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SPN Fic: Deliver Us From Evil (Gen, Adult)
My head is in a really dark place just lately. Unlike the Winchesters, a splash of holy water and a little Latin doesn't do a great job of exorcising my demons. Fic, on the other hand, sometimes works. This is the unbeta'd version; apologies for that, but it's been so long since I posted something I wanted to share. ETA: Now beta'd and this is the final version.
Title: Deliver Us From Evil
Fandom: Supernatural
Character/Pairing: Mary Winchester. Mary/John if you want to split hairs, but there's no sex, just the canon relationship.
Spoilers: Only up to All Hell Breaks Loose.
Rating: Adult (for violence/horror)
Warnings: Dark. Really dark. Everyone dies.
Summary: The demon war is over. Humankind lost. In a post-apocalyptic world, the few human survivors live in small enclaves behind high walls, while monsters roam the world that once was theirs. Mary Winchester lives with her husband and son in one of those enclaves...but her family hides a secret that is about to threaten them all.
DELIVER US FROM EVIL
Bobby Singer was dying.
There was nothing Mary could do for him now, except make him comfortable, and she was not certain she could manage that much. He was in so much pain, the poison of his wounds having penetrated too deeply for her help. She had lanced and cleaned the wounds, removed splinters, glass and bullets from his body, but there was no penicillin left and without it there was no hope for him. Cotton bandages, frayed and grey from repeated washings, now covered his head, his right arm and his stomach. Blood seeped from beneath the head bandage to stain his beard.
Mary dabbed at the blood with a cool cloth and Bobby opened his eyes.
"Mary," he whispered.
"I'm here, Bobby," she answered softly.
"John?"
"I'm here." Until John spoke, Mary hadn't known he was watching them. She turned to see her husband in the doorway. John leaned heavily on his crutch and she could tell he was still in pain.
"I brought the morphine," John told her. He offered her the slim box in his hand.
Morphine was precious; there was so little left and when it was gone they might not be able to obtain more. Excursions to the abandoned cities were already too dangerous. Mary met her husband's eyes and dismissed any thought of contradicting his decision. John was right; Bobby deserved this. She opened the box and found the syringe already prepped. She raised it before her eyes, tapped out the air bubble and injected the morphine into Bobby's arm. She felt him begin to relax as the dose took effect.
"John," Bobby whispered again.
John stepped forward awkwardly. "Tell me." He laid one hand on Mary's shoulder, gripping hard.
"Dean's gone," Bobby rasped.
Mary heard a soft moan escape her. She knew her son was dead. She knew when Bobby returned alone, feverish and so badly hurt she was amazed he'd made it, but Dean's death wasn't real until she heard the words. Oh, Dean. Oh, my darling son. There were many things worse than death, she reminded herself, and Bobby would not have spoken unless he were certain. There was some comfort in that.
"He got close, John. Closer than anyone else has. They said that He killed Dean personally."
John's grip on Mary's shoulder tightened painfully. "For what that's worth," he answered.
"Yeah. I know."
Mary felt the tears burn her eyes but she could not weep. He killed Dean personally. They always spoke of Him that way. No one ever named Him, not even by title, like the villain in those children's books that had been so popular. People were willing to name the demons. Some would even speak the name of Azazel, if only in whispers accompanied by signs against evil. But He was just Him. In part, Mary knew, it was because almost everyone who knew His true name was long dead. Only she and John remained now.
He killed Dean personally. No one but she and John knew what that truly meant. Mary rested her cheek against John's hand on her shoulder and wondered how anyone could go on in a world that made so little sense.
The clouds above the compound glowed orange-red, lit by the distant fires. Walking across the inner courtyard, Mary pulled her afghan close around her shoulders. There was a night chill in the air and she knew there would be snow soon. Snow was both a blessing and a curse; it offered a measure of safety but it also confined them to the compound and brought with it the fear that their supplies would not last the long, cold winter.
A football flew through the air just in front of Mary. It was followed by Bradley, a boy no more than five years old, who laughed as he ran after his toy. Mary tried to smile as she watched the boy play. Children mattered. Children were the future. But what kind of a future could little Bradley look forward to?
The compound was a short distance below the snow line in the northern part of the Cascade mountain range, in what used to be Washington State. It was one of the last safe havens from the horrors that had overrun the world. Or at least America, Mary corrected her thought. She had no idea what was happening in the rest of the world. The easy communications they had always taken for granted were one of the first things they'd lost in that terrible year when Hell came to Earth, and no one Mary knew had heard any news from other continents for years.
Here, high walls topped with razor wire and salt and painted with mystical sigils protected their community from the worst of the things that roamed outside. Every able bodied adult took turns patrolling the walls. In the warm season, they sent out regular hunting parties to find food and to scavenge long-derelict pharmacies for medical supplies. They recycled everything they could, from simple things like clothing and water to more complex necessities like melting old metal to make bullets. No one had wasted salt on food for a decade. Silver was more precious than gold had ever been but not as jewellery. They clung to each other, this small, ragged band of survivors, eking out their lives and making futile plans to fight the inexorable apocalypse.
