The Weight of Secrets

His mother's belly is too rounded now with no room for him. So he sits on his father's lap but it's his mother who reads to him.

He doesn't want the books about the little bear or the ducks or the circus. The big books interest him more.

Are you sure he understands this stuff?

He understands in here, John. She touches her son's chest then shows him the picture of a figure in armor standing in a green wood.

Sometimes there are monsters but he's not worried. His father's arms are steadying and his mother's voice can vanquish dragons.

There are times when Mary decides that John has to know about her past, the real one, not the fantasy of normal she had created. She will watch John lift Dean into the air as he giggles and she will feel this surge of panic, remembering the deal she had made. She doesn't regret it, can't as she watches the man she loves toss their son gently into the air, but she has seen what happens to normal families who aren't prepared.

She will chide herself. Stop that, Mary. You left that behind. This is all you need.

And it’s true. She has John and Dean and another baby on the way. She is happier than she thought she ever could be. She thrives on normal, it makes her happy. Besides, no good could come of telling John the truth. Even if he didn't write her off as crazy there’s no way to make it sound any less selfish than it was. She had loved John so much. He was tangible and real and hers…not like the possibility of some child down the road. She had been selfish and now the fear is always looming around her that some day the demon will show up and steal her family away.

John doesn't need to carry that burden. He already has enough nightmares of his own.

It took three stories but Dean is finally down…what's wrong?

Mary looks up from the magazine she was trying to read and leans back against her pillows. She shrugs and says, Nothing, John. I'm fine.

He sits down on the edge of the bed, pressing against her and kissing her gently. He touches her belly and says, Not feeling well?

She smiles and caresses his cheek. I'm fine, really. I was just thinking about my parents.

He nods in understanding and a part of her wants to scream because he doesn't really understand, she won't let him. He doesn't know that the horrors he had seen in Vietnam were nothing compared to some of the things she had witnessed. He doesn't know that she had made a deal with a demon to have this normal life, to have him, even if it meant sacrificing one of her own children. Even thinking about it makes her sick.

I know they weren't that fond of me but I think they would've loved to be around to see what an amazing mom you are, he replies. He kisses her again and she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him down on top of her and holding on.

She breathes him in and says, It was worth it.

What?

Just remember that, okay? It was always worth it.

He chuckles. I love you even when you don't make any sense.

She kisses his neck and says, I know. That's why I love you.

It's not like there aren't other things she keeps from John but this is different. This isn't about hunting, even if the knot in her stomach feels just like kissing the creature that wore her father's body, sick and horrible and wrong.

This isn't about hunting but she doesn't want to think what it is about. No good mother has nightmares about her own sons.

Dean's recovering from the chickenpox, itchy and grumpy and kicking at his dinosaur sheets, and Mary sits on the edge of his bed and strokes his hair back from his sweaty forehead and murmurs the words to a sweet slow hippie song, soft enough that she won't wake Sammy in his crib.

And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain
Don't carry the world upon your shoulders…

He quiets, small fingers playing with the cuffs of his pajamas, and whispers the familiar words along with her. Mary leans down to brush her lips against his forehead and his eyes blink open for an instant, sleepy and beautiful green. John's already laughing about how his oldest son is going to be a ladykiller when he grows up.

Green eyes, long lashes, tired eyes framed by premature lines, so sad that her heart could break to look at them. A mouth that's trying hard to smile.

Instead of lullabies, you would sing me Hey Jude. It's your favorite Beatles song.

Mommy?

Shh, sweetie, she murmurs, pressing another kiss to the freckled tip of his nose. She's imagining the thrill of horror that slides through her. She has to be. This is her son, this is his bedroom, a safe room with blue patterned wallpaper. This is a life that monsters will never touch. It's okay. Go to sleep.

They move like soldiers, the kind of perfect unison that only comes of a lifetime spent watching each other's backs. It's the flawless economy of motion that scares her. Reminds her of some of the hunters she knew as a child, the ones who began and ended with the hunt, who were in so deep that all they could taste was blood. The ones who didn't know anything else.

These haunted, damaged men are her children. Oh God. This is what her children will become.

Sam's drinking her in with his eyes and there's a terrible quiet desperation written into the lines of his face. Dean stands fierce, feet planted on the dusty floor. She can hear John in the tenor of his voice but it's harsher, like he screamed his throat bloody once and never really healed.

There's a big difference between dying and not being born and believe me, we're okay with that!

Mary?

The first breath tastes of smoke and sulfur, the remains of the dream still clinging to her tongue. She gags, gasps, sucks in a gulp of clean air while John fights his way out of the tangle of sheets to her left. It's okay. I'm okay. It was a nightmare.

It's just a bad dream. It's never going to happen. Never. She promised.

He slides a soothing hand over her back, big palm rough and warm against her bare skin. It's too hot for pajamas and blankets and they're both naked, tangled up together in a sweat sticky sprawl of limbs. You sure?

I'm sure, she murmurs and if it isn't entirely true she's more than happy to smother any lingering doubts against her husband's lips.