Mary Winchester (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
momchester) wrote2015-11-13 11:24 pm
momchester) wrote2015-11-13 11:24 pm
Entry tags:
MoM memory: leaving.
The memory feels straightforward enough, but every word is soaked through with grief. She's only been in this world for a little while. To her, it's only a little while ago that she was together with the love of her life, John, in Heaven- and before that, they were married with two little kids. Their whole lives ahead of each other.
When you relive this memory, you feel that pain, fresh and raw, in stark contrast to Sam and Dean's old, deep-rooted pain. When you see the faces of those two men, you feel the sting of seeing her little boys- her 4 year old Dean, and her little baby Sam. Sam, the one who was hurt most by her death and her selfish actions in life. The guilt of knowing that their terrible, violence-ridden, blood-soaked lives are your fault entirely because of one stupid, selfish choice you made in 1973.
You feel the crushing weight of having lost a husband, two children, a life, and an entire world all in one blow. She's 33 years out of sync with the world. Everything is different now, nobody talks on the phone anymore, everyone she knew is old or dead. That pain is yours in this memory. That adrift, I-don't-belong-here isolation.
Being near Sam and Dean hurts you as it hurts Mary. Dean is so needy, so hungry and desperate every time he looks at her, that just being near him is tiring. And Sam- oh, Sam. Sam is soft and gentle and considerate, but every time your eyes come to him in the memory something stabs right between your ribs. Something that's made of grief and tastes like shame. You can't look him in the eye. You can't stay here, looking at the broken men your death created. You can't bridge the impossible gap from tiny children to traumatized men.
They're older than you. Dean is nearly 10 years your senior, and he calls you Mom. You know how to change diapers and sing Sesame Street; you aren't prepared for this.
And there's the older hurt. The one from when you were young. When you were young and you were a hunter of monsters and nightmares, like Sam and Dean are now. You once said, as a teenager, "You know the worst thing I can think of? The very worst? Is for my kids to be raised into this, like I was."
Now your children are the thing you dreaded raising. They're hunters, formed from pain and fear, like you were. But worse. More scarred. You feel acutely that this world you've awoken in is The Darkest Timeline.
So you leave.
When you relive this memory, you feel that pain, fresh and raw, in stark contrast to Sam and Dean's old, deep-rooted pain. When you see the faces of those two men, you feel the sting of seeing her little boys- her 4 year old Dean, and her little baby Sam. Sam, the one who was hurt most by her death and her selfish actions in life. The guilt of knowing that their terrible, violence-ridden, blood-soaked lives are your fault entirely because of one stupid, selfish choice you made in 1973.
You feel the crushing weight of having lost a husband, two children, a life, and an entire world all in one blow. She's 33 years out of sync with the world. Everything is different now, nobody talks on the phone anymore, everyone she knew is old or dead. That pain is yours in this memory. That adrift, I-don't-belong-here isolation.
Being near Sam and Dean hurts you as it hurts Mary. Dean is so needy, so hungry and desperate every time he looks at her, that just being near him is tiring. And Sam- oh, Sam. Sam is soft and gentle and considerate, but every time your eyes come to him in the memory something stabs right between your ribs. Something that's made of grief and tastes like shame. You can't look him in the eye. You can't stay here, looking at the broken men your death created. You can't bridge the impossible gap from tiny children to traumatized men.
They're older than you. Dean is nearly 10 years your senior, and he calls you Mom. You know how to change diapers and sing Sesame Street; you aren't prepared for this.
And there's the older hurt. The one from when you were young. When you were young and you were a hunter of monsters and nightmares, like Sam and Dean are now. You once said, as a teenager, "You know the worst thing I can think of? The very worst? Is for my kids to be raised into this, like I was."
Now your children are the thing you dreaded raising. They're hunters, formed from pain and fear, like you were. But worse. More scarred. You feel acutely that this world you've awoken in is The Darkest Timeline.
So you leave.