not fixit-fic, per se; just ... playing.
Title: watched
Ficverse: SPN
Series: SPN comment!fic
Rating: PG
Length: 1100 ish
Characters: John/Mary
Prompted and posted: from 2.13, Houses of the Holy
Dean: Okay, all right. You know what? I get it. You've got faith. That's - hey, good for you. I'm sure it makes things easier. I'll tell you who else had faith like that - mom. She used to tell me when she tucked me in that angels were watching over us. In fact, that was the last thing she ever said to me.
Sam: You never told me that.
Dean: Well, what's to tell? She was wrong. There was nothing protecting her.
Notes: Stemming from the ideas I had way back at the beginning of the season, because it just wouldn't leave me alone and then the prompt was all ... prompty. I suspect there will be more, mapping out what's happening. Maybe.
Warnings/Spoiler: up to 5.16
Feedback: let's hear it. The good, the bad, the ugly....
She looked around the so-familiar little-boy room, the ache of it plain in her eyes. She reached behind her instinctively, seeking the strength of calloused fingers.
The feeling of his hand meeting hers, twining them together in this place, broke something in her that she’d been holding tight for far too long. Without thought, she melted back against his chest, letting him wrap around her, closing her eyes against the soft brush of his lips on her hair. It didn’t feel strange, as she’d been so afraid it would. In spite of everything, relief washed through her heart. It just felt like ... home.
She turned to smile at him, to tell him so, but the expression on his face made the words freeze in her throat. His eyes were focused, fierce, sweeping the room. When they came to rest, she followed their suspicious look to a little porcelain cherub, sitting innocently on the dresser. It was every bit as familiar as the room itself could be, but that was the problem. It had always stayed in the nursery.
She tensed, dropping his hand to touch metal at her side, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. He held his finger to his lips, crossing the room to examine it more closely.
When he looked back at her, she tugged her ear, asking him, Bugged? He nodded, his expression as much as saying I think so. Her mouth tightened, a chill of desecration running down her spine. The moment you forgot you were in enemy territory, you could lose everything.
He gestured at the four-year-old-sized raincoat hanging beside her, and she unhooked it, swallowing against the memories it dislodged. Kneeling, she spread it on the floor and sketched a sigil, then gingerly draped it over the figurine.
It would be more than enough protection against the angelic bug, but they drew away from it anyway, instinctively huddling together in whispering range. She could feel his scrutiny on her but couldn’t look up; she knew she needed to be strong, to be smart, to be - well, to be a hunter about this. Ready for anything that the angels, watching for them, searching for them, could send their way. Fight or flee. But in this room, right now, she couldn’t quite pull it together. It was all too much, and she couldn’t let him see it.
But, of course, he saw it anyway. The days of being able to hide so much of herself from him seemed to be well and truly over. “Hey,” he said softly, cupping her cheek and tilting her face to his so his eyes could complete the question.
“It’s just ... this room....” She shook her head. “John, this is our son’s heaven. Just ... a simple bedroom. And Sam....” She took a deep breath, hardly containing the tears. “What I ... let in....”
John pulled her back into his arms, and it smelled warm and sharp like motor oil and grease in the sun, like him. It was a smell that, not even a month ago, she never thought she’d smell again. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed into the fuzz of his flannel shirt, feeling the years and experiences that separated them - hunting, haunting, Heaven, Hell - beginning to shift, to knit together like teeth in a zipper. There was understanding there, on both sides, woven out of pain and regret. Perhaps even the way to forgiveness.
“Mary,” he said, and the gruffness in his voice was more than just the gravel she lived with and loved for ten years. “Our family wouldn’t have existed otherwise.”
She wouldn’t look up, couldn’t meet his eyes and still ask the damning question. “Was it worth it?”
He stilled around her, but there was no loosening of his embrace. “Maybe not,” he said eventually, but before she could stiffen, pull away from him, he continued, “but I’d pay the price again.” Very slowly, feeling his way along long-disused pathways of intimacy, he turned and pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there. “All of it,” he whispered against her, the unfamiliar rasp of his stubble reinforcing that this was no memory, no fantasy. They were here, now, together. She was free, and he had found her.
