Clench
Title: Clench
Author: one_2_3_4
Recipient: gayeld
Rating: R for language.
Summary: Hail Mary, full of grace…St. Nicholas, hear my prayers.
Notes: Special thanks to sasha_davidovna for her swift and awesome beta work. Prompt at the end, which I kind of fudged. I hope I’m forgiven. Set sometime Season 4, ~1,800 words.
Sleep my child and peace attend thee
The house was quiet, too quiet for the new family of three. The walls reverberated with the sound, the lack of it, mocking her in her grief.
“Hail Mary, full of grace…St. Nicholas, hear my prayers," she whispered repeatedly. Her knees burned, her eyes were dry, and she rocked spasmodically, pure adrenaline coursing through every vein, artery and vessel. She hadn’t slept for three days, stayed awake while the baby slept fitfully. The day before they’d brought him to the emergency room. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.
“St. Monica, watch over me…St. Nicholas, watch over my son."
The first few weeks were difficult, she recovered from the birth while the baby woke often, and John did his best to make ends meet. There were times when they would nap together, father, mother, son piled in the rocking chair, John’s strong arms surrounding the small family, safe and cared for. Always loved.
It started with a little cough, something small and sporadic, but a doctor’s check up revealed nothing. She knew something was wrong. Mother’s instinct, she told her husband. The doctor called it mother’s worry. She pushed it to the back of her mind until the coughing became worse, was interspersed with wheezing, and the pediatrician said it was a cold, prescribed some cough medicine and sent them on their way.
The fever hit five hours before John scooped them into the car and sped the whole five miles to the hospital. By then, the baby was barely breathing, his face red with fever, lips blue with lack of oxygen. She’d sat in a molded, orange plastic chair for seven hours before she could see her child again, and when they finally let her through to him, he was surrounded by tubes and wires, too wrapped up to be held. The strength in his tiny fingers had astonished her when he was born, now they lay limp in her hand; suddenly fragile.
Guardian angels God will send thee
“Hail Mary, full of grace…St John of God please hear my prayers, help my son." Tears were gone, her breath was hitched and she felt numb from head to toe. John had said he’d only be a few minutes, just long enough to get a few things from the bedroom upstairs, but she’d come inside anyway. Their living room had toys strewn on the floor, all of the baby’s favorites, plus the story book she was planning on reading to him before bed. She felt her throat closing at the thought that she’d never be able to finish it.
“Hail Mary, full of grace…St. Jude hear my prayers."
“Funny you should mention that one."
She started, turning toward the voice and collapsing back against the wall. “Who…who are you, how did you get in here?" she gasped.
The man was near her husband’s height, huskier, more rugged. He was standing in front of the doorway, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, half a grin on his face. “Easy to get in a door that isn’t locked." The man stepped forward until she could see his brown eyes.
“So Mary, why pray to St. Jude?" the man asked, his eyes suddenly becoming yellow.
Mary couldn’t breathe, this couldn’t be real. Her grandfather had mentioned the changers, the ghosts, but a real one in her living room? Those were stories to scare her to bed as a child, not to serve as warning to an adult. “If you don’t leave, I’ll scream. My husband will come."
The man waved a hand and the light above Mary’s head flickered momentarily before blaring bright. “Ah, but then you’ll ruin the surprise. I’ll make you a deal, Mary, a nice deal that will guarantee the life of your son and not involve debts to St. Jude."
She stilled, then forced her feet beneath her and stood with her hands flat against the wall behind her for balance. “You…you can do that? You can help Dean?"
The man shrugged, the grin still carving a rather sinister look on his face. “You can call it help."
Mary’s hands shook when she took the chance to stand on her own, one rising to push back her long blonde hair. “How?"
The man stepped back half a foot. “In a few years, you’ll have another child. I’ll let Dean live if you give me your second born."
The deafening silence returned, save the pounding of the blood in her ears. “I…I can’t have any more children." It had devastated her. “I won’t."
“Oh, but you will." Another half a step back. “I’ll even let you have some time with the baby, maybe you’ll see him or her grow up." The man paused. “Do we have a deal?"
Mary felt light-headed, like she hadn’t eaten for days, which she probably hadn’t, but her head pounded as well, her thoughts spinning at the possibility that she’d not only get to keep her son, but possibly have a second? They had wanted a large family but four was a good number, no matter how temporary….
“What guarantee do I have that you won’t take them both from me?" she finally said, the thought manifesting out of the fog in her mind.
“My word is my bond; I do not renege on a promise." The man’s voice was hard, the edge sharp enough to cut through the still night like a thunder crash.
