The first time Mary goes into labor, John is sleeping the sleep of the dead. Mary has to shake him, twice. Normally, he's awake when Mary even thinks about getting up to go to the restroom. Too much training, if she had to guess. But lately John had been pulling longer hours at the garage, and his exhaustion was evident. At their last doctor's visit, their physician had deemed that mother and baby were healthy. Then he turned to John and gave him a sideways glance and some doctorly advice, free of charge: Get some damn sleep, John. And sleep he did. Or tried to. Now his wife was practically throttling him trying to yank him out of dreamland.

"John."

He moaned something close to an indignant reply.

"John, honey, the baby's coming."

Her husband rolled over to face the wall.

"Seriously? John!" Reaching over his shoulder, she grabbed his chin, his stubble scratched at her palm. He squinted groggy hazel eyes to stare at her through the dim lamplight.

"John, I'm going into labor." she enunciated. She watched the gears turn in his head until his eyes widened with comprehension.

"Labor?"

"Yes, John. La-bor."

"Now?" Mary couldn't help but roll her eyes.

"Well, I don't think the baby will pop out in the next 5 minutes if that's what you're asking."

"We need to go to the hospital." Bless her poor, sleep-deprived husband. He threw the covers off, the thick winter fabric slapped Mary square in the face. She huffed a sigh as John stumbled into the closet and tripped over a pair of shoes on the floor. She got up to meet him in the closet, but didn't make it much further than the other side of the bed before a familiar pain crept up her back.

"How far apart are the contractions? Should we take the backroads? We don't wanna run into any traffic on the way." his voice was muffled as he shouted at her from behind their racks of clothes. she heard a curse as something heavy hit the floor.

"John, it's 2: 30 in the morning. We won't run into traffic." Mary let out a low grunt as another contraction rippled through her. She took a second to sit down on the bed.

"Honey, where did you put the diaper bag?"

She didn't respond, too focused on keeping her breath to waste it. John peeked out of the closet carrying a large black suitcase, looking confused. When he saw her expression, the bag was abandoned on the floor, and the ex-marine was on his knees at her side. He was so cute when his eyebrows scrunched up like that. Mary placed her hand on his shoulder to still him.

"Are you okay? Is this a contraction?" Mary nodded, unable to do much else than ride out the wave of painful pressure. A couple of minutes passed before she could speak again. She breathed out a sigh, quite winded.

"There's no need to rush. I think I'm going to take a shower before we go. I feel like I smell." Her nose scrunched a little as she waved a white hand in front of her face.

"A- a shower? Shouldn't we already be at the hospital? You're having a baby, for God's sake."

"Contractions are 7 minutes apart. I can take a shower and be fine. Having a baby takes time, you know." a little foot slid leisurely across her belly as if to agree that the baby was in no hurry.

"Still…"

"Go get the car ready John. Everything will be fine."

How Mary was able to hold so much strength in a body so small never ceased to amaze him. It was evident in 1) the way she was gripping the life out of his hand, and b) the way that she was in so much pain and yet still stayed calm and focused. At least, calmer than him. The only way you would have known she was struggling was the sweat that poured down her face, and the soft grunts that she let out when she was bearing down. The baby was out in under 20 minutes, all soft wet curls and a red face with a squalling cry. The doctor settled the newborn into Mary's arms while they cleaned up. The child quieted at the sound of its mother's voice. Mary cooed tiredly, but happily, in between awestruck sobs, careful to hold a small head still. All John could do was stare. The nurse tugged a little white hat onto the child's head, and a little cotton blanket all covered in tiny footprints was wrapped around purplish limbs. A hospital tag was clipped onto one teeny tiny leg.

Then Mary put the baby in his arms. It was only for a moment while she got taken care of. But man. There it was. That wave of emotions that he had never felt before, slamming into him so hard he nearly drowned. Tears flowed freely, in a way they never had from a man who was usually so stoic. That little person came from them. Him and Mary. Mary and John. So Small and fragile. He can't help but wonder how something so perfect could have come from people as imperfect as John and Mary. He couldn't have been any more grateful.

But there she was. Deanna Winchester. His Beautiful Healthy baby girl.

Things are different now. Mary doesn't feel the same to him. Everything is difficult. Everything. Neither of them know what to say to the other so the house stays quiet. Civil. Except when it doesn't.

He's tired of T.V. dinners and pre-purchased pies and meatloaf from the diner down the road, (Mary, all I'm asking is you learn how to put salt on a chicken and bake it- why is that so hard), but she doesn't see how she has time to cook gourmet meals in all the chaos of having a unruly three year old and a house to maintain. She doesn't ever have any money to spend (I'm not a frivolous spender, John, the damn washer doesn't work. You can wear your oil stains to work or we buy another one-), and he's working his ass off trying to make sure they have food on the table. He's never home, he's never home and Deanna misses him. (She asks for you every night, John.) He says he has to work late tonight (I know.).

