In The Name Of The Father

[mellaithwen]

Title: In The Name Of The Father
Chapters: One-shot
Rating: PG-13, gen
Warnings: Themes of Christianity.

They had stood together. Husband and Wife, a child borne in their arms, dressed in the white; of purity and virginity. Of good, of light, and he gurgled as the first droplet of water hit his forehead softly. His mother relished in the sound, and his father put on a smile, pretending he wasn’t wholly uncomfortable with baptising his son.

 

Drip,

 

Drop.

 

The water touched his skin, little teardrops rolling down his forehead and he squirmed slightly in his mother’s hold. The crystalline droplets bring blessings to the child, as the priest speaks, softly, melodically, “I baptise you in the name of the father, and the son, and the holy spirit, amen.”

 

They spoke of Sunday school, though John was less was likely to compromise on that subject. John had seen things in his life that would quell the strongest of faith’s, and he wasn’t about to forget it all, or forgive any divine power. But he would let Mary have this, and he wouldn’t force his atheism on his child either.

 

Mary took it upon herself to let her son know of good triumphing over evil, of the heroes coming out victorious even when the odds were backed up high against them. She told him of David and Goliath, and watched his eyes bulge as the talk turned to giants.

 

It would only be a year or so later, when Dean would stray into his father’s room in the middle of the night, and ask quietly, and so simply if whether or not his mother had been wrong.

 

It was then that John took it upon himself to let his son know of evil triumphing more often than good. But he made sure his son knew that good was better, that good meant light in the dark, that good was what he was, and little Sammy was, and what his mother had been.

 

“No kiddo. Mommy wasn’t wrong; she just never got to tell you the whole story, that’s all.”

 

-*-*-*-

 

In Mary’s mind there was no question about it, if Dean was christened, then Sam would be too. Fitting it in however was an entirely different matter. Mike was away for the weekend with his wife, and until then the garage was in John’s hands.

 

But this weekend was the only weekend for months where the Church wasn’t already booked to the brim. End of spring weddings, summer bake sales, and more and more sermons aimed at the young as the holidays came into view; all of which going against that which was most convenient for the Winchesters. If they found a date, there was always someone who couldn’t go, and in the end John had made jokes over grabbing some holy water and getting it done themselves.

 

Mary had smiled tightly, looking almost sour, and she had been quick to explain the importance of it being done properly. For a few minutes after her lecture, John had truly feared he had struck a nerve, and then his wife had shot him that signature smile, so graceful and seductive at the same time. She would laugh for a moment, almost akin to a giggle, and as if on cue, Sam would wake up crying from his nightmares.

 

Or from hunger, John wasn’t sure anymore.

 

-*-*-*-

 

Her mother and grandmother never saw eye to eye. It saddened her that she would never be that close to her grandmother, especially when she saw her friends spending the weekends with them over the holidays, complaining about games of backgammon but relishing in the home cooked meals and baked cookies each day.

 

“Well, when it comes to danger, Mary’s better than a dog to have around, I should think.”

 

And her golden curls were ruffled suddenly, and she was met with a warm smile of her grandmother. She hadn’t understood then, but she had seen her mother’s scowl, and she had heard the fighting, that followed soon after, the muffled words but clear crisp anger slicing through the old house, and cutting short any chances of milk and cookies that night.

 

She hadn't understood then, she hadn't thought about it enough, she had doubted her fears, and paid for it, but she couldn't help wonder what would have changed if she had?

 

-*-*-*-

 

Months flew by, days passing as they always did, and the seasons fluttering through the motions. Mary made sure to keep an eye on Sam while watching the mixture of amusement and annoyance on her husbands face from the nursery window, as their oldest son jumped into the pile of crisp leaves John had been gathering, giggling and tossing them around, completely destroying his father’s hard work and loving every minute of it.

 

She took Sam up from his cot, holding him so lovingly. She pointed to her boys in the garden, saying softly to Sam, “That’s your Daddy, and that’s your big brother.” She smiled at her baby boy’s ability to gurgle incoherently at the exact right moment and continued, “And they’ll always look out for you.”

 

She had never meant it as insight into the horrors that would befall them all, and she had meant to say that she would be protecting him as well. Looking back, she supposed it was fate, how prophetic irony had stopped her.

 

She fulfilled the silent promise when she saw him, so tall, so old, pinned to the wall, as she had been to the ceiling. She felt the fury well up inside of her. Nothing touched her baby. Nothing. As she strayed through the room, her form taking shape in the flames that destroyed her, she made a note to apologise for not coming sooner. For not staying longer. For everything.

 

-*-*-*-

 

She had been washing the dishes in the early morn, the curse of every mother to be up earlier than any other in the household hitting her with full force, come 7am on a Saturday. For a fleeting moment, her hands fumbled and she didn’t know why. Her body felt foreign, and she felt light-headed as though for a second she wasn’t truly there, not really, not in this kitchen.

 

Then the feeling was gone, the moment passed, but the momentum of regaining control threw her, and the plates fell from her hands mid way to the cupboard and they smashed onto the floor sending shards everywhere. She gasped at the clashing noise, and wasn’t surprised when John came running downstairs, fully awake, and alert for danger.