From time to time, they planned a different kind of hunt. When the werewolves became too bold or some other creature was sighted, Bobby or John would call for volunteers and lead a small group out to hunt and kill. It wasn't only the supernatural creatures. So many people had died, the cities were gone, the great industries destroyed. As a result, nature was thriving again, the forests and grasslands reclaiming abandoned urban areas. Natural predators driven near to extinction by the encroachment of mankind were back in ever greater numbers: the wolves and bears and big cats were as dangerous as the werewolves and wendigos. Behind their walls and their guns, humanity survived, but every year brought new losses and now Dean, who could have been the next leader of this small community, was gone. Could they go on like this?
They could fight most of the creatures out there, but everyone knew they had no real defence against His demonic army. In the thirteen years since the world as they knew it ended in black smoke and hellfire, this compound had not been touched by the demons. Most of their community believed it was luck, or divine intervention that saved them. Mary thought Bobby might have suspected the truth: the secret that had protected them for so long. Perhaps Dean had told him; Dean trusted Bobby completely. Dean tried to assassinate Him...and he failed. Would His wrath fall on them now?
Mary climbed to the top of the wall and gazed out to the west, where the clouds parted to reveal a few stars in the night sky above. Those few stars were Mary's hope. Perhaps it made no practical sense, but so long as she could look up to the sky and see stars, Mary could believe the angels were still there, watching over them. She could believe that someday, somehow, all of this would make sense.
In the compound below, they were building a funeral pyre for Bobby. Mary watched as her friends methodically carried wood and stacked the logs carefully. There would be no funeral pyre for Dean. No one would salt and burn his body to ensure he could rest in peace. She would never even know where his body lay. No one would ever know what his last, desperate hunt had cost her courageous and driven boy.
Mary prayed silently, gazing up at the stars. She prayed for the soul of her son.
She woke with a scream on her lips, bolting upright in the bed.
John was there, his body warm against her back, his hands steady on her shoulders, a soft voice caressing her ear. "Mary. Mary, it's okay. It's just a dream."
Mary shuddered and hunched forward over her knees, her long hair falling like a curtain around her face. Her mind screamed, No, it's not a dream, it's real! She felt her heart beating wildly against her ribs. "Not a dream," she whispered.
John's hands on her body stiffened for a moment. Mary stayed where she was, feeling his struggle to hide his reaction from her. She turned into his arms, pushing her hair back as his arms closed around her. They lay down together and she rested her head on his shoulder.
"He's coming, John," Mary said quietly. "He will come with the snow."
John tensed. "What did you see? Can we prepare?"
Mary knew her dreams unnerved him. She understood. There were many who would call her a witch if they knew, and turn her out of the compound to fend for herself among the monsters. She could not control the dreams, but they had come to her since she was a little girl. She dreamed her John's safe return from Vietnam all those years before, and had known then he would be the father of her children. Her dreams had been wrong only once in her life, when she dreamed of a terrible fire not long after her second child was born. Although the vision had been wrong, Mary remained sure of one thing: that when her death came, it would be in flame. That secret she kept to herself. John knew of her dreams and feared them, but he kept her secret, accepting her occasional prophecies as a gift.
This latest vision was no dream. It was a nightmare. It certainly wasn't a gift. Mary knew what was coming to the compound and she knew in her heart there was no escaping the demons now.
"Mary," John kissed her temple, his beard scratching her skin. "Sweetheart, talk to me. What did you see?" He kissed her cheek. He stroked her hair and her shoulders.
Mary realised she was trembling. "There's no time to prepare, John, but we have to try. I saw what they'll do here. It's horrible." Her mind still echoed with the screams of children. She remembered fire, blood in the snow and torn bodies hanging in the trees.
"Is there time to evacuate?" John whispered urgently. "Can we at least get the children out?"
Mary shook her head. "Where can we send them, John? Who could we send with them now Dean and Bobby are gone?" She didn't say aloud that the children could never survive if everyone left behind were killed. John knew that.
"I can..." John began, then stopped. "Oh. No, I can't." He made a sound of frustration.
They did have an emergency refuge, a place they could send the children. It was further up the mountain, difficult to access by design. John's leg injury would make the climb almost impossible for him, but there was another reason he couldn't go. Neither of them dared to speak out loud the real reason John had to stay. The horror coming to the compound was retribution for Dean's attempt to kill Him. John and Mary had to be there to meet it...to meet Him...or the demons would follow them.
"How can He do those things?" Mary wondered.
She knew all the stories. She collected them, with a horrified fascination that surely only a mother could feel. She had carried Sam inside her, given birth to him, fed him...and adored him. She remembered his first words and his first steps. She always knew her son was special, but never, not even in her worst nightmares, had she seen what he would become. Just the opposite: her Sammy was kind and generous and loving. As a child he had insisted on carrying spiders outside the house to set them free, cradling the creatures in his baby-hands to stop her from squishing the damned things. How did her gentle son become such a monster?