Mary looked up at him, disbelief coursing through her. She nodded, her neck stiff, almost unable to perform the gesture. “We have a deal," she whispered.
He nodded once, backing further to the door. “Just don’t you go back on your word," he warned.
Mary watched him walk out to the front walk, the door closing slowly behind him without having been touched. She was still staring at the front door when John came downstairs, her overnight bag over his shoulder.
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping
“Mary? Honey?"
His hands were warm over her arms, encircling goose pimpled skin gently until he’d wrapped up her torso in his reach.
“Can we go back to Dean now, John?" Mary asked, hugging her husband back. She felt both their tired bodies relaxing into the other, holding each to standing, barely enough strength to keep each other going.
“Of course, let’s go." John’s lips brushed the top of her head and he led her out to the car, helping her in the passenger side before going around to the other side. Mary thought she caught a glimpse of the man from her living room as they drove, but he was gone after she blinked.
It wasn’t hard to feign relief, in the end.
Hill and dale in slumber sleeping
She kept track of the days. One hundred and eighty-four to be exact. John had thought it was silly to keep a count so exact, but she was proud each day to announce precisely how old little Sammy was.
Dean, so protective and watchful over his baby brother, was exact in imitating her. He’d told a woman at the supermarket that day how old Sammy was. Mary had only beamed.
The day had been long, John had worked a double shift and Dean had been rightly upset when his father hadn’t been home for dinner. Mary readied Sammy for bed alone, usually a team effort with all her family, but Dean had become involved in a cartoon and she thought better than to disturb him.
With another day marked off the calendar, Mary prepared for bed, restless when John insisted he needed to unwind downstairs. She slept fitfully, and heard the baby’s cries soft from the monitor, rising slowly.
I my loved ones’ watch am keeping
She knew as she ran back up the stairs what was happening, why the chill down her spine had reached from her toes to the roots of her hair. He was here. It was time to make her sacrifice.
“Don’t touch my son," she warned as she entered the room.
He turned to face her, the same one from years ago, but she knew now it wasn’t his - its? - real face.
“We had a deal, Mary," he reminded her.
She started for him, the words on the tip of her tongue, but a force threw her against the wall, her breath flew from her body, and pain flooded her veins.
“I warned you to not go back on your word," he snarled, his arm outstretched to her.
Angels watching, e’er around thee
“I think you’ve both seen enough."
The roar in Sam’s ears faded, his stomach fighting to settle itself and his equilibrium thrown off, causing him to lean against the table in front of him, gasping for breath.
“Is that really what happened?" Dean’s voice was hoarse.
“It is what I had to show you," the gypsy replied. Her old voice was strong in stark comparison to her weak, brittle body, cloaked with many colorful scarves, seemingly held in place by the single jade pendent hanging around her neck.
Sam stood first, waiting until after Dean left the small room before shoving his remaining cash into the jar in front of the gypsy woman’s hands. She bowed her head as he turned to walk out the room.
“It is a sacrifice that fuels this quest of revenge and knowledge. Do not forget what you have seen and heard."
Sam paused, his hand resting against the doorway to regain his balance once more before he followed his brother out into the bright Nebraska sunlight.
Dean was standing next to the Impala, the driver’s side door open as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it in the backseat, sweat darkening the collar of his grey t-shirt. “Phony hag," he mumbled as he stepped into the car and rolled down his window. The engine cranked over and Sam followed his brother’s example, stripping off layers until he was in just a t-shirt before climbing in the car. It had been twelve hours since they’d arrived and they both needed real sleep and showers, possibly some very greasy food and probably a couple rounds of shots from the local bar.
“You said you remembered counting," Sam accused, grabbing his notes from the floor of the passenger seat, checking over the ideas and visions that were now fact.
“I never fucking said it was counting how old you were," Dean snapped, his hand smacking hard against the steering wheel before he breathed deep. He took the next corner slow, pulling out onto the interstate in search of a motel. “Jesus Christ." He ran his free hand through his hair a few times, pulling at the ends.
Sam waited until Dean calmed down, noting the next few items on the list. Dreams he’d had, bits and pieces from the storage locker in Kansas. “So who did she learn it from?"
Dean was silent, squinting in the sunlight and flipping on the radio, turning up the volume to let ‘Kashmir’ disturb the still heat wave.
Sam nodded. Next on the list.
All through the night
Prompt: 5. Mary made a deal with Azazel to trade her next child to save a sick/dying Dean's life. How do the boys deal with this knowledge?
