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Connie’s never spent much time with the Winchesters on Yarrow Drive. She had met them off and on over their shared years spent in that stretch of the countryside, but their farms were a mile apart with a small woods between them, and the Winchesters never got much into town. Still, Connie made an effort to see them once or twice a year for the sake of staying in touch with her only neighbors south of her homestead, reclusive and strange as they may have been. She always brought an offering of fruit or vegetables straight from her own garden, a simple attempt at keeping in their good graces. And also a matter of politeness, if her mama ever taught her anything. Today, Connie’s gift is a basket of jammy persimmons that she’s particularly proud of. She hopes the Winchesters will appreciate them.
When she rolls up in her dusty Ford, Mary is out in the yard with the washing. Sheets and garments hang from the clothesline, the basket at Mary’s feet near-empty. Connie waves at her as she parks the truck, butterflies in her stomach. The Winchesters always make her nervous for reasons she can’t quite put her finger on. They’ve always been nice enough, if a little…off.
“Morning, Mary,” Connie calls, hopping out of the truck.
Mary gives her a small smile that Connie swears doesn’t reach her eyes. “Good morning, Connie. What can I do for you today?”
Connie leans back into the truck to grab the basket of fruit and center herself. She’s just delivering some food; there’s nothing wrong. “I brought you and the boys something,” Connie says, forcing a bright smile. “Persimmons from my tree.”
Mary’s eyes flit to the basket and then back up to Connie’s face. “That’s so generous of you, Connie. John loves persimmons.”
Connie shrugs. “My tree’s doing gangbusters this year. I’m happy to share.”
They stand in an awkward silence for a moment while Connie waits to be invited inside and Mary stands and doesn't do just that.
Connie clears her throat. “Got a kitchen I could put these in?”
Mary frowns lightning quick. Then she smiles again. “Of course. Where are my manners?”
Was just wondering Connie thinks to herself. “I know I’m interrupting. You probably have a lot on your mind.” She doesn’t know why she says it. She has no idea what goes on in Mary Winchester's head.
Mary spares her a strange look for once, though this time it would have been earned. “You know, I do actually. But still, that’s no excuse. Come on in, Connie.”
She turns to lead Connie inside. Connie follows and reminds herself that this is exactly what she wanted. There's nothing to be worried about.
“I always forget how beautiful your home is, Mary,” says Connie as she steps inside. It’s a beautifully restored old farmhouse, with all the appeal of the modern home design shows, only with the advantage that it’s completely original. There was love put into the care of this home, and it shows.
“Thanks, Connie,” Mary calls over her shoulder. “Kitchen’s through here.”
Connie takes the hint and follows Mary down the hall towards the large, airy kitchen. It’s another beautiful room, and Connie twinges with envy. She forces herself to smile. “Where do you want them?”
Mary nods to the counter by the sink. “There’s fine.”
Connie puts the persimmons where she’s directed and then takes a breath. “So, how have you and your family been?”
Mary’s face tightens. “Fine, thank you. And yours?”
“Oh, same as always. Dickie’s about done with his degree–only took him five years. But we’re just happy he’s getting there. Your oldest boy is about his age if I recall?”
Mary nods again. “Yes. He’s a few years younger than your Dickie. Dean just got his associates degree.”
“Good for him! Any plans to continue his education?”
“We haven’t decided. He’s enjoying being at home full time. There’s so much to do around here; we can always use the help.”
Connie chuckles. “I believe that, a place as big as this. That’s good of your boy to want to help out.” She pauses, waiting to see if Mary will continue the conversation. She doesn’t. “Well, I suppose I’ll get out of your hair.”
Mary gives Connie perhaps her most sincere smile of the encounter. “It really was thoughtful of you to bring these to us, Connie. I’ll send Dean around to return the basket later this week.”
“No hurry, Mary, no hurry.” Connie turns around and walks back to the living room. Her eyes take in the room a final time as she approaches the door, landing on a series of photos hanging on the wall above a lovely handmade cabinet.
They’re all from the same day, as Dean and John and Mary are all wearing the same clothes in each of them. John is donned in a well-fitting blue serge suit with matching tie. A boutonniere of wildflowers is pinned to his lapel, simple and elegant. Dean’s dressed in an off-white linen shirt tucked into a pair of gray slacks, and a matching boutonniere is pinned to his collar. And Mary...well, Mary appears to be in--Connie can’t think of a different word for it. Mary appears to be in some kind of wedding dress. It’s strange to see, all three of them dressed as if for a wedding, but no one else in the pictures. Even little Sam, their youngest boy who Connie has only met once before, is smartly attired in an outfit reminiscent of Dean’s. Connie’s eyes flit from one photo to another with a growing sense of unease. She can’t understand what she’s looking at.