Mary didn't realise she'd spoken the question aloud until John answered it.
"I don't think he has a choice any more," John said. "He's not...he's not Sam any more. He's just another demon."
"But he's not possessed, John. He had a choice once. He must have." Where did we go wrong?
"I don't know, baby. I just don't know." John held her close for a moment. He groaned and reached for his crutch.
"Where are you going, love?"
"To start preparing."
It was worse than anything Mary dreamed.
He will come with the snow, she had predicted.
That morning, Mary kissed her husband and slipped quietly from the bed. John watched with sleepy eyes as she dressed in her usual clothing: patched jeans over heavy boots, a white t-shirt, a blue and green checked shirt and a powder-blue sweater, and her knitted afghan over everything. She picked up her gun before she went outside and belted on her hip-holster.
The first thing she saw was the snow. It was not yet light and the compound was all dark corners and shadow, but the snow was hard to miss. The night before the air had been cold with that clean, crisp scent of snow, but there were only a few sparse, dry flakes in the air. Sometime in the night it had become a blizzard and now a thick layer of snow covered the inner courtyard of the compound. Outside, the snow muffled the usual sounds of nature, casting an eerie silence over the landscape.
Out of long habit, Mary looked toward the gate first. The rust-streaked iron gate stood closed, the painted devil's trap still visible beneath the clinging snow.
Something was wrong. Her instincts screamed it, but at first Mary saw nothing out of place, nothing to explain her irrational terror. She began to cross to the kitchen shed: the communal fire where everyone cooked. Most meals in the compound were shared, with people tending to cook and eat in the same groups. But the morning meal was more sporadic, with people showing up whenever they felt hungry and grabbing whatever was left over from the previous day. The people who were on guard duty overnight were responsible for getting the fire going and getting first pick of the food was considered one of the perks of the job. Mary began to cross the courtyard, her boots sinking deeply into the snow with each step.
That was when she realised.
There were no tracks in the snow. At this hour, the guard shift should have changed. There should be footprints from the night guards heading to the kitchen shed and more prints from the first day shift heading from the sleeping quarters to the guard posts. She should be hearing voices from the kitchen shed. Instead the compound was unnaturally still.
Mary drew her gun. She knew she should go back for John. Better to raise the alarm for no reason than fail to warn them. The memory of her dream - screaming, blood and fire - drove her onward. She had to see. She had to know.
She pushed open the door to the kitchen shed, her gun ready, the safety off. The smell hit her first: the unmistakable iron-scent of blood, mingled with the smoke-and-ash smell of the fire. There was no sound from within. The door opened only partway before it was blocked by something. Mary squeezed through the gap, remembering to check above her and every corner of the room before she allowed herself to look down.
A gasp escaped her when she saw them, but it wasn't a scream. She was sure it wasn't a scream.
The bodies of the three who had been on guard duty that night were piled up behind the door like three broken dolls. She couldn't see the man on the bottom clearly, but she knew it was Sean. She knew everyone in the compound. She loved most of them. Sean wasn't just a guy; he was the kid who picked flowers and made doe-eyes over Dana all summer. Now he was dead. Above Sean's blood-soaked body lay Kitty. Her throat had been torn out so the bones of her spine gleamed through the blood. Her sightless eyes stared at Mary, the terror on her face making Mary certain she had been alive for at least a few seconds after that was done to her. Kitty was four months pregnant. She should have gone up the mountain with the children but she refused to leave her husband. The third body was Peter. He was seventeen, the last of his family. His chest had been torn open, his heart ripped out.
Mary didn't scream. She had seen far worse than this before. She knew there was worse to come.
"Mary!" It was John's voice, his shout laced with panic.
She ran from the shed, leaving bloody footprints in the snow behind her. John was in the doorway of the sleeping quarters, only half-dressed and leaning on his crutch with a shotgun in his other hand. Mary saw others emerging from their quarters. She saw them seeing. She reached John and threw her arms around him.
"They're here. John, they're here."
He held her close against him and she could feel his relief as if it were her own. "I know, baby," John told her. "I know."
Something in his voice made her turn and look. She saw the blood flowing in long streaks down the iron gate. And then she saw what lay beyond it. The bodies in the trees. The children. Oh, God, no. They were supposed to be safe.
It was a message. A message for Mary and John, from their son.
"How did they do it, John?" Mary asked quietly, while they waited for the last few people to join the meeting. The question frightened her almost more than all the death: how had the demons come into the compound at all? How could they have crossed their protections?
John shook his head grimly. He was cleaning his shotgun while they waited, a cloth full of ammo in his lap. "I don't think it matters how. They wanted us to know they can breach our defences any time they want to. They killed the children to show us there's no escape. We're surrounded."