Deanna is still Deanna. She's growing but she's the only constant. She greets daddy at the door with a smile so big it breaks John's heart. Her little pigtails bounce when she sees him. She skips right into his arms and it's all John can do not to cry because he's gone so much but his daughter still loves him to death. Sweet angel of a girl. He would choke a little in that superhuman toddler grip of hers and she would breathe that sweet giggly laugh in his ear.

"Howas your day, daddy?"

"Better now that I'm with you, princess." was his standard response.

" Didja fix alota cars daddy?" her words always came out all stuck together.

"Sure did, sweetheart."

Then he would take her to bed because it was late and she shouldn't be up waiting for him. But some days Mary caved at the poor kid's watery eyes. And of course, Deanna's omniscient emotion sensor would go off when he would kiss her little forehead. Every single time without fail, she knew when something was on his mind. Maybe that was because he always had something on his mind.

"Me and mommy love you daddy." would be her way of trying to fix it because that was what Mary always taught her. Because that was what he needed to hear.

We need to love your father, Deanna. He works very hard, and that's why we might not see him tonight. He loves us very much, and that's why he can't come home.

Maybe she meant it. Or Maybe she was trying to convince herself, not the gullible child in front of her. John just didn't see how they kept up this façade.

" Daddy loves you too, baby. Both of you." It felt right to make the separation. Because there was John, and there was Daddy. And Tonight, John's heart wasn't in it. He tugged the blankets over his daughter, and turned out the lights.

Maybe he'd sleep on the couch tonight.

Something struck John Winchester on a muggy night in August. Hard. Some intense ache that came to him and shot him and ripped him out of sleep at 4:36 am. It gripped him so fiercely that he could feel his lungs spasm as his traitorous breath left him. He was dazed. his heart was racing. He felt- wrong. All the fights, all the resistance. Why? Why did they bother with any of it? Why did he ever want to leave? He was laying in a trashy bed in a motel a couple miles away from his garage. Exceedingly too far away from her. It was killing him. What he wouldn't give to turn over and see her face. To lift his hand and brush those golden curls away from her eyes. To wake her up and bask in her annoyance.

Mary. Mary.

What the hell was he doing here?

John tried to shake it off, ruling that maybe he was just a bit homesick. He went to work. And dropped almost every tool that crossed his hands. He tripped over the mechanic creeper 3 times and nearly backed into the building trying to get an old car into the garage. Mike's concerned stare should have annoyed him but John was too out of it to notice. He couldn't think. But that's not quite true.

He was thinking of her. Constantly. Couldn't stop thinking of her. John was utterly and hopelessly distracted. It hurt to be away from her. So bad. Luckily for him, Mike was worried enough to suggest he go home early. He tried to reason with him, to call the attempt half-hearted was an insult to all half-asses. But he didn't want to seem as eager to leave as he felt.

" I don't think you could fix your daughter's trike in this state, Johnny. Clearly, you've been pushing a little too hard. Go home and have your wife make you some soup. Give your kid a kiss. I'm better off without you at this point."

John couldn't have agreed more. Well, scratch that - he didn't think he was sick (he wasn't in the mood for canned chicken soup anyway). He slipped into the impala and spotted a sweater Mary had left in the passenger's seat. It was ell worn and soft and pink like the flush of her cheeks. His chest tightened like a vise. Then again, maybe he was sick. The drive was agonizing.

And of course, John opens the door to an empty house. No note, because why would she need to leave one? John hadn't said he was coming home at all tonight, let alone when it was still daylight. They were probably out getting groceries, or at the park. Or. Or.

That was all John could think of. Did Mary even go anywhere else? He tasted bitter shame in the back of his throat. How could he not know? A good husband was supposed to know these things, to ask what she did at the end of every day. Good husband? Who was he kidding? Would Mary even want to see him? He ran his fingers through mangy curls that were getting too long. Traced his hand along stubble that proved he had been letting too many things get away from him.

He had to fix this.

Deanna was fussy today, and Mary was trying not to let her annoyance show. The three year old wanted to do the opposite of everything Mary suggested, and wouldn't eat breakfast because no, you cannot have pie at 9 in the morning, Deanna. That went over well. Every time Mary would slick her curls into a neat ponytail, the hairband was across the room in the next second. The micro tantrums were frequent, and it was getting old. She didn't even bother to fix Deanna's hair after the third time. Just let it fall in wild tangles around her fat cheeks. If the toddler was cool with that, so be it.

