crowroad3 (crowroad3) wrote,

Fic 12 x 13: Mother, Son

Title: Mother, Son
Characters: Mary, Kelly, Rowena, the boys, the MOL, others
Warnings/Spoilers: 12 x 13!
Summary: Mothers and fathers and daughters and sons. Mother goddess and the devil.

Màthair, Mac

Thousands of years ago: iron-age hillforts; Winchesters, named for a fort-town, come to the New as a village and a gun and a man of letters and his hunter-sons, while the MacLeods, all bull-head and juniper, stamped and bellowed out of the Hebrides, and the Campbells came cussing down from the gorse-necked highlands, and earth mother goddess, matronae, was awake the green isles--and if hell was there, he was still.


Kill. It feels good, all the weight of father and grandfather; grandmother and grandfather and mother, all the bloods at once in the sweet heft of the blade, the heavy throb of these foreign toys.

Brains pulp and blood boils and mentors look at you like a hot-bobbed cocktail in flannel. You can't mother them, Ketch says, and he doesn't know you at all, doesn't know--

You've already sacrificed a son. It was a long time ago and still, looking at him is the sickest blade of all; Sam's eyes are a curse; his burnt soles and his sad smile and his scorched and terrible blood; your shame.

You can't, Ketch says.

You can't mother him. Them.


I, the demon says, am the devil's daughter, in my own way. Dagon, moto-jacketed and fresh and everything a good Christian girl never wanted, shouldn't put you in mind of father, who held the devil in a bottle, and father-figure, the president you loved, who held the devil inside when he left you with child.

Dagon takes you in hand, feeds you from her own hand, like you're the child, her own infant; her own blood, maybe, you wouldn't know. It's sweet.

Your all-day sickness is gone. You sit at a table and think of your mother, who taught you grace, and sang it, who never conceived of a daughter who'd lie with presidents, kings; fathers and daughters and princes.

Of lies.

Do you even know what you want to name him, Dagon says.

Not Damien, Dagon jokes--

takes your hand.


It was easy once; you knew what you wanted. You loved. Before you were an outcast, little ragawitch wandering the lovelines of Europe, blood-peat of Skye a-singing in your heel.

Oskar. Fergus;Gavin. Samuel. Even Dean, even him, his fingers curled round your magic rag; these children, these sons.

Kill. Curse. You can still love. Think of all the mothers who cast themselves--

aggrieved, into wells, or slit their own throats, or

gusts wailing in their bones and blood on their brows,

sent their only sons to the sea.
Tags: maybe a story, not a genre
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