant for breath so that she has enough in her to scream again. Before she fills her lungs, though, everything goes silent. So silent she's worried for what's yet to come.
"Mary?" John calls. She hears the thump of his footsteps racing down the stairs. "Mary, you okay? What happened?"
"Nothing." Nothing happened. Not tonight. She shudders. The scream she never voiced trickles out as a sigh. "I...fell asleep in the rocking chair. I guess I had a nightmare."
John steps forward, arms already open, but then he stops short with a grimace of pain. "Damn it," he says, hopping on one foot towards the safety of the couch. She can see the glimmer of a crystal shard in his bare foot, quickly being dulled by the red of his blood.
"I'm sorry, I guess I knocked it over," she says, circling around the debris to make her way to the bathroom. She grabs the first aid kit and returns to his side to clean out the wound. "I'm so sorry."
"Hey." He cups her chin, lifting her head so she has to look into his eyes rather than at what she's doing. "It's okay. I'll survive."
She hugs him. Hugs him hard, ignoring the bloody tissue in her hand and her awkward belly and the fact that he has one leg stretched across her lap. John holds her just as tightly.
She almost believes the words of comfort he murmurs in her ear.
*****
One cloudy Saturday morning, she decides that the color of the nursery is all wrong. John painted the walls a sunny yellow, saying that it was good for a boy or a girl, but Mary feels deep in her gut that a pale blue would be better. Pale blue, like the infinite mid-morning sky over the Kansas prairie. She knows that at eight and a half months, she's pushing her limits, but even if it takes her a little longer than it used to, she should still have time to get the job done.
(She keeps telling herself she still has time.)
One of the TrueValue stockboys carries the paint cans out to the car. He slams the trunk lid down and turns to ask if she needs anything else. She tries to hand him a couple quarters, just like her mother used to do, but he laughs gently and tells her to keep it. It hits her then how much she feels like a mother. She's not all that old, not in terms of years, but the stockboy in front of her must be close to twenty.
She sighs, adjusts the fit of her blouse under her breasts, and turns towards the car door.
A woman stands in her way.
"Excuse me?" Mary asks, caught off guard. "That's my car. I just need to get by you to the door."
The woman cocks her head to the side, like the request is the most bizarre thing she's ever heard. She's a nice looking woman, slightly shorter and younger than Mary herself, with long dark brown hair and a narrow face. But there's something off in her eyes, pretty though they are, and Mary takes a step back.
"Is there something I can do for you?" she asks, hoping that the woman will take the hint and leave. But no such luck. The woman takes a step forward too, keeping the space between them small.
"You are the one who asked for help."
Something about the way she says it makes Mary's blood race. "I did, and the young man was nice enough to help me." She points towards the store, though she doesn't take her eyes from the woman in front of her. "I'm fine now."
"You asked us to watch over your son, and we have come."
Mary clutches at the cross at her throat, the only weapon she still carries. "Us? Who--"
The woman smiles. It lights up her whole face, changes her odd eyes into ones that are deep and warm. "I am an angel of the Lord," she says. Mary feels like she's stumbled, though she hasn't tried to take a step. She reaches out towards the roof of the car anyway, searching for support--and the woman catches her wrist. The strength in her hand is unbelievable. "You asked, and He has answered."
Mary shakes her head. She's hallucinating. Or worse--some evil thing has been privy to her thoughts and is seeking to exploit them. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The woman cocks her head to the side again. "You cannot both believe and not believe. You have asked, and we are here."
"But why?" Mary asks. A horn blares a warning on the street behind her, and she turns her head instinctively.
When she turns back, the woman is gone. Completely gone, as if she had never been. But then her baby moves, stretching his little arms and legs against his confinement. She presses her hand to where she feels the strongest push--and wonder catches hold.
*****
"He's beautiful," John murmurs, stroking his fingertip across Dean's fuzzy brow. His hand is so large, so dark against her son's tiny head. She wishes she could have a photograph of the moment, or maybe even a painting, to capture the start contrast. Strength side-by-side with softness. Those are two of the things that she loves the most about John. She hopes those traits have been passed on to their son. (And that maybe her stubborn streak has canceled out his, rather than combining, but she doubts it. Especially given the way Dean already fusses when he's tired.)
"We should let him sleep." She checks those little toes one more time, making sure he hasn't managed to kick off his socks in the last minute. John bends low, pressing a kiss to Dean's head, then squeezes her shoulder before he slips out of the room. She waits until she hears their bedroom door open. She lowers her head so her lips are a breath away from Dean's soft little cheek. "Sleep well, baby boy. Angels are watching over you."
Heart light with joy and hope, she leaves her son sleeping and joins her husband in bed. The demon will have his moment, she knows that, but she has faith in God now. The angels are watching, and that yellow-eyed fucker won't have a chance at her son.
