Somewhat Damaged for zubeneschamali
Title: Somewhat Damaged
Author: geckoholic
Recipient: zubeneschamali
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Set way before the Pilot, but spoilers up to S5.
Author's Notes: For the second prompt: "The future is already here. It's just not evenly distributed." - William Gibson. Here's hoping it pleases!
Summary: They dream. (John and Mary, pre-series)
She dreams.
About her parents. Their death, her deal. About John, dead in her arms, and her father next to her, alive but not; nightmares that circle around finding her mom lifeless on the kitchen floor and yellow eyes flashing in familiar faces. She didn't know a lot about demonic possession back then, even though she was raised a hunter. Demons were rare, she knew a lot more about ghosts and creatures and the other things that crawl in the dark.
Not anymore. Now she knows all there is to know about demons, possession and deals. She's prepared. But a dark, low voice in the back of her mind tells her it's not going to do her any good.
There's a clock ticking for her, and even though she didn't sell her life and soul the day she lost her parents and gained a husband, she knows there's a possibility she won't come out of it alive when her hour strikes.
Other times, she dreams about her boys, Sam and Dean, the men they're going to become. It's a pretty clear picture, always the same: tall and strong and both so beautiful, so alive, and yet looking so sad it makes her want to cry.
Those are nightmares, too.
She doesn't have enough female friends, let alone other moms, to have anyone to ask if that's normal, dreaming of future versions of her sons that are so clear that she's almost as familiar with them as she is with the little ones she sees during her waking hours. There's no one to ask whether every woman dreams about her kids like that, if there's a picture, an imprint of the future inside of every mother's heart. Mary doubts it.
Despite the fact that she's done everything in her power to ensure her boys aren't going to be raised into a life that's sure to be the death of them, she has a nagging feeling that it's all going to be in vain. Actually, no. Not a feeling. She's certain. How it happens, she doesn't know, but it will.
Chances are it's going to happen without her around. Because she knows she'd sell another part of her soul, all the rest of it if necessary, to keep them from ever finding out what's living in the shadows.
They're in their front yard and she looks at them, Dean playing in the grass with a little firetruck a friend of John's gave him for his birthday, making choo-choo noises that sound more like a train than a truck, and Sam on a blanket, squealing and babbling and playing with his toes, and she can't imagine any of it. Can't imagine her boys growing up as motherless kids. Can't imagine either of them ever wielding a knife, fighting, firing a gun. Can't imagine them killing anything, creature or not.
But is there anything she can do to keep their innocence intact? Has there ever been?
If she thinks about how many generations of her family spent their lives pissing off beings and powers beyond anyone's grasp, it’s not hard to believe that they’ve been cursed many times over. No matter how much she wishes for her normal life away from the hunt to be real, to be for good, she's still a Campbell. Sam and Dean, too. It runs in their blood.
Maybe she should've said no when John talked about having kids. With everything she knows, it seems kind of irresponsible to bring children into this world, and to make matters worse she struck that deal. For all she knows, it's got nothing to do with her boys. She's sure she'd feel it, feel something, if it that were the case, but in those breathless moments when she's lying awake after a bad dream, she can't keep pretending she's not able to put two and two together.
The deal. Ten years. A man, called Dean - funny, she didn't remember that detail until she gave her own firstborn that name - who tells them that the very same demon she dealt with kills his mother, and cries when he asks her a favor she can't recall. How oddly familiar he looks, now, in hindsight, how much like the son from her dreams.
Those moments of clarity that fade come morning.
Very, very rarely, Mary dreams of something else. Happy dreams, laughter and grandchildren or college graduation parties or women on both her boys' arms on a sunny day, but those dreams never feel real.
***
He dreams.
Every now and then, about his sons. About the days they were born, of them smiling at him for the first time. Of Dean taking his first steps towards him or saying something that only vaguely sounded like 'dad' for the first time. Or about their future: glimpses into the lives he hopes they'll lead, them growing up, becoming men, finding women and having kids of their own. Being happy.
Other times, John dreams about he and Mary, old and wrinkled and surrounded by more grandchildren than he ever knew he wanted. In those dreams, she turns to him, smiles, grey hair in a ponytail and lines all across her face that tell stories of a life that has never been easy but always good. She pats the head of a baby that's lying cuddled up on her chest, sleeping, and it looks a lot like Sam or Dean, and a little bit like her.
I love you, she says, and reaches for him with her free hand, entwines their fingers.
Very rarely, he dreams of something else. Of grown men that he knows are his boys without having to be told, but that look nothing like the happy college students and husbands and fathers to his grandchildren usually crowding his dreams. About a presence within himself that takes the wheel from him and talks to his eldest about god and the devil and destiny and things that make no sense.
