no man could best me, ever - SN fic - AU - 3/4
Title: no man could best me, ever
Chapter: III
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Sojourner Truth.
Warnings: AU; dark!Winchesters
Pairings: John/Mary
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1890
Point of view: third
part 1
part 2
There had always been something slightly off in Mary Campbell. She charmed adults with her huge hazel eyes and long blonde hair, but other children shied away from her. To them, she was a predator and their instincts screamed to flee.
Her first boyfriend was Nathan Pruitt in seventh grade. He came in new just after Christmas. He was tall, barely beginning to fill out, with red hair and brown eyes. He was funny and nice and he followed Mary around like a puppy. She was popular because the other students were terrified of her; rumors circulated of people she didn’t like having accidents. Everyone did what she said and adults, from little old ladies at the supermarket to the crazy drunk in the park, loved her. She had all the teachers eating out of her hand.
Nathan was warned about Mary, but he laughed it off. She was petite and beautiful and had a lovely smile. He ate lunch beside her, walked her to and from class whenever possible, bought her jewelry and books.
“He seems like a nice boy, dear,” Mom said.
Mary smiled and nodded. “He’ll do,” she responded.
Nathan Pruitt vanished just before Easter break. The police searched but there was no evidence of any foul play, so they decided he’d run away.
The kids knew better.
John Winchester sauntered into Mary’s life her senior year of high-school. He had a roguish grin and broad shoulders. He’d been to war and knew how to kill; he could take apart an engine and put it back together. Her father hated him on sight.
“He’s dangerous, baby,” Dad said. “You could find a better man. A man with a future.”
Mary was fascinated with John. She’d grown bored in Lawrence, run out of ways to have fun. And John-he was new, different. Like Dad grumbled, John was dangerous.
But so was Mary.
She spent the final months of high-school with John, driving around in his gorgeous monster of a car, talking about life and death and the future.
Beneath a full moon, stretched out on a blanket in the woods, in the same place she’d brought Nathan, Mary said, “I killed a boy here.”
John kissed her forehead. “Did he deserve it?”
Mary chuckled, slipping her hand into his shirt. “He thought he was good enough to be my first.”
Pulling back slightly to meet her gaze, John asked, “But he was your first?”
She grinned up at him. “My first human kill.”
John kissed her and whispered, “Marry me, love.”
Beneath the full moon, the night of graduation, Mary Campbell gave John Winchester her virginity and her heart. Three days later, they killed her father, left her mother for dead, and drove out of town.
They settled in Boise. John got work at a garage and Mary as a clerk at a supermarket. They lived in a small apartment and spoke of the future and plans and babies.
Mary played games with her coworkers, pitting them against each other. She laughed about it with John and every night he asked, “You’re happy, love?” She always answered with a kiss.
Two years passed before they killed again. Mary was content with psychological torture, with tormenting minds, and John was happy if she was. But then the store manager tried to force her into sex by threatening her job and John.
She pretended to cry in fear, but they were tears of fury. She went home with him and waited till he was distracted, then struck. Once he was unconcisous, she called John. He arrived within ten minutes, and by that time, Mary had dragged the bastard to the basement and trussed him up with bungee-cord she’d found.
“He wanted to fuck me,” Mary told her husband. “He threatened to have you beaten, if not killed.”
John’s anger was glorious and they ripped the man apart.
Once they had exhausted their passion, John dealt with the corpse and Mary cleaned the bathroom, then they went out for pizza. They lived in Boise for three more months before leaving.
They traveled for the next six years, living in a dozen places. But something always happened that resulted in people dying and they’d move on.
In Phoenix, Mary told John she was pregnant and they settled in to stay. She gave birth in January to a beautiful son. “Let’s name him for my mother,” Mary said.
John raised an eyebrow. “Your mother?”
Mary smiled down at their boy. “He looks like a Dean, doesn’t he?”
Chuckling, John shrugged. “If you want, love.”
They lived in Phoenix until Dean was three. That was the year Mary killed a shriveled-up old harpy bitch who dared say Dean wasn’t John’s son and that John could do better.
Dean watched with wide, fascinated eyes as Mary handed him the knife. “Family before everything, sweetie,” she said, enfolding his small hand in hers and guiding him. “If they hurt us, threaten us, or insult us, they pay.”
He nodded and made clever designs with the spilled blood.
In Boston, Mary gave birth to Sammy, named for the father whose throat she slit. John laughed and called her disturbed.
“Dean,” Mary told her elder darling, “you have to watch out for him. Protect him. Family before everything.”
As the boys grew, Mary tried to stay in one place as long as possible. Her sons were beautiful, born to kill. John taught them to hide their hunts and Mary showed them how to channel their desire into masterpieces of death.