Mary stared at him. "You're not thinking of surrender?"
John gave Mary a dark look. "We both know that's not an option. He's made that clear. I don't know what else...what other choice is there?"
Cal primed his gun, the sound interrupting them. "We fight," he growled, his voice pitched to carry. "We go down fighting. Take as many of 'em with us as we can."
Mary stood up to face him. She understood Cal's belligerence: his children were hanging from the trees outside the compound. But he wasn't thinking clearly. None of them were. Mary glanced around the room to confirm everyone was present now. "Our goal should be not to go down at all," she pointed out.
"Not gonna happen," Cal insisted.
"Cal's right," John said quietly. "We don't know what He does to prisoners but I'm damn sure death would be better." He stood, leaning on the shotgun for support, facing the others.
Mary moved up to his side in case he needed to lean on her. She looked around the room. Thirty two men and women: they - and those on guard outside - were all that was left. She took in the faces of her friends and saw that most of them agreed with Cal. They had given up. Sam's bloody display had defeated them before the first battle.
John raised his voice so everyone could hear. "Surrender is not an option. Unless anyone here wants to become one of them, because that's the best we can hope for if they take us alive. We have two choices, and I'm not gonna sugar-coat this. None of the choices is good. We fight to the death, or we try to escape."
"Escape?" Alex repeated. She was one of the youngest. "Through that? Where would we go?"
"There are other safe enclaves," John answered. "The closest is Jim Murphy's compound to the south. It's a long trek and it will be a dangerous journey in winter, but it can be done." He met the eyes of each person in turn as he spoke. "If anyone wants to try to reach safety, I for one will do everything possible to give you a chance to get away. But there isn't much time, so speak up."
There was a long silence. John was proposing that they run. He knew their chances of escaping the compound and reaching safety were slim, but it was a chance. And he was offering his own life to give them that chance.
It was Cal who spoke first, his tone more reasonable. "I know the place John's talking about. I'd rather stay and fight, but if anyone wants to try the journey, I can lead you there." He looked at John. "Why split us up? If we're leaving, we should all go."
"No," John answered firmly. He reached for Mary's hand; she allowed him to take it. "No matter what, Mary and I are staying. We'll buy you time."
Others began to speak, all at once, some to argue with John, others to say they would leave.
Mary shouted for quiet. She waited until every eye was on her. "John speaks for me. This is our home. We waste time talking about this. Everyone must decide now. If you will leave, go and pack your things. Take all of the food supplies with you. We won't need them. We'll divide the weapons evenly. Those who will stay with us, come forward. We need to make a plan."
Mary crouched behind the barricade. The heat of the flames was so very close. The fire would reach them soon. Beside her lay John, his gun empty and useless at his side. His shirt was dark with his blood. She saw two bullet wounds in his chest, but there could be more she didn't see. He raised his eyes to Mary, silently lending his support to whatever choice she made.
She had two bullets left. She'd saved them, because she knew it would come to this. Surrender is not an option. They'd both agreed on that, but it didn't make the final choice any easier.
Were they wrong to let Dean and Bobby try for Him? No. She couldn't regret that, though the price was higher than she had dreaded. They all agreed it was worth the terrible risk. The stories of His army had become so much worse in the past year. Killing Him could not end it, but it would have been a beginning. A hope. Perhaps enough to inspire others to join the fight.
But they had failed, and now their deaths would serve to warn others not to test His tolerance again.
Mary shifted to lie beside her dying husband. She reached up to touch his face. His eyes softened at her touch. Even in the hell this world had become, they had been happy together. She kissed him and tasted blood on his lips. She was ready.
A deafening explosion rocked the compound. The ground shook beneath her and the blast blew the barricade inward. Instinctively, Mary threw herself over John's body, protecting him as the barricade fell. The impact forced her down, and something ripped into her flesh. She screamed. The gun was gone from her hand. She saw the gun, lying a short distance from her hand, illuminated by the encroaching flames. She stretched toward it desperately, but it was just out of reach. The flames licked around the gun and her hand and Mary cried out with the pain.
She had always known she would die in fire.
The weight above her lifted on its own, dragging whatever had stabbed her back out of her flesh. For a moment the flames roared closer. Mary drew breath to scream and heat seared her lungs. She felt her hair begin to burn, smelled it. Suddenly free, she grabbed for the gun and it flew away just as her fingers touched it.
Mary tried to lift her weight off John's still body. The movement hurt like hell and she stifled another scream. Hot blood flowed from a wound somewhere near her hip. The flames around her parted like the Red Sea and she saw three figures coming toward her: dark silhouettes in human shape against the flames. She felt John take her hand, a reassuring touch. She almost wept with relief that he still lived.
It was ten years since Mary last saw Sam in the flesh, but there was no mistaking Him for anyone else. His height gave Him away before she ever saw His face.
