John was on an express elevator to Hell and he knew it. The clock was ticking. It was imperative that he get out of Lawrence as soon as possible. Some sixth sense, by no means anything like what Missouri possessed, was telling him to run, run, run. It wasn't anything paranormal he felt threatened by this time, but rather the friends and family converging around him. He'd recognized the way they were beginning to act toward him. They would ultimately put him and the boys in grave danger if he didn't do something.
They thought he was crazy.
The shop was no longer his. Vince had bought him out as promised, and John immediately called Caleb to set him up with whatever he would need to protect his children. Shotguns, pistols, knives, and a few other less mainstream items were purchased and paid for, and stashed in the Impala's trunk. Jim Murphy gave him a reading list, and more money was spent on books, which John painstakingly read every night before going to bed. He took notes in the journal he'd begun the day he visited Missouri. Dyslexia became an adversary he took on and conquered through sheer will power. His struggles paid off in knowledge, a lot of knowledge. It opened his eyes and showed him the enemy.
He realized then he had to prepare himself for war. The old Marine discipline kicked in to high gear. He spent time practicing his shooting skills at a local range, and took apart, cleaned, and reassembled his weapons over and over again until he could do it with his eyes closed. Domestically he tried to bring more structure to his life. He found trying to keep everything set to a specific schedule helped when it came to dealing with the children. It wasn't easy, and he frequently went off course, but he did the best he could to make sure bedtime, playtime, naptime and meals were all very carefully regulated.
Sammy fell into line easily. Being on a schedule was something he had been used to and he didn't protest too much. Dean, frail of body and fragile of mind found it more difficult. Although they were not as intense, he still woke up from nightmares in the middle of the night, running to John for comfort. The child barely spoke, frequently burst into tears at unpredictable intervals, and try as he might, John was still having trouble getting him to eat anything.
More problems arose when John had to leave the boys from time to time. There were only two people he trusted to protect them beside himself: Jim Murphy and Missouri Moseley. Since Jim was not local, it was Missouri who stepped in to babysit whenever John needed to get away. She kept the boys when he went to Caleb for his weapons, and when he went to the shooting range. John had also begun taking a few classes in hand-to-hand combat. He knew a little bit already, but needed a refresher course. Missouri watched the boys for that too.
Dean paced and cried when John went anywhere, worrying his lip until it bled, convinced his father was not going to return despite Missouri's reassurances. John's absences were the straw that broke the camel's back. Dean was starting to come completely unglued, and to make matters worse, so was everything else.
John had free access to the garage when Guenther's wasn't busy and he still had his tools. Vince watched him warily as he built a hidden compartment beneath a false bottom in the Impala's big trunk. The wariness turned to alarm as John outfitted the compartment with weapons and beefed up the car with a brand new engine. Vince had some military experience himself. He recognized the firepower John was stockpiling. John felt as if he had no reason to hide what he was doing, nor his theories regarding Mary's death, from his longtime friend.
Until Vince recommended he get therapy.
"I wouldn't be a good friend if I didn't say this John, but I'm worried. Look at what you're doing! Going on and on about some 'being' killing Mary..."
"I know what I saw, Vince!"
Vince shook his head. "I don't doubt you think you saw something. Grief is a powerful thing, man. It can fool with your head. Just...I just think you need to talk to someone about it."
"I have." John closed the Impala's trunk with a bang. "I already have."
"Who? That palm reader? Jesus, John! She the one telling you to read all that weird mumbo jumbo? She the one telling you to buy all this?" Vince motioned to the trunk. "And you trust her with the boys?"
"Yes." John came around the back end of the Chevy and confronted Vince face to face. "I trust her because she knows what's out there, and if it comes for them, she knows what to do."
"You've lost your mind," Vince whispered. "Are you listening to yourself?" He paused and tried a different tactic. "Have you looked at your son lately, John? I mean really looked? Dean is sick. He's skin and bones. He doesn't look like a child, he looks like an old man. You're killing him."
John had heard enough, he turned and walked away. "I'm handling it, Vince."
Vince pursued him, gesturing with his hand in an effort to get his point across. "How? By leaving him with a so-called psychic? What's that going to do? He needs help, John and so do you. Professional help." Abruptly he added, "What would Mary say?"
Just the sound of her name stopped John in his tracks. He stood frozen beside the Chevy, his hand tightening slowly around the driver's side door handle. His shoulders slumped as he closed his eyes and hung his head. What would Mary say? What would Mary be doing if she had seen what John had seen, felt what he'd felt, come to know what he now knew?
He lifted his head, gazing out thought the open garage doors to the street outside. The memory of Mary walking her bicycle down the road in the pouring rain was still very vivid. He could hear her voice, see her face, as she brazenly told her ex-fiance to take a hike. A flash forward and he saw her standing up to her mother, angrily telling Margaret to get off John's case.
"He's a good man, a good father, a good husband. More importantly we love each other! Isn't that enough for you, Mother? It's more than good enough for me!"
John smiled wistfully. He turned back to his friend and made his reply.
"She'd be doing the same thing. She'd be doing anything to protect her children and to find justice. That's what I'm doing and you have got to trust me to know I'm doing the right thing."
"John..."
"Good-bye, Vince." John pulled open the car door and got in. "Thanks for everything."