There were only two rules in the Winchester household: family before everything and no indiscriminate killing.
They all broke the second rule a few times-when John and Mary took the nursing home her mother had been hiding in, and then at the Los Angeles mall that once. Sam was barely sixteen, Dean had just turned twenty, and Mary hadn’t killed anyone with her own hands since she strangled her mother.
So when the little worker-bee shorted her two dollars, Mary took at that as an insult to her intellect and slashed his throat with her favorite knife, and her men followed her-like always-with glee.
After she and John took Dean from the police, Mary wanted to visit Agent Henriksen, to make sure he was good enough for her darling boy. But Sam had a mere three months left of high-school and they’d long planned a trip out of the country.
“We’ll vacation in Paris,” John told her. “Visit the major land marks, eat fancy every night. The boys can do whatever they want, sow their wild oats.”
“Sounds fun,” Mary said. “I can’t believe they’re all grown-up. Just yesterday, Dean was small enough to pick up, to tuck in.” She sniffed and John pulled her into his arms.
“We’ll put the fear of Winchester into that spook,” John promised. “Soon as Sammy’s graduated. And then, love, we’ll go somewhere new and hunt.”
She kissed him, biting his lip, and whispered, “I love you.”
He swept her up and carried her to bed.
Mary waited in the cafeteria of the FBI headquarters in Washington DC. John blended in against the wall. He didn’t want to be here; he preferred out-and-out killing to the mindgames Mary and their sons reveled in. But he refused to let her come alone, or to let their boys set foot in the building. She had to admit, admiring her man, that he did look far more threatening than she had ever managed.
Men just never believed a little blonde could be dangerous, even as she killed them.
Henriksen stormed in, looking shell-shocked, and Mary knew he’d found the letter John had left on his desk. She waited till he fell into a chair, mainlining his coffee, and then she sauntered over.
“Agent,” she said softly, settling across from him.
He looked up and stared at her for a moment before his eyes widened. “Mary Tyler,” he said, and that was a name they hadn’t used in years. She saw him tense, preparing to do something stupid.
“Don’t call for help, Agent,” she warned. “I’m here to talk, not kill.” She flicked her gaze to John and Henriksen followed her eyes. “But,” she finished, “I will kill if I must.”
How she wanted to kill, to destroy this place, all these men and women who were a threat to her family.
He asked, “You feel no guilt at all, do you? What you’ve done to your sons.”
Dean was right; this man asked hard questions. She smiled-she’d given her sons enduring strength, a pleasure that would never run out. “I’ve come to tell you, Agent, that we could kill you at any time. You, your pretty wife, your adorable daughter-life is a fragile thing,” she murmured, meeting his horror-filled eyes, “and so easily broken.”
Dean could have fun with the wife, would even make her like it. And the daughter-oh, Sam, could make a masterpiece with her.
Henriksen stared at her and she delighted in his terror.
“But,” she continued, smiling when he flinched, “my son likes you, Victor.” He flinched again. “I don’t know why; from what I’ve seen, he could do better.” Mary leaned forward and patted his hand, then curled her fingers around his wrist. “I’m simply here to tell you-if you hurt him, your daughter’s eviscerated corpse will never be found.” She would carve up the girl herself and leave the wide brown eyes on his kitchen table.
Mary bared her teeth in what could almost be called a grin. “Do you understand?”
He nodded. She patted his hand again before pulling back. She gave him a moment to compose himself before asking, “Any questions, Agent?”
Henriksen lowered his gaze and said, “Why did you kill your parents? Twenty years apart-why not at the same time?”
It surprised laughter out of her. This man was just as much fun as Dean claimed, and that reason alone earned him some measure of the truth. “Daddy never approved of John. He told me that if John came around again, he’d kill him.” She shrugged and gave him the aw-shucks, ma’am smile both of her sons had inherited. “I couldn’t allow that, could I?” She snagged his coffee. “Mama wasn’t meant to survive,” she lied. “It was my first attempt. I thought she died.” Mom had been kind to John, too kind. Tried to take him from Mary. So Mary had John beat her and leave her alive, a worse fate than death. And it took twenty years before Mom gained the courage to speak, so Mary came back.
She sipped his coffee, savoring the taste. “John takes his the same way,” she commented, giving him back the styrofoam cup and touching his arm.
Mary stood and John immediately came over. She strode out like a queen-confidence had never been hard for her.
The boys waited in Atlanta, with four first-class tickets to Paris. John took her hand and raised it to his lips. “You are amazing,” he said. “Best decision of my life.”
She smiled up at him. “You can show me across the sea,” she said. “Lots of things I want to try.”
He chuckled and held the door, followed her out of the FBI headquarters and into the searing sunlight.