She let her cheek slide across it, savoring it, letting it lead them both to where they wanted to be. The first touch of lips was careful, cherishing, but quickly became deeper. And deeper. Until they had to break apart just to breathe something that wasn’t each other.
John dropped his forehead to hers with a soft, throaty laugh. “I, uh.... Until we figure out this stuff up here, we probably shouldn’t do that too much. I’m ... having trouble thinking.”
She echoed his laugh. “We do need to figure stuff out, don’t we?” She eyed him from two inches away, tugging where her fingers had tangled into his shirt. “Pity.” Her gaze fell on the football clock, thoughts of their sons never far below the surface. “Do you think Ash found them yet?”
“He will. He’s the best at this stuff.” He saw her face and chuckled. “Your prejudices against hunters are kind of cute, you know that?”
She raised an eyebrow but refused to rise to that. “Just as long as he remembers not to give us up,” she said sourly.
“He knows the stakes. He won’t let the boys get sidetracked looking for us.”
She nodded reluctantly, noticing the clock again. “Let’s not give Zachariah any more leverage against them, either.”
“Yeah....” He took a deep breath and pulled her hand into his, caught on something more before they departed this place. “Mary ... downstairs, in this memory....” He swallowed, thumb brushing over the gold on her ring finger. “I need you to know - I would never - I’m not that guy. I mean, anymore. I’ll never take you for granted again.... I haven’t.... I won’t....” He finally looked up, searching her, needing to know she understood what he was saying. “I promise.”
She smiled up at him, refusing to let tears fall. “Oh, John - I know.” She reached up, taking hold of his lapels and gripping him close, letting her body settle along his. “Here’s the deal. You and me - we’re doing this together. As long as you, me, and this place lasts, I’m at your side and I’ve got your back. And in return ... you can have mine. You got me?”
He battled with a twisting smile to get something out, but his voice failed him too, and eventually he wiped a sniff against his sleeve to manage a hoarse, “Yeah.”
It was all she needed.
Ficverse: SPN
Series: SPN comment!fic
Rating: PG
Length: 1100 ish
Characters: John/Mary
Prompted and posted: from 2.13, Houses of the Holy
Dean: Okay, all right. You know what? I get it. You've got faith. That's - hey, good for you. I'm sure it makes things easier. I'll tell you who else had faith like that - mom. She used to tell me when she tucked me in that angels were watching over us. In fact, that was the last thing she ever said to me.
Sam: You never told me that.
Dean: Well, what's to tell? She was wrong. There was nothing protecting her.
Notes: Stemming from the ideas I had way back at the beginning of the season, because it just wouldn't leave me alone and then the prompt was all ... prompty. I suspect there will be more, mapping out what's happening. Maybe.
Warnings/Spoiler: up to 5.16
Feedback: let's hear it. The good, the bad, the ugly....
She looked around the so-familiar little-boy room, the ache of it plain in her eyes. She reached behind her instinctively, seeking the strength of calloused fingers.
The feeling of his hand meeting hers, twining them together in this place, broke something in her that she’d been holding tight for far too long. Without thought, she melted back against his chest, letting him wrap around her, closing her eyes against the soft brush of his lips on her hair. It didn’t feel strange, as she’d been so afraid it would. In spite of everything, relief washed through her heart. It just felt like ... home.
She turned to smile at him, to tell him so, but the expression on his face made the words freeze in her throat. His eyes were focused, fierce, sweeping the room. When they came to rest, she followed their suspicious look to a little porcelain cherub, sitting innocently on the dresser. It was every bit as familiar as the room itself could be, but that was the problem. It had always stayed in the nursery.
She tensed, dropping his hand to touch metal at her side, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. He held his finger to his lips, crossing the room to examine it more closely.
When he looked back at her, she tugged her ear, asking him, Bugged? He nodded, his expression as much as saying I think so. Her mouth tightened, a chill of desecration running down her spine. The moment you forgot you were in enemy territory, you could lose everything.
