strangeallure: (spn 04x03 mary/john)
[personal profile] strangeallure
Title: Both Ways
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: Mary/John
Rating: NC-17
Summary: No-one suspects a cheerleader. Her appearance is a mask, a way to lure them in, to lull them in. The broken ones are always drawn to what seems wholesome. Moths and flames. She likes to burn, sometimes.
Word Count: ~5,000
Warnings: mild breathplay, brief mention of M/M

A/N: This fic explores a different side of Mary, based on 04x03 “In the Beginning”, and tries to reconcile the John Winchester from that episode with the man who raised Sam and Dean.

[ profile] meiou_set prompted me with PJ Harvey’s Kamikaze for any female character. I’m glad she did.

Feedback is very much appreciated.

Both Ways

The bar’s a dive. Dark and ramshackle and old.

The men are hunters. Dirty, scarred, broken.

The beer is cheap, the music loud and women scarce.

Everything’s exactly how she likes it.

She goes to the counter and orders a beer. She’s been here before, and it’s not like they’d card anyway. She sits on a stool, not bothering to take off her well-worn brown coat.

She takes a drink, and in the grimy mirror behind the bar, she checks out the other patrons. She’s good at being subtle; she’s had years of practice, training.

Her father thinks she doesn’t want to be a hunter because she’s weak and scared and doesn’t like it, doesn’t feel the passion he does. He thinks that she’s much more of a girl than he raised her to be.

He’s wrong.

She doesn’t want to be a hunter because she likes it too much, because the passion burns brighter with every case: with every sign she reads right, every trace she finds, every trail she follows. With every thing she kills.

It’s eating away the safe and the normal of her life, consumes her in a way her dad, for all his love of the job, wouldn’t understand.

He doesn’t even know she’s been doing it without him, too. Doesn’t know she has her own bag of tricks and weapons in a big suede leather purse, doesn’t know she has her own stack of books, fake IDs and ritualistic objects beneath the floor boards in her room, doesn’t know she’s out hunting all those nights she says she’s sleeping over at Rachel’s or Moira’s.

When she’s out alone, it’s frightening and lonely and beautiful. She’s a hunter, born and bred, and it thrums through her body, fills her with heat and fear and anticipation.

She’s good at finding rare cases, obscure ones, things going on where it’s never quite certain if it has anything to do with the supernatural at all. She likes the not-knowing, the lurking and the waiting; expectation building as she stakes out a place, as she hides herself inside the folds of the night.

She likes setting herself up for failure, too, for regret and disappointment. She enjoys crashing from exhilaration into nothing, the void swallowing her from the inside when she comes up empty after weeks of research. Or when she can’t stop a creature, when people die because she wasn’t good enough.

It’s a strange thrill.

Other people’s lives in her hands; grabbing on to some, others simply slipping through her fingers. Mighty and helpless at once. Intoxicating.

She likes people thinking she’s just a sweet little girl, she likes creatures not recognizing her as a threat because she’s so lithe and slender, she likes being underestimated. It gives her an edge.

Most cases pan out, though, most monsters get killed.

She’s a great hunter.

And when the blood hits her face, when grime and dirt and sweat sheath her like a cocoon, when the heat from burning bones almost scorches her skin, warms her to the marrow, she feels a rush like no other.

But sometimes, it’s not enough. Sometimes she needs to connect and push away, to tease and taunt and risk something that has nothing to do with what her father taught her.

Sometimes, she needs this.

She makes out two possible candidates. They’re both around thirty. Strong, but not too burly, and they look pretty tall. Their faces are obscured by the dim light in this joint and at least a week’s worth of beard growth.

The way they sit, always ready to reach for the weapons in their waistbands, tells her they’re hunters, too. The way they pretend not to watch her, the way their bodies twist slightly and their heads tilt, tells her they’re interested.

One in a plaid shirt and one with a dark leather jacket.

She takes a swig of beer, trying to calm her nerves, dampen her excitement – until it’s time.

She’s still so wired. She killed a creature tonight, and it was so, so good. The hunt had been long; sluggish and nerve-wrecking and exciting. Tracking patterns, following leads that got her nowhere. Until they did.

