PG, Spoilers for 'In The Beginning.' Mary's POV. Unbeta'd.
The colt is heavy and cold in her hands, it feels heavier than she'd thought, the weight is unsettling.
John is standing near the door, shaking hands with well wishers and mourners and ushering them out into the gray, hazy afternoon.
The funeral had gone alright, quiet and meaningless. She would have to go out tonight or tomorrow and dig them back up, salt and burn, just like she'd been taught. She needed to do it before the ground got too packed. Loose dirt was easier to dig up.
The front door closed with the familiar click and John came toward her. She turned to him, the colt pressed between her hands, she didn't know what to do with it, it was dead weight. John grasped her forearms and rubbed up and down her arms in an effort to comfort her. She looked at him with hollow eyes. He had died, right there in front of her, and her parents were gone, and something terrible would happen to her child.
The house was empty around them, quiet and empty. Hunting gear was stored under loose floorboards beneath their feet, it was stacked up in the attic, in the locked closet in the hall and in the basement in the false bottom of her grandmother's trunk. Milkweed and wolfsbane were growing on the windowsill in her father's study, disguised as thyme and oregano. Her mother's kitchen was empty of the smell of food, there was an entire cabinet dedicated to rock salt and a rosary hung on the knob of the cabinet under the kitchen sink. There were books, research, hidden away in popular books, her father had an entire bookshelf full of the classics. Moby Dick hollowed out with notes on witches, and War and Peace was hiding an ancient tome on vampires.
Her life had always been different. A secret. Secrets and lies. John Winchester's ring stared up at her like some kind of warning and remembrance, her secret staring her in the face like something out of The Tell Tale Heart. She looked at it and felt angry and sad and tired. She couldn't live this life anymore. She wouldn't hide demonology and protective spells in cook books and novellas. She wasn't going to keep shotguns and rock salt in her linen closet. Her parents were dead. They died because of this lifestyle and she couldn't live this way anymore.
John pulled her forward into an embrace and Mary dropped her hands to her side, the gun resting against her thigh. John was warm and soft, he smelled like Old Spice and his skin was smooth. He didn't have calluses on his fingers from holding a shotgun routinely. His clothes were modest and didn't have ten extra pockets for salt and silver bullets and knives. John didn't even know the how to bless water into being holy.
She had wanted out of this life. Her father's iron clad rules and her mother's no-nonsense stare had kept her in line for 18 years. She couldn't stay in this life, she couldn't be in a house filled with memories of her parents. She couldn't be in a life filled with memories of her parents. They chose this road, they chose to live this life and look what it had gotten them, six feet under. Mary wanted more, she wanted out, she wanted a choice.
Some people, when faced with conflict will fight, or some will flee. Fight or Flight. Mary didn't want this. She didn't want to raise her kids knowing the darkness like an old friend. She didn't want them to feel like an outsider among their friends. She didn't want them to have to chose between a life of hunting and a life of living. Mary wanted to be normal. She wanted to love John and raise a family. She wanted freedom.
John's hands spanned her back, gentle and grounding, his head rested on her shoulder and he was warm and soft. She wanted a warm and soft life, not the cold, heavy weight of hunting. In the living room in her parent's house, two hours after she had buried them, she clutched John and decided to fly.