Author: one_2_3_4
Recipient: gayeld
Rating: R for language.
Summary: Hail Mary, full of grace…St. Nicholas, hear my prayers.
Notes: Special thanks to sasha_davidovna for her swift and awesome beta work. Prompt at the end, which I kind of fudged. I hope I’m forgiven. Set sometime Season 4, ~1,800 words.
Sleep my child and peace attend thee
The house was quiet, too quiet for the new family of three. The walls reverberated with the sound, the lack of it, mocking her in her grief.
“Hail Mary, full of grace…St. Nicholas, hear my prayers," she whispered repeatedly. Her knees burned, her eyes were dry, and she rocked spasmodically, pure adrenaline coursing through every vein, artery and vessel. She hadn’t slept for three days, stayed awake while the baby slept fitfully. The day before they’d brought him to the emergency room. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.
“St. Monica, watch over me…St. Nicholas, watch over my son."
The first few weeks were difficult, she recovered from the birth while the baby woke often, and John did his best to make ends meet. There were times when they would nap together, father, mother, son piled in the rocking chair, John’s strong arms surrounding the small family, safe and cared for. Always loved.
It started with a little cough, something small and sporadic, but a doctor’s check up revealed nothing. She knew something was wrong. Mother’s instinct, she told her husband. The doctor called it mother’s worry. She pushed it to the back of her mind until the coughing became worse, was interspersed with wheezing, and the pediatrician said it was a cold, prescribed some cough medicine and sent them on their way.
The fever hit five hours before John scooped them into the car and sped the whole five miles to the hospital. By then, the baby was barely breathing, his face red with fever, lips blue with lack of oxygen. She’d sat in a molded, orange plastic chair for seven hours before she could see her child again, and when they finally let her through to him, he was surrounded by tubes and wires, too wrapped up to be held. The strength in his tiny fingers had astonished her when he was born, now they lay limp in her hand; suddenly fragile.
Guardian angels God will send thee
“Hail Mary, full of grace…St John of God please hear my prayers, help my son." Tears were gone, her breath was hitched and she felt numb from head to toe. John had said he’d only be a few minutes, just long enough to get a few things from the bedroom upstairs, but she’d come inside anyway. Their living room had toys strewn on the floor, all of the baby’s favorites, plus the story book she was planning on reading to him before bed. She felt her throat closing at the thought that she’d never be able to finish it.
“Hail Mary, full of grace…St. Jude hear my prayers."
“Funny you should mention that one."
She started, turning toward the voice and collapsing back against the wall. “Who…who are you, how did you get in here?" she gasped.
The man was near her husband’s height, huskier, more rugged. He was standing in front of the doorway, hands shoved in his jeans pockets, half a grin on his face. “Easy to get in a door that isn’t locked." The man stepped forward until she could see his brown eyes.
“So Mary, why pray to St. Jude?" the man asked, his eyes suddenly becoming yellow.
Mary couldn’t breathe, this couldn’t be real. Her grandfather had mentioned the changers, the ghosts, but a real one in her living room? Those were stories to scare her to bed as a child, not to serve as warning to an adult. “If you don’t leave, I’ll scream. My husband will come."
The man waved a hand and the light above Mary’s head flickered momentarily before blaring bright. “Ah, but then you’ll ruin the surprise. I’ll make you a deal, Mary, a nice deal that will guarantee the life of your son and not involve debts to St. Jude."
She stilled, then forced her feet beneath her and stood with her hands flat against the wall behind her for balance. “You…you can do that? You can help Dean?"
The man shrugged, the grin still carving a rather sinister look on his face. “You can call it help."
Mary’s hands shook when she took the chance to stand on her own, one rising to push back her long blonde hair. “How?"
The man stepped back half a foot. “In a few years, you’ll have another child. I’ll let Dean live if you give me your second born."
The deafening silence returned, save the pounding of the blood in her ears. “I…I can’t have any more children." It had devastated her. “I won’t."
“Oh, but you will." Another half a step back. “I’ll even let you have some time with the baby, maybe you’ll see him or her grow up." The man paused. “Do we have a deal?"
Mary felt light-headed, like she hadn’t eaten for days, which she probably hadn’t, but her head pounded as well, her thoughts spinning at the possibility that she’d not only get to keep her son, but possibly have a second? They had wanted a large family but four was a good number, no matter how temporary….
“What guarantee do I have that you won’t take them both from me?" she finally said, the thought manifesting out of the fog in her mind.
“My word is my bond; I do not renege on a promise." The man’s voice was hard, the edge sharp enough to cut through the still night like a thunder crash.
