Wheel in the Sky

lost but now found

...

The strangled scream was caught in his throat as he jerked awake, hand seeking his KA-BAR, since he couldn't feel the weight of his pack or see much else, gagging at the smell of gasoline and fire and blood in the air—

Freezing when his hand fell upon and gripped tightly at the small, delicate fingers that were starting to reach for him.

"John?"

Suddenly, the jungle—woods and lake?—was gone. The four walls of the bedroom weren't much of a comfort when he felt his chest heaving to get air into his lungs, claustrophobia sinking its teeth into his diaphragm and not wanting to give him any peace. The light of the lantern next to the bed made him flinch, and he grimaced when those soft blue eyes peered worriedly up at him. He covered the expression by running his hand over his face, cursing himself for shaking as he worked to control his breathing.

"John." Now her voice came with a bit of an edge. Not really a command, but enough of something in the tone to snap his eyes back to hers, startled by the intent and patient stare.

"... Mary?" He cringed inwardly at hearing his voice crack in the middle of her name. It was all he could do to keep his eyes on hers, starting again only when her free hand reached out to cup his cheek. It took a moment, but after staring into her eyes and reaching up to cup that hand with his, it suddenly became less of an effort to catch his breath.

He closed his eyes, taking a final shaking breath before turning his face into her hand, pressing his lips to her palm.

He could feel her sit up and shift closer, knowing it was okay to press closer now that the worst was out of the way. "John," she said quietly, soothingly, as if speaking to a wounded animal. "Baby..."

The hysteria was there, lurking and waiting for him to laugh, to cry. Once he started, he was terrified to think he wouldn't be able to stop.

"... m'sorry. Woke you," was what he managed to get out instead, beating down that bubble of laughter, voice more guttural for his effort.

"It's not late. I wasn't really asleep."

It was a flat-out, bold-faced lie but John couldn't help but press closer to his wife, reminding himself to breathe, counting the inhales and exhales along with her heartbeats.

He was so lucky to have Mary. He had heard stories of men who came back from the war changed, unable to keep a sane moment to him, doing just what he did in the middle of the night—screaming, fighting, feeling sick with the reminders of the horrors he'd scene. Most of them ended up in a hospital or worse. But Mary... Mary stayed by his side the whole time, soothed his fears, reminded him of the present—

"Do you want to talk about it?" She always offered.

He shook his head, kissed her hand again, shutting his eyes that much tighter. "No, just..." His voice wavered, and he hated himself for being so weak, reined himself in again like his commanders had taught him. "I think I just confused a few things, s'all."

Mary stayed dutifully silent but strong next to him, leaning against his shoulder.

It wasn't an uncommon nightmare. Especially around that time of year, around the time John had originally proposed to his wife.

He had been told back then that it hadn't been his fault. He had been unconscious, so how on earth would it have been his fault? Mary reinforced the supposed truth over and over again, eyes always sad and tragic and lost. She'd lost her father that day, after all.

But how could it not have been his fault? The last thing John remembered from that time was Samuel Campbell opening the door to the Impala, pulling Mary out—"What did I tell you?"— and John exiting the car to confront the man who had been, for years, against the idea of John and Mary being together. There had been words exchanged, a bare few, and then... nothing. And then... waking, cradled in Mary's arms until he remembered what had happened, saw Samuel's body laying on the ground, blood in a lethal place on his abdomen.

Her father had bled out. Right in front of her.

John remembered nothing of it.

But then... he remembered how angry, how terrified, how unnerved he had been. He remembered being willing to make a fight of it. What if he had? What if he had just... blocked it out? Just like he had been trained to do when necessary? It was really no wonder his mind sent him back into the jungle after reliving that lack of memory.

How could Mary love someone who might have killed her father, unrecalled self-defense or not?

Opening his eyes and meeting hers again, he could see no blame. Only love and a touch of anguish at watching him come to grips with himself, bring himself back to reality.

That had been well over five years ago, after all.

"Baby..." he heard Mary murmur as she leaned her head toward his.