Stabbing it with a silver blade. Making it hiss and writhe and suffer, unable to stop her, unable to do a damn thing. Having a 100-year-old monster die at her hand.

Reluctantly, she had washed off its blood and fluids and all traces of the fight. If she could, she’d wear them like trophies, accumulating in coat upon coat on her skin, an armor of victory and loss.

Every speck of dirt, every splotch of blood a mark, a reminder of what she did, how she did it, how good she’s at it.

It’s either-or, though.

Either she revels in her victory alone, in the feeling of being covered in pieces of the life she took. Drawing it out as long as she can, driving all night with the windows down, running on power and adrenaline. Putting off the clean-up until the last minute.

Or she gets cleaned-up fast, finds a place like this, where there are other hunters. Killers. Men who understand with their bodies, who don’t need to talk. Men, not creatures. So much easier to taunt, so much harder to gauge.

Tonight, she needs this.

So she’s here now, far enough from her father, far enough from her regular life, far enough from normal.

Here, she can be anything. She can be what she wants and fears and what’s dangerous.

When she first started hunting alone, when she realized, vaguely, how strong these urges really were, she had started to change. Changed the way she looked, too. Had let her hair grow, had started wearing make-up and fitted clothes.

Long blond hair, plump pink lips, bright eyes and tight jeans; no-one suspects a cheerleader.

It’s a disguise, and at the same time a reminder of the normal life she craves sometimes. She can’t have it both ways, she knows, but as long as she can look the part, there’s still a chance she can be that girl, too.

Not tonight, though.

Tonight, her appearance is a mask, a way to lure them in, to lull them in.

The broken ones are always drawn to what seems wholesome.

Moths and flames. She likes to burn, sometimes.

She orders another beer. Her eyes on the mirror, tracking the two men she chose for tonight. The guy in the leather jacket looks up, and even in the dark, her gaze pins him, making sure he watches as she finally shrugs out of her coat.

She’s wearing a white, crisp blouse and cream-colored corduroy pants with block-heeled suede shoes. She’s bright and clean and in sharp contrast to her surroundings, dingy and dark.

Just like she knew, he can’t stop looking. She tips her head back without breaking eye contact and takes a pull from her bottle, lips wrapping around the rim, throat working as she swallows.

His eyes are on her alone and she feels the intensity, feels it add to the power rush from the hunt, feels her cunt clench and her nipples tighten.

She takes the beer and saunters over. Another catch, ready to be reeled in. The best part is to pull the hook and gut them slow.


Soon, she has him pressed up against the brick wall outside the bar.

Her grip on his head is tight, too tight, her fingers tangled in his hair in a way that must be painful. He simply groans into her mouth, though, eating away at this one long, frantic kiss, just like she does.

He holds her up, pulling her against his crotch, against his cock. Her legs are spread, hooked over his hips. She grinds against him insistently as she puffs used air into his mouth, unwilling to let go, light-headed from the lack of oxygen.

His hips beneath her are narrow, his hands on her wide and calloused. Beard full enough to be rough without burning, eyes so intense she can see it even in the dim light of the streetlamp.

She feels anger and pain and arousal radiating from him. In every touch, every sound, every movement. A halo of broken feelings surrounding him, drawing her in closer still.

He doesn’t hide it well. It’s open and raw and delicious, feeds into everything she’s feeling, amplifying everything inside her until it’s about to break free.

She hasn’t wanted it so bad in a long time.

She pulls her mouth away from his, then bites into his bottom lip, hard, but not breaking skin, not yet, and pants, “Fuck me. Fuck me right now.”

The effect is immediate, like it always is. Filth coming from her sweet mouth a surprise, even when it’s already clear where they’re headed.

He flips them around, presses her against the wall, against harsh, rough stones.

As he opens the buckle of his belt and pulls down his cargos and briefs, she quickly pushes down her own pants and panties. They get tangled at her ankles, but she doesn’t care because he’s already lifting her up again.

She opens up for him, and he drives right in. No preamble, no further warning. Her bound ankles between his legs, her spread thighs bracketing his hips.

