Word Count: 1,050
Warnings: show-level violence, character death (not Sam or Dean)
Summary: Mary never wanted her sons to be raised in the hunting life. Unfortunately, fate (and Azazel) had other plans. AU for that night 22 years ago.
A/N: An AU for the pilot, using alyndra's prompt "if Mary fended Azazel off Sammy that night and lived." Written for the 2018 SPN Summergen.
Now with art by the incomparable beelikej for the 2019 quicky_bang:
Read it on A03 or Link to original post
Mary stops short as the yellow eyes glow out of a face she doesn’t recognize.
At least it’s not John. At least the bastard who’s standing over her son’s crib isn’t possessing her husband.
“I told you not to try and stop me.”
Mary has long enough to remember those words, to remember the context and the deal she made ten years ago. Then she’s pinned to the wall, an invisible force holding her in place.
“Get away from my son, you son-of-a-bitch!” she grits out as the demon turns back to the crib. She watches helplessly as he slices his wrist and holds it over baby Sam’s face.
“Oh no,” Yellow-Eyes murmurs as blood drips from the open wound. “He’s mine now. He’s gonna grow up big and strong and powerful.”
Sam gurgles and fusses, and although Mary can’t see the baby’s face, she knows what’s happening. She can smell the blood and something else, too. Something like rotten eggs.
“You’ve been a bad girl, Mary,” the demon goes on. “You’ve been lying to your sweet, gullible husband, haven’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Oh, I think you do. I chose you because you were a hunter, not a housewife. I need my children to grow up strong. I need them to be ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Uh-uh,” the demon shakes his head. “That’s not part of the deal. Can’t tell you what I have planned, can I? Leave ‘em guessing, I always say. Keeps ‘em sharp. Makes ‘em better prepared for anything.”
The demon finishes feeding Sam as Mary struggles against the invisible hand slowly crushing her windpipe. She can’t even scream.
“I should kill you now,” the demon says as he turns his yellow eyes on her. “I should rip you open and burn you alive, let that sweet man see it. He’ll go mad, probably give up his kids for adoption. This child will grow up with strangers, all his potential gone to waste.
“But we can’t have that, can we, Mary?”
He leaves her pinned to the wall, sets the ceiling on fire with a wave of his hand before he disappears. Mary struggles wildly, finally manages to free herself and grab Sam out of his crib just before pieces of fiery ceiling fall into his crib.
She finds Dean standing in the hall, his big green eyes wide and terrified.
“Come on!” She grabs his hand, then thinks better of it and stoops to gather him up in one arm, clutching the baby in the other.
At the bottom of the stairs, she finds John, crumpled in a heap, his neck broken. He might have been bounding up the stairs to rescue her. He might have slipped and fell wrong. But Mary knows better. It’s not the first time.
She sets Dean down, shoves baby Sam into his arms. “Take your brother outside as fast as you can and don’t look back. Now, Dean! Go!”
Dean’s big eyes flood with tears, but he obeys. Mary won’t let herself cry. She can’t. She bends down and presses her fingers against John’s throat, checking for a pulse, knowing she won’t find one.
“Son of a bitch!” she screams into the empty air. “You come back here and fix him, you bastard!”
Smoke billows down the stairs behind her, and Mary coughs as she struggles to drag John’s body out the front door. She barely makes it before the fire flashes over, filling her ears with the sounds of breaking glass and roaring flame, filling her lungs with smoke.
She can see Dean standing on the lawn, staring up at the nursery window, holding Sam, and she doesn’t hesitate. Dropping John’s dead weight, she sprints across the grass in her bare feet, scooping up her children and carrying them to safety across the street as the nursery explodes, sending broken glass and flaming debris out into the night.
Mary bundles the boys into the car, covers them with the spare blanket from the trunk. When the fire trucks and emergency vehicles arrive, she holds the boys and watches in shock as her nice, ordinary suburban life goes up in flames.
For the first time in ten years, she remembers the words of the hunter who was there the night her parents died.
“On the night of November 2, 1983, don’t get out of bed. No matter what you hear or what you see.”
Dean Van Halen. He was hunting a demon with yellow eyes. He knew this would happen. At the time, Mary thought he was crazy.
Now she knows she should have listened. She knows she was a fool for trying to live a normal life, for thinking for one moment that she could get out. She huddles with her children in the family car, watching her house burn, and she knows what she has to do.
They stay in town long enough to bury John, tie up a few loose ends. Mary closes out her bank accounts, salvages a photo album and her hunter’s weapons cache from the house. She packs the car with weapons, diapers, and the donated clothes and portable crib given to them by the Red Cross. Everything else smells like smoke, so she leaves it.
They drive north, headed first to South Dakota where an old hunting buddy used to live, then on to Blue Earth, Minnesota. Jim Murphy runs a home for wayward children up there, and Mary figures it’s as safe a place as any to leave Sam and Dean while she hunts the thing that killed her husband and infected her son. The thing that ruined her life.
She vowed to kill it ten years ago. Now she won’t stop till she does.
She glances in the rearview mirror. Sam’s asleep in his car seat, Dean cuddled up next to him with a blanket pulled up to his chin. He’s got his thumb in his mouth, two fingers of his other hand held tight in Sam’s chubby fist. He hasn’t said a word since the fire, sleeps curled around Sam every night in the portable crib the Red Cross gave them.
He catches Mary’s eye in the mirror, and she nods.
“It’s gonna be okay, Dean,” she says. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”
Mary Winchester has always been a good liar. Soon, it will be time to teach her sons everything she knows.
Well, maybe not everything.