Chapter Text
Header art by Aceriee
The night Dean was born, Mary dreamed this:
She’s lying in bed when the first wave of pain hits her. She sits up, arm curled around her stomach, gasping for breath. She pulls back the blankets to find the sheets soaked with blood. A second contraction hits her and she doubles over, moaning low as she closes her eyes and grits her teeth against it. When she opens her eyes another woman kneels in front of her, her stomach also swollen with child. Her red hair falls in soft waves around the pale skin of her face. She smiles and holds her hands out to Mary. Mary slides her hands into the woman’s and lets her pull her to her feet. Blood drips from the hem of Mary’s shift and pools around her feet. It spreads across the ground and sinks into the dirt around the woman’s feet. Green sprouts up, leaves unfurling. Yellow blossoms grow and then bloom. Another contraction doubles Mary over. The woman catches her and holds her, cheek to cheek, her stomach pressing into Mary's. Mary feels the baby kick and hers kicks back.
“It’s okay,” the woman whispers. “There’s only joy here to be found.”
Mary woke with a start, sitting up in bed, the smell of celandine still in her nose. Her abdomen tightened with a contraction. She gasped against the pain, palming over the curve of her stomach. She pulled the blankets back to find her night shift and bed sheets wet with water. Mary turned and shook her husband awake.
"John. John, it's time."
John rolled up onto his elbow, blinking sleep from his eyes. "Time?" he asked, voice rough.
"Time," she repeated.
"Chrysanthemums?" John asked, cupping a blossom between his fingers.
Mary nodded from where she lay in bed, Dean resting against her chest as he suckled. She watched him, arm curled around his body, his small fist in her hand.
"I love," she answered. "I want him to have love. To be love. To give love."
"He was born in the hour of the skull," John said. He turned from the table to watch his wife and son.
Mary stared at him, defiant. "He was born of love and he will always have love. He is love."
John sighed. "You've seen the weapon the Witches gifted to him, Mary." He sat beside her on the bed and curled a hand around his son's tiny head. Fine wisps of blond hair floated with static. He smoothed them down. "It's a weapon of war."
"All weapons are. You men think that weapons can mean peace, but they never will. They never do. All weapons are war, but his having one does not mean that he cannot have love as well. If we gave as much importance to the flowers as we do to the weapons perhaps the world would be different."
John leaned forward to kiss Mary's forehead. "You’re right," he murmured against her warm skin. "But a weapon of bone already bloodied..."
Mary turned her face away. She would hear no more. John sighed and sat back.
"Rest," he said. "I will have his shield made."
He rose from their bed and left the room.
Dean curled into his mother's side, resting his head on her arm. He stared down at his little brother who blinked up at him with blue eyes.
"Mine are green," Dean said.
"Hmm?" Mary peered down at Dean. "What are green?"
Dean looked up at her and she smiled. "Are you asking why Sam's eyes are blue?"
Dean nodded against her arm, chin digging in.
"They'll change as he gets older. Many babies have blue eyes. You did."
Dean frowned and looked at Sam again. He reached out, patting Sam's stomach. Sam kicked at him, gurgling, spit bubbling up.
"Would you like to help me pick his flower, Dean?" Mary asked.
Dean nodded and pushed himself upright. "Crys'moms," he answered.
"Chrysanthemums?" Mary asked. "He can't have the same flower as you."
Dean shook his head. "Not red ones."
"Yellow means slighted love, Dean, or love that has been wronged. We don't want that for Sam."
Dean considered, his lower lip jutting out in thought. Mary smiled and wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer to her. He came easily, always pleased to receive affection.
"White?" he asked.
"White means loyalty," she answered.
Dean smiled. "Sam's loyal."
"I'm sure he will be."
"He is," Dean insisted, reaching out again to touch Sam's stomach. Sam kicked again, his eyes riveted on Dean.
"Okay," Mary agreed. "Red chrysanthemums for my Dean and white chrysanthemums for Sammy."
Dean nodded once, firm, his face serious, a hard edge to his eyes that Mary flinched at.
When the Witches arrived, days after Sam was born, they came bearing a silver knife carved with symbols Mary had only read about. She held the wooden handle and traced a finger over the ridges of the spell. John stood behind her, a hand on her shoulder.
"I don't believe it," she said.
"Mary-"
"No. My boys will not make war. They will not fight a war." She dropped the knife into its chest and closed the lid. She pressed her forehead against the grain of it.
John knelt beside her. "We will do what we can, Mary, but this is fate. The Witches are fate."
"And the flowers?" she challenged, sitting up to glare at him.
John stared at her. He looked away. "Only our hopes."
"I don't believe it. I won't."
Mary left him there, standing before the chests that contained their sons' weapons. John's was mounted on the wall: a long-barreled gun with etchings in the metal and on the wooden grip. Only Mary's was different, a string of charms used by the Witches: spells of future-seeing, spells of healing, spells of growth, spells of building-
But also spells of pain, spells of hurting... spells of death.
Portrait of John Winchester-Campbell by Aceriee