Chapter Text
16 BC (Before Castiel)
Mary set the roast on the table, scowling at the blackened, crispy edges. She never could seem to figure out this whole playing house, cooking thing. But for John, she’d keep trying—until she got it right or burned the house down by mistake.
The front door creaking open and shut again had her peeling off her oven mitts and gliding into the living room.
“John, sweetie,” she called. “Your timing is perfect, as always. I just pulled dinner out of the oven. Any longer and it would’ve—John? What’s wrong?”
Mary froze, watching wide-eyed as her husband lowered himself into his easy chair, one hand covering his face.
“John?’ Mary prodded again.
John sighed and brought his hand down, scraping against his scruff of a beard in the process.
“Tonight,” he began. “Didn’t go well.”
Mary sat on the sofa across from John, at the very edge. She had to tell her lungs to keep breathing.
“How not well?”
John looked up in her direction, but wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Another half a million worth of not well,” he said.
“Fuck, John, that’s serious money,” Mary said, leaping to her feet without meaning to. “I would’ve thought you were smarter than getting in that deep, what with this losing streak you’ve had going for you lately.
“Sometimes you have to be willing to lose money to make money, Mary,” John said. “You knew that was the deal when you married me. Knew what I was.”
“Yes, John,” Mary said, her jaws clenched together. “But that was before we had two boys to worry about. The glamorous gambling life is one thing if it’s just us who might starve to death, but Dean and Sammy—”
“And that’s not all,” John said, eyes trained on the carpet like he hadn’t heard Mary at all. “These men I owe the money to—”
John trailed off, biting his lip. Mary felt something cold and heavy settle in her stomach. Something dead.
“John?”
“I, uh, my credit had all run out with Zachariah. I had to—I had to get a loan from another source. Y’know, someone I didn’t already owe money to.”
“What aren’t you telling me?” Mary asked, proud in some part of her mind that she managed to sound so calm.
“The men I owe the money to,” John admitted, wincing. “It’s Azazel and Alastair.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mary hissed. “Why would you ever—”
The tattoo of feet on the stairs killed the rest of her words before they left her mouth. Dean appeared on the landing wearing his rocket ship footie pajamas.
“Dean, sweetie, why aren’t you in bed?” Mary asked, trying to get the mom-tone back in her voice.
“It’s Sammy,” Dean said. “He was havin’ a nightmare.”
“Sammy’s fine, sweetie,” Mary sighed. “Why don’t you go back to—”
A sharp cry rang out from the baby monitor on the coffee table, the little red lights beneath the speaker all lighting up.
“Damn,” Mary muttered under her breath. She turned back to Dean. “I’ll be right up and look in on Sammy, okay, Dean?”
Dean nodded and raced back up the stairs, probably for the nursery. He’d barely left Sammy’s side since Mary and the baby got back from the hospital about six months ago. Sometimes Mary thought it was a little eerie, the way Dean always seemed to know when Sam was upset, even before Sam himself did. She shook her head and stepped toward the stairs, looking back over her shoulder at John.
“We are finishing this conversation when I’m done with the boys,” she said. “And John? How long do we have?”
“One week,” John said. “One week to pay them back.”
Mary nodded and trudged up the stairs. One week. They’d figure something out.
SPN
Mary clutched her coat a little tighter around her throat. It was plenty warm in Azazel’s office, but she still felt chilled in his presence. Besides that, she preferred having as many layers on as possible with Alastair leering at her like that from where he sat on the corner of Azazel’s antique desk.
“Little Mary Winchester,” Alastair crooned in that nasal voice of his. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“I want my husband,” Mary said, meeting Alastair’s eyes and glowering.
“Well then, by all means go back home and have him,” Azazel said, chuckling behind his desk.
Mary turned her glare on him.
“You know what I mean,” she said.
“True,” Azazel said, tenting his fingers and propping his chin on their tips. “John’s a marked man. Alastair and I thought we were being generous when we gave him a week to dig up the seven-fifty grand he owes us.”
“That’s right,” Alastair agreed.