Mary recoiled as a burst of flame illuminated the scene. She saw His eyes, golden in the firelight. He stopped a short distance from her, looking down at Mary, who tried to keep herself between Him and John.
Sam gazed down at them for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Bring them," he ordered curtly. He turned on his heel and stalked away.
Mary struggled against the hands that dragged her up, but there was nothing she could do. Surrender is not an option. Neither, it seemed, was a merciful death.
She woke up fifteen years in the past. Not literally, but that was how it felt, for the disorienting moments before memory and grief returned. She was in a bed, a real bed with a comforter and pillows and a white ceiling above her. The room was dark, the only light from a door standing open a short distance away. She heard male voices beyond the door, but not the words.
Mary sat up and winced as pain shot through her side. She was hurt. She remembered. The barricade had fallen on her, and something pierced her side. John had been hurt...dying. She had been ready to die, waiting for the flame to reach them both. And then Sam...
She moved a hand to the painful area and found bandages around her middle. She felt a draft on her neck and raised a hand to her hair. Her hair was cropped short and she remembered smelling it burning. Touching her hair hurt and she looked at her hands: the skin was red and blistered, but clean. Besides the bandages her body was naked, but a pale pink robe lay across the bed near her feet. It looked like silk. Mary reached for the robe, whimpering in pain, and fell back onto the soft pillows. It took her a long time to get the robe on properly but once she tied the sash firmly around her waist, covering her nakedness, Mary felt a little more secure. She still had no idea where she was, or why she wasn't dead.
John! Was John here somewhere? Had he been saved, too?
She pushed back the comforter and slowly eased her legs over the side of the bed. She found the floor with her toes - a thick carpet - and, clinging to the bed for support, she stood up. Once standing, she found she could move without too much pain. She headed for the door.
"You waste your time with these games," a male voice growled scathingly.
"No." The answering voice was one Mary recognised: the voice of her son. Sam. He sounded angry and stubborn. "You mean I'm wasting your time. You promised me this. I won't give it up."
Fear filled Mary at the sound of that voice, but she continued to make her way toward the door. Her bare feet made no sound on the carpet.
"What will you do with them?" the growling voice demanded.
"Whatever I want to," Sam answered indifferently. "I'll be done by the time we're ready to move south."
There was a silence. "Fine, then. I'll leave you to your...entertainment."
Mary went cold when she realised who - or what - that voice must belong to. The demon king. Azazel. The next moment, because she was who she was, she understood what an opportunity this was. Could she do it? Did she dare try to send the demon king back to Hell? Her heart racing, she crept toward the open door.
The room beyond was huge by the standards Mary was accustomed to. Wallpaper printed with a delicate abstract pattern graced the walls. The ceiling was high and coved, with electric lights softly glowing in two long rows. (They had electricity? How?) The room was furnished as a comfortable living room, with two leather couches and three easy chairs arranged around a circular coffee table. A dresser along one wall held a range of drinks, food, and a coffee filter. The scent of fresh coffee reached Mary just as she noticed the filter. How long was it since she'd tasted real coffee?
Sam was alone in the room, though Mary hadn't heard the demon leave. He saw her as she peered around the door. She froze.
Sam came toward her and for a moment Mary could almost believe he was her baby boy again; the look of concern on his face seemed so genuine.
"You shouldn't be out of bed," he chided gently. "You were badly hurt. Here, let me help." He offered his arm, just like a perfect gentleman.
Mary's side was hurting too much for her to refuse his help, though she longed to. She took his arm and allowed him to lead her to the nearest couch. It gave her a better view of the room. The wall not visible to her before was a floor-to-ceiling window, revealing that they were very high up. There were distant mountains visible, the landscape covered with snow. The snow reminded her of the display left for them at the compound: the bodies of children ripped open and hanging from the trees. Shuddering, she pulled away from him and sat down on the couch. The couch was soft, comfortable leather, a luxury she'd never expected to see again. She ran her fingertips over the leather and thought about Kitty, who hand-cured leather in the compound to make shoes and coats. Kitty, who died with her throat torn out.
He chose a nearby chair and she was grateful he hadn't sat beside her. He was her son, and part of her was glad to see him. Bus she couldn't forget the things he had done. She hated him for that.
"Are you okay?" Sam asked her, leaning forward in his chair, and again his concern seemed genuine.
"Where is John?" Mary blurted, unable to hold the question in any longer. She knew it was foolish to hope - he had been so badly hurt - but she clung desperately to the last moment they shared, when John took her hand, showing her he still lived.
Sam shrugged. "He doesn't matter," he answered indifferently.
For a moment, she was speechless. "John matters to me," she insisted, when she could speak.
"He was too badly hurt to be useful," Sam told her. "If none of the demons wanted him they probably gave him to the wolves. Does it help to know that?"
Mary stared at him in disbelief. How could he be so uncaring? What are you?
"I am what my father made me," Sam said.
