A Slice of Heaven, for red_b_rackham
Title: A Slice of Heaven
Recipient: red_b_rackham
Rating: K+
Warnings: brief mention of torture
Word Count or Media: 1583
Author's Notes: A John-centric fic for prompt 1, because I’m very fond of the man.
Summary: There’s a strange man in their kitchen and something isn’t adding up, but really, John’s just here for the damn pie.
The weather is feeling kind these days. The sun is bathing them in a soft, warm light, as though shining for them and them alone, and John leans back in his chair with a content huff. Every time he thinks it might be becoming a bit too hot, a cooling breeze whispers past them, ruffles their hair and sweeps away his worries. It’s as close to heaven as the weather can get.
All the windows are open because according to Mary, the only other two options are to let their house turn into a sauna or, alternatively, a giant oven. John had worried about mosquitoes or flies, but she’d only laughed at him. Must be a strange summer this year, because come to think of it, John’s yet to see any bugs here -
Ah yes, the windows. He can smell the apple pie baking in the oven, and it’s enough to make his belly rumble and his mouth water (quite frankly, he’s surprised Dean’s not already harassing them about said pie. John himself is feeling a tad impatient). He absently wonders if Mary wants to have open windows while baking just to mess with the neighbors, who surely are able to smell the mouth-watering pie too.
Mary herself is lounging on the steps of their porch, leaning backwards on her elbows, hair shimmering like gold, eyes closed and facing the sun. She’s wearing a ratty top and cut-off jeans shorts, her bare feet heavily stained green after mowing the lawn.
He loves her.
He turns his eyes back to their boys, who have abandoned their soccer playing and appear to be wrestling in the grass. He supposes he could call it wrestling, but the problem with siblings is the differences in age - Sammy may be a devious little weasel (boy sure knows how to bite when pushed), but the fact remains that Dean’s still got four years on him (something tells him Sam may very well end up taller than his big brother, but well - you never know). They’re still more or less laughing, though, so there’s no need to enter Stern Parent mood just yet.
Still, he can’t resist leaning forward in his chair and gently nudging his wife with his foot, “Mary, light of my life, beloved, dear, when’s the pie ready?”
“I don’t know,” Mary replies curtly, not bothering to open her eyes, “If you want me to get up and check, so help me, I’ll put you in the oven.”
“Rude,” John teases, but nonetheless gets up from his chair and walks inside.
Their home is…. Well, to put it shortly, homely. The photographs on the walls are many, portraying shared memories and people whom are dear to them, and the telltale signs of two young boys living in the house are scattered over the place (toys and shoes and stains that no one’s had the time to clean up). There are also, however, certain details that don’t belong in the picture-perfect apple pie life. John still stashes an unordinary big amount of salt in the house, blesses his water, and owns more than a few guns.
(But no knives decorate his walls or hide in his drawers - knives and sharp blades serve no purpose but to remind him of pain and blood and screams and a demon’s gleeful smile, the smell of death always present yet no death embracing him.)
The guns calm him, however. The knowledge that he has the means to protect his family allows him to settle down (or at least live under the illusion of protection), and -
The pie. He came here for the pie.
He crouches down in front of the oven and peers at the pie inside, critically deciding that the top ought to be just a tad more golden brown and delightfully crispy, and really, he can just wait here until he thinks the pie looks done.
He straightens again, relishes in the feeling of knees as young and sturdy as they were in his twenties, and leans against the counter. From here he can keep watch over his family through the window, make sure nothing happens (there are wards in place, of course, but wards can’t keep out everything).
“Well then, who would have thought,” a new, unfamiliar voice speaks up, but John doesn’t have it in him to jerk or reach for a gun. “A Winchester in heaven - not exactly a common occurrence these days, is it?”
What a load of bullshit, John reflects absently - they’re all here, aren’t they? He’s yet to look away from them.
“I came here to - well. I wouldn’t say I’m here to apologize, that’s not really my thing, you know? I think I just wanted to see how you’d react to a soul being pulled down from heaven after decades more or less at rest, but, uh… Look, it’s just been a long time since I created heaven - not exactly my best work, I can admit that. I forgot I just let you all play around on your own slices of paradise for eternity - an easy mistake to make! To tell the truth, I remember toying with the idea of letting all of you frolic in a shared paradise in the after-life, but considering how you interacted on earth, it’s probably a good thing you get your own sandboxes. You’re not good at sharing your toys, which, I’ll admit, isn’t completely your fault. I did create you in my image, after all, and Amara can probably confirm that I’m not a sharer.”
Who is this strange fellow, anyway? One of Mary’s strange acquaints? He wonders if she’d be terribly upset with him for kicking out a guest, no matter how annoying said guest proves to be. He talks a lot of crazy, this one - still, John relents mournfully, any friend of Mary’s must be his. The least he can do is be mildly polite.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you’re not interested. No, but seriously, you didn’t even notice when my sister resurrected Mary? Well. Then this visit is a bit. Awkward. Really, I could just go…”
John finally looks away from the window (though a voice inside him screams, urges him to not let his family out of his sight, not now) in order to squint at the man beside him.