Interlude 1
Chapter: III
Fandom: “Supernatural”
Disclaimer: not my characters; just for fun. Title from Sojourner Truth.
Warnings: AU; dark!Winchesters
Pairings: John/Mary
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1890
Point of view: third
part 1
part 2
There had always been something slightly off in Mary Campbell. She charmed adults with her huge hazel eyes and long blonde hair, but other children shied away from her. To them, she was a predator and their instincts screamed to flee.
Her first boyfriend was Nathan Pruitt in seventh grade. He came in new just after Christmas. He was tall, barely beginning to fill out, with red hair and brown eyes. He was funny and nice and he followed Mary around like a puppy. She was popular because the other students were terrified of her; rumors circulated of people she didn’t like having accidents. Everyone did what she said and adults, from little old ladies at the supermarket to the crazy drunk in the park, loved her. She had all the teachers eating out of her hand.
Nathan was warned about Mary, but he laughed it off. She was petite and beautiful and had a lovely smile. He ate lunch beside her, walked her to and from class whenever possible, bought her jewelry and books.
“He seems like a nice boy, dear,” Mom said.
Mary smiled and nodded. “He’ll do,” she responded.
Nathan Pruitt vanished just before Easter break. The police searched but there was no evidence of any foul play, so they decided he’d run away.
The kids knew better.
John Winchester sauntered into Mary’s life her senior year of high-school. He had a roguish grin and broad shoulders. He’d been to war and knew how to kill; he could take apart an engine and put it back together. Her father hated him on sight.
“He’s dangerous, baby,” Dad said. “You could find a better man. A man with a future.”
Mary was fascinated with John. She’d grown bored in Lawrence, run out of ways to have fun. And John-he was new, different. Like Dad grumbled, John was dangerous.
But so was Mary.
She spent the final months of high-school with John, driving around in his gorgeous monster of a car, talking about life and death and the future.
Beneath a full moon, stretched out on a blanket in the woods, in the same place she’d brought Nathan, Mary said, “I killed a boy here.”
John kissed her forehead. “Did he deserve it?”
Mary chuckled, slipping her hand into his shirt. “He thought he was good enough to be my first.”
Pulling back slightly to meet her gaze, John asked, “But he was your first?”
She grinned up at him. “My first human kill.”
John kissed her and whispered, “Marry me, love.”
Beneath the full moon, the night of graduation, Mary Campbell gave John Winchester her virginity and her heart. Three days later, they killed her father, left her mother for dead, and drove out of town.
They settled in Boise. John got work at a garage and Mary as a clerk at a supermarket. They lived in a small apartment and spoke of the future and plans and babies.
Mary played games with her coworkers, pitting them against each other. She laughed about it with John and every night he asked, “You’re happy, love?” She always answered with a kiss.
Two years passed before they killed again. Mary was content with psychological torture, with tormenting minds, and John was happy if she was. But then the store manager tried to force her into sex by threatening her job and John.
She pretended to cry in fear, but they were tears of fury. She went home with him and waited till he was distracted, then struck. Once he was unconcisous, she called John. He arrived within ten minutes, and by that time, Mary had dragged the bastard to the basement and trussed him up with bungee-cord she’d found.
“He wanted to fuck me,” Mary told her husband. “He threatened to have you beaten, if not killed.”
John’s anger was glorious and they ripped the man apart.
Once they had exhausted their passion, John dealt with the corpse and Mary cleaned the bathroom, then they went out for pizza. They lived in Boise for three more months before leaving.
They traveled for the next six years, living in a dozen places. But something always happened that resulted in people dying and they’d move on.
In Phoenix, Mary told John she was pregnant and they settled in to stay. She gave birth in January to a beautiful son. “Let’s name him for my mother,” Mary said.
John raised an eyebrow. “Your mother?”
Mary smiled down at their boy. “He looks like a Dean, doesn’t he?”
Chuckling, John shrugged. “If you want, love.”
They lived in Phoenix until Dean was three. That was the year Mary killed a shriveled-up old harpy bitch who dared say Dean wasn’t John’s son and that John could do better.
Dean watched with wide, fascinated eyes as Mary handed him the knife. “Family before everything, sweetie,” she said, enfolding his small hand in hers and guiding him. “If they hurt us, threaten us, or insult us, they pay.”
He nodded and made clever designs with the spilled blood.
In Boston, Mary gave birth to Sammy, named for the father whose throat she slit. John laughed and called her disturbed.
“Dean,” Mary told her elder darling, “you have to watch out for him. Protect him. Family before everything.”
As the boys grew, Mary tried to stay in one place as long as possible. Her sons were beautiful, born to kill. John taught them to hide their hunts and Mary showed them how to channel their desire into masterpieces of death.
