October 2016
John's journal didn't smell like him.
The idea that people left behind some essence in their things, some detectable, inerasable bit of who they were, was silly, of course, but Mary had hoped for it anyway.
She did all of those cliche things one was supposed to do: touched the cover longingly, opened the book slowly, drank in the sight of each item in it. With each one, she waited for some sense of John in the book.
But the journal was just a book, and in her most recent memories - memories she now knew to be decades old - John had just been her husband. He had not been the warm, laughing man she had fallen in love with, not in a long time.
She had tried to be a good wife, but she had been anxious, furtive, desperate. John had wanted to wait to have children until "the money was there," and she had stopped taking her pill on purpose because she feared her time might be limited.
A pair of nasty yellow eyes had lurked in the background of her every action for ten years, rushing her hand at every task, and running from silent fears had made her a lot of work for a man like John.
His picture caught her eye, an image of him in the Vietnam War. She wondered if this picture had always been the first photograph in the journal or if their sons had moved it there, wanting to see Dad every time they opened the book.
She turned the page again and another picture slid beneath her fingers. Bobby Singer stared out at her from the center of the page. Suddenly she smelled whiskey and dirt, even though that was impossible, and her intestines twisted, tying her insides into knots.
Bobby was in a wheelchair, a grim expression on his face, and the sight of him brought her a flood of life as she knew it. This life still felt like a fantasy, a bad dream-world in which her precious babies were broad, burly men and her existence had been washed from the world. Seeing Bobby in this picture made her real world collide with the one in which she currently existed, and the contrast made her dizzy.
She turned it over, trapping the photo back between pages.
July 1974
"Hi there. I'm looking for Mary Campbell."
The man at the door had a short, trim beard, dark circles under his eyes, and body odor she could smell from five feet away. He would have projected the image of a bum if his stance had not been somehow shy. He had his feet together, his hands resting awkwardly and stiffly at his sides. The utter lack of confidence made her want to trust him.
However, Mary kept one hand on the open door as she answered.
"I'm Mary Campbell Winchester."
"Can I talk to you?"
"We're talking now."
"May I come in to talk to you?" The man tugged at his beard absently. He turned to look around, and she noticed her neighbor, Grace, in the yard with her twin toddlers. "It ain't exactly sidewalk conversation."
Something in his face made it impossible for her to turn him away.
"Okay. Come in." She opened the door the rest of the way and started toward the kitchen. With each step, she felt the gun she had tucked in the small of her back dig into her flesh, and she watched the man following her in the vertical hallway mirror. John hated the mirror - thought it looked weird and tacky - and since she wouldn't tell him why she needed a mirror there, he complained about it often. It was one of their many small fights, newlywed spats, nothing more.
"Have a seat." She extended a hand. The man immediately accepted, taking a chair, and she appreciated the upper hand standing gave her. She reached for her cold cup of coffee from the counter; it felt good to have something in her hands. "So tell me what I can do for you, Mister…"
"I'm Robert Singer, and I'm here because a friend told me you know about demons."
She heard her mug shatter before she realized she had dropped it.
November 1976
Bobby always came by when he was anywhere near Lawrence, Kansas. Mary wished she could tell John about him. John would like Bobby's dry sense of humor, his gruff, no nonsense mentality. The two men would make good friends.
Or rather, they would make good friends if John Winchester knew about the things that went bump in the night. As long as her husband was just a mild man who worked on cars and had the occasional bad dream about Vietnam, Mary knew she could not introduce him to Bobby.
Bobby was the life she had deliberately given up. When he had confided in her, outlining practically the brutal tale of his wife's possession and death, she had been drawn to him like a magnet. She knew what that looked like, what that felt like. The yellow-eyed demon had left her angry, powerless, and she had lost her father and some unknown something in her future. She sought normalcy, not revenge, but touching Bobby's quest for vengeance satisfied some dark place on her heart.
Seeing him routinely was bad for her, she knew that, but it was like scratching a mosquito bite. She would always pretend that next time, she would tell him she was busy, couldn't meet him, but then as soon as the itch struck, she was agreeing to meet him in whatever hotel room he had snagged this time.
Tonight he was staying at the local inn. She had knocked on the exterior door, and he had opened it with a smile he tried to hide. They had hugged, and he had complimented her new outfit, exchanged a few pleasantries with her, asked about John.
Then they had gotten down to business. Maps stretched out across the hotel bed, print newspapers unfurled with highlighted sections and annotations, mug shots stolen from databases… they had worked on tracking omens for every bit of the three hours of overtime John was working at the garage.
