Jacob Doddard woke one night, from a strange and eerie dream - SN fic - PG

[tigriswolf]

Title: Jacob Doddard woke one night, from a strange and eerie dream

Fandom: “Supernatural”

Disclaimer: the Winchesters aren’t mine; just for fun. Title from “Jacob’s Dream” performed by Allison Krauss.

Warnings: spoilers for pilot; complete and total AU

Pairings: John/Mary, John/OFC

Rating: PG

Wordcount: 1000

Point of view: third

 

            She first sees him on a cool spring day, sun shining gently down and warming the dirt. He’s just a boy, barely out of toddling around, following his mama and smiling.

            He has Mary’s eyes. She knows that’ll make everything harder.

 

            She misses the feel of flesh, of the wind on her skin, the rushing of blood through her thin, fragile veins. She misses brushing her long, silky hair, the color of moonlight. She misses the taste of chocolate and milk, the smell of bread baking.

            Most of all, though, she misses being able to touch John.

 

            She can’t always be sure, but she thinks, maybe, Mary was the one who killed her. Or she killed Mary. 

            She still dreams, even without a body. She peers into a darkened mirror and sees herself looking back, blonde hair and hazel eyes, plump lips and barely-bronzed skin. John stands at her back, hand sure and strong on her shoulder, and she holds a little boy in her arms, a gorgeous child with her eyes.

            She doesn’t even know his name.

 

            She finds him again on a bitter winter night, with snow swirling around him, covering him. He’s shivering, breath slowing, and she feels just how close he is to the abyss. 

            John’s screaming for him, and she sees the blood sluggishly trickling out of his right shoulder, a slim cut all the way down his side. Blood mats his hair, coating his skin. He won’t survive for long unless she does something—but there is nothing she can do. She has no warmth, no body, no voice.

            But she does have spirit, and she can sense a wolf pack close, on their way back to the den. They are cold, though nowhere near as cold as the boy, so she summons them; they hurry to her call, answering her with glee.

            She slips away as they settle around him, the two alphas on either side and the rest of the pack close. The female licks at the head wound then his shoulder, while one of the males laps at the cut down his torso.

            He will be safe until John finds him and the pack melts back into the forest. Her boy—the boy with Mary’s eyes—will live.

 

            She cannot measure time, but the boy is grown when she sees him next, tall and strong. He is not quite John’s size, and she can tell Mary’s other boy will be even bigger than his father, but he has a presence she hasn’t felt in years.

            Not since Mary.

            He is beautiful, like his mother before him, in both body and spirit. She is proud of her boy, the man with Mary’s eyes. So proud—he will do well with all his gifts, will succeed where all others failed. 

 

            She first speaks to the boy not long after his brother leaves. The trees are bare, naked; she feels a storm on the horizon, a storm of snow and hail.

            He’s wandering without purpose, not seeing the world before him; he doesn’t sense the storm coming. He will die, if she does not do something. 

            Mary’s boy cannot be allowed to die, so she calls to him with the only voice left her, that same voice the wolves heard and followed to save his life.

            Dean, she whispers to his heart. Dean, listen to me. You will get him back. He will be yours again. You must be patient, give him time.

            The boy looks around, eyes wide; “Who’s there?” he asks, voice hoarse. 

            She winces to hear him sound so lost. Mary’s shining son should never sound broken. I knew your mother, she says. You are much like her.

            “Yeah, sure,” he says, shattered laughter in his voice. “I’m hearin’ voices, now. Great.” He’s barely holding in his tears.

            He doesn’t have time to break down now; the storm is coming, and it does not have the mind for mercy.

            Dean, she repeats. You have to get inside.

            But it’s useless; he’s hopelessly turned around in the wood, and clouds have long since covered the sun. 

            She should have spoken sooner.

            She has no body with which to share heat, no shelter to offer. Mary’s boy will die in this frozen forest. 

            No. She lost Mary to fire and ash. But this boy, Mary’s firstborn, John’s firstborn, Sam’s big brother—she can save him.

            She is not a creature of light and warmth, like Mary. She is not a darling daughter of the sun. She is a child of cold places, a child of the moon. Winter is her time. And this boy, he will not die tonight. 

            Dean, she says again, louder. You will understand, in the future.

            And she takes him, as she once took Mary, for that one glistening night beneath the stars, when John was hers.

 

            She watches two days later when John finds him, near-death and shuddering. She watches as he shivers in a hospital bed for a week, slowly gaining back his warmth. She watches as John doesn’t let him out of sight, as John clutches his arm, as John trembles with the knowledge of how close he came.

            Dean is not a creature of the moon.

            Dean is like Mary.

 

            She speaks to him once more, on the night he drives away from Stanford and Sam. Everything is happening like Mary said it would.

            I forgive you, Sister, Mary had murmured, dancing with her in twilight. Know that. I will always forgive you.

            At the time, they were children, just learning to Weave. Enmity, pain, hatred—that came later, with John.

            She lost Mary to fire. It was not her creation; she cannot form heat. And that fire comes back now, for Sam. 

            Turn around, she whispers, voice echoing like an endless cavern. Save him from the flames.

            He doesn’t remember, this boy of the sun, child of the dawn. But he listens. He has Mary’s eyes and Mary’s heart, and that will be enough.

Comments

[tru-faith-lost.livejournal.com]

Oh noeessss, not that song! EEEEeeee. That song maketh me tremble, and so does Dean, but yeah.

Awesome darlin'. And awesome layout. *smish*

[tigriswolf]

Aren't the horsies pretty? *pets them*

And that song! It's addicting.

Thank you!

[iamstealthyone.livejournal.com]

Interesting idea, and nicely executed. I especially liked that bit when he was lost in the woods and she spoke to him, and he thought he was going nuts. *pets him*

[tigriswolf]

Thank you for reading!

another really interesting perspective...

[catdancerz.livejournal.com]

sun and moon, cold and fire...sisters...wow...

Re: another really interesting perspective...

[tigriswolf]

Thank you so much!

[sadelyrate.livejournal.com]

Lovely, darling, as always.
Though the weirdest thing is that this sounds weirdly familiar...the piece about the wolf pack especially. *scratches her head*

Nonetheless, thank you.
Your ideas concerning Mary are always a delight to read. :)

[tigriswolf]

Part of it was posted earlier, for like a day.

Thank _you_ for readin'!

[gretazreta.livejournal.com]

Mmmm lovely. Haunting, with this sense of undefinable melancholy, and really beautiful because of it. It's weird, I don't entirely understand, and I know that's because it's mysterious, and that's a clever, clever thing to be able to write, writing it so I yearn to know more.

I liked this a lot.

[tigriswolf]

Thank you so much!

[dodger-winslow.livejournal.com]

Awesome. You have such a mythic quality to your writing. I love that.

[tigriswolf]

Thank you!

[layne67.livejournal.com]

I read this twice, the second time with more understanding and less horror because the first time, my mind was going every which way. Who was that woman?

Marvelous, marvelous writing.

[tigriswolf]

Thank you so much!