Season 1, Episode 12: Enter Sandman

 

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Late at night in Mary's room...

John Winchester felt himself starting to doze off in his wife's arms.  Reluctantly, he eased himself away from the warmth of her body, moving slowly and with care so he wouldn't wake her.

He couldn't resist pausing to tuck the covers in around her, overwhelmed with gratitude.  Times like these, after making love, he could believe they were really together again, that this strange place was truly heaven.  John pulled on his jeans and tiptoed for the door.

"John?  Is everything all right?"  Mary switched on the bedside lamp.

John blinked in the sudden brightness, cursing silently.  He'd managed to slip away each night since Mary had arrived in 'hunter's heaven.'  She'd questioned him about it at first.   John had played it off as normal.   He'd always been an early riser, and especially after Dean's birth, he'd liked to let Mary sleep in whenever he could.  After a few days, she'd stopped mentioning it, but now, he'd been caught in the act.   She wasn't going to be satisfied with anything but the truth.

Sure enough, "When you said you liked to get up early, I didn't think you meant this early,"  Mary said.  "John, it's the middle of the night.  Come back to bed."  

He did as she asked, setting his bundle of clothes aside, but only to take a seat beside her.  "I can't stay.  I don't trust myself,"  John said in a rush.  He hadn't wanted to admit this to Mary.  Not yet.  

"It's called PTSD,"  John went on.  "Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  We used to call it shell shock."  Inwardly, he sighed.  This only emphasized how much he'd changed in the decades since Mary had died.  Vietnam had affected him, of course, but 'Nam had nothing on hell. 

"It's okay, John.   I understand about PTSD.  You don't have to shield me from it,"  Mary told him warmly.  "I can help.   We'll deal with it together."

"You have to understand, I don't remember heaven.   I don't even know if my soul ever made it to heaven."  John moved away from her, feeling himself getting agitated.  "I got out of hell, I felt my soul start to rise, and then, nothing.  Mary, all I remember is hell!  The rack and the torture--I wake up fighting for my life."  

He woke up screaming.   Pleading.  Sobbing.   But John couldn't bring himself to admit to that.  And he wasn't lying about the danger.   Once the natural paralysis of sleep wore off, but before becoming fully conscious of where he was... 

"I can't risk hurting you."

"All right, then, you can sleep in the other bed,"  Mary suggested pragmatically.  "I'll be out of range if you wake up swinging.   And once you're awake, we can think of something to do to take your mind off it,"  she added with a sly grin.

John appreciated that Mary was keeping it light.  He grinned back and pulled her close again.  

"As tempting as that offer is, I can't.  I have, uh, dreams, too.  Shouting and carrying on,"  he said, choosing his words carefully, not lying, exactly, just downplaying the reality.  

"No point in ruining your sleep."

"But if we stayed together, we could both feel safe.   Because I have nightmares, too,"  Mary said softly.  

Let it go, John told himself, but the thought had barely formed before the words tumbled out:  "I know.   You cry out for Dean and Sam.  And somebody named Billy."  

Their marriage hadn't been perfect, he thought, but neither of them had ever been unfaithful.  Or so he'd believed.  But why else would his wife call out some other man's name in her sleep instead of his?   

Mary didn't answer him right away.  She wasn't hesitating, John observed.  She'd checked out.  He'd seen her do it before, but she always recovered herself, too quickly for it to be worth making an issue of it.

It was only a few moments before she was back.  Mary looked directly into John's eyes.  Her body language was relaxed as she said, "Billie was one of the moms in that Mommy and Me preschool play group where I used to take Dean."  

"You have nightmares about her?"  John couldn't keep the skepticism out of his voice.  

"Weird, isn't it?  Maybe she's symbolic of something,"  Mary said easily.

"Maybe,"  was all John could make himself say.  He turned away, unable to even look at Mary.  When had his wife learned to lie so effortlessly?   Had she always had that ability?   His younger self wouldn't have suspected a thing.  Only years of hunting, of lying and being lied to in turn, had honed his senses to where he could see through her.  

"Jesus, John, I can't help what I dream about,"  Mary said as he grabbed his clothes.   

"I know.  It's okay,"  John said, trying to salvage something from the disaster, but he couldn't make himself turn back.  "Get some sleep, Mary.  I'll see you in the morning."

It wasn't rational, John knew, but he couldn't stop his headlong flight from the room.  Once out in the hall, though, he forced himself to stop.   He leaned against the wall, forcing his breathing to steady.  Through the door, he could hear Mary's irregular breathing, and knew she was crying.  Part of him wanted to rush back inside and take her in his arms.  His younger self would have, John thought.   Poor, clueless bastard.  

Conscious of the other residents of the A-frame, none of whom could be counted on to sleep through the night, John pulled on his socks and shirts and stuffed his feet into his boots.  The last thing he needed was anyone else asking questions.  

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