He had answered her thought! If he could read her mind... Fear clutched Mary's heart, but stronger than her fear was the anger. She leapt to her husband's defence without thinking. "John never harmed you!" she protested.
Sam leaned back in his easy chair, steepling his hands in front of his chest almost as if he were praying. "I didn't mean him."
"He's your father." Mary pressed on. "Dean was your brother. How could you, Sammy?"
"How could I kill Dean?" Sam repeated flatly. "Why not? He killed me first."
Mary swallowed. Her throat felt tight. "I...I don't understand." But she was afraid she did understand.
Sam stared straight ahead. "I can't say it more plainly. Dean killed me. He cut my throat right here in this room and left me to bleed out." He spoke without revealing any emotion.
Mary's eyes were drawn involuntarily to Sam's neck. His shirt was partly unbuttoned, revealing the cord of some pendant or amulet hidden beneath the cotton. She saw no sign of an injury, no healing scar at his throat. It couldn't be true...surely it couldn't be true.
"What I did to him," Sam continued, "was a piece of mercy. He gets to stay dead."
"That's your idea of mercy?"
"I know you've heard the stories. They are all true. If I'd left him to Azazel Dean might still be alive, but he wouldn't want to be." Sam stood abruptly and walked across to the huge window. He stood there, gazing out, for a long time.
Mary stayed where she was because she felt too weak to walk over there. She watched his back as he stood there and saw the tension in his shoulders. The gesture was so like his father, it was heartbreaking. Mary remembered John saying I don't think he has a choice any more. If she believed Sam, John had been right. What escape was there for Sam if he wasn't even allowed to die?
The thought of John brought the reality home to her in a rush of raw grief. John, her John, the love of her life, was dead. She tried to hold back the tears, determined not to show Sam how much he had hurt her. She tried to breathe and her throat ached with the effort. John. Oh, John. Her breath hitched and her control broke. A sob escaped her and she doubled over in pain, covering her face with her blistered hands as she wept.
She cried, longing for John's comforting touch, but it never came. She would never see him again.
"You must be hungry," Sam suggested. His voice was gentle, yet he hadn't come near her while she cried.
Mary looked up, wiping her eyes. "I'm not," she said shortly. I just lost my husband, damn you! I watched you kill everyone I loved. If he could read her thoughts, let him read that one.
Sam simply nodded. "Alright. Then something to drink?"
She shook her head, not interested in hospitality. "Why am I here?" she demanded. "Why didn't you kill me?"
"That's not for me to do," Sam answered, in a voice that sent a chill through her. "Earlier, you were thinking that I don't have free will. You're wrong. You just don't understand the choices I've made."
Mary wondered if Hitler's mother had been proud of her son. "I don't want to understand."
"Of course you don't. You think I'm a monster. All of this is my doing. My fault."
"Yes!" she hissed defiantly. It was reckless, but she wanted him angry with her now. His good son act was making her sick.
Sam didn't react with anger. "You could have prevented all this, couldn't you?" he said softly. "If only you'd known when I was a vulnerable little baby. If only you'd known what I would become."
Mary gazed at him bitterly. Yes. If only...
Sam turned away, but not before she saw the satisfaction in his eyes. He walked over to the dresser and began to pour coffee. Mary hadn't asked for it, but she found her mouth watering as the scent reached her. It was foolish to refuse. Mary recognised the reality of her situation: she was completely in Sam's power.
So when Sam returned to her side and offered her a tall cup of coffee, Mary accepted it. "Thank you."
"I know you hate me," Sam said. He sat down in the chair once more. "I don't care. But I'm going to talk, and you need to remember my words."
The coffee was warm, not hot, and though it was painful to hold the cup she was grateful for the warmth. Mary sipped from the cup and the rich taste exploded on her tongue. Sam wasn't going to kill her; that much was clear. She was almost disappointed. What did she have left to live for?
"I need to remember?" she repeated. "Why?"
Sam seemed to ignore the question. "All of this, everything I've done, would have happened no matter what choices I made. If it wasn't me, it would have been someone else."
Mary met his eyes, curious. "Are you asking me for absolution?" she wondered.
Sam laughed, a harsh bark of a sound. "Absolution? Just the opposite."
"I don't understand."
"Of course you don't. It's too late for absolution. If he ever lets me die, I'm going to Hell. I know what's waiting for me there, and it's no reward, I promise you. Absolution, ha!" He laughed again. "I know you're a psychic," Sam said, suddenly serious. "So am I. I can see the other paths sometimes. The alternatives. I chose the lesser of the evils. Maybe I was wrong, but it's too late for me now. I'm not the one with the power to make it better." He met Mary's confused eyes. "You are."
"Me? But...how?" Despite herself, despite everything, Mary found herself drawn in.
Sam shook his head. "If I explain, he'll know. He'll read it in you and find a way to destroy this last choice. Just remember my words."
"What makes you think I'll do anything you want? You killed my son. You killed my husband!"