She moans and bites his neck, her fingers digging into his ass, the push of her hips and the press of her hands setting a rhythm, hard and fast.

His cock is nice and thick inside her, making her feel stretched and full and taken.

She’s so wet, has been since the hunt, and he slides easily inside her, obscene squelching sounds mixing with their bitten-off moans and curses on every thrust.

He’s tense, goddamn tense, hips snapping erratically, mouth pressed against her hair as she sucks a bruise into his neck.

He’s holding back.

“Come on,” she coaxes. “Harder.”

He complies, but it’s still not all he has to give, not all she needs.

Sex and anger and pain and control all swirl between them. Solidify into clawing fingers, biting mouths and burning skin.

She imagines how it would be, if she’d been fresh from the hunt. If his tongue could taste blood on her neck, his hands rub dirt into her hips, if he could breathe in sweat and destruction from her last kill.

God, she’s so fucking close. All she needs is for him to lose control first. All she needs is to stay in charge.

“Harder, John, faster” she groans, too loud in the quite of the night, “fucking hurt me.”

For a moment, his hips still.

And then he pushes in full force. Faster, harder, deeper. Exactly how she wants it, how she needs it.

The muscles in his ass clench beneath her hands. His grip tightens around her. His movements die in a single shout into her shoulder. She feels him come inside her.

The moment she does, her own orgasm hits, pulls her under. It makes her ride it out on his softening cock, makes her bite his neck, rub herself against him, trying to hold on to the intensity.

Once they’ve parted and straightened their clothes, he pulls her into an embrace. It’s warm, but not oppressive, his kiss slow and easy.

That’s new.

He’s different. She doesn’t know if that makes him more dangerous – or her.

She’s about to find out.


His motel room is drab and seedy. Dark colors and stale smells.

A duffle bag full of clothes is lying next to a big bed with a maroon comforter. There’s a couple of empty beer bottles on the table next to the window, some newspapers, books and other daily-life things lying around, and she gets the feeling that he’s been living here for at least a few weeks.

She notices two pairs of combat boots next to the bathroom door and remembers the metal chain she felt around his neck earlier.

Not a hunter, then. A soldier.

It doesn’t matter. A fellow killer, that’s all she needs.

She looks at his face, much easier to see in the brighter light of the room. He looks a little less tense than before, but there are still those creases around his eyes and the darkness inside them. There’s still that hunch to his posture and that tightness to his muscles. Like he’s unable to really let go, relax, like he’s always waiting for the next attack.

He must be younger than she first guessed. The lines on his face not as deep as she thought, not furrowed in yet. His skin looking too soft and too smooth in the light from the single light bulb. But it’s what he saw that counts, what he did. That’s what drew her to him, what makes him perfect for tonight.

She just knows when someone’s right.

And looking at him, looking at this room, it’s almost like a hunt. Picking up splinters of his life, clues, figuring him out.

She catches his eye as he hands her a beer from the fridge, and the muddy, the obscure in them connects with something inside her.

She puts the bottle down without taking a drink. Instead, she steps up to him slowly.

There’s only an inch of air between them, and she breaths into the hollow of his throat, waiting.

Finally, she hears the clink of his bottle hitting the table top, and then she’s being held tight, kissed rough and pushed onto the bed.

He’s on top of her, looming and heavy. His hand on her face, on her neck, on her breast, on her waist. Stroking and rubbing as he grinds into her, lets her feel that he’s hard again, ready for the next round.

They shed clothes quickly, and she feels a fresh rush of wetness between her legs as she takes him in. Tan skin and defined muscles all over, hair on his chest and arms as dark as his beard. A Marines tattoo right there on his left arm; and that thick cock all hard for her, curving towards his belly. She feels her hips buck slightly; she still wants this so bad.

Keeping him away with a hand gesture, she crawls onto the bed until she’s positioned right in the middle. On her hands and knees, on display.

She knows exactly what she looks like. Her blond hair and fair skin a surreal contrast to the dingy darkness of the room. She curves her back, pushes out her ass, gives him a glimpse of her pussy. Lazily, she turns her head and throws a glance over her shoulder.