“Have you been drinking?” he asks suspiciously, and then, because that sounded rude and Mary would be disappointed, “Or have you just not had enough water today?” Speaking of, it is a hot day. Maybe the strange man in their kitchen has had a sunstroke?
Their visitor, a short and bearded man, releases an exasperated sigh. “Don’t you worry your little head about that, Johnny boy.”
John looks at him for a few more seconds (he looks harmless, but he knows appearances can be deceiving - maybe he should get the salt for good measure?), but decides his family is a far more pressing matter. They’re still there, Mary on the porch and the boys on the lawn, and something uncurls in his chest at the sight of them (still there, still safe, still alive).
“They grow up great, those two,” the man adds, and John doesn’t need to look in order to know who their visitor is looking at. John wants to cover up the window now, hide them from this unsettling presence. “Lots in store for them. Don’t follow the script. Theirs is a good story; the best one I’ve made in a couple thousand years or so, I think. Not that I’ve been very attentive lately, I may have missed several good stories over the years…”
“Are you quite done harassing this poor man yet, brother mine?” a new voice speaks out, and John suppresses a groan. Is this woman another guest? Maybe he ought to offer them something to drink - again, it is a hot day, and a glass of holy water wouldn’t hurt (that is, of course, provided that they indeed are friendly guests).
“I’m not harassing him, I just thought he might have been a bit upset about your stunt with the resurrection.”
“He doesn’t appear to be aware of it.”
“It’s heaven - they’re not supposed to be worried here. What would be the point of paradise if they could bring their earthly drama with them?”
A pause.
Then, hesitantly, the woman continues; “We could resurrect him too..?”
“…No.”
“Are you sure?”
“One major shock is enough at a time for those Winchester boys, don’t you think? Let’s just - let one of them remain in heaven, let him think he’s successfully protecting his family. If nothing else, it’s an easier job up here than down there.”
“A simple paradise,” she acknowledges, (respectfully?), and then silence falls over the kitchen once more. Laughter trickles through the window (John hadn’t even realized it had been quiet from the boys), and he daringly sweeps an eye over the room. No more guests in sight.
Strange fellows, those. He wonders where Mary met them.
He furrows his brow in thought, something niggling in the back of his head, and he looks at his family through the window (really looks at them), and tries to connect them to the memories John knows he has of another (less pleasant) life, only to find that the pieces don’t fit. Is it too good to be true? Why? Because they’re together, alive and unhurt and happy? He wonders -
Ah, yes, the pie. He came here for the pie. He wonders if it’s ready yet.
Recipient: red_b_rackham
Rating: K+
Warnings: brief mention of torture
Word Count or Media: 1583
Author's Notes: A John-centric fic for prompt 1, because I’m very fond of the man.
Summary: There’s a strange man in their kitchen and something isn’t adding up, but really, John’s just here for the damn pie.
The weather is feeling kind these days. The sun is bathing them in a soft, warm light, as though shining for them and them alone, and John leans back in his chair with a content huff. Every time he thinks it might be becoming a bit too hot, a cooling breeze whispers past them, ruffles their hair and sweeps away his worries. It’s as close to heaven as the weather can get.
All the windows are open because according to Mary, the only other two options are to let their house turn into a sauna or, alternatively, a giant oven. John had worried about mosquitoes or flies, but she’d only laughed at him. Must be a strange summer this year, because come to think of it, John’s yet to see any bugs here -
Ah yes, the windows. He can smell the apple pie baking in the oven, and it’s enough to make his belly rumble and his mouth water (quite frankly, he’s surprised Dean’s not already harassing them about said pie. John himself is feeling a tad impatient). He absently wonders if Mary wants to have open windows while baking just to mess with the neighbors, who surely are able to smell the mouth-watering pie too.
Mary herself is lounging on the steps of their porch, leaning backwards on her elbows, hair shimmering like gold, eyes closed and facing the sun. She’s wearing a ratty top and cut-off jeans shorts, her bare feet heavily stained green after mowing the lawn.
He loves her.
He turns his eyes back to their boys, who have abandoned their soccer playing and appear to be wrestling in the grass. He supposes he could call it wrestling, but the problem with siblings is the differences in age - Sammy may be a devious little weasel (boy sure knows how to bite when pushed), but the fact remains that Dean’s still got four years on him (something tells him Sam may very well end up taller than his big brother, but well - you never know). They’re still more or less laughing, though, so there’s no need to enter Stern Parent mood just yet.
Still, he can’t resist leaning forward in his chair and gently nudging his wife with his foot, “Mary, light of my life, beloved, dear, when’s the pie ready?”
“I don’t know,” Mary replies curtly, not bothering to open her eyes, “If you want me to get up and check, so help me, I’ll put you in the oven.”
“Rude,” John teases, but nonetheless gets up from his chair and walks inside.
Their home is…. Well, to put it shortly, homely. The photographs on the walls are many, portraying shared memories and people whom are dear to them, and the telltale signs of two young boys living in the house are scattered over the place (toys and shoes and stains that no one’s had the time to clean up). There are also, however, certain details that don’t belong in the picture-perfect apple pie life. John still stashes an unordinary big amount of salt in the house, blesses his water, and owns more than a few guns.