“Seven-fifty?” Mary echoed, brow furrowing. “John said he owed you half a million.”
“Plus interest, sweet cheeks,” Azazel said, his yellow eyes flashing as he grinned. “But it’s really a moot point by now, isn’t it? John hasn’t got that kind of cash. Much as we’d like to make an exception for you, honey, business is business. And that means—”
Alastair made a gun with his fingers, brought it to his temple, and made a soft “boom”-ing sound.
Mary felt her lip curl in revulsion.
“You’re sick,” she growled.
Azazel only laughed.
“Better people than you have said so, sweetness. Now, why are you really here?”
Mary jutted her chin out, looking down her nose at Azazel.
“I want to make a deal with you,” she said.
Alastair wheezed in that death-rattle laugh of his.
“A deal?” he said. “What could you off—”
“No, no,” Azazel said, holding up a long-fingered hand. “I want to hear her out. What did you have in mind, Mary?”
“Me,” Mary said, waiting for more laughter. When it didn’t come, she shifted in her weight and continued. “You know when John met me, I was a dancer.”
“A popular one too, if I remember,” Azazel agreed, his eyes latched on Mary’s face, obviously eager for her to continue.
“What you might not know,” Mary said, her hands fidgeting against each other, clasping fingers and releasing them again. “Is that I made some extra money sometimes. In the back. Y’know, with some of the Hunter Club’s more trusted members.”
“You were a whore,” Alastair said. “We get it. Go on.”
“Yeah,” Mary agreed, face heating with rage. “I was a whore. The question is: do you want me to be again?”
“That’s quite the question, Mary,” Azazel said, eyeing her carefully. “I must say, I’m surprised.”
“Is it a deal, then?” Mary pressed. “I know you two have connections in a number of different—enterprises. I’m sure you could find a use for me. What I’m offering is my services, for as long as you like until John’s debt is paid off. And of course, for your word that no harm will come to him.”
“Interesting,” Azazel said, lowering his hands to the desk and pressing his palms against the hard wood. “Let me ask you: Does John know you’re here?”
“No!” Mary said, taking a step back. “Of course not. I—I don’t want him to know anything about this.”
“Then in that case, I accept,” Azazel said, speaking again when Alastair opened his mouth to intervene. “On one condition: I have no reason to trust you, Mary. What’s to stop you and that cute little family of yours from cutting and running?”
“I-I—” Mary was at a loss. She stared helplessly at the two men.
Azazel and Alastair seemed to share a look. When they turned back to her, both men were grinning.
“I’m afraid we’re going to need some sort of—security,” Azazel said.
Mary took a deep breath to steady herself.
“All right,” she agreed. “What did you have in mind?”
“Your sons,” Azazel said.
“What?” Mary shouted, hands balling into fists. “You leave my boys out of this, you twisted fucks!”
“Temper, temper!” Alastair scolded, wagging a finger at her.
“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” Azazel said. “It’s just a precaution—just a little something to sweeten the pot and make sure you hold up your end of the deal. Now, do we have a bargain?”
Mary bit her lip and waited.
“Look, it’s this or all bets are off and we take John out tomorrow in punishment for you wasting our time,” Azazel snapped. “We don’t have all day for you to make up your mind.”
“All right,” Mary blurted, blinking back tears. “It’s a deal. It’s a deal, okay?”
“Excellent,” Azazel said, grinning. “You may go. We know how to find you when we’re ready. Oh, and Mary? It’s a pleasure doing business with you.”
Mary ducked out of the office and closed the door behind her, the laughter of the two men following her down the hall. She tried to tell herself she hadn’t made the worst mistake of her life. She’d just saved her husband, after all. And no harm would come to her boys. It’s not like she wasn’t going to hold up her end of the deal, after all
SPN
Mary opened the front door and let her coat fall over the arm of the couch. She rubbed circles deep into her temples. Only her third night working for Azazel, Alastair, and company, and she already felt dead. She was sore, and her body was tired, and she was already full of that same self-loathing she’d had back in the days when she spent her evenings in the back room of the Hunters’ Club. Back before she’d