He’s so turned on, she can see it, see him trembling with it, but something makes him hold back, stand still.

“Come on, soldier,” she says, “whatcha waiting for?”

And then he’s inside her again, pushing slow and deep. His body blanketing hers, his lips kissing her shoulders, her neck, her spine.

It’s different. Usually, when she lets them take her from behind, it’s fast and ruthless and over soon. She’s always sure it’s not about her – and she gets off on it, on the idea of being a random girl, of being used for her body, of this being meaningless, only real in this one moment.

She taunts them when she knows they’re close, too close to stop. She teases, mocks – coarse and cruel and brutal. Until they fuck all their anger into her, until their hands bruise her hips and their cocks leave her sore for days. Until they throw her out right after.

This is something else. His hands, his body, they’re everywhere. Kneading her breasts just right, thumbing her nipples in a way that makes her arch and moan. His chest rubbing against her back with each movement inside her.

Warm, open mouth kissing and sucking and never letting up. Like he can’t get enough of her taste, like he can taste something beneath the soap and lotion. One hand skimming her stomach, calloused palm against soft skin, finding her pussy, finding her clit. Circling and rubbing and good, so good.

“I want to,” he breathes harshly into her ear, “I want to flip you over. I want to see your face when you come.”

His thrusts grow slower still, small pushes from deep to deeper; and she realizes that he’s waiting for permission.

On an exhale, she grants it: “Yeah. Good.”

He flips her, is back inside her fast. A solid weight on her body, one hand cradling her face. He sucks on one finger of his other hand, then lets it fall to the other side of her face, framing it.

His gaze is focused on her, her alone, and his thumbs stroke her cheeks roughly. “I love how wet you are.”

He drives into her in a pulsing rhythm, his eyes still on her, boring into her, making her squirm. It’s unnerving and different and scalding hot.

“Can you come like this?” he asks, voice surprisingly soft. “Or do you need me to touch you down there?”

It’s completely insane, how much this gets to her, how much it turns her on. How it throws her off her game.

“No,” she moans out, “just like this, soldier.”

He dives in, sudden, biting a kiss into her mouth. It’s forceful and sexy and passionate, making her blood pump faster through her veins. “John,” he groans against her lips.

She needs to get on top of this again. She needs to gain back ground.

Snagging his dog tags, she twists the chain around her fist; pulling his face up, fixing him with a stare.

“Bad memories, soldier?” she asks as she pushes up against him.

“John,” he huffs, insists.

She wraps her legs around his waist, pulls him closer, lets him feel the strength in her thighs. Her hold on his dog tags only grows tighter.

“Where did you serve?” she almost spits out.

Abruptly, his movements stop, but his grip tightens around her face. “Vietnam. Marine Corps. Two tours.” He says it like a taunt, like a dare.

She glares back, defiant, even as she feels herself clench around him.

Vietnam. It sounds dangerous and bloody and desperate – and in the family room, in front of the TV, that’s terrible. But right here, after a hunt, with him, it turns her on; so, so much. “That’s a long time, soldier.”

“John.” He says it slow, eyes opening up in a warning. Like he has to teach her, like he’s talking to a child.

Anger flares inside her. He can’t tell her anything; she’s in charge here. She’s a hunter, a killer. Maybe a better one than he is. She uses her strength to roll them over, straddling him, cock still inside her.

She pushes down once, hard – just as she twists the chain around her fingers again. Her fist touching his neck, metal cutting into his skin.

Her voice is low and rough, almost threatening. “You fraternized with the enemy, John?”

“No,” he says, just as rough.

She rolls her hips, bites her lip. “You didn’t, huh? Good little soldier.”

“Yeah,” he wheezes, but doesn’t even try to loosen her grip on the chain. She doesn’t know if it’s because he trusts her, underestimates her, or because his life isn’t worth much to him. Doesn’t matter, though. It’s a power trip, exhilarating, and she wants to savor it, wants to push the boundaries, see how far she can go.