Mary spent half the time trying to pretend she didn't notice Bobby's little differences from her husband: the way he was always looking back at her when she glanced up to look at him, the way he smelled like gunpowder and liquor, the way he touched his face when she embarrassed him.
She knew John worried she was cheating when she would come home late a couple nights in a row every few months. With soft kisses and eager affection, she tried to assuage those fears.
What she was doing, though, was worse than cheating. She was maintaining a living connection to her old life, leaving open doors through which any manner of rough beasts might slouch.
December 1978
"Are you going to take a maternity break from hunting?" Bobby asked the question from his spot on the hotel bed, legs sprawled out in front of him and feet wiggling in their holey socks. Mary sat opposite him in the hard desk chair; the wood felt good supporting her sore back. Her stomach preceded her as if she carried a full-sized toddler in there rather than an infant.
"I don't hunt," she replied.
"You know what I mean." His voice dipped low.
"I can't take a break. If I take a break, how are you going to get a chance to meet this little one?" She rubbed the curve of her stomach, basking in the warm rush of affection she felt. John might not have thought they were ready for children, but from the moment she had conceived, she had known she was carrying the child she was meant to have. She felt as though she had been born to bear this child. Already, she would die for him if given the opportunity.
Suddenly aware of the silence, Mary looked back up at Bobby. His jaw set, his eyes almost misty, he sat there, not truly seeing her as he stared. He would be thinking of Karen now, and those thoughts burned him from the inside out. She knew he compartmentalized just to keep himself sane.
"I'm not going to meet the baby." Bobby's voice hardened when it finally arrived.
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Mary, I'm…" He hesitated. "I'm not going to meet the baby. I don't need your help anymore. I can track demons by myself."
Mary bit her lower lip, the surprise taking on a toxic feeling in her mouth. She swallowed sharply.
"We can still visit when you're in Lawrence."
"I won't need to come by Lawrence anymore. Hell, I haven't needed to come by Lawrence in years."
"Bobby, we're friends. You're one of my best friends."
He laughed then, and the sound stung her. When their eyes met, she realized the simple fact she had hidden from herself for too long: Bobby was in love with her.
He was in love with her, and he was not a man who would compromise a marriage or a family, not for his own feelings. There would be no confession, no daisies sent anonymously to her home, no hopeful, lingering hugs.
She would be lucky to get a goodbye from him before he disappeared from her life.
October 2016
Mary read two of the entries in the front of John's journal, but they had been written immediately after her death, and the words hurt her too badly. They reminded her of the pain she had witnessed in Bobby, but this time, the pain was in the father of her children, the man she had vowed to cherish as long as she lived, and the pain was because she herself was dead. She turned the pages forward and tried to find something bearable in this book.
Without realizing it, she looked for explanation as to why a photo of Bobby would be in the journal. She scanned entries, turned pages, skimmed until the letters blurred before her eyes.
Finally, an entry in 1986 caught her eye.
Left the boys with Bobby Singer to try my hand at hunting my first ghoul. He actually seemed really glad to have them. I'm glad to have someone to watch them sometimes. Hunting is easier when it's just me, a shotgun, and a bottle of Evan Williams. Bobby knows a lot about all of this stuff. That helps too.
The tears already in her eyes spilled over. She kept reading. A few months later, another entry boasted a similar message.
Bobby and I are tackling a case in Boise. He made a big fuss over Dean and how big he's gotten, even took him out to buy some new clothes and a baseball glove. I've worked hard to make sure my boy can take care of himself. He can shoot better than most grown men and knows how to salt and burn like a veteran. Nothing bad is ever going to happen to him that he can't stop. Baseball isn't going to help with that.
John's words began to mention his life less and less, entries becoming notes and reports, taking on a militaristic, distant tone as he outlined the facts of his kills. She searched the pages for stories - Dean's grades, Sam's first steps - but nothing was there. The emptiness of the pages made her long to ask Sam what he had found in this journal. What had he been seeking that these reports had been able to give?
She finally saw another entry that matched what she sought, years after the first two.
Dean wants to go live with his "Uncle Bobby." He says he'll take "Sammy" with him. Sent him to bed without dinner for being insubordinate but can't blame him for wanting to get out. Hunting's a hard life.
Mary dropped her face in her hands and cried. In the morning, she would ask her sons where Bobby was living now. She would go see him and thank him. He had loved her boys; he had hunted beside her husband and kept him safe. He had been a friend to her even after she was long gone, the best friend she could have ever had.
She closed the journal, got up, and cut out the light. As she crawled into bed, her heart felt close to bursting.
She would be glad to see Bobby again. For a moment, she would be able to pretend her real life still existed.