FIC: Metaphysical (Supernatural AU, Gen, R, Prologue/8)
Master Post
TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO
Lawrence, Kansas, 1883
Ever since the arrival of baby Samuel, Mary's elder son had proven increasingly difficult to keep in bed. Tonight alone she'd had to fetch Dean back to his room thrice, this latest time from the floor next to Sam's crib where he was showing his infant brother his favorite tin automata.
"Sammy's not old enough to play yet," she told him, scooping him up off the floor and hefting him in her arms. "Back to bed with you."
Dean squirmed in her arms until she let him place one of the tiny soldiers, already wound up and raising his pistol arm up and down, up and down, in Sam's crib next to him.
"Now are we finally ready?" Dean pressed his face to her throat as she carried him down the hall and back into his bedroom, right up until he had to let go so she could tuck him into bed. Then he watched her, wide-eyed awake in the moonlight, until she blew him a kiss and pressed her finger to her lips and closed his bedroom door again.
She was barely downstairs before she heard the patter of little feet once more, and instead of dimming the lamps as she intended she headed straight for her husband's side.
"You've spoilt him rotten, now you've got to deal with the consequences," she said, distracting him from his newspaper with a kiss to his forehead. "He thinks Sammy is his new toy."
"Sammy is his new toy," said John, folding up his newspaper with an indulgent grin on his face. "Boys will be boys, Mary. I'll go take care of it."
"See that you do," she said. "I'll get the lights."
He switched the autophonograph on before he headed upstairs, brass tubing carrying the sound up to a horn mounted in Dean's bedroom, and as she dimmed the gaslights and damped the fire she hummed along with the faint music carrying back down the stairs. When all else failed it had always been the one sure way to get Dean to settle.
Dean always did get himself wound up about things, unlike his baby brother who'd been an absolute angel ever since he was born.
So to speak.
Only when she'd set everything to rights for the night did Mary join her husband upstairs, pushing the nursery door open a crack and peering inside.
"Did you get Dean to sleep already?" she asked as she saw him lean over the crib to check on their infant son.
He remained silent, though, and a few moments later she closed the door again just as quietly for fear of waking Sam when he'd only just fallen asleep. A little further down the hall she pushed open the door to Dean's bedroom.
"Oh, John, it's too loud," she called back down the hall before she even got inside, turning to head downstairs to make the adjustment. But before she could get so much as a step away from the door, her blood ran cold when John answered her from inside.
"Dean likes it that way."
"Oh God," she gasped, tearing back down the hall to the nursery, to the shadowy figure of someone not her husband leaning over Sam's crib.
"You!" she gasped as the man turned towards her, showing his true face.
The next thing out of her mouth was a scream.
: : :
"...and across his lap lay a rifle, also seemingly painted black, and a belt of arms of the same somber hue was about his waist." Dean's eyes were just beginning to close, both hands curled around the edge of the patchwork quilt that he'd pulled to his chin, one clutching a piece of John's father's old uniform, the other a small star detail from what Mary'd told him was her family crest. "The horse was saddle and bridleless, and stood with head erect gaz--"
John's head jerked up at the sound of his wife's scream, the book instantly dropped atop his son's quilt. "Stay here," he said, knocking the chair over in his haste to dash down the hall.
But everything was quiet in the nursery, the only sound the music coming out the wide open door of Dean's room. Sam was waving his chubby legs in his crib and whatever had frightened Mary, it had obviously been fleeting. A spider, or a mouse. She'd probably gone downstairs to fetch their largest skillet to dispatch the pest.
John reached down into the crib and grabbed hold of Sam's ankle, shaking it playfully as Sam kicked up against him. In his hand he clutched one of Dean's tin soldiers, a smear of red paint across his face.
"I've got to take better care painting their hats next time," he said, but when he ran his thumb over the smear, it came away wet. He looked at his thumb uncertainly, then at his son's cheek where he spotted another smear of red. Something told him not to look up - don't do it, you don't want to know - but he did anyway, he had to.
And there she was, pinned to the ceiling, splayed out obscenely with her belly slashed.
"Mary!" he shouted, dropping to his knees. "Sweet Jesus, Mary!"
As he watched the body burst into flames, taking the entire ceiling with it. Part of him was still slack-jawed with horror at the sight; the other more pragmatic part knew that here on the edge of town the fire brigade wouldn't arrive until the whole damn house had gone up.
"Daddy?" he heard from the doorway, shoving him into action. He snatched Sam up from his crib and pressed him into his brother's small arms.
"Don't look, Dean," he said, "just take your brother outside as fast as you can. Go, Dean."
Dean did look, but then he turned and ran, just like his father told him to.
Music from Dean's room was still barely audible over the crackling of the fire, as John looked for something, anything, to put the fire out. But then he looked up again and met Mary's dead eyes and knew that nothing could be done. Even now, when the life was already gone from her, she was telling him that his sons needed to come first.
He said a silent good-bye as the fire spread to the curtains, the dresser, the crib, and sprinted out of the house to catch up with his sons.
Without even pausing he scooped them up under his arm as he passed and carried them out onto the street, to safety. Only when they were there, ash-smeared and breathless and teary, did he finally heard a fire siren begin to sound up and down the streets.
He didn't know what in God's name had just happened, but he knew, for his boys' sake, for his own sake, that he needed to find out.
