"Ahh!" John Winchester woke up screaming, drenched in a cold sweat, tears silently working their way down his face. He could still smell the smoke; feel the heat of the flames on his face. He sat up in the chair and grabbed the beer off the floor taking a large gulp. He could still see the dream as clearly as if it were still happening.
Mary pinned to the ceiling. Her nightgown stained with blood, the edges of it being licked by tendrils of orange.
The oldest Winchester remembered the feeling of total helplessness, the feeling of utter despair. He had wanted nothing more than to curl up on the floor under his wife's body and die right along with her.
In his dream, he had been able to get Mary off of the ceiling, but she'd been too far gone to save. John had pulled her close burying his face in her hair. And it had still smelled like her, the scent of lilac and cinnamon. It didn't smell like sulfur or smoke or fire. Just Mary. John pulled his wife closer like the old people in that Titanic movie she had dragged him to. They were that couple, together until the end. But instead of water, they were covered in smoke and flames. But the fire had no effect; the blazing heat was gentle warmth. The smoke which should have been acrid and smothering covered them like his mother's winter quilt. Even though he knew he shouldn't be because they were dying, John was content. His wife was nestled safely wrapped in his arms. They were together as it should be.
Then Mary had whispered, barely audible nothing more than a flutter of breath in his ear two words, the two words that had caused John to wake up screaming, "The boys."
Once he had fully wakened, John's eyes met two large green ones staring back at him. He could see long, tiny fingers gripping the edges of bed. The little face attached to the eyes was filled with wonder as the young boy realized he was being watched back.
Crawling from the cot he had been sleeping on, John grabbed Dean's hand leading him back to the bed the boys had been sharing. Dean lie down on the bed snuggling next to his little brother. The minute Dean's eyes began to drift and he began dozing, Sam began to cry.
At Sam's screech, Dean startled awake once more. John sighed and picked up both boys carrying one in each arm to the overstuffed rocking chair the neighbors had set up for him to use while the Winchesters were staying with them. John sank down exhaustion pulling him into the chair, holding Sam. Once he was comfortable he took time to situate the baby against his shoulder. Then he patted his lap for Dean to join them, "Come on, son."
The five-year-old struggled slightly, wiggling his tiny body and pulling on John's pant legs like a small cat. For all his effort, the boy didn't make a single sound except for a few barely audible grunts. He never asked for help. Even when John reached a hand down to assist, Dean just moved to the other pant leg and began climbing that one to get to the chair instead. Once the older boy had achieved his goal, he snuggled into John's chest burying his face in the soft sweatshirt material, one hand latching onto the ties hanging from the sweatshirt's hood. His face burrowed in John's chest, his other hand clutched in Sam's, Dean sighed and fell immediately back asleep.
Now that Sam had his father and his brother he too was content, his face hidden in John's neck, the itty-bitty fingers of one hand holding the opposing string of the hood on the sweatshirt in a death grip. His other hand wrapped securely in Dean's.
John gasped awake once more with a start. Instinctually, he reached forward toward Mary. He could almost feel the heat of the fire on his face. See the flames licking the corners of his pants legs, singeing the sleeves of his Marine T-shirt. The roar of the inferno in his ears coupled with Sam's screams. Mary pinned above him the edges of her nightgown turning orange in the light of the fire.
Coming to, he felt a slight weight pressing down on his chest preventing the jerking reaction his body was so desperately trying to accomplish. As he became more and more aware he realized the weight was that of two small bodies anchored against his chest. Instead of Mary's hands reaching for him out the flame and darkness, he saw two sets of little fingers fisted in his shirt and two sets reaching legs wrapping themselves around his chest. His neck felt damp and sticky from dried tears. Looking down, John saw he was enveloped in two tiny bodies. Sam had now snuggled into Dean's chest, and Dean's face was burrowed into John's neck.
As much as John wished he could have stayed with Mary or better yet saved her, he was grateful for the two miracles nestled securely in his arms. Even though he had been unable to save his wife, and he felt like he had failed her, John knew Mary wouldn't feel the same way. She would be proud of him and love him all the more for leaving her behind. Mary always put the boys first. She had always done her best to keep them safe and healthy. Since she was no longer here to keep them together that was John's job now.
Wrapping his arms tighted around his boys, breathing in that distinct smell all small children have, John felt a calm he hadn't felt since the fire had taken everything he thought he held most dear. He understood he hadn't lost everything. What he should hold most precious was right here in his arms. Tilting his head against the pillowed back of the chair, the eldest Winchester allowed his eyes to slip closed once more, and the three Winchesters slept soundly that way until the morning sun woke them.