Author: tigerlady
Pairing: Gen. (Well, John/Mary, but as in canon.)
Rating: PG
Spoilers: 4.03 In the Beginning
Summary: Mary doesn't forget.
Notes: Thank you to stillane for taking a look at this. Any mistakes are my own. 2000 words.
Mary's hand shakes as she settles the receiver back into the cradle. John's hands are warm on her shoulders a second later; she hadn't heard him come into the room, but somehow, she'd known he was there.
Skills learned in childhood never truly fade away.
"The doctor's office?" he asks.
She can only bring herself to nod.
"It's okay, it takes time." He turns her to face him, and if the lewd expression on his face is a little too plastic, a little too put on, well, she appreciates the effort. "We'll have fun trying."
She shakes her head and reaches for her throat. Searching for her voice. "We don't need to."
"I want to," he says--but then his eyes widen as he gets it. "Really?"
She nods. John lets out a whoop that reverberates through her ears, into her chest, and then he scoops her up into his arms so that her feet dangle off the ground. She can only hang on tight and squeeze her eyes shut as he swings her around. Dizziness hits her hard, and she half hopes that morning sickness makes an appearance all over his shoulder.
The thought seems to occur to him at the same time. He sets her on her feet abruptly, murmuring "sorry, sorry," as he steadies her shoulders. He bends his knees, tipping her chin up so he can peer into her eyes, and the motion is so like what her dad used to do when he was checking her after a hunt that her stomach does roil for a second. But then John's hand drifts to her cheek, and his grin melts the fear away. She smiles back up at him and welcomes his enthusiastic kiss.
They link hands, pressing them together to her belly. It's going to be okay, she thinks, relaxing into John's arms. Whatever it takes, her family--this family--will stay safe.
****
The morning sickness she does have doesn't last long. Instead, she begins waking in the middle of the night, stirred by a fear that her earlier certainty can't overcome.
The life of a hunter is far behind her. John's world is her world now, and even though they've only moved across town from her childhood home, it's the difference between staring at the midday sun and being trapped in a cold, black cave. She has friends who spend their days talking about babies and balancing the check book. Neighbors who don't weave spells into their thresholds. She has a good life now, a real life, and it's all she ever wanted.
In the middle of the night, though, some part of her can't help but remember the past. She can't help thinking about what's out there, waiting. Each night the fear has her rising, holding her breath as she slips away from John's embrace. She's drawn to the hall, towards the nursery--but there's no reason to enter. Not just yet. Instead, she lays her hand on her growing belly, assuring herself that the baby's okay, and paces downstairs. If John wakes up and follows her down, she'll tell him she's hungry. (She doesn't crave pickles, thank goodness, but she's made sure to stock up on Neapolitan ice cream these days.)
Part of her has always rebelled at the idea of God. After the evil she's seen, the idea of an all-powerful God just doesn't make sense. But in the middle of the night, when she can barely breathe from the memory of gleaming yellow eyes and the taste of sulfur on her tongue, she takes up vigil in the creaky wooden rocker John bought the day after they found out--and tries to believe.
In the middle of the night, every night, she prays to God. Prays to God for the sake of her baby.
*****
One Thursday night--Friday morning, actually--she wakes later than usual. She's seven months along, and it's all but impossible to be anything close to sneaky as she pushes herself out of bed. By now, though, John is used to her restless patterns. He doesn't stir, so she stands there for a minute just looking at his beautiful face. The love-smitten heroines in the movies John takes her to always swear that they'll do anything for their men. Mary stares at John, and worries again at what exactly her anything is going to come to.
Not yet, she tells herself. Ten years hasn't passed yet. She knows that. But she knows it will. So she turns away from John and eases her way down the stairs. Covers her shoulders with the afghan her mother crocheted when she was four, settles into the rocking chair, and begins to pray.
A gust of wind rattles the windows. Mary opens her eyes, startled out of her devotional trance. She reaches back, gripping the chair arms for the leverage to propel herself upwards so she can check on the weather outside--but the sight in front of her freezes her in place.
There are shadows on the wall. Great black shadows climbing up her perfect white walls. Shaped like a wide curving V, but jagged along the edges. Like nothing she's ever seen before, be it monster, spirit, or demon. Slowly she turns her head, but there's nothing behind her to cast such a shadow. Nothing that she can see, anyway.
The window rattles again, hard. A screeching builds up all around her, like a thousand artisans cutting on glass all at once. Mary covers her ears, but she can't block the sound out. Under it all, she thinks she hears words. Son, it sounds like, and the fear triples in her heart.
"Go away!" she screams. Peripherally she's aware of a crystal vase, the one she bought on sale at Meier's last month, popping like a cherry bomb. "Go away, leave him alone!"