Her mouth closes down on his, and the sweetness of the kiss surprises her. It’s so deceptive. She hasn’t kissed like that in a long time: lazy tongues and soft lips; wet and warm instead of hot and messy. She kisses across his face, her breath damp on his ear.

“Heard about what guys do instead.” She smiles as she pulls the chain tighter still. “Did you do that, John? Did you fuck them, other riflemen?”

And this is the point where he snaps. He’s a Marine, a veteran; trained and experienced and so much stronger than she is.

Only he doesn’t.

“Yeah,” he forces out instead.

It makes her clench so hard, she almost comes right then. He feels it, too. Smirks in a way that’s desperate and sexy and knowing.

“Fucked their lily-white asses.” His voice is coarse, eyes slightly unfocussed; probably from air deprivation. She doesn’t loosen her hold. “Had them fuck me, too. Came all over myself with a dick up my ass.”

He strains against the chain now, whole body arching, and she realizes that she’s started rocking herself on his cock. He gets to her in a new way; different and dangerous. She can’t believe how much she likes it, how much she doesn’t want it to end.

Her hold’s still tight and he surges up, unexpectedly, hot breath against her face. “You want me to fuck you like that? Fuck your ass?”

She pulls his chain, hard, but then lets go completely.

“God,” she pants. “Fuck yes.” She’s never done it like that; but right now, she wants it so much, so bad, more than anything.

He gulps down air, their scent mingled with the stale smell of the room. His chest is heaving. “Have no lube, though, no lotion,” he gets out.

She pushes three fingers between her folds, getting them wet and messy in an instant, then pushes them into his mouth. He looks at her as he sucks them clean, all teeth and tongue and greed.

“That won’t be a problem, I think,” she grins lazily. Just the idea has her juices flowing, makes her so wet, even more ready.

He grins back darkly, and then, all of a sudden, lifts her from his cock and pulls her upward. Her pussy leaves a trail on his chest, but he doesn’t seem to care, just positions her so he can eat her out.

After a few swipes of his tongue, almost cool on the hot flesh of her cunt, he quickly licks further down, licks her asshole. He uses his tongue and fingers, pushes her own wetness into her hole, opens her up fast and hot and sloppy.

It’s filthy and intimate and she has to steady her palms against the wall over the headboard. She could come on this alone.

Once she’s loose enough for him to fuck three fingers into her, he pulls her away from his face, down again.

He kisses her and there’s her own taste together with something new, salty and sweet and indefinable.

“Can we do it like this?” he asks into her mouth. “I still want to see you come.”

“Yes,” she hisses, and she feels his fingers press at her hole again. He parts her ass cheeks, positions himself – a practiced motion, she realizes – and pushes in, slow and sure.

The breach of the ring of muscle is delicious, nerves exploding with the sensation. Only when he drives in deeper, when she feels full and filled in a strange way, that’s when it gets uncomfortable.

“Relax, baby,” he murmurs into her hair as he keeps pulling her onto him. The movement gradual, controlled.

When he’s all the way in, it’s tight and weird, but the hot, sexy feel at the rim is still there. He begins kissing her face; small, light kisses taking away the sweat on her skin. It’s unexpected and tender and, even more surprisingly, it helps her relax into the new feeling.

Soon, she’s starting to kiss him, too. Explores his body while he keeps still inside her.

She scrapes her teeth over his shoulder and mouths down his arm, tracing the tattoo on his biceps with her tongue. When she moves on, she finds some needle marks in the crook of his arm. Interesting, she thinks and laps over them soothingly. She mouths her way back to the tattoo. This time, though, she bites at it.

He takes it as a signal to start pushing into her, and it is.

At first, he moves her up and down on his cock slowly, getting her used to the feel, the different catch and scrap. When she starts to actively push back, seeking more friction, his thrust become harder, more forceful.

They kiss, rough and sloppy, and her breasts rub against his chest. She’s clenching on every down stroke now, so damn close to coming without even a finger on her clit.

“Touch yourself,” he says, and it’s the first command she hears from him.

She can’t disobey.

When her finger slips inside her pussy, making her gasp, he pants into her ear, “Good little soldier.”

“Mary,” she corrects without thinking.