Next Part | Master Post
TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO
Lawrence, Kansas, 1883
Ever since the arrival of baby Samuel, Mary's elder son had proven increasingly difficult to keep in bed. Tonight alone she'd had to fetch Dean back to his room thrice, this latest time from the floor next to Sam's crib where he was showing his infant brother his favorite tin automata.
"Sammy's not old enough to play yet," she told him, scooping him up off the floor and hefting him in her arms. "Back to bed with you."
Dean squirmed in her arms until she let him place one of the tiny soldiers, already wound up and raising his pistol arm up and down, up and down, in Sam's crib next to him.
"Now are we finally ready?" Dean pressed his face to her throat as she carried him down the hall and back into his bedroom, right up until he had to let go so she could tuck him into bed. Then he watched her, wide-eyed awake in the moonlight, until she blew him a kiss and pressed her finger to her lips and closed his bedroom door again.
She was barely downstairs before she heard the patter of little feet once more, and instead of dimming the lamps as she intended she headed straight for her husband's side.
"You've spoilt him rotten, now you've got to deal with the consequences," she said, distracting him from his newspaper with a kiss to his forehead. "He thinks Sammy is his new toy."
"Sammy is his new toy," said John, folding up his newspaper with an indulgent grin on his face. "Boys will be boys, Mary. I'll go take care of it."
"See that you do," she said. "I'll get the lights."
He switched the autophonograph on before he headed upstairs, brass tubing carrying the sound up to a horn mounted in Dean's bedroom, and as she dimmed the gaslights and damped the fire she hummed along with the faint music carrying back down the stairs. When all else failed it had always been the one sure way to get Dean to settle.
Dean always did get himself wound up about things, unlike his baby brother who'd been an absolute angel ever since he was born.
So to speak.
Only when she'd set everything to rights for the night did Mary join her husband upstairs, pushing the nursery door open a crack and peering inside.
"Did you get Dean to sleep already?" she asked as she saw him lean over the crib to check on their infant son.
He remained silent, though, and a few moments later she closed the door again just as quietly for fear of waking Sam when he'd only just fallen asleep. A little further down the hall she pushed open the door to Dean's bedroom.
"Oh, John, it's too loud," she called back down the hall before she even got inside, turning to head downstairs to make the adjustment. But before she could get so much as a step away from the door, her blood ran cold when John answered her from inside.
"Dean likes it that way."
"Oh God," she gasped, tearing back down the hall to the nursery, to the shadowy figure of someone not her husband leaning over Sam's crib.
"You!" she gasped as the man turned towards her, showing his true face.
The next thing out of her mouth was a scream.
: : :
"...and across his lap lay a rifle, also seemingly painted black, and a belt of arms of the same somber hue was about his waist." Dean's eyes were just beginning to close, both hands curled around the edge of the patchwork quilt that he'd pulled to his chin, one clutching a piece of John's father's old uniform, the other a small star detail from what Mary'd told him was her family crest. "The horse was saddle and bridleless, and stood with head erect gaz--"
John's head jerked up at the sound of his wife's scream, the book instantly dropped atop his son's quilt. "Stay here," he said, knocking the chair over in his haste to dash down the hall.
But everything was quiet in the nursery, the only sound the music coming out the wide open door of Dean's room. Sam was waving his chubby legs in his crib and whatever had frightened Mary, it had obviously been fleeting. A spider, or a mouse. She'd probably gone downstairs to fetch their largest skillet to dispatch the pest.
John reached down into the crib and grabbed hold of Sam's ankle, shaking it playfully as Sam kicked up against him. In his hand he clutched one of Dean's tin soldiers, a smear of red paint across his face.
"I've got to take better care painting their hats next time," he said, but when he ran his thumb over the smear, it came away wet. He looked at his thumb uncertainly, then at his son's cheek where he spotted another smear of red. Something told him not to look up - don't do it, you don't want to know - but he did anyway, he had to.
And there she was, pinned to the ceiling, splayed out obscenely with her belly slashed.
"Mary!" he shouted, dropping to his knees. "Sweet Jesus, Mary!"
As he watched the body burst into flames, taking the entire ceiling with it. Part of him was still slack-jawed with horror at the sight; the other more pragmatic part knew that here on the edge of town the fire brigade wouldn't arrive until the whole damn house had gone up.
"Daddy?" he heard from the doorway, shoving him into action. He snatched Sam up from his crib and pressed him into his brother's small arms.
"Don't look, Dean," he said, "just take your brother outside as fast as you can. Go, Dean."
Dean did look, but then he turned and ran, just like his father told him to.
Music from Dean's room was still barely audible over the crackling of the fire, as John looked for something, anything, to put the fire out. But then he looked up again and met Mary's dead eyes and knew that nothing could be done. Even now, when the life was already gone from her, she was telling him that his sons needed to come first.
He said a silent good-bye as the fire spread to the curtains, the dresser, the crib, and sprinted out of the house to catch up with his sons.
Without even pausing he scooped them up under his arm as he passed and carried them out onto the street, to safety. Only when they were there, ash-smeared and breathless and teary, did he finally heard a fire siren begin to sound up and down the streets.
He didn't know what in God's name had just happened, but he knew, for his boys' sake, for his own sake, that he needed to find out.
Next Part | Master Post