Pastime Paradise
They've been spending most their lives
Living in a pastime paradise
They've been wasting most their lives
Glorifying days long gone behind
The top album in 1977 was Stevie Wonder's Songs in the Key of Life, and John Winchester felt the record was singing just to him.
The songs went through the phases of his life up until this moment -- death and pain and those first buds of romance planted when he ran into the angelic Mary Browning in that dingy little bar he frequented in Kansas City. All thought of kicking his buddy Al Marshall in the shins for making him move to Kansas flew out the window the first night he spied Mary in the corner booth, boisterous and laughing among friends.
Brooding had become his default mood ever since returning from Vietnam, a year of bloodshed and horror causing him to believe there was nothing beautiful and innocent left in the world. His attitude alarmed his friend, Al, who suggested John return to Kansas City -- Al's home town -- with him instead of going back to his folk's place in Texas. John agreed, only because he felt a man without direction, floating in a space between the past and the rest of his life. A sailboat without wind to direct it, John loafed around the city when he wasn't working long hours at a mechanic's shop owned by an old friend of Al's.
It was Mary who turned things around. Instead of sitting at the bar hunched over a drink, John would linger whenever she was present, his brown eyes flickering to Mary and her group of friends. His mood improved. And one night two weeks after first spying the angel in the corner, he approached her.
"Hi," John said, standing at the outer edge of the table.
The women looked up, their conversation truncated by John's arrival. He tried his most charming smile, the one his sons would inherit years later, and kept his eyes on Mary.
She blushed and gave a short laugh. "Hello. You're new around here, right?"
John opened his mouth to answer when one of her friends, a brunette in a severe haircut, butted in. "He works at that garage down on 18th," – she looked up to John for validation – "Right?"
"Yes," he answered. No yeahs or uh-huhs from John; years in the military have eradicated such casual answers from his vocabulary. He briefly wondered if Mary was the kind of girl looking for a man with one of those high-paying office jobs, sitting in cubicles all day wearing ties and ironed shirts. It wasn't that John was particularly ashamed of his job – he enjoyed working with his hands for a living – just at the shattering of the image he held of her if she was.
"Must be the cute one you went on and on about," Mary said – though at that time, her name was still a mystery to him. "I'm Mary." She held out her hand, and John grasped it, a smile wide on his face.
"John," he said.
And that's how they met.
It's hard to imagine such a meeting would lead to John settling down. He never imagined himself the type of man to find himself a wife, lest a kid on the way, yet he found it oddly satisfying. Gone were the nights spent alone brooding in some bar or on Al's couch; he now looked forward to going home to his wife at the end of a long day, grease under his fingernails she didn't mind.
She made him forget all those horrible things he'd seen or done, enveloping him in a Mary-sized blanket of love and peace – two things he hadn't felt in a long while. Almost angelic, John found himself doting on her whenever he could, working twice as hard to give her anything she wanted.
And after a few months, he was able to leave the real estate section on the table in the kitchen of their small apartment in Kansas City before leaving for work.
He came home to a sparkling, seven months pregnant Mary, real estate section in her hand covered in large, red looping circles. She jumped at him before he could even strip off his dirty jacket and gave him a big, long kiss.
"That's the kind of welcome a man could get used to," he joked.
"You're serious," she said, page tight in her hand. "Really, truly serious."
"We can't be raising our son in this place," John said, eyes scanning the impossibly tiny apartment they'd moved in to a month after their wedding. "Where would we put him? Out on the balcony?"
Mary playfully swatted his shoulder. "Of course not! The balcony's prime real estate here." She winked and smiled. "The roof?"
"Ah, yes," John replied. "Perfect. You hear that?" he asked Mary's swollen belly. "You're living on the roof!"
Mary giggled and pushed John back, only to hug him again, tighter.
No, he couldn't believe he'd settled down. Had a wife, a son on the way, and soon, a new house. This, he thought, was what happiness felt like.
Mary claimed she knew the house the moment she stepped inside.
It was the last in a day-long expedition of houses in the suburbs of Kansas City, an addition made on the road as Mary looked over her listings while John listened to some Deep Purple on the radio of his pick-up truck, savoring his time before a more sensible family car would need to be bought. But not now, at this moment. And so, he indulged his wife's last whim and let the truck run idle in front of a modest, two story house the same shade of blue as the sky while she gathered up her papers.
"Last one," she said. "I promise!"
"You said that two houses ago," John smiled. He gathered her into his arms and kissed her sweetly on the lips. "But to make you happy, I'd look at a thousand houses."
She swatted his shoulder. "John Winchester, stop sweet talking me."
"Who, me? I'd never do such a thing. Ready to go inside?"