Mary couldn't blame her daughter for the somewhat bad behavior. She missed her father. Normally Mary was too irritated with her husband to feel the same, but something about today made her agree. She missed John. Missed him something awful. She missed him on the other side of the bed in the morning. She missed seeing his toothbrush in the cup by the sink. She missed him when she sipped the coffee she'd made the way he liked it, black and strong enough to chew. It only made her all the more frustrated because he wasn't there. She needed him here. She needed to get out of this damn house. She threw some sandwiches into bags and packed them into a picnic basket, and slipped into a pair of jeans. Gathering up her keys, she shook the basket at Deanna, who perked up at the sight.

"Come on, De. Time to go for a walk to the park." Her daughter shot up from the floor and shoved her shoes at Mary, because she never liked to put them on herself. if the girl had a tail, it would have been wagging like crazy.

Oh Lord, Mary thought as big green eyes stared up at her, it's like I gave birth to a puppy or something.

They made their way down to the park so Deanna could waste some of that miserable tantrum energy. Which worked. In a way. They had eaten the sandwiches first, Deanna did less eating and more picking at it, trying to separate the jelly from the peanut butter. Which was a little jarring, because Deanna loved PB . John would have scolded his daughter for wasting food. He hated that Mary was feeding into her picky eating habits. Mary had seen too many tantrums to berate the girl for it. It wasn't like she wouldn't grow out of it.

When the sandwich was nothing more than a pile of soggy scraps, Mary sent Deanna off to play, giving her daughter an affectionate pat on the bottom. The little girl sulked back into her mother's arms an hour later, but this time her pretty face looked less tantrum-y and more miserable. Mary brushed the halo of curls back from her daughter's forehead, the untamed hair gone ary in the throes of running around.

"Are you ready to go home, angel?"

Her little head nodded against her mother's breast.

"Alright. Let's go."

The walk home was quiet, mother and daughter feeling too dejected to talk. Until they got to the house. A sleek black car sat in the driveway, gleaming in the sun as if it were asking where she had been. The impala.

"Daddy?" Mary looked down at Deanna, who's eyes were as wide as saucers with recognition. Not that Mary knew how to respond. She stared at her, opened mouthed and feeling a little dumb. Deanna was only willing to let her mother's silence stretch on for so long. She hopped toward the door in the way that little kids do when they're too excited to walk.

"Mommy, Mommy, Daddy's home!" Dean shrieked and jumped on the porch while Mary fumbled with the keys. It was at this moment she cursed her insistence that they lock the door from so many years of hunting. The normal, civilian type would leave it unlocked. Cheryl down the street was mean enough to be a demon, though, so she wasn't going to take any chances. She couldn't get the key in the lock fast enough.

John came home. It's almost like he heard me wishing for him.

Finally, the click of the lock sounded and the door swung open. John peeked his head out from upstairs at the sound of the unoiled hinges that he had yet to fix.

"DADDY!" Deanna shot up the stairs, practically crawling, and launched herself into John's open arms. His hearty laughter filled the air. Mary felt like she could breathe again at the sound. The house felt less cold than it usually did.

Deanna chattered more than she had all day while John carried her back downstairs.

His eyes glanced warmly at his daughter, but his gaze was on Mary. The stubble he usually wore had been shaved clean, and his hair was cut shorter and damp from the shower. Mary had almost forgotten how handsome he could be. He looked at her over their daughter's head with some emotion she couldn't quite place. But he seemed to know that she felt it too. An apology, of sorts. At the very least, a truce he was offering in exchange for a night like the ones they used to have.

He'd made dinner, baked chicken with mashed potatoes and peas and a little plate of mac n cheese for their little picky eater. The spread was set out on the table, with plates and cups all ready to use. The smell was divine.

Mary thinks she's dreaming.

"John, what on earth? When did you have the time to do all this?" He looked up from where he was sliding Deanna into her chair.

"I got home a little early."

Mary turned her head to look at him.

" Why did you do all this?"

John gently took her waist with his hand, and led her to the table. Deanna bounced in her seat. He leaned over once his wife was seated and whispered sweetly in her ear.

"I missed my family." She let out a little gasp when he kissed her gently.

"yucky!" Deanna giggled from her chair. John looked up at her and made a silly face.

"Daddy, can i has a kiss too?"

"Sure thing princess!" he'd laughed. He got up and took her face in his hands then peppered her cheeks with kisses until she was begging through shrieking laughter for him to stop.

They had a nice dinner. Deanna tore through her bowl of mac n' cheese without incident, and john even got her to try some chicken and peas off of his plate. She spit pea mush into her father's hand, but the fact that they went in her mouth at all was a win in John's book. Everyone got healthy servings of apple pie, Deanna's favorite. After they were all as full as ticks Mary went around the table and collected the dishes.

"Deanna, honey, go pick out your pj's. Mommy's gonna wash the dishes then it's bath time." Mary said as she reached for a sticky plate that once held a delectable slice of apple pie.