But those dreams never feel real.
Author: geckoholic
Recipient: zubeneschamali
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Set way before the Pilot, but spoilers up to S5.
Author's Notes: For the second prompt: "The future is already here. It's just not evenly distributed." - William Gibson. Here's hoping it pleases!
Summary: They dream. (John and Mary, pre-series)
She dreams.
About her parents. Their death, her deal. About John, dead in her arms, and her father next to her, alive but not; nightmares that circle around finding her mom lifeless on the kitchen floor and yellow eyes flashing in familiar faces. She didn't know a lot about demonic possession back then, even though she was raised a hunter. Demons were rare, she knew a lot more about ghosts and creatures and the other things that crawl in the dark.
Not anymore. Now she knows all there is to know about demons, possession and deals. She's prepared. But a dark, low voice in the back of her mind tells her it's not going to do her any good.
There's a clock ticking for her, and even though she didn't sell her life and soul the day she lost her parents and gained a husband, she knows there's a possibility she won't come out of it alive when her hour strikes.
Other times, she dreams about her boys, Sam and Dean, the men they're going to become. It's a pretty clear picture, always the same: tall and strong and both so beautiful, so alive, and yet looking so sad it makes her want to cry.
Those are nightmares, too.
She doesn't have enough female friends, let alone other moms, to have anyone to ask if that's normal, dreaming of future versions of her sons that are so clear that she's almost as familiar with them as she is with the little ones she sees during her waking hours. There's no one to ask whether every woman dreams about her kids like that, if there's a picture, an imprint of the future inside of every mother's heart. Mary doubts it.
Despite the fact that she's done everything in her power to ensure her boys aren't going to be raised into a life that's sure to be the death of them, she has a nagging feeling that it's all going to be in vain. Actually, no. Not a feeling. She's certain. How it happens, she doesn't know, but it will.
Chances are it's going to happen without her around. Because she knows she'd sell another part of her soul, all the rest of it if necessary, to keep them from ever finding out what's living in the shadows.
They're in their front yard and she looks at them, Dean playing in the grass with a little firetruck a friend of John's gave him for his birthday, making choo-choo noises that sound more like a train than a truck, and Sam on a blanket, squealing and babbling and playing with his toes, and she can't imagine any of it. Can't imagine her boys growing up as motherless kids. Can't imagine either of them ever wielding a knife, fighting, firing a gun. Can't imagine them killing anything, creature or not.
But is there anything she can do to keep their innocence intact? Has there ever been?
If she thinks about how many generations of her family spent their lives pissing off beings and powers beyond anyone's grasp, it’s not hard to believe that they’ve been cursed many times over. No matter how much she wishes for her normal life away from the hunt to be real, to be for good, she's still a Campbell. Sam and Dean, too. It runs in their blood.
Maybe she should've said no when John talked about having kids. With everything she knows, it seems kind of irresponsible to bring children into this world, and to make matters worse she struck that deal. For all she knows, it's got nothing to do with her boys. She's sure she'd feel it, feel something, if it that were the case, but in those breathless moments when she's lying awake after a bad dream, she can't keep pretending she's not able to put two and two together.
The deal. Ten years. A man, called Dean - funny, she didn't remember that detail until she gave her own firstborn that name - who tells them that the very same demon she dealt with kills his mother, and cries when he asks her a favor she can't recall. How oddly familiar he looks, now, in hindsight, how much like the son from her dreams.
Those moments of clarity that fade come morning.
Very, very rarely, Mary dreams of something else. Happy dreams, laughter and grandchildren or college graduation parties or women on both her boys' arms on a sunny day, but those dreams never feel real.
***
He dreams.
Every now and then, about his sons. About the days they were born, of them smiling at him for the first time. Of Dean taking his first steps towards him or saying something that only vaguely sounded like 'dad' for the first time. Or about their future: glimpses into the lives he hopes they'll lead, them growing up, becoming men, finding women and having kids of their own. Being happy.
Other times, John dreams about he and Mary, old and wrinkled and surrounded by more grandchildren than he ever knew he wanted. In those dreams, she turns to him, smiles, grey hair in a ponytail and lines all across her face that tell stories of a life that has never been easy but always good. She pats the head of a baby that's lying cuddled up on her chest, sleeping, and it looks a lot like Sam or Dean, and a little bit like her.
I love you, she says, and reaches for him with her free hand, entwines their fingers.
Very rarely, he dreams of something else. Of grown men that he knows are his boys without having to be told, but that look nothing like the happy college students and husbands and fathers to his grandchildren usually crowding his dreams. About a presence within himself that takes the wheel from him and talks to his eldest about god and the devil and destiny and things that make no sense.
But those dreams never feel real.