 

She was busy picking up each piece carefully when the phone rang, and John answered it, being closer. Mary heard the usual response, “Hello, who’s calling?” Her husband never let the caller knew what house they had reached, or what number, he asked them first, always. But Mary heard no more, and when she looked up at John, she saw sad eyes and sympathy in their depths as he swallowed the lump in his throat, muttered, “Yes, yes, of course.” into the receiver and hung up.

 

“John?”

 

“It’s your grandmother,” He began, and Mary listened in sadness.

 

-*-*-*-

 

“I’m sorry, Mary, we already have a christening scheduled on Saturday morning, but how about in the afternoon?” He asked, with a smile that fit his aged face so well.

 

“No,” She sighed, “Dean has a T-Ball game coming up.”

 

He smiled sadly, understanding, before asking how the little four-year old was, and asking when he would start Sunday school. Mary had replied awkwardly that truthfully, she didn’t know, but that she was working on John and his set-in-stone decisions. Just as she was working on getting Sammy christened.

 

“Why not next Wednesday?” He asked, before she left, “A young couple changed the date for their wedding,” But Mary shook her head.

 

“I don’t think it feels right to have him baptised on a day for the faithful departed.”

 

He nodded, but assured her that a day would open up soon enough, he was sure.

 

-*-*-*-

 

Dean’s first, last, and only trip to see his great-grandmother was one he could scarcely remember now, and had had similar trouble merely a few weeks after. He had been so tired, so warm in his bed and content when suddenly his father was gathering his clothes for the day, and ushering his boy into the bathroom to get washed, before helping him get dressed, and tying the shoelaces on his cleaner trainers. The ones he didn’t wear to his games. The ones he barely wore at all.

 

“Daddy?” He asked, with blurry vision as his fists came up to rub away the sleep still coating the edges of his eyes. John reached out, putting the hands down gently and grabbing a wipe from the desk, using that instead.

 

“We have to go see your great, grandma, okay, kiddo?”              

 

Dean nodded, still too tired to understand, but now too awake to want to go back to sleep. John took his boy in his arms, letting the child’s head rest against his shoulder, and he met Mary on the landing in a similar position as himself with Dean as she was with Sam. Both thundered down the stairs, locked up the house, and went to the car.

 

As they drove, John directed himself there, rather than cut through Mary’s thoughts as she no doubt mulled over all that she had been told. He had answered the phone and heard an unfamiliar voice on the other end. Mary’s grandmother’s nurse, sounding slightly worried and explaining that the doctor had just left, and things weren’t looking good. She had stressed how happy it would make her patient to see her favourite grand daughter again and if they could possibly make the trip, as soon as today.

 

He had replied quickly, with no need to ask his wife. He knew her heart was too kind to ever take that away from someone, no matter how strained her mother’s relationship had been with the older woman.

 

As they arrived, Mary had been worried that Dean’s bouncy personality might not be the best thing for a dying woman, but she had been wholly contradicted. At first Dean had been shy, but polite and slowly he let himself out, showing the woman how happy he was, but not too much to overwhelm her. Mary supposed it was the lack of sugar so early in the day, or maybe he simply knew to act calmer around his great grandmother.

 

They talked together for quite some time, and Mary couldn’t help but smile at the way her grandmother seemed to stare at Dean, as though amazed he had come into being, especially with her caution around John. She had met him once before the wedding, right before, seconds merely as she took a wrong turn and a helpful young man had lead her to her seat. He had asked who she was there for the bride or the groom, and she had replied quickly the bride, mentioning that the husband was an army man, and most likely too gruff to be around her angelic grand daughter.

 

The old woman had been surprised to see him leave her side, and take his place up front. Right up front, but she had always assumed that he hated her for that, when really, he was merely amused.

 

“How old are you?” Dean asked curiously, doing his fair share of staring at the wrinkled woman.

 

“Dean,” John warned, afraid it would insult, but the woman simply returned the question. “How old are you?”

 

“Four and a half,” He said, grinning. “I’m the oldest, Sammy’s tiny.” And as the conversation tipped toward the baby boy, he took centre stage in his great grandmother’s arms, while Dean watched from the strong hold of his father.

 

At first Sam began to fuss as soon as he was away from his mother’s familiar arms, but as soon as the old woman’s fingertips had brushed Sammy’s forehead, he began to quieten, mesmerized by the soft tones of the frail woman hushing him. She looked up at her granddaughter, standing almost nervously with John by her side, still carrying Dean, who watched quietly.

 

She looked back down at little Sammy, and her gaze found Mary’s.

 

“Just like his mother,” She said, giving her granddaughter a knowing look before staring fondly at the baby in her arms. “Just like his mother.”

 

-*-*-*-

He had stood there for a moment, admiring the child before she had interrupted, before she had screamed. He had silenced her as he had silenced countless others, but when the baby gurgled, he merely shushed it soothingly. He was gone before the first droplet fell softly. He was gone before the screams, before the inferno, before the beginning of the End.

 

Drip,

 

Drop.

 

The crimson droplets curse the child, the blood marks the skin, scars it now martyred by the faith his mother wanted for him, and embraced by another, a wholly evil one. A voice still echoes in ears too young as his father rushes him away from the flames that beckon, a voice cold and scratchy, hissing and burning, “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

 

-Fin.