He gestured at the four-year-old-sized raincoat hanging beside her, and she unhooked it, swallowing against the memories it dislodged. Kneeling, she spread it on the floor and sketched a sigil, then gingerly draped it over the figurine.
It would be more than enough protection against the angelic bug, but they drew away from it anyway, instinctively huddling together in whispering range. She could feel his scrutiny on her but couldn’t look up; she knew she needed to be strong, to be smart, to be - well, to be a hunter about this. Ready for anything that the angels, watching for them, searching for them, could send their way. Fight or flee. But in this room, right now, she couldn’t quite pull it together. It was all too much, and she couldn’t let him see it.
But, of course, he saw it anyway. The days of being able to hide so much of herself from him seemed to be well and truly over. “Hey,” he said softly, cupping her cheek and tilting her face to his so his eyes could complete the question.
“It’s just ... this room....” She shook her head. “John, this is our son’s heaven. Just ... a simple bedroom. And Sam....” She took a deep breath, hardly containing the tears. “What I ... let in....”
John pulled her back into his arms, and it smelled warm and sharp like motor oil and grease in the sun, like him. It was a smell that, not even a month ago, she never thought she’d smell again. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed into the fuzz of his flannel shirt, feeling the years and experiences that separated them - hunting, haunting, Heaven, Hell - beginning to shift, to knit together like teeth in a zipper. There was understanding there, on both sides, woven out of pain and regret. Perhaps even the way to forgiveness.
“Mary,” he said, and the gruffness in his voice was more than just the gravel she lived with and loved for ten years. “Our family wouldn’t have existed otherwise.”
She wouldn’t look up, couldn’t meet his eyes and still ask the damning question. “Was it worth it?”
He stilled around her, but there was no loosening of his embrace. “Maybe not,” he said eventually, but before she could stiffen, pull away from him, he continued, “but I’d pay the price again.” Very slowly, feeling his way along long-disused pathways of intimacy, he turned and pressed a kiss to her temple, lingering there. “All of it,” he whispered against her, the unfamiliar rasp of his stubble reinforcing that this was no memory, no fantasy. They were here, now, together. She was free, and he had found her.
She let her cheek slide across it, savoring it, letting it lead them both to where they wanted to be. The first touch of lips was careful, cherishing, but quickly became deeper. And deeper. Until they had to break apart just to breathe something that wasn’t each other.
John dropped his forehead to hers with a soft, throaty laugh. “I, uh.... Until we figure out this stuff up here, we probably shouldn’t do that too much. I’m ... having trouble thinking.”
She echoed his laugh. “We do need to figure stuff out, don’t we?” She eyed him from two inches away, tugging where her fingers had tangled into his shirt. “Pity.” Her gaze fell on the football clock, thoughts of their sons never far below the surface. “Do you think Ash found them yet?”
“He will. He’s the best at this stuff.” He saw her face and chuckled. “Your prejudices against hunters are kind of cute, you know that?”
She raised an eyebrow but refused to rise to that. “Just as long as he remembers not to give us up,” she said sourly.
“He knows the stakes. He won’t let the boys get sidetracked looking for us.”
She nodded reluctantly, noticing the clock again. “Let’s not give Zachariah any more leverage against them, either.”
“Yeah....” He took a deep breath and pulled her hand into his, caught on something more before they departed this place. “Mary ... downstairs, in this memory....” He swallowed, thumb brushing over the gold on her ring finger. “I need you to know - I would never - I’m not that guy. I mean, anymore. I’ll never take you for granted again.... I haven’t.... I won’t....” He finally looked up, searching her, needing to know she understood what he was saying. “I promise.”
She smiled up at him, refusing to let tears fall. “Oh, John - I know.” She reached up, taking hold of his lapels and gripping him close, letting her body settle along his. “Here’s the deal. You and me - we’re doing this together. As long as you, me, and this place lasts, I’m at your side and I’ve got your back. And in return ... you can have mine. You got me?”
He battled with a twisting smile to get something out, but his voice failed him too, and eventually he wiped a sniff against his sleeve to manage a hoarse, “Yeah.”
It was all she needed.