Mary Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
momchester) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sirenspull_logs2012-05-02 01:32 am
momchester) wrote in sirenspull_logs2012-05-02 01:32 am
Entry tags:
forget your troubles, come on get happy
Who: Mary, Sam, and Dean Winchester
When: very late Tuesday night
Where: the Tower Apartments
Summary: ding dong John is dead
Warnings: subject matter and this family
[Mary knows as soon as she sees the post that it's true. She just finished doing her morning check, and was just about to double-check - because of course John's name should still be on the Network, he's still here, he has to be - when Bigby posted. A simple announcement, callously public, that's left her heart pounding, slip-sliding through wine and stepping on shards of glass seemingly without noticing the pain, hitting the kitchen wall as her knees give out.
Every instinct she has is screaming to get it together, to find him and squeeze the truth out of him, to get up, make her legs work again, stop sliding down the wall and get off the floor and be an adult, but she can't move. It's not denial or paralysis- it's the opposite. The sudden, complete understanding of reality. He's dead, and she might see him again- but she might not, and she might not know him, and everything that's happened will be for nothing, and she'll have to start over. Now. But she might never see him again.
It hurts. Like a physical fucking thing that even Dean dying didn't cause, it hurts. More than her feet bleeding, more than her head from where she - did she bang it against the wall? no, maybe she just- oh, she rears back in frustrated fury once more, banging the back of her head against the wall like a child, and doesn't even remember having done it the first time.
It hurts.
She stays curled there on the floor, alone with the hollow feeling in her chest (like someone reached in and ripped out a lung), staring emptily into space for longer than she can reckon. Eventually something flutters into the kitchen, drawing her distracted attention- butterflies, a pair of metal butterflies that make her smile. She touches one lightly, recognizing it as part of the House, and sits there for a while, feeling at peace.
Eventually, spurred on by the metal butterflies periodically fluttering in her face and shining lights into her eyes, she crawls over to the junk drawer and pulls out a roll of fishing line, a needle, and a bottle of Everclear. Some hobo stitches later, she's bleeding from her knees and still in bad shape, but she can curl up against the counter feeling slightly less of a mess.
As soon as the butterflies are gone, evidently satisfying the House's need to mother hen, the loneliness settles in again. That's where Mary stays- leaning with her face against the wall, staring at a fleck of paint four inches from her eyes.]
When: very late Tuesday night
Where: the Tower Apartments
Summary: ding dong John is dead
Warnings: subject matter and this family
[Mary knows as soon as she sees the post that it's true. She just finished doing her morning check, and was just about to double-check - because of course John's name should still be on the Network, he's still here, he has to be - when Bigby posted. A simple announcement, callously public, that's left her heart pounding, slip-sliding through wine and stepping on shards of glass seemingly without noticing the pain, hitting the kitchen wall as her knees give out.
Every instinct she has is screaming to get it together, to find him and squeeze the truth out of him, to get up, make her legs work again, stop sliding down the wall and get off the floor and be an adult, but she can't move. It's not denial or paralysis- it's the opposite. The sudden, complete understanding of reality. He's dead, and she might see him again- but she might not, and she might not know him, and everything that's happened will be for nothing, and she'll have to start over. Now. But she might never see him again.
It hurts. Like a physical fucking thing that even Dean dying didn't cause, it hurts. More than her feet bleeding, more than her head from where she - did she bang it against the wall? no, maybe she just- oh, she rears back in frustrated fury once more, banging the back of her head against the wall like a child, and doesn't even remember having done it the first time.
It hurts.
She stays curled there on the floor, alone with the hollow feeling in her chest (like someone reached in and ripped out a lung), staring emptily into space for longer than she can reckon. Eventually something flutters into the kitchen, drawing her distracted attention- butterflies, a pair of metal butterflies that make her smile. She touches one lightly, recognizing it as part of the House, and sits there for a while, feeling at peace.
Eventually, spurred on by the metal butterflies periodically fluttering in her face and shining lights into her eyes, she crawls over to the junk drawer and pulls out a roll of fishing line, a needle, and a bottle of Everclear. Some hobo stitches later, she's bleeding from her knees and still in bad shape, but she can curl up against the counter feeling slightly less of a mess.
As soon as the butterflies are gone, evidently satisfying the House's need to mother hen, the loneliness settles in again. That's where Mary stays- leaning with her face against the wall, staring at a fleck of paint four inches from her eyes.]