She’s never given any of them her real name before. She prefers to be Molly or Jane or Sandra. But she can’t care. Not right now.

Instead, her finger works tight, jagged circles around her clit as he pulls her up and down, up and down, in a hard and fast rhythm.

They’re loud and sweaty and filthy and she needs to come. Needs to come so fucking bad.

“Come on, Mary,” he breathes, her own name sounding lewd in his roughed up voice. “Come for me, Mary. Want to see you come.”

He pushes in, again and again, faster and faster, relentless. She’s trying to keep up, trying to match his rhythm with the finger on her clit.

His eyes are still on her, still intent.

And finally, finally, it’s too much. All her muscles lock; her ass clamping down on him, hard, her cunt clenching, empty, and her eyes squeeze shut. The darkness behind her eyelids fractures into burning little pieces, rapidly falling from her field of vision, and she shouts something, but she doesn’t even know what.

She collapses onto him, just when he pushes up into her one last time, coming deep inside her.

He grows completely boneless beneath her body, until his soft cock slips from her.

She feels his come trickle down the crack of her ass, and usually, this would be the time to go. The time when either he kicks her out or she herself takes off without another word, eager to take a shower.

Neither of them moves, though.

After a while, she feels him pull the comforter over them, and later still, she slips to the side a little, still half on top of him, head buried in the crook of his neck.

He holds her, one hand stroking at her temple as he does.

Into the quiet, he says, “You know, Mary, sometimes, I need this so much. It’s like it’s burning up everything I have, everything I am.”

She nods against his chest. It should feel weird, this little confession, but it doesn’t.

“But it’s not real. Not the way I want it to be. I want to change. I want the house and the kids and the white picket fence.” He inhales deeply and holds her a little tighter. “I want normal and safe. Even more than this.”

She nods again and quickly relaxes into sleep.

When she wakes up, it’s not even dawn yet. She gets up, but doesn’t take a shower. She simply dresses and then, on a whim she’s never felt before, bends over the bed and kisses his cheek.

“I wish we’d met differently,” she whispers. It’s stupid. It’s true.

He smiles in his sleep, and it’s the first time she’s seen a real smile on him.

She smoothes his hair from his face and leaves quietly.


A few months later, she’s done with high school.

She has a job and her own life, even if she still lives with her parents. She hardly ever goes out hunting alone anymore and has her dad almost convinced that she’ll never follow in his footsteps.

She has friends and a book club and a weekly girls' night out. She has a steady coffee place for her mornings and a diner where she spends every lunch break.

She’s getting closer and closer to normal. She’s making progress.

Even if it always feels like she’s leaving something crucial behind, like she’s losing something important inside her. It’s the price you pay, she guesses. You can’t have it both ways.

She’s just started on her Caesar’s Salad – it’s the Tuesday Special – when someone slips into the seat across from hers.

Her eyes dart up, and she probably shouldn’t recognize him right away, but she does.

His hair is cut shorter, parted on the side and smoothed down. His face is closely shaven and his eyes clear. He lost some of his bulk and is wearing a plaid shirt and a sweater vest.

He looks healthy, normal.

When he smiles at her, his eyes crinkle at the corners, and he extends his hand.

“John Winchester,” he says in a warm, friendly tone, “mind if I join you?”

“Mary Campbell,” she replies, “and not at all, John.”

When their hands touch, just for the briefest moment, his eyes go dark, the intensity she knows still there beneath the regular guy exterior.

But then he pulls himself together and tells her how he just moved back to Lawrence, how he found a job as a mechanic and a small apartment not too far from the garage. They talk and laugh and flirt, and it’s comfortable and completely ordinary.

Before her break is over, she scribbles down her address and number for him, even though she has a feeling he already knows.

He walks her to her office building, and, on impulse, she hugs him. He pulls her close for a moment, pushing into her a little, letting her feel that he's hard for her, only to follow up with a sweet, chaste kiss on her cheek and an offer for coffee sometime later that week.

At that very moment, on the street outside of her office, on a Tuesday in the summer of 1972, she realizes something.

Maybe, she can have it both ways, after all.

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March 2011

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