He turned to kiss her on the crown of her head, still shaking and holding her hands—

He quickly unclenched the hand still pinning hers to the bed. He watched, sickened as the color started to return to those delicate fingertips. "Oh, God, Mary," he said, choking. "I didn't mean—"

"Shhh," she said, bringing that very hand up to put a finger to his lips, effectively silencing him. "It's all right, love. I'm a tough girl. You know that."

"But I shouldn't've—" he began again, stomach falling into a pit.

The indignant look she shot him was also very much effective in silencing him. "John Winchester, don't you dare apologize for something like that," she scolded before scooting closer, reaching up to place her free hand to the other side of his face, forcing him to look directly at her. "I'm okay. You will never hurt me. I know you never will. I trust you. I love you, John. Pay me the same respect?"

He closed his eyes and bowed his head enough so that his forehead touched hers. "What'd I do to deserve you?" he mumbled, feeling as though he could cry from the relief that she was okay, she wasn't hurt.

"Well, that might have a little to do with your well-toned body..." she answered mischievously.

He snorted a bit, not able to resist the humor Mary was attempting to use to lighten the atmosphere. God, this was the woman of his dreams to be able to take everything in stride and have a quip to cheer him up. "And you keep tryin' to fatten me up with those pies," he responded ruefully.

A bit of a huff came next to his ear. "The husband is the cooking guinea pig, you know that."

That got an actual if gruff chuckle from him before he shifted, pulling her into his arms more fully. Just to feel and remind himself that this was his life, this was his love who loved him in return. He gave a bit of a sigh and kissed her head again, content to just sit there for a time.

"You gonna be able to go back to sleep?"

Sometimes, the nightmares kept him awake all night. Sometimes, he was able to pass out again shortly afterward. Having had this happened more than once before, Mary knew the pattern well enough. John only wished he could drift off into peaceful slumber, but it was one of those nights where the terror had sunk in deeply and didn't seem to want to uncurl from the pit that had once been his stomach.

"I'll make pancakes for breakfast when you wake up," he muttered as if in apology.

There was a beat of silence. Mary surely wasn't happy to hear that in the least.

"Make mine with chocolate?"

Or maybe she was just having a moment for a sweet tooth, John thought to himself, amused.

"Anything you want, babe."

Mary craned her neck so that she could give him a sweet, soft kiss. Once broken, she said softly, "Try to get some rest later in the day?"

John very much doubted that it would happen that day, but for his wife, the love of his life, he would agree with pretty much anything. "I'll take a cat-nap first chance I get, how's that?" The terms, of course, being that he couldn't keep himself busy enough.

It seemed to appease his wife well enough since she nodded before moving to settled back down to sleep. John stole another kiss from her, hand moving to her head, her blonde hair, and stroking soothingly. She was tired, he knew, and she only got more and more drowsy each day as they turned into months and her stomach expanded just that much more. A child, their first, and hopefully not their last as Mary would like to say with a smirk. It hadn't quite gotten to the point where the bump in her belly was noticeable but John stroked his fingers along her side all the same before silently moving away from the bed.

"Night, love..." Mary whispered to him as he retreated.

"Sweet dreams," he answered, smiling down at her until she settled again. Then, once sure she was sound asleep, he headed to the kitchen to make himself some coffee.

And try to shake the feeling the nightmare had left him with—of the image of yellow eyes staring down at him from Samuel Campbell's face just before everything went dark.

...

Author's notes: bawwww John and Mary ;;

So yeah, uh. First attempt at their characters and I think I will be doing more installments on this fic.

Apologies if I failed at getting across John dealing with not only the remembered trauma of Vietnam but the NOT-remembered trauma of what happened with Samuel and Ol' Yellow-Eyes. I admit to working with my own personal experience of military men (my father was a Marine for 4 years and in the Army for almost 20) and whatnot. So. I hope this was to your liking and you all enjoyed!

Ftr, a KA-BAR is a fighting and utility issued to American armed forces including the Marines and Navy. Used through WWII, and yes Vietnam, to present day.