I don't own them. Go away and pester someone else.
AN: Title from Jimi Hendrix' "Wind Cries Mary".
Footsteps dressed in red
The last time John saw Mary, she was wearing what they had both always agreed was her most hideous nightdress. She kept it only because... well… neither of them knew, to be honest. Laziness, probably.
He was standing in the middle of the kitchen of the house he'd practically rebuilt from scratch. It was long past midnight; the witching hour, Mary called it. The only light was the dim silver gleam of the full moon through the windows. Children's toys were scattered everywhere.
She came silently in behind him, moving forwards with that awful nightdress whispering against her legs. He turned as she reached him, completely unsurprised, though he hadn't been expecting her, and just stood there, looking down at her, drinking in the sight of her. She seemed to glow, white nightdress and pale skin and long blonde curls flowing over her shoulders. Her green eyes shone with love when they met his.
"What are you doing in here?" she said softly, never taking her eyes off him.
"Remembering," he replied, just as quiet. Neither of them wanted to wake the rest of the house.
She chuckled. "Good place for it. The number of times we slept down here before you fixed the roof!"
"Not my fault the deliveries were always late," he protested, mouth twitching.
She just smiled.
"I've gotta take off tomorrow," he said, suddenly serious. She tilted her head to one side.
"Oh? Business trip?"
"You know the answer to that, I think."
Her mouth twisted wryly. "And the truth will set you free," she said. "What about the boys?"
"They'll be fine. I'm sure of it."
"You'd better be," she threatened, then sighed longingly. "I wish I could go with you."
He reached out to her, but let his hand fall again. "Why are you still here?"
She pursed her lips, shrugged. "Apparently there's something I still have to do," she said. "Something to do with the boys, I think. It's a little hard to tell."
He didn't know how he managed not to cry. Her hand hovered by his cheek, wanting to touch him but no longer able to.
Never again able to.
"I like the beard," she said, and he smiled. "Really? I was pretty sure you'd hate it. It just got convenient."
She just smiled.
"I didn't know you were still here," he whispered.
"Good."
"Good? Do you have any idea how much I've missed you?"
"No, actually. It feels like I've been… sleepwalking. Drifting in and out of dreams and nightmares alike, drowning in strangers. Until you walked through that door just now. Then, everything came back into focus."
"The least you could do is say 'I love you too'."
She chuckled again. "You know I love you, John Winchester. You've always known that. Even before I did."
"You were a little dense at first."
Silence once more, warm and loving, filled with comfort.
At last she broke it. "If Jenny finds you here…"
"Jenny?"
"The girl who bought the house. She's lovely. Two little children, just lost her husband, so we've got something in common."
He made a noise half-way between a sob and a laugh.
"You should go," she said softly.
"Don't make me," he murmured, still looking at her.
"You'll make you," she told him. "You've never been one for sitting around feeling sorry for yourself. Go find Azazel. Find a way to kill him, John. Not just to avenge me, although I'd appreciate it, but for Dean, and especially Sammy. Find a way to save our sons."
He reached to her again, but pulled back, suddenly furious at whatever fate that had chosen this life for him. For them. For their sons. He forced himself to step past her and walked to the door in three quick angry strides. Then he turned back.
"I'll see you soon, Mary," he said quietly.
"You'd better," she told him, tear-tracks on her cheeks glinting in the moonlight. "I'm not spending another twenty years of my afterlife haunting our house without you."
The door closed behind him with a soft snick. He didn't look back.