The first photo her eyes catch on is of John and Dean with Sam. They’re both looking at Sam, the youngest Winchester held between his father and brother. While the older men in the photo look lovingly at the child between them, Sam only has eyes for the camera, a smile lighting up his entire face. It’s a warm and cheery photo if it weren’t for the cold dread pooling in Connie’s stomach, made only worse when her eyes take in the photo beside this one.
It’s the four of them in an arrangement Connie can’t help but associate with weddings. John and Dean are centered, John’s arm wrapped low around Dean’s back, and Dean’s hand resting on his father’s chest. Mary stands to John’s right in her cream floor-length gown, and to Dean’s left is young Sam, clinging to Dean’s leg. There’s a solemness to the picture somehow. Dean's and John’s joy–-so evident in the first photograph–-are tempered in the second, and Mary’s smile fails to reach her eyes. Not even Sam is smiling, his face nearly buried in Dean’s pant leg.
The last of the photos on the wall is somehow more damning, if more obviously merry. John and Dean hold the same pose from the family photo, John’s arm at Dean’s back and Dean’s arm at John’s chest. Both Dean and John are beaming. Dean faces the camera, expression alight. He looks young and handsome and entirely carefree. John only has eyes for Dean. The full brunt of his jubilant features is directed at his oldest son, eyes carrying a tenderness Connie wouldn’t expect from the man she has only known to be gruff and unfriendly. To John’s right is Mary again. She rests a hand on his shoulder and faces the camera, stony and unsmiling. She is the outlier in the image, a vision of restrained emotion beside two men refusing to hold back whatever it is they’re feeling.
Connie wants to leave. She can’t process the photographs, which are too strange and unsettling to understand. She knows Mary must be seeing how Connie is reacting, the way Connie has frozen, gone slack. The way her mouth has dropped in confusion and displeasure. But before Connie can drag her eyes away, they land on one of the two photos that sit on the cabinet below the photographs on the wall.
In it, Mary wears the same dress from the photographs above. The only problem is that this photograph is clearly decades older. Her and John hold a knife together, a knife mid-way through a beautiful three-tiered wedding cake. They’re laughing as they cut, happy and in love. Connie’s stomach flips unpleasantly.
Beside it sits a near-matching photo of Dean and John, hands clasped together around the hilt of a knife. A knife cutting mid-way through a beautiful three-tiered wed--cake. A cake. A cake that is surely not intended for a wedding. In the photo, John looks just as he did in the photo taken so many years before. And something of Mary’s buoyancy is clear as day on Dean’s face, too.
“Do you like our pictures?”
Connie jumps out of her skin at the words. She turns to face Mary. “I don’t understand what I’m seeing.”
Mary steps to her, placid smile on her face. “The photos on the wall are from when John and I renewed our vows.” Mary’s gaze lands on the photo of Dean, John, and Sam. “We also took the opportunity to celebrate Dean graduating.”
Connie swallows, entirely unconvinced. “You understand that isn’t what this looks like.”
Mary cocks her head. “No, I don’t. What does it look like, Connie?”
Connie can’t bring herself to say the words. She can’t even bring herself to think them. “I won’t,” she whispers.
“Why not?” Says a voice from behind her. A rough and displeased voice she recognizes quickly.
She whips around and steps away from the Winchester patriarch. “John, I–”
“Can we help you with anything, Connie?” He’s got a glint to his eye that makes her anxious.
“She was bringing us a gift, honey. Persimmons from her garden.”
When Connie looks back at Mary, she finds her entirely serene. Whatever uncanny energy Mary was putting off before has dissipated at the appearance of her husband.
John rolls his shoulders at the words. Connie watches him force a smile. “That was kind of you.”
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Connie says with a swallow. “I didn’t mean to overstay my welcome.”
“You didn’t,” Mary says. “I’m sorry if it felt like I was shooing you out.”
Connie can’t decide who she’d rather look at; both John and Mary make her stomach turn. “You didn’t. But I really need to get back home. Excuse me.”
John steps aside, clearing Connie’s path. She watches as he walks up to Mary and rests an arm across her shoulders.
“Is there a good day for Dean come around with basket,” Mary asks.
Connie shakes her head. “It’s fine. Keep it.” Then she high-tails it out of the house.
She won’t be making any future visits.