"Sure thing," she replied.
John bounded around the truck and helped his pregnant wife step down from the high cab, hand holding hers, his other resting on her waist. She chuckled and shook her head as he slammed the door shut behind them.
"That's one thing you won't be teaching our son," she commented, and off his questioning look, continued, "slamming doors. He'll be a nice, quiet, respectful boy who loves his mother and never wants to leave home."
"Great. A geek and a shut in. Don't doom my boy before he's born."
"Since when is loving your mother something bad? Your mother adores you, John. Just wait until I tell her you don't want your son doting on me, she'll just -- "
John clamed a hand over Mary's mouth halfway up the walk, her lips tickling his palm as she continued on.
"We won't be telling my mother anything of the sort." When Mary finished, he let go, pulling her close. "Just don't tell me playing catch gets in the way of your mother-son bonding."
"We both know we're going to have a baseball star. Or football, the way this one kicks," she lamented, rubbing her stomach. "Ooof. Must know we're talking about him." Her face scrunched up as she patted her hand, trying to soothe their unborn son. "Shush, kid."
"Give your mom a break. She didn't mean all that girly stuff," John added, his hand covering Mary's.
They reached the door, then, right when the kicks subsided and their son fell back asleep, faces glowing with that joy only a child can bring. The sun was setting behind them, falling from the sky as night descended; the open house sign out front said they'd see people until dusk, and for a second, both worried they were too late. That the day had passed without finding a home.
When the door opened, and they walked in, that, Mary said years later, was when she knew, for the first time in her life, she was home.
"John! Can you get that? I've kind of got my hands full down here!"
Grumbling, John jumped over some boxes at the top of the stairs and skidded down the first few -- the doorbell rang a few more times, impatient, rapid rings -- and a crash sounded from the kitchen.
"You okay back there?" he called, jumping off the bottom step. Another clang. "Mary?"
"Yeah!" she shouted. "Oh, damn," came a muttered curse. John smiled at the sounds and smells floating out from the kitchen, the smile still on his face when he opened the door halfway through another rapid succession of rings.
"John, my boy!" A hand clamped down on John's shoulder, a strong hand as familiar as the voice who spoke. Almost as tall as John and twice as wide in his old age, Bill Winchester remained an imposing man who softened a bit after retirement from the Army six years prior. If anything, he'd become a teddy bear, blaming his wife's cooking for his new pillow around his middle.
His wife, who stood to the full extent of her five foot four frame beside her husband and seemed eager to get in the house. "There you are. You're looking good, son." And then her face brightened and John suspected it was because Mary had decided to get out of the kitchen before it ate her whole. "Is that him? Oh, Bill, he's adorable."
Pod people had taken over his parents, because the Bill and Rita Winchester John knew acted nothing like this -- they were not mushy grandparents looking to pinch cheeks and play with babies. In fact, if it weren't for the undeniable fact that he himself had to have been a baby at one point, John wouldn't have believed they'd even touched a baby. A career Army man and his equally as strong Army wife, John expected, well, something different.
"Hi there, Mr. Winchester, Mrs. Winchester," Mary grinned at John's right elbow. No sooner had she held out baby Dean, still smiling and giggling in that slurred, three month old way babies did, John's parents were all over him.
"Oh, please, Mary, no need for formalities," Bill told her. "We're sorry we couldn't get out here sooner, but with Rita's hip and all -- "
"Don't make me sound like an old woman, Bill. I fell down the stairs, simple as that. I wouldn't have let that stop me, but someone told the doctor I planned on flying for more than two hours," Rita cut in, rolling her eyes in Bill's direction.
"Sounds like something John would do. Overprotective to a fault, but I love him for it," Mary grinned, giving her husband a peck on the cheek. "Why don't we get out of the foyer; dinner should be ready soon."
"You must be exhausted! A new baby and cooking!"
"Hey!" John said. "I help out."
"Oh, yeah. You eat my food, that's what. And feed the baby chocolate when I'm washing the dishes."
"What can I say? He's got a sweet tooth like his dad," John shrugged. His mother was looking at him in the same way she did when he came home drunk for the first time. "I don't give him chocolate," he said suddenly. "He just licks it off my fingers for me."
"A little sugar isn't going to harm him. Looks like a strong Winchester boy to me," Bill said, taking hold of one of Dean's chubby hands to shake it. "How do you do, junior?"
"We've decided to call him Dean, dad," John spoke up. "Less confusion when he gets older."
"It's not every day a father gets to name his son after him."
"Tell that to my brother," scoffed John. "He just loves being called Junior."
"He does!"
"No, sweetie," Rita said. "He doesn't."