Mary looked up at him, disbelief coursing through her. She nodded, her neck stiff, almost unable to perform the gesture. “We have a deal," she whispered.
He nodded once, backing further to the door. “Just don’t you go back on your word," he warned.
Mary watched him walk out to the front walk, the door closing slowly behind him without having been touched. She was still staring at the front door when John came downstairs, her overnight bag over his shoulder.
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping
“Mary? Honey?"
His hands were warm over her arms, encircling goose pimpled skin gently until he’d wrapped up her torso in his reach.
“Can we go back to Dean now, John?" Mary asked, hugging her husband back. She felt both their tired bodies relaxing into the other, holding each to standing, barely enough strength to keep each other going.
“Of course, let’s go." John’s lips brushed the top of her head and he led her out to the car, helping her in the passenger side before going around to the other side. Mary thought she caught a glimpse of the man from her living room as they drove, but he was gone after she blinked.
It wasn’t hard to feign relief, in the end.
Hill and dale in slumber sleeping
She kept track of the days. One hundred and eighty-four to be exact. John had thought it was silly to keep a count so exact, but she was proud each day to announce precisely how old little Sammy was.
Dean, so protective and watchful over his baby brother, was exact in imitating her. He’d told a woman at the supermarket that day how old Sammy was. Mary had only beamed.
The day had been long, John had worked a double shift and Dean had been rightly upset when his father hadn’t been home for dinner. Mary readied Sammy for bed alone, usually a team effort with all her family, but Dean had become involved in a cartoon and she thought better than to disturb him.
With another day marked off the calendar, Mary prepared for bed, restless when John insisted he needed to unwind downstairs. She slept fitfully, and heard the baby’s cries soft from the monitor, rising slowly.
I my loved ones’ watch am keeping
She knew as she ran back up the stairs what was happening, why the chill down her spine had reached from her toes to the roots of her hair. He was here. It was time to make her sacrifice.
“Don’t touch my son," she warned as she entered the room.
He turned to face her, the same one from years ago, but she knew now it wasn’t his - its? - real face.
“We had a deal, Mary," he reminded her.
She started for him, the words on the tip of her tongue, but a force threw her against the wall, her breath flew from her body, and pain flooded her veins.
“I warned you to not go back on your word," he snarled, his arm outstretched to her.
Angels watching, e’er around thee
“I think you’ve both seen enough."
The roar in Sam’s ears faded, his stomach fighting to settle itself and his equilibrium thrown off, causing him to lean against the table in front of him, gasping for breath.
“Is that really what happened?" Dean’s voice was hoarse.
“It is what I had to show you," the gypsy replied. Her old voice was strong in stark comparison to her weak, brittle body, cloaked with many colorful scarves, seemingly held in place by the single jade pendent hanging around her neck.
Sam stood first, waiting until after Dean left the small room before shoving his remaining cash into the jar in front of the gypsy woman’s hands. She bowed her head as he turned to walk out the room.
“It is a sacrifice that fuels this quest of revenge and knowledge. Do not forget what you have seen and heard."
Sam paused, his hand resting against the doorway to regain his balance once more before he followed his brother out into the bright Nebraska sunlight.
Dean was standing next to the Impala, the driver’s side door open as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it in the backseat, sweat darkening the collar of his grey t-shirt. “Phony hag," he mumbled as he stepped into the car and rolled down his window. The engine cranked over and Sam followed his brother’s example, stripping off layers until he was in just a t-shirt before climbing in the car. It had been twelve hours since they’d arrived and they both needed real sleep and showers, possibly some very greasy food and probably a couple rounds of shots from the local bar.
“You said you remembered counting," Sam accused, grabbing his notes from the floor of the passenger seat, checking over the ideas and visions that were now fact.
“I never fucking said it was counting how old you were," Dean snapped, his hand smacking hard against the steering wheel before he breathed deep. He took the next corner slow, pulling out onto the interstate in search of a motel. “Jesus Christ." He ran his free hand through his hair a few times, pulling at the ends.
Sam waited until Dean calmed down, noting the next few items on the list. Dreams he’d had, bits and pieces from the storage locker in Kansas. “So who did she learn it from?"
Dean was silent, squinting in the sunlight and flipping on the radio, turning up the volume to let ‘Kashmir’ disturb the still heat wave.
Sam nodded. Next on the list.
All through the night
Prompt: 5. Mary made a deal with Azazel to trade her next child to save a sick/dying Dean's life. How do the boys deal with this knowledge?