Sam smiled coldly. "Do you want them back? If you want it badly enough, it can be arranged."
Mary's hands were suddenly shaking enough to spill the coffee. "Y-you mean that."
"Around here, anything is possible." Sam sounded bitter: the first real emotion he had shown her. "It will only cost your soul."
She was a prisoner, that much Mary knew.
The suite of rooms seemed to be Sam's private apartment. In addition to the bedroom and living room Mary had already seen, there was a larger bedroom - Sam's, though he never seemed to sleep there - and a luxurious bathroom. The only way in or out of the apartment was an elevator, but the controls did not respond when Mary tried them. She attempted it only once; she had nowhere to go in any case.
A woman came each day to change Mary's bandages. She appeared to be human but she never spoke at all, communicating with simple but clear gestures. On the second day she brought Mary fresh clothing: a skirt and blouse, underwear and soft shoes. Everything fit her perfectly.
Not everyone who came to the apartment was human. Once, Mary came out of her room to find what she thought was a man speaking quietly with Sam. He whirled around as she entered the room and she saw that his eyes were an awful, sickly yellow. He gestured and she found herself airborne. A shocked scream escaped her and her back hit the door of her room, slamming it open. She fell to the ground, her wounded side exploding with pain. The door slammed shut. Mary lay there on the floor, curled up around the pain, until Sam came in to tell her the demon was gone.
There were other visitors to the apartment. These visits were usually brief, and after her painful encounter with Azazel, Mary kept to her room until they were over. On the fourth day, she heard Sam arguing with someone, his voice raised in anger. A female voice answered him. Mary saw a flash of light beneath her closed door, and then there was silence. When she eventually emerged from her room, there was a large stain of blood on the carpet. Someone had tried to clean it, but the shape and nature of the stain were still visible. She tried to ignore the stain, and did not ask about the argument.
When Sam was in the apartment, he spent most of his time reading. His books were large, ancient-looking volumes filled with arcane symbols, most of them in no language Mary knew. He would set the book aside and speak with her if she initiated conversation, but otherwise seemed unaware of her presence while he read. Mary quickly learned to leave him alone, but she had no way to fill her own time. Most mornings, they talked for an hour, sometimes longer, over breakfasts of foods Mary found irresistibly delicious: blueberry pancakes, bacon with scrambled eggs, apple juice, coffee, lightly toasted bagels and fresh fruits. Memories of a world that was long gone.
When Sam spoke of the terrible things he had done in Azazel's name, Mary saw no regret in him. If she demanded justifications or tried to make him see how evil his actions were, he simply told her the alternative was worse. Yet it was difficult to imagine this Sam as the monster who was at the centre of so many horror stories. Even having seen his handiwork first-hand, Mary found the man himself...human. He treated her with consideration, unfailingly polite. He rarely called her "mother" and would not discuss John or Dean after that first day, but once when she mentioned his boyhood in Lawrence he recounted his own memories with genuine nostalgia. She still hated him...but it was becoming harder.
Slowly, Mary recovered from her injury. She found no salt in the apartment but she saved water from the bathroom and blessed it, just in case. Every morning and night she prayed for the souls of everyone who had died, whispering the Latin words of the requiem mass, though she had no priest to aid her.
Every night she lay in her soft and lonely bed and cried herself to sleep, thinking of John.
If Sam knew, he gave no sign.
Each evening as night fell, Mary stood at the window and searched for the stars. But the sky was filled with snow clouds and the stars were never visible.
Mary was surprised when Sam granted her request for a Bible. She'd asked for it not for religious comfort but simply to have something to read but she found herself drawn again and again to the apocalyptic prophecies of the Revelation. She was sitting up in bed while reading, trying to find some sense or meaning in the ancient words, when she heard noises from the next room. She heard bumps and bangs and once, glass breaking, but no voices. Resolutely, she ignored the sounds.
Later, a strong scent she didn't recognise began to permeate her room. Mary slipped quietly out of bed and pulled on her robe before moving to the door. As she walked, she noted there was very little pain now; her wound was almost fully healed.
She listened at the door for a moment, but heard no more sound, no voices. So she opened the door.
Sam had moved some of the furniture to clear a large space on the floor. The carpet had been rolled back to reveal a polished wood floor on which Sam had arranged at least fifteen thick, red candles in a rough circle. In the centre of the circle a silver bowl was filled with something that was giving off smoke: that was the source of the odd smell. It was incense.
Mary stood in the doorway, taking in the scene and realised this was something she wasn't supposed to see. She hesitated, not sure what to do.
Sam looked up, a sharp movement. His eyes widened when he saw Mary. She began to back away, intending to disappear back into her room, but he had already seen her. Sam stood, coming toward her.
"It's alright. Come in for a moment."
Mary stepped back into the room, but stayed in the doorway. "What is this?"
Sam looked back over his shoulder. "I can't tell you."
