SPN FIC - Merry Christmas, Darling
dodger_winslow ,
janglyjewels ,
somedayleaving ,
girlfan1979,
may7fic ,
pinkphoenix1985 ,
kimmer1227 ,
kimonkey7 ,
gwendolyngrace ,
blucasbabe ,
charis_kalos ,
ravenrants ,
blacklid ,
tabaqui ,
amy_star_,
ursalita ,
janissa11 ,
leelust
and anyone I may in my ficced-out, fried-brain-celledness be forgetting: THANK YOU for the prompts. My ankles are well-scarred by the ankle-biting bunnies, but it's all to the good.
In the end, we go back to the beginning.
Because love is the whole point.
Merry Christmas, all.
Christmas Eve, 1978.
Characters: John and Mary, OMC
Pairings: Duh.
Rating: G
Spoilers: none
Length: 544 words
Disclaimer: He owns. We play.
Merry Christmas, Darling
By Carol Davis
The snowball smacks into his right temple with a force that makes him see little golden cartoon stars.
Then he feels raw cold against his neck. Cold water dripping down the collar of his shirt.
The only thing he can think of to say that isn’t a napalm-strength obscenity is: “HEY!”
She’s laughing.
She’s laughing, and her cheeks are flushed with the cold. Her eyes are squinted almost shut with the glare off the snow and she’s laughing.
John swoops down, scoops up a double-handful, packs it a little, makes it round.
“Nooooo,” she squeals, and starts to run across the lawn.
He’s faster, though. He catches up to her in a couple of steps, wraps his arms around her and twists so that when they go down, he’s underneath, cushioning her fall. It isn’t much of a fall, anyway: the snow is deep and fluffy and they might as well have landed on pillows. He knew all of that before he started to run.
He will do nothing to hurt the baby.
Nothing. Ever.
It’s tougher than he gives it credit for, probably: she keeps telling him that nature worked things out to make sure that nine months plays out with maximum results. And this baby is strong, healthy, has all its pieces and parts in the right places (at least, as near as they can tell from the ultrasound). Another month, and he’ll be on the outside, and they can hold him, touch him, look into his eyes.
His eyes.
Dean’s eyes. His name is Dean.
Mary starts laughing again, a helpless giggle. She’s so out-of-balance that she’s got no hope of getting up. She hasn’t tried to wear sneakers for months because she can’t tie the laces. Even the pull-on boots are a problem - she has to work her toes down inside and then brace the sole of the boot against a wall to push her foot down the rest of the way.
“Hey, you,” she says after a minute. “It’s cold down here.”
He wiggles out from underneath, wondering what this looks like to the neighbors. He manages to get to his knees before he spots Chris from next door standing on his shoveled walkway with his camera in hand. John shoves out a hand, palm out. Stop.
Chris is laughing too as he plods through the snow from his yard into theirs. They each take one of Mary’s hands and hoist her up.
“Trying to use up the roll so I can put a fresh one in for tonight,” Chris says. “Got one left.”
The Winchesters are covered with snow. It’s in their hair, stuck to their clothing. They brush each other off as best they can.
John slides an arm behind her. She nestles against him, and he feels the bump that is their son push into his side.
He looks down. Wonders for the thousandth time if he can do this.
Rests his hand on her belly.
“Merry Christmas, baby,” she says.
For a moment John isn’t sure whether she means him or Dean. Maybe both.
“Merry Christmas, love,” he says, his mouth close to her ear.
And the shutter of Chris’s camera makes a small sound.