Mary had remained active when she was pregnant with Dean, refusing to give up her normal routines just because she was carrying around a baby inside her. "Women," she said. "Have been having babies since the dawn of time. You never saw a Native American woman lying around on her ass watching soaps and whining about her puffy ankles now did you? No. You didn't. She went about her work and when it was time to have her baby she had it and moved on."
It was only during the last few weeks of her pregnancy with Dean that Mary slowed down at all. John suspected it was only because her mother put up such a fuss.
With the second pregnancy things went much differently. They almost lost the baby in the first trimester when Mary began spotting. She was confined to bed for a couple weeks and soon all was well again. It had frightened her though, and that frightened John. Maribeth Copeland Winchester did not scare easily. This pregnancy had her tied up in knots. Her anxiety level was high. Her nerves frazzled. John could only hold her close and try to reassure her the best he could when worry began to overwhelm her.
"It just feels different," she whispered.
"How?"
"I don't know. I just...I just feel uneasy."
"Have you talked to Dr. Henry about it?" John whispered back, drawing her in even closer. Her uneasiness was contagious. What if they lost the baby? How would they handle it? He didn't even want to imagine such a horrible thing happening.
"Yes. He says there's nothing wrong."
John kissed her forehead. "Then it's probably going to be okay. You're just nervous. It's been four years since the last one."
"Maybe." Nestling her head in his shoulder, Mary kissed his neck. One hand caressed his side, his hip, his thigh. "Hmm, you smell good."
"Sweat and Ivory soap."
They chuckled quietly together. Mary reached around and gave his butt a playful squeeze.
"Don't start anything you can't finish, woman."
"Who says I can't finish it?" She rolled him over and straddled his midsection. "You, John Winchester, lack imagination."
John smiled up at her, imagining all sorts of things as he ran his hands up her thighs. He loved the shape of her when she was pregnant. It was the ultimate shape of womanhood, he thought. Of course he loved her body when it wasn't pregnant too, but this...it made him feel both sexy and sexist. She was woman, and she was his woman because what grew inside her he had put there. He'd left his mark and staked his claim.
The bottom line, however, was that she was Mary, his wife, and that the glow of pregnancy only increased her beauty. Her hair was thick and glossy, her skin soft and flushed pink. Her breasts were full and round, and John found himself unable to resist them. He reached up toward them and managed to cop a feel before she grabbed his hands and lowered them to her belly. Beneath his fingers the baby rolled. He could feel the shape of a tiny foot pressing outward from within. All thoughts of sex dissolved in a surge of fatherly pride.
Mary winced. "Ow."
"Bruce Lee."
"Oh my God, if you dare suggest we name this baby Bruce after we promised Mom..."
John chuckled. It was a slightly evil chuckle. His mood sobered quickly when he saw tears in her eyes.
"What is it?"
She shook her head and sank down into his arms. "I don't know," she whispered. "I just don't know."
It was not the first time Mary would break down and cry during her second pregnancy. If John thought that was uncharacteristic - and it was - he was also shocked when his mother in law offered him some consolation.
"It's just hormones," Margaret told him reassuringly. "Every pregnancy is different, and she's older. A woman's body changes."
The crying jags and the depression were normal, or at least that's what John tried to tell himself, and Mary too when she became upset about it. There wasn't any thing wrong with the baby. Mary was just feeling the stress of being pregnant and having to keep tabs on an active pre-schooler. She was tired. It was nothing, it would pass.
Mary was not so easily convinced. She fretted up until the very moment she went into labor. They weren't on the road this time, and there was no mad dash to the hospital. Delivery wasn't as easy either. Mary was in labor for nearly twelve hours, a harrowing ordeal for her and John who sat by her side the entire time. He would not leave. She wouldn't let him leave, clutching his hand and refusing to let go under any circumstances. It was unnerving for John to see her so helpless. He remained, coaching her, consoling her, cheering her along until it was all over.
Dean had been easy. He had been a small baby. Samuel Winchester, dutifully named after Mary's father as promised, weighed in at ten pounds two ounces and Mary was exhausted when he finally made his appearance. Unlike Dean, who could be heard wailing from miles away, Sam cried only briefly before chilling out and regarding his new world with quiet contentment.
Sam was a disappointment for Dean. Deprived of a puppy, he had hoped the baby brother would show up ready, willing, and able to rough and tumble with him. When told it would be a while before they could go out in the yard and play together, Dean immediately informed John it would be in the family's best interest (Dean's interest in particular) if they exchanged Sam for one of the neighbor's Golden Retriever puppies.
Many years into the future this revelation would make itself known to Sam, who for a moment actually felt guilty that he hadn't been bartered off for a puppy. The closest Dean would ever come to a dog would be some twenty-odd years later when he was introduced to a snarling Rottweiler named Rumsfeld owned by their father's friend Bobby. Rumsfeld would chew an arm off a man before he would even dream of fetching a tennis ball.
Eventually John managed to press upon Dean the benefits of having a brother as opposed to a puppy, and Dean started getting into the whole notion of big brotherhood. He supervised every aspect of Sam's daily care, providing Mary a much appreciated helping hand. She never mentioned it, but John knew she was still having those uneasy feelings. They both chalked it up to a simple case of post-partem blues.
And life went on.
