Title: Kingdom Come
Author: Morgan Briarwood
Wordcount: 32,000 approx
Characters: Mary Winchester, John Winchester, Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer
Warning(s): (highlight to reveal) Some bloody violence (but not sexual violence)
Notes: Written for
Summary: AU in which Mary lived and the Winchesters stayed in Lawrence, Kansas and never became hunters. On his 23rd birthday, Sam Winchester disappeared without a trace. His disappearance brings to light a secret Mary has kept for thirty years. If she has any hope of finding her son alive, she will have to reclaim the skills as a hunter that she left behind when she married. Even worse, she must lead Dean into that life.
by Morgan Briarwood
Prologue: The First Dream
Mary Winchester knew she was dreaming, because she had no body.
She was looking down on the scene from somewhere near the ceiling, and she had no body. She was a spirit in this place, or perhaps an angel, watching over her beloved son.
Sam was sleeping, but he shifted and moaned as some nightmare disturbed his rest. He lay on the floor, not a bed, with a thin, dirty blanket partially covering him. Beneath the blanket, he was fully dressed. His clothing was dirty, too: jeans with dried mud around the lower legs, sneakers caked with mud and a shirt with one sleeve ripped. His unshaven face was bruised down one side.
As Mary watched, someone else entered the room. The girl seemed close to Sam’s age, perhaps a little younger. She was wearing what had once been a pretty yellow sun-dress, but it was soaking wet and the skirt was muddy, like Sam’s jeans. She wore thin sandals on her feet; they left muddy footprints on the floorboards as she slowly crossed the room. She was shaking as she walked, whether with cold or with fear Mary couldn’t guess. Her shoulder-length hair was wet and tangled. She was crying, tears cutting pale streaks through the grime on her face.
Mary thought perhaps the girl would wake Sam, seeking comfort, but when the girl crouched down beside the sleeping man she made no move to touch him or speak to him. She sobbed quietly, watching him sleep. She ran a hand through her tangled hair, whispering I can’t, I can’t under her breath.
That was when Mary saw the knife. The girl was gripping the hilt like her life depended on it, but she had been hiding the weapon in the folds of her dress. Mary could see it now because when she crouched down the skirt fell back. The knife was a poor weapon: small, the curved and pointed blade no more than ten centimetres long. The blade was rusted, or perhaps stained with dried blood.
With rising terror, Mary watched the girl raise the knife. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably but the knife hovered above Sam’s exposed throat.
No! Mary screamed. Sam! Sam, wake up! But she wasn’t really there. No one could hear her plea. She could do nothing to save her boy. She could only watch, helpless. Sam was about to die.
The blade touched Sam’s skin, the pressure making an indentation in his flesh. Perhaps the touch woke him, or perhaps it was the water dripping from the girl’s hair. Whatever it was, Sam finally opened his eyes. He blinked groggily, seeing the girl leaning over him.
“Lauren? What…?” Sam mumbled.
The girl’s trembling was even worse than before. “I – I’m s-sorry.” She struggled to force the words through chattering teeth.
Sam looked confused, but then he saw – or felt – the knife. Finally, he acted. He grabbed her wrist, forcing the knife away from his neck. The girl fought him, struggling to retain her grip on the knife and free herself. Sam fought her, too. Their struggles rolled them both over on the dusty floor until Sam finally pinned her down beneath his body. Suddenly he cried out in pain.
Sam! Mary screamed, unheard.
Mary didn’t see exactly how Sam got the knife. She only heard the girl’s shocked scream. Mary didn’t think Sam had even intended to wound her, not that first time. But as he tried to thrust her away from him, the girl gripped his shirt. There was blood soaking through her yellow dress. She dragged herself upward, still clinging to Sam. She whispered something, words Mary couldn’t hear, but Sam recoiled in shock.
Something in Sam seemed to snap. He raised the knife and brought it down even as the girl cringed away from him. Again and again he stabbed her, raising the knife high with each blow. Drops of blood flew from the blade, spattering his face, his clothing and his hands.
No! Sam! Oh, god, no!
Mary woke in tears, trembling from the horror of the scene. She hugged herself tightly, afraid of waking John. Her heart was racing, her breath caught in her throat with each breath. Please don’t let that be real. Oh, god please no. Sam wouldn’t, he couldn’t…
Slowly, she got herself under control and as the emotions of the dream faded, Mary could tell herself it was only a nightmare. Not real. Sam was safe at Stanford, not trapped in some filthy house with a crazy girl. Sam was a sweet and gentle boy. He wasn’t a killer.
Mary looked down at John, who slept on peacefully at her side.
It was the morning of May 2nd, 2006. Sam Winchester’s twenty-third birthday.