Florescent - SN fic - PG

[tigriswolf]

Title: Florescent
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: The Winchesters aren’t mine, or their demons. Everyone else is, though.
Warnings: *shrugs* AU, maybe? No real spoilers for anything, unless you haven’t seen the pilot or don’t know the basic back-story.
Pairings: John/Mary
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1335
Point of view: first
Notes: Not related to “Familial Relations” at all.

You mourn what was taken… I mourn what has never been…

Wait… listen… don’t walk away so soon, love. You cannot comprehend, not yet. I understand the frustration—they are so beautiful, so broken. They call to your better nature.

They call to all of our better natures, and we still turn away. We must. We cannot fight destiny; we have not the strength. We are but lowly servants to the demented gods, and no matter how we struggle, no matter how we curse, in the end there is nothing for us to do but continue on.

Not yet.

- 

I have your attention now. Young ones are always the same. Full of ideals and promise, full of hope and righteous fury at the state of things.

So was I, once. Before.

 -

Patience, love. Patience. Things will happen as they are meant to and no other way. I understand how you feel; believe me, I’ve felt the same. Still feel the same, when I see all the trouble those silly, inopportune boys find themselves getting into time after time.

Don’t look so astonished, child. I respect them, and I adore them, and I fear for them—but they are still boys. They still think themselves immortal, despite how often they’ve felt Death’s velvet wings on their skin, Death’s porcelain fingers against their cheeks. ‘specially the elder. That boy… oh, as much as I want to slap some sense into him, I also want to feed him a pot-full of chicken noodle soup and embrace him until the world isn’t so hard anymore.

Don’t grin at me, girl. You feel the same. We all do.

 -

We cannot help it, being drawn to them, wondering… we look after them, as best we can, but it will never be enough. Not while the demented gods—Bloodlust and Rage and Vengeance—still rule. And they will rule for a long while yet, punishing those beautiful boys for their parents’ sins.

Oh, that lovely girl, Maralyn—such promise woven into her skin. Defiant and strong, willful… she strode her own way without hesitation, impatient with the faults of others. And her lover, the man John… he matched her step for step, enchanted, caught in her spell.

No, she did not entrap him. Knowing it all, he followed her, went with her, loved her—was loved by her. She who loved no one loved him, as enchanted with him as he was her.

Fairy tale, it was. Such a fairy tale. And our demented gods watched with envy as their favorite daughter wed a human and bore him a son. She had turned from them all, for a mortal—aye, Rage flourished that day.

Bloodlust followed swiftly, determined that if the gods could not have her, no one could. But they fled, Maralyn and her husband, and she wove protections about them, protections so strong that no one and nothing could unravel them, could touch them.

-

Patience, child. There is more to the story yet. Much more. You watch those boys and you know it, know that the tale cannot possibly be done.

Vengeance found a way around Maralyn’s spells, past her web. Her firstborn was four years old, her baby only half a year.

-

And what followed… oh, love, what followed… you know the words, the legend. You know how Vengeance acted out his rage, how he carved and burned her, how he let the man John see what comes of loving the gods’ own. You know how the man John took his sons, fled the town Maralyn loved so much, how he raised her boys to track, to hunt, to kill.

Maralyn flew from the gods so she would not become their tool, and her sons became their father’s weapons, and Irony howls out her pleasure to the moon.

Pardon me, child. I must… thank you. I am one of the last who knew Maralyn, who watched her grow. And seeing what has come to be… I cannot…

Give me a moment for composure, and I shall be ready to continue.

Emotions… interesting things, no? They can lead to such amazing conclusions—and they can shatter nations. For example… Dean. That boy carries enough love, devotion, and rage he could shoulder mountains. His determination could halt a buffalo stampede—and even some gods cannot claim so much.

Oh, John… he had such noble intentions, darling. So much promise. And look where his journey ended… trading his life for his sons.

And, yes, the plural term is correct. Had Dean died, Sam would soon have joined him. Those two cannot be separated; neither could survive it. That was not John’s intention, weaving them so closely together, but intentions, in the end, come to mean nothing.

Maralyn had the best of intentions, when she fled with John. She wanted freedom, a life of her choosing, a family. And look how she has paid…

But the worst of the punishment is not on her soul, or even on John’s. It is Dean, it is Sam, who pay the price, with every single breath, with every single step, with every single heartbeat. They can never walk away from it—nor, honestly, do they want to.

It is one of the reasons we all look after them, watch them, help when and where we can. They are good boys, the best—and the demented gods hate them… because Dean and Sam, they are something the gods can never have.

Maralyn is in their blood and their souls, in their cores. John is in their every move, their every thought. And the gods are jealous of that.

Rage wanted her for his own from the first, with Vengeance half a step behind. But it was Bloodlust, the greatest of the three, who swore to have her for his own, come what may.

 -

Patience, child, daughter, young one. Patience. The story nears the end.

 -

John did not fully know his wife, did not know her greatest secrets. But he knew her heart, he knew her soul, he knew enough. He knew her in a way the gods never did.

Looking at her sons, at her beautiful boys, he still knows enough.

-

The war looms, child. John has prepared her sons as best he can, but it will not be enough, cannot be, for he still doesn’t know the greatest lesson.

Maralyn was godborn. She was the most glorious daughter of Hope, the strongest of all the things in Pandora’s box. And those three, all that remain—Rage, Vengeance, Bloodlust—they would have clipped her wings, claimed her for their own, destroyed the very parts of her that made her great.

Do not mourn, darling. Maralyn and John are together now, safe beyond the demented gods’ reach. They can no longer be touched.

But the time is coming… soon, we, us who see and know, us who love those boys, we must act.

 -

You mourn what was taken when Vengeance killed Maralyn, when Rage murdered John, punishing them for their love.

I mourn for what has never been, for what Maralyn and John were not allowed, for their sons can never be because of the sad, sorry, demented gods.

They walk too proudly, those three who remain. And for years, we have stayed our hands, kept to ourselves, watched and waited. But soon…

Look at those boys, Maralyn’s heirs. She was the strongest, greatest, most glorious child ever born of the sky—and her sons are greater still.

Not that they know, of course. But they will. Vengeance runs low on patience, and Rage wishes to claim them for his own.

But it will be Bloodlust who makes the first move, and we must be prepared.

 -

The story is not over, child. There are few of us left, few of us who remember the old days, how everything used to be. But those few are enough.

They are Maralyn’s. They are John’s.

They are ours, and it is time that we reminded the gods of what that means.

 

 

Comments

[lucywiggin.livejournal.com]

I'm having the 'not sure how to respond' problem. You can't decide whether to torture the boys, worship them, or both, ha;)?

[tigriswolf]

No, I can't. It's such a conundrum.

Thank you for reading!