Her chest is so tight she has to pant for breath so that she has enough in her to scream again. Before she fills her lungs, though, everything goes silent. So silent she's worried for what's yet to come.
"Mary?" John calls. She hears the thump of his footsteps racing down the stairs. "Mary, you okay? What happened?"
"Nothing." Nothing happened. Not tonight. She shudders. The scream she never voiced trickles out as a sigh. "I...fell asleep in the rocking chair. I guess I had a nightmare."
John steps forward, arms already open, but then he stops short with a grimace of pain. "Damn it," he says, hopping on one foot towards the safety of the couch. She can see the glimmer of a crystal shard in his bare foot, quickly being dulled by the red of his blood.
"I'm sorry, I guess I knocked it over," she says, circling around the debris to make her way to the bathroom. She grabs the first aid kit and returns to his side to clean out the wound. "I'm so sorry."
"Hey." He cups her chin, lifting her head so she has to look into his eyes rather than at what she's doing. "It's okay. I'll survive."
She hugs him. Hugs him hard, ignoring the bloody tissue in her hand and her awkward belly and the fact that he has one leg stretched across her lap. John holds her just as tightly.
She almost believes the words of comfort he murmurs in her ear.
*****
One cloudy Saturday morning, she decides that the color of the nursery is all wrong. John painted the walls a sunny yellow, saying that it was good for a boy or a girl, but Mary feels deep in her gut that a pale blue would be better. Pale blue, like the infinite mid-morning sky over the Kansas prairie. She knows that at eight and a half months, she's pushing her limits, but even if it takes her a little longer than it used to, she should still have time to get the job done.
(She keeps telling herself she still has time.)
One of the TrueValue stockboys carries the paint cans out to the car. He slams the trunk lid down and turns to ask if she needs anything else. She tries to hand him a couple quarters, just like her mother used to do, but he laughs gently and tells her to keep it. It hits her then how much she feels like a mother. She's not all that old, not in terms of years, but the stockboy in front of her must be close to twenty.
She sighs, adjusts the fit of her blouse under her breasts, and turns towards the car door.
A woman stands in her way.
"Excuse me?" Mary asks, caught off guard. "That's my car. I just need to get by you to the door."
The woman cocks her head to the side, like the request is the most bizarre thing she's ever heard. She's a nice looking woman, slightly shorter and younger than Mary herself, with long dark brown hair and a narrow face. But there's something off in her eyes, pretty though they are, and Mary takes a step back.
"Is there something I can do for you?" she asks, hoping that the woman will take the hint and leave. But no such luck. The woman takes a step forward too, keeping the space between them small.
"You are the one who asked for help."
Something about the way she says it makes Mary's blood race. "I did, and the young man was nice enough to help me." She points towards the store, though she doesn't take her eyes from the woman in front of her. "I'm fine now."
"You asked us to watch over your son, and we have come."
Mary clutches at the cross at her throat, the only weapon she still carries. "Us? Who--"
The woman smiles. It lights up her whole face, changes her odd eyes into ones that are deep and warm. "I am an angel of the Lord," she says. Mary feels like she's stumbled, though she hasn't tried to take a step. She reaches out towards the roof of the car anyway, searching for support--and the woman catches her wrist. The strength in her hand is unbelievable. "You asked, and He has answered."
Mary shakes her head. She's hallucinating. Or worse--some evil thing has been privy to her thoughts and is seeking to exploit them. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The woman cocks her head to the side again. "You cannot both believe and not believe. You have asked, and we are here."
"But why?" Mary asks. A horn blares a warning on the street behind her, and she turns her head instinctively.
When she turns back, the woman is gone. Completely gone, as if she had never been. But then her baby moves, stretching his little arms and legs against his confinement. She presses her hand to where she feels the strongest push--and wonder catches hold.
*****
"He's beautiful," John murmurs, stroking his fingertip across Dean's fuzzy brow. His hand is so large, so dark against her son's tiny head. She wishes she could have a photograph of the moment, or maybe even a painting, to capture the start contrast. Strength side-by-side with softness. Those are two of the things that she loves the most about John. She hopes those traits have been passed on to their son. (And that maybe her stubborn streak has canceled out his, rather than combining, but she doubts it. Especially given the way Dean already fusses when he's tired.)
"We should let him sleep." She checks those little toes one more time, making sure he hasn't managed to kick off his socks in the last minute. John bends low, pressing a kiss to Dean's head, then squeezes her shoulder before he slips out of the room. She waits until she hears their bedroom door open. She lowers her head so her lips are a breath away from Dean's soft little cheek. "Sleep well, baby boy. Angels are watching over you."
Heart light with joy and hope, she leaves her son sleeping and joins her husband in bed. The demon will have his moment, she knows that, but she has faith in God now. The angels are watching, and that yellow-eyed fucker won't have a chance at her son.