Characters: Mary, Dean, John (Gen, some WeechesterFic)
Summary: 3x100 drabbles on "Spring" for supernatural100. Bittersweet.
No-one liked being a cliché, but Mary had always hoped to be married in Spring.
When she was younger, of course, she'd written her married-name fantasy out on secret pieces of paper: "Mary Mellenby, Mrs. Christopher Mellenby."
Every girl did that, and she grew out of it. She even realized that most people didn't marry their Prom dates after all.
But Spring weddings—always outdoors, surrounded by flowers— were too perfect to give up.
Marrying John in a church on a September morning was nothing like that.
Instead, it was everything she'd ever wanted. She'd just never known it before.
Out behind the stone turtle in the Sycamore Street backyard was a patch of violets.
At first there was nothing—just green leaves and puddles—after Winter killed off nearly everything that lived through Fall.
But one day purple flowers bloomed, lifting their heads and smelling so pretty, so clean and new. Dean kept going outside for that fragrance, like the violets were some secret fairy magic no-one else noticed.
He picked ten for Mommy, and she put them in a vase.
Years later, that scent makes him think of innocence— of her.
Of himself, so long forgotten. Of himself.
In the Winter, John could stand it— being stuck in one place, making almost no headway on his search.
But it didn't last. Once the weather improved, he'd think about leads that needed following. Things always seemed more promising in the Spring, like the newness of the world might lead to new answers or results.
Icicles dripped along the edge of the roof in Kansas, and John got out his journal and notes, re-examining what he'd learned about Mary's tragedy so far.
"Pack up, boys," he called out suddenly. "We're taking a trip."
Dean's squeal echoed clear through the apartment.
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