(But no knives decorate his walls or hide in his drawers - knives and sharp blades serve no purpose but to remind him of pain and blood and screams and a demon’s gleeful smile, the smell of death always present yet no death embracing him.)
The guns calm him, however. The knowledge that he has the means to protect his family allows him to settle down (or at least live under the illusion of protection), and -
The pie. He came here for the pie.
He crouches down in front of the oven and peers at the pie inside, critically deciding that the top ought to be just a tad more golden brown and delightfully crispy, and really, he can just wait here until he thinks the pie looks done.
He straightens again, relishes in the feeling of knees as young and sturdy as they were in his twenties, and leans against the counter. From here he can keep watch over his family through the window, make sure nothing happens (there are wards in place, of course, but wards can’t keep out everything).
“Well then, who would have thought,” a new, unfamiliar voice speaks up, but John doesn’t have it in him to jerk or reach for a gun. “A Winchester in heaven - not exactly a common occurrence these days, is it?”
What a load of bullshit, John reflects absently - they’re all here, aren’t they? He’s yet to look away from them.
“I came here to - well. I wouldn’t say I’m here to apologize, that’s not really my thing, you know? I think I just wanted to see how you’d react to a soul being pulled down from heaven after decades more or less at rest, but, uh… Look, it’s just been a long time since I created heaven - not exactly my best work, I can admit that. I forgot I just let you all play around on your own slices of paradise for eternity - an easy mistake to make! To tell the truth, I remember toying with the idea of letting all of you frolic in a shared paradise in the after-life, but considering how you interacted on earth, it’s probably a good thing you get your own sandboxes. You’re not good at sharing your toys, which, I’ll admit, isn’t completely your fault. I did create you in my image, after all, and Amara can probably confirm that I’m not a sharer.”
Who is this strange fellow, anyway? One of Mary’s strange acquaints? He wonders if she’d be terribly upset with him for kicking out a guest, no matter how annoying said guest proves to be. He talks a lot of crazy, this one - still, John relents mournfully, any friend of Mary’s must be his. The least he can do is be mildly polite.
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, you’re not interested. No, but seriously, you didn’t even notice when my sister resurrected Mary? Well. Then this visit is a bit. Awkward. Really, I could just go…”
John finally looks away from the window (though a voice inside him screams, urges him to not let his family out of his sight, not now) in order to squint at the man beside him.
“Have you been drinking?” he asks suspiciously, and then, because that sounded rude and Mary would be disappointed, “Or have you just not had enough water today?” Speaking of, it is a hot day. Maybe the strange man in their kitchen has had a sunstroke?
Their visitor, a short and bearded man, releases an exasperated sigh. “Don’t you worry your little head about that, Johnny boy.”
John looks at him for a few more seconds (he looks harmless, but he knows appearances can be deceiving - maybe he should get the salt for good measure?), but decides his family is a far more pressing matter. They’re still there, Mary on the porch and the boys on the lawn, and something uncurls in his chest at the sight of them (still there, still safe, still alive).
“They grow up great, those two,” the man adds, and John doesn’t need to look in order to know who their visitor is looking at. John wants to cover up the window now, hide them from this unsettling presence. “Lots in store for them. Don’t follow the script. Theirs is a good story; the best one I’ve made in a couple thousand years or so, I think. Not that I’ve been very attentive lately, I may have missed several good stories over the years…”
“Are you quite done harassing this poor man yet, brother mine?” a new voice speaks out, and John suppresses a groan. Is this woman another guest? Maybe he ought to offer them something to drink - again, it is a hot day, and a glass of holy water wouldn’t hurt (that is, of course, provided that they indeed are friendly guests).
“I’m not harassing him, I just thought he might have been a bit upset about your stunt with the resurrection.”
“He doesn’t appear to be aware of it.”
“It’s heaven - they’re not supposed to be worried here. What would be the point of paradise if they could bring their earthly drama with them?”
A pause.
Then, hesitantly, the woman continues; “We could resurrect him too..?”
“…No.”
“Are you sure?”
“One major shock is enough at a time for those Winchester boys, don’t you think? Let’s just - let one of them remain in heaven, let him think he’s successfully protecting his family. If nothing else, it’s an easier job up here than down there.”
“A simple paradise,” she acknowledges, (respectfully?), and then silence falls over the kitchen once more. Laughter trickles through the window (John hadn’t even realized it had been quiet from the boys), and he daringly sweeps an eye over the room. No more guests in sight.
Strange fellows, those. He wonders where Mary met them.
He furrows his brow in thought, something niggling in the back of his head, and he looks at his family through the window (really looks at them), and tries to connect them to the memories John knows he has of another (less pleasant) life, only to find that the pieces don’t fit. Is it too good to be true? Why? Because they’re together, alive and unhurt and happy? He wonders -
Ah, yes, the pie. He came here for the pie. He wonders if it’s ready yet.