"Never said anything to me," Bill mutters.
The conversation's strayed far enough, and Dean knew where it belonged, choosing that moment to let out a little laugh, more like a squeal, from his mother's arms.
"Oh, just look at that," Rita coos. "You're going to be a lady-killer when you get big, no matter what people decide to call you."
Dean seemed to agree with that.
After pulling Dean off the plastic chair for the third time, John decided enough was enough and brought the boy down to the hospital's cafeteria.
"Why can't I see mommy?" the tiny boy asked in the elevator. John sighed and ran his free hand through frenzied hair, wondering when, if ever, Mary's mother would arrive to take this one off his hands. He loved his son, he really did, but patience was just in short supply that night.
Higher property taxes meant higher mortgage payments, which meant longer hours at the garage. Making ends meet was a hard task, but couldn't be harder than being eight months pregnant in the middle of the hottest Indiana Summer Kansas had seen in ten years with a precocious and rambunctious three and a half year old running around. Still, tempers were running as high as the mercury, and when Mary's water broke at two am, both were tired, cranky, and unprepared for an early birth.
Which made tensions run higher. John's only experience with childbirth had been with Dean, and that had gone so smoothly, even the doctors were amazed. But this one -- John raked his hand through his hair again -- it wasn't time yet. She was only eight months; not too early to worry her doctor, but normal was normal, and if this was any indication, his second son would be anything but.
"Daddy," Dean whined in his father's ear. "You didn't answer my question."
"You can't see mommy because she's in a secret meeting."
Dean frowned from his perch in John's arms. "Secret?"
"Yeah. Secret. They'll let us in when she's all finished."
The elevator doors binged and John rushed out with the rest of the hurried people in the hospital that late at night and checked his watch again. "Where is your nana?"
"Nana's coming?" Dean grinned.
"Yes. She's coming so daddy can go make sure you mommy and baby brother are okay."
"What is wrong with mommy?"
John sighed again. Answering Dean's never-ending questions was Mary's department, not his. He plopped his son down on the tiled floor outside the cafeteria and squatted down to look him in the eye. "Listen, soldier, daddy's a bit stressed right now -- "
"Strussed?"
"A little tired right now. Think you can complete the mission and wait until later to ask questions?"
Dean's lips quivered, but he nodded quickly. "Yes, daddy."
"Good boy."
John ruffled Dean's short blond hair and bought him some Jell-O.
"Look at that," Mary smiled weakly. "After all that trouble, and he looks just like you. Why am I not surprised."
"One of them had to," John said, his hand resting atop the baby's head. Twin slits tried to open, and managed to just a crack when John moved his thumb over short, baby soft dark hair.
"Yes, what will the world do with another man as fine as you walking around?"
"Fight over us?"
"Sure thing. Dean and I will protect you, though."
John laughed softly, not wanting to pull his baby from sleep. "What are you talking about? You don't think they'll be after Dean, too?"
"Oh, great," Mary groaned, yawning. John brushed the side of her face and kissed her on the tip of her nose.
"We've done good," John told her.
This, he thought, was bliss.
PG was the highest rating either of them had seen in a long time.
Animated characters played across the television screen, bright flashes of color and light that mesmerized both their boys, the figures reflected in their deep green eyes.
Or, now that John looked over at his boys, had.
Dean sat between his parents, his head resting on his father's chest, lips parted as he slumbered comfortably with his legs pulled up onto the couch in his fireman pajamas. John didn't know when he fell asleep, and looked to Mary to ask, but found her asleep as well, her head cushioned on John's shoulder, blond hair falling to tickle Dean's head. Baby Sammy cooed softly in her arms, tiny hands grasping at the hairs, engaged in a game only he could play. He reached as far as he could, yawned, but kept at it.
John tightened his hold around Mary's shoulders. Who knew you could find happiness in such tiny people? Or such beautiful ones?
Stretching, John yawned himself and decided they all couldn't sleep on the couch. He rubbed Mary's shoulder and smiled at her as she slowly woke.
"Time for bed, sweetheart."
She nodded, stood, and, carrying the still awake Sammy, grasped Dean's hand to lead him up the stairs. John flicked off the movie, and straightened up the toys strewn about the room before climbing up after his family.
"Come say good night to your brother," he heard Mary said to Dean. From the hallway, he could hear his son and wife say goodnight to their newest addition, and lingered for a moment, thinking about how his life had turned around. How much his life had changed.
This, he thought as he turned the corner to enter his son's room, is joy.
Dean bounded into his arms. "Daddy!"
"So, Dean," John smiled, pulling his son into his arms, "think Sammy's ready to toss around a football yet?"