Author's Note: I considered whether or not this chapter should come first… but I think with John's POV needs to come first. This chapter is almost twice the length of the first one, and since this is the only time you'll hear directly from Mary in this story, I decided not to break it up. I've tried not to terrify anyone with the birthing process, but Mary's experiences in this regard were necessary for some setting up, as well as telling a little more of her own story. We're about 1/3 of the way through this and next we hear from Dean, so hang in there! Thanks for the reviews and encouragement everyone – you convinced me to leave the laundry and the dishes for tomorrow and work through this chapter today. Comments are welcome as always…and lots of reviews wake up the muse!
Disclaimer: Kripke has them and he should be kinder to them.
Chapter Two
Mary Winchester felt the cool leather of the Impala's back seat against her cheek and focused on the sensation. In spite of the birthing class instructor's insistence that labor should be conducted with deep, fill-your-lungs-to-capacity breathing and lots of it, Mary didn't buy it. She'd tried it with Dean, and only lasted about an hour before she gave it up in favor of what felt right to her. Constantly gulping for air didn't feel right. Neither did pacing or squatting or funny little "hee-hee-hoo" breaths or primal screaming.
It felt right to slow and quiet her breathing so she could concentrate on what she was feeling, willing the little being inside her to move itself along quickly and her body to relax. Another birthing class instruction had been for John to rub her feet and whisper a list of supportive affirmations to her. It was quickly clear that those things weren't going to work for her either. She didn't want distractions – she didn't want noise, she didn't want to be touched except for John's hand snared in hers. Polite as she typically was, she growled at the nurses who came to check her blood pressure.
As a dancer, Mary was familiar with her body, with extreme exertion. She knew how to tolerate pain, she knew how to center herself and she knew how to drive through exhaustion until the work was done. When she was pregnant with Dean, Mary tried to be upfront with herself about how much giving birth was going to hurt – she'd had friends who had shied away from thinking about it until they were in it and ended up emotionally and physically pulverized by that lack of preparedness.
Ballet had taught her that good training and good practice were just about all that counted when the curtain came up. All of the little pieces that made a dancer truly great couldn't be taught anyway, they'd either be there when you needed them or they wouldn't. What would save you, was your head being in the dance and your body trained to the point that it wouldn't let you down even in a moment of terror and weariness.
Mary was not afraid of her second child's birth. As painful as it had been with Dean (John claimed she'd practically broken his hand from holding so tight last time), she'd done it, she'd lived, it had been okay. Ten hours of labor wasn't exactly a party, but it had been doable and she knew she could do it again. And at the end there would be a magnificent reward, and rest, and her body back (mostly). She opened her eyes and saw the moon, huge and vibrant in the dark sky. "I'm ready." She whispered to herself. "I'm ready and I want this."
Another contraction started and she strangled a sound, mindful of her son in the front seat, and yet he turned his head in the dark and she could feel his eyes. She braced herself and thought of Dean, focusing on the small form whose face held worry – she knew even if she couldn't see it in the dimness. I'm alright honey. Don't worry your sweet head. Soon your baby will be here. Trust Mama – we're going to be just fine. The contraction spiked and then it was over. Again, she felt the leather of the Impala's seat, now warm against her damp cheek and in the flash of a streetlight Dean's face was illuminated and his expression made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. The agitation was gone, and he was grinning like he'd just won a pony.
Her son's unexpected composure broke her concentration and the next wave of pain caught her off guard. She groaned loud enough to make John turn his head.
"Mary, how are you doing?" He asked, keeping his voice low. "We're almost there hon – another two blocks – are you going to be okay?" His wife didn't respond, and he jumped a little as the answer came instead from the barely four year old next to him.
"She's okay Daddy," Dean announced, practically hopping with excitement. "Don't worry your sweet head." A small hand reached to pat John's shoulder and his son leaned over, voice hushed so only his father could hear him – not realizing that his mother could too. "Mama's working hard so my baby will get here fast! We're suppose'ta trust her, Daddy." The childlike little voice was undermined by the severity with which Dean emphasized the word "trust".
John was surprised – as usual – by his son's emotional generosity, but as he turned into the ambulance bay of the emergency room he missed entirely his wife's reaction to Dean's consolation of his father. Mary half raised herself, pale and astonished, to look at her small son, who turned in his seat to face her and gave her a smile that was far too uncanny for one so young and human.
The next contraction, close and more ferocious than the last one, stopped further contemplation. The Impala's door was open; nurses were helping her out of the car, John trailing them and Dean in his arms, Mary's bag in tow. The hospital staff brought her inside and they stopped briefly at the admission desk, leaving her husband and son to fill out the officialism.
Flinching, Mary closed her eyes against the lights that were too bright. The sound of bustle around her was nearly unbearable as she was guided into a room, into bed. Blessedly, someone turned out the overhead lighting and the noise diminished as Mary began to swing into another contraction. As it peaked and fell she heard an argument, low and fierce – the nurse was telling John that he and Dean would have to go. Mary waded through her psychic isolation and shook off the agony, calling for her husband and her son. Eyes closed, body tensed, she didn't stop until she could feel John's hand in hers, until she could feel Dean close by.
Mary was in a haze and the only thought she seemed to be able to grasp tight, was how much worse this was than it had been with Dean. A nurse had come in and checked her vitals and progression and Mary Winchester had been horrified at the pronouncement that she was barely more than half way there. She had been sure when she woke John – almost two hours ago now – that they were nearly done. That this baby was ready to be born. She'd had contractions all day and had managed to the point where the pain had signaled in her labor with Dean that it was about time to push. She had wanted to spend as much time at home with this baby instead of at the hospital being poked and prodded. The intensity was not letting up and the last nurse to come in remarked callously that likely, it would be quite awhile before Mary was "ready to roll".
John had finally convinced her about an hour ago to ask for some pain medication, and as much as she had planned to avoid it, she was knew she had reached a limit - everyone has them, this was hers. The nurse administered the drug with glee and told Mary she wouldn't feel a thing once it started to work - "Take a nap" she counseled cheerfully. Mary considered a list of possible paybacks as the minutes ticked by (why were institutional clocks so loud?) and while it took the edge off, and she could think close to clearly, the pain was certainly still there. Taking the scanty relief (it was better than nothing) she pulled her head out of the hurt and reasoned with herself – this wasn't finished and she needed to buck up.
She wondered now why she had thought that delivering this child would be as uncomplicated as it had been with Dean. The pregnancy had been so different… instead of feeling energetic she had been exhausted practically from the moment of this baby's conception (regardless of what the professionals said about that being impossible). Instead of a voracious appetite and a delight in unusual food combinations, there had been constant nausea from six weeks onward and the inability to eat anything with a pinch of seasoning. Instead of physical awkwardness but no real discomfort, they'd left the realm of discomfort entirely by the third month and moved into misery. With Dean, she had been herself, but pregnant. With this baby she felt inhabited by an alien and instead of sharing, the kid was just plain taking over. Instead of the powerful feeling that she knew her child and an awareness of his (she had been positive it was a boy) personality, she felt like a curtain had been drawn over her intuition – she had no clue who this child was.
Then there was the fear. The first time, her subconscious had also acted up – perfectly normal according to every book she read. But instead of the anxious dreams described by most expectant mothers, she'd been surprised with marvelous ones – sound, clarity, color and sensation unlike anything she'd experienced before. Sometimes it took several minutes after opening her eyes to distinguish between sleeping and waking. Peaceful, playful, and closeness to her unborn child – the dreams were filled with light. The universe was perfect and she was part of it; that was the impression left with her as she woke.
This time it was different. Even before she knew she was pregnant, the nightmares began. They came every couple of nights and also – as the weariness of pregnancy set in – when she napped during the day with Dean. The dreams were full or horror and darkness. She couldn't describe them to John as he held her, shaking with fearfulness and soaked with perspiration. For one thing, she couldn't seem make sense of what she felt and saw in these dreams, and two… it was real enough without speaking the details aloud - superstitions make more sense when you're scared. She would sit for what seemed like ages after one of these dreams, feeling like the interpretation was on the edge of her consciousness and yet she couldn't see enough to explain it all away. She finally had to stop taking naps in the same room with Dean, because as disturbing as it was to her to awake and find herself sobbing and trembling, it was even more alarming to her little boy.
Her little boy. Mary could feel him near, standing by his father… could sense his excitement and his faith in her. In his little boy mind, she could do anything and this warmed and empowered her. They'd talked about whether to have Dean with them when the baby was born and though John was hesitant, Mary couldn't imagine not sharing this moment with their son – this future belonged to all of them. John and Dean and the baby – this was her family and she never wanted them to be apart unless it was necessary. For now, it wasn't and as the next contraction came she gazed into John's eyes and steadied herself to welcome the future.