No money being made here. Unfortunately.

AN: Erm… if you don't know anything about classic rock, you shouldn't be reading this. Not that I'm an expert or anything, but there are a couple references.

Any little song that you know

One of Mary's pet quirks was giving people songs. They'd come away from a family gathering or a dinner with friends, and she'd assign a song to all the guests she hadn't met before. She'd started doing it as a teenager, and the habit had stuck. John thought it was hilarious – especially when she gave people she hadn't met songs. Like the waitress in the diner. Or a customer at the garage.

"Gallows Pole," Mary announced one night in the Impala.

"For Deacon?" John asked, disbelieving.

Mary grinned. "Well, he is a prison officer."

"True. Have you given yourself one yet?"

"Oh, no. You can't choose your own song. I was waiting for you to tell me."

"Hendrix, definitely."

"Wind Cries Mary? How unimaginative of you, Johnny. I'm disappointed."

"Don't be. I was thinking more of Cross Town Traffic. Although Fleetwood Mac's Black Magic Woman would fit as well."

Mary's laughter was almost louder than Zeppelin II, and she tended to blast that at top volume.

"What about mine, dare I ask?" her then-boyfriend wanted to know when she'd calmed down. "Bad Moon Rising?" CCR was one of the few bands of his she didn't like. Just as he hated her Joni Mitchell tapes.

"Don't be silly. Break On Through," she said.

"There are those who think that's about committing suicide, you know," John mock-protested.

"Well, it's not. It's about… strength. Seeing through illusions, and getting free of them. That's you, all over."

She was driving, her long slender hands curled around the steering wheel, her hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Long tendrils had escaped, curling against her neck. He couldn't make out the colour of her dress, let alone her eyes, in the orange glow of the streetlights that flashed over them in a steady rhythm like seeing a heartbeat, but he knew they were hazel-green: grass and early-autumn leaves just turning yellow and the deep warm brown of nutshells all mixed together in a swirl of colour that captivated him.

...Guinevere, had green eyes, like yours, my lady like yours...

"Marry me, Mary Roberts."

She turned to look at him, and smiled. "If you'd waited any longer we'd have had to wait till next year for the church," she said, all exasperation and amusement and teasing… on the surface. Words didn't mean much to Mary. She was too damn good at manipulating them for that.

A year and a half later, she sat propped up against a mountain of pillows holding their firstborn son. John was so elated and overjoyed he was practically high. Mary bore an oddly wistful look. Dean was blinking up at his parents silently, and rather solemnly for a three-hour-old baby, but then, he was on the verge of falling asleep.

John tightened his arm around Mary's shoulders slightly; she looked up at him quizzically.

"Hm?"

"Does he have a song yet?" her husband teased softly. She dropped her eyes to the little boy in her arms, and slowly smiled.

"No Quarter," she said quietly.

If John was surprised by her choice, he didn't say anything.

Sammy was a little more difficult. He was six months old before Mary had narrowed it down to two.

"Carry On Wayward Son, or The Rain Song," she told John that night, standing in their bedroom in that hideous nightdress she couldn't be bothered to throw away... or so she said. John suspected she kept it because he didn't like it. Just to make a point - although he had no idea which one.

"It's really taken you six months to get that far?"

"He's complicated, our Sammy. In case you hadn't noticed, the songs are a bit of a contradiction. Dean's much more straightforward."

"Ah, I see."

"Johnny, are you making fun of me? Because you'll be eating your words by the time he's fourteen, you know."

John crossed the room, slid his hands into her hair and kissed her. "I take it back. You're Stairway to Heaven."

"I'm not sure you're allowed to take it back," she murmured into his mouth.

"Too late. I just did," he muttered back, pulling her closer… until a voice floated down the hallway.

"Mommy, I'm finished! 'Cept I can't reach to put the toothbrush back."

Mary pulled herself away from John with a laugh and went to get Dean.

"Here you go. Now let's go say goodnight to your brother."