She shook her head. "This is some kind of spell, isn't it? Black magic?" Mary thought of the glass of holy water at her bedside and then, conscious that he could read her thoughts, tried not to think of it.
Sam smiled. "This is the only night all the signs are in alignment. I've told you everything I can. I think you will understand soon."
"Sam...please."
He reached out and cupped her cheek with one big hand. Mary stiffened. It was the first time he had touched her with anything like affection. His hand was warm.
"What happened to John and the others wasn't your fault," Sam said. "Dean gave me an excuse, but I would have come for you anyway. You were always the strongest of us. I know you'll make the right choice."
"But I don't...I don't understand. What are you doing, Sam?"
"Gambling," he answered.
When Mary woke, she felt as if she had been drugged. The bed felt strange and unfamiliar. Her vision was blurred, a little, and her head felt full of cotton candy. She felt for the light switch beside her, fumbled around until she found it, and turned the light on. The baby monitor crackled and she heard the baby gurgling.
"John?" she murmured, but the bed beside her was empty. For a moment, that brought tears to her eyes. She didn't understand why. It wasn't unusual for John to get up in the night, to catch a late-night movie or raid the refrigerator. So why did his absence suddenly fill her with so much grief? She felt there was something she should remember, but it slipped away like the memory of a dream.
She rose from the bed, her eyes still half-closed with sleep, and stumbled along the hallway to the nursery, to check on the baby. She found her husband already there, standing over the cradle. Sammy gurgled with babyish glee as the mobile over the cradle spun around in crazy circles. John must have knocked it as he bent over the cradle.
Mary couldn't get rid of the nagging feeling something was wrong. She had forgotten something important. "John? Is he hungry?" Mary asked, though she knew that wasn't it.
John half turned toward her, raising a finger to his lips. "Ssh!" he hissed.
"Okay," Mary shrugged, and began to make her way back to bed.
The light in the hallway flickered and Mary frowned. She tapped the light shade lightly. It flickered again and then returned to its normal, steady glow. She shrugged to herself. Just a loose wire, she thought, making a mental note to ask John to check it in the morning.
She heard muffled sounds of shouting and gunfire from downstairs. John had left the television on again. Shaking her head with a smile, she headed downstairs to turn it off. She wanted her husband in bed with her tonight.
You could have prevented all this, couldn't you? A strange voice echoed in Mary's mind. If only you'd known what I would become.
She shook her head. It was some remnant of a dream. It didn't matter.
You need to remember my words.
She could see the television from partway down the stairs. In its light she saw John, sound asleep in his chair.
You need to remember...
If John was here, who was in the nursery? Who was with her baby?
Fear propelled her up the stairs, down the hallway, into the nursery. "Sammy!" she called. She stopped in the doorway. The dark figure whirled around and she saw those sickly yellow eyes. Azazel!
Mary remembered. She remembered everything.
"It's you!" she blurted as understanding burst on her.
I can see the other paths sometimes. I'm not the one with the power to make it better. You are.
This was where it started. This was why Azazel had such power over her son. This moment started Sam on his road to...to the end of the world.
And Mary was too late to stop it.
The demon's power slammed her into the wall. Mary tried to find her voice, to demand he stay away from her baby, but she could not speak. She felt her body rise from the ground. She scrabbled at the wall, digging her nails into the plaster, trying to stop what was happening. Nothing worked.
You were always the strongest of us. I know you'll make the right choice.
Mary stared down into those yellow eyes. You can't have my son, you bastard! She was, impossibly, on the ceiling of the room, gazing down at her Sammy, her baby and the demon that had come to steal his future.
She saw the demon smile in triumph. Pain sliced across her belly. At last she found her voice, but all she could do was scream and scream in her pain and frustration. The demon gestured sharply, and she could no longer make any sound at all.
That was when John burst into the room. "Mary!" he called, panic lacing his voice.
He stopped in the doorway. He walked across to the cradle. He walked right past the demon, clearly unable to see it.
John, oh, God, John, look up. Please look up. Mary's blood dripped down like rain over the cradle.
John leaned over the cradle, speaking softly to the baby. Mary saw him freeze suddenly. He knew! He turned, so very slowly it seemed to her, and finally, he looked up.
"Mary!" John staggered backward in shock, staring up at her.
I am what my father made me.
John! She screamed inside her head, willing him to hear her somehow, begging him with her eyes to understand. It's Sammy! You have to save Sammy! John, oh, save our boy. He'll come for our baby!
Flame erupted around her. Heat stole her breath. In the last moment before agony stole her vision, Mary saw John gather up the baby and run from the room.
What are you doing, Sam?
Gambling.
And at last, Mary understood.
Sam used her. He sent her back, somehow, to change his own past. A last gamble to save not only his own soul, but to save the world. Her death was a sacrifice to save the future.
Mary had seen that future. She had lived it, and no price was too high to stop that future from happening again. She accepted this death. It was necessary.
Mary had always known she would die in flame.
~ End ~
Also posted on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2708