There were only two rules in the Winchester household: family before everything and no indiscriminate killing.
They all broke the second rule a few times-when John and Mary took the nursing home her mother had been hiding in, and then at the Los Angeles mall that once. Sam was barely sixteen, Dean had just turned twenty, and Mary hadn’t killed anyone with her own hands since she strangled her mother.
So when the little worker-bee shorted her two dollars, Mary took at that as an insult to her intellect and slashed his throat with her favorite knife, and her men followed her-like always-with glee.
After she and John took Dean from the police, Mary wanted to visit Agent Henriksen, to make sure he was good enough for her darling boy. But Sam had a mere three months left of high-school and they’d long planned a trip out of the country.
“We’ll vacation in Paris,” John told her. “Visit the major land marks, eat fancy every night. The boys can do whatever they want, sow their wild oats.”
“Sounds fun,” Mary said. “I can’t believe they’re all grown-up. Just yesterday, Dean was small enough to pick up, to tuck in.” She sniffed and John pulled her into his arms.
“We’ll put the fear of Winchester into that spook,” John promised. “Soon as Sammy’s graduated. And then, love, we’ll go somewhere new and hunt.”
She kissed him, biting his lip, and whispered, “I love you.”
He swept her up and carried her to bed.
Mary waited in the cafeteria of the FBI headquarters in Washington DC. John blended in against the wall. He didn’t want to be here; he preferred out-and-out killing to the mindgames Mary and their sons reveled in. But he refused to let her come alone, or to let their boys set foot in the building. She had to admit, admiring her man, that he did look far more threatening than she had ever managed.
Men just never believed a little blonde could be dangerous, even as she killed them.
Henriksen stormed in, looking shell-shocked, and Mary knew he’d found the letter John had left on his desk. She waited till he fell into a chair, mainlining his coffee, and then she sauntered over.
“Agent,” she said softly, settling across from him.
He looked up and stared at her for a moment before his eyes widened. “Mary Tyler,” he said, and that was a name they hadn’t used in years. She saw him tense, preparing to do something stupid.
“Don’t call for help, Agent,” she warned. “I’m here to talk, not kill.” She flicked her gaze to John and Henriksen followed her eyes. “But,” she finished, “I will kill if I must.”
How she wanted to kill, to destroy this place, all these men and women who were a threat to her family.
He asked, “You feel no guilt at all, do you? What you’ve done to your sons.”
Dean was right; this man asked hard questions. She smiled-she’d given her sons enduring strength, a pleasure that would never run out. “I’ve come to tell you, Agent, that we could kill you at any time. You, your pretty wife, your adorable daughter-life is a fragile thing,” she murmured, meeting his horror-filled eyes, “and so easily broken.”
Dean could have fun with the wife, would even make her like it. And the daughter-oh, Sam, could make a masterpiece with her.
Henriksen stared at her and she delighted in his terror.
“But,” she continued, smiling when he flinched, “my son likes you, Victor.” He flinched again. “I don’t know why; from what I’ve seen, he could do better.” Mary leaned forward and patted his hand, then curled her fingers around his wrist. “I’m simply here to tell you-if you hurt him, your daughter’s eviscerated corpse will never be found.” She would carve up the girl herself and leave the wide brown eyes on his kitchen table.
Mary bared her teeth in what could almost be called a grin. “Do you understand?”
He nodded. She patted his hand again before pulling back. She gave him a moment to compose himself before asking, “Any questions, Agent?”
Henriksen lowered his gaze and said, “Why did you kill your parents? Twenty years apart-why not at the same time?”
It surprised laughter out of her. This man was just as much fun as Dean claimed, and that reason alone earned him some measure of the truth. “Daddy never approved of John. He told me that if John came around again, he’d kill him.” She shrugged and gave him the aw-shucks, ma’am smile both of her sons had inherited. “I couldn’t allow that, could I?” She snagged his coffee. “Mama wasn’t meant to survive,” she lied. “It was my first attempt. I thought she died.” Mom had been kind to John, too kind. Tried to take him from Mary. So Mary had John beat her and leave her alive, a worse fate than death. And it took twenty years before Mom gained the courage to speak, so Mary came back.
She sipped his coffee, savoring the taste. “John takes his the same way,” she commented, giving him back the styrofoam cup and touching his arm.
Mary stood and John immediately came over. She strode out like a queen-confidence had never been hard for her.
The boys waited in Atlanta, with four first-class tickets to Paris. John took her hand and raised it to his lips. “You are amazing,” he said. “Best decision of my life.”
She smiled up at him. “You can show me across the sea,” she said. “Lots of things I want to try.”
He chuckled and held the door, followed her out of the FBI headquarters and into the searing sunlight.
Interlude 1