John grabbed her wrist. Light pressure gave her pause as she looked curiously into his hazel eyes.

"Why don't I give the princess a bath tonight? Give mommy a break?"

Something fluttered in Mary's stomach. She gave a little smile.

"That would be great, John."

His smile was blinding. She turned to the kitchen sink to hide the red heat in her cheeks.

"You heard Mama," John said, "let's go pick you out some pjs."

there was the squeak of wooden chairs being pushed in and the sound of quiet giggling and creaking stairs as the two left to wash up.

Mary couldn't help but smile to herself as she heard the sound of running water and some rowdy marine song that John was singing to make their daughter laugh. One could only hope the song was heavily modified to be appropriate for their barely 3 year old. A slight chuckle slipped from her lips as a particularly loud giggle reverberated through the house. Plates clinked in the cabinet one by one as she dried them and stacked them in their proper places. This was how things should have been. All the fighting and anger was stupid. How they let it get so bad in the first place she couldn't have fathomed. She wouldn't let it happen again. Things could go back to the way they were.

Mary put the last of the leftovers in the fridge and made her way up to Deanna's bedroom. She stood by the door, watching John as he read the last pages of a bedtime story. Her husband's deep voice dripped with comfort and affection, willing his baby girl to sleep.

"... and then the princess gave the grumpy old dragon a sweet sweet kiss, right on his big nose." Deanna giggled as John accentuated the sentence with a kiss on his daughter's nose.

"'Please stay, Mr. dragon!' cried the princess, 'We have plenty of gold for you here! I'll miss you if you leave.'"

"The dragon was so touched that he decided to live with the princess in her palace forever and ever. And they lived happily ever after. The end."

Green eyes blinked sleepily as Deanna looked up at her father. The thin storybook shut softly, and quiet set over the room. the lump under the covers had stopped moving, her head lolled over to the side. John slowly got up to start for the door.

"Daddy."

"Yes, princess?" He looked back when the sleepy little voice didn't reply. She was holding her arms out to him, beckoning him closer. He sunk back down to the mattress, and her little hands grabbed his face. She pulled him down and gave his nose a sweet, sweet kiss. Then she released him, tucking deeper into the blankets while he blinked in surprise.

"Now you hafta stay. Forever an ever." Satisfied, the little girl turned over in her bed and promptly fell asleep.

Mary chuckled from the doorway.

"I don't think I remember that story going that way. Doesn't the prince slay the dragon?" she whispers as the door to their daughter's bedroom creaks shut.

"Screw the prince. She won't need a prince till she's thirty, and I refuse to put any ideas into that cute little head of hers."

"John, honey. We aren't even thirty." A smirk wormed its way onto her face.

"Touche."

There's a warmth in the air as they head back down the stairs. The kind of silence that falls over them feels natural, feels normal again. His hand is warm on her back as they make their way to the kitchen. They squeeze between the sink and the cabinet, the space too small to fit both of them. The press back to back, reaching for different things, shuffling as not to jostle one another. Neither of them seems to mind. Hands linger when Mary hands him a glass and when John passes her the wine. Somehow they both know that this is a good night for the red merlot. He leads her to the couch with his hand on the small of her back, feeling the heat of her skin through her dress. She locks in on the smell of his cologne behind her.

The T.V. flickers on and they sit down to watch.

Her head is on his chest, he's moved her to where she's neatly folded on his lap, his arm around her waist. His breath is hot on her neck.

"She's right, you know." Mary inclines her slender neck towards him, looking at him absentmindedly. John stares into the forest green, taking his time to respond.

"Deanna. she was right." Mary repeats.

"About what?" A Laugh Track from the sitcom plays, quiet background noise. She grabs his chin, in that way she does when she demands his attention. She tilts his head forward and kisses his nose. Then his head is tilting again and she's kissing his lips, the motion soft and tasting of wine and apple pie. The invisible crowd on the TV roars out another laugh. John never ceases to be amazed by her.

"Now you have to stay. Forever and ever." A pause.

"Is that what you want?"

She shifts in his arms, until she's looking down at him, on her knees in between his own. Eyes as green as his daughter's, eyes as fierce as his own. A picture of beauty. John concludes that he must have been blind before today because why else would he have left? Blind and stupid.

"John. It's all I want. We need you. I need you."

Mary looks down at this man, this man that she chose to marry. She gave up a lot to be with this man. A lot of people would die simply because she wanted a family. She used to think about that a lot. She used to feel sick with guilt. But right now, staring into those hazel eyes, she could think of nothing but how lucky she was that it was him. It was always going to be him.

"I'm not going anywhere."

The skin and fabric and sinew that separate them are nothing but paper layers. Their hearts beat faster in their chests.

The TV flickers, watching them as they sink into each other and revel in the night. Thousands of eyes look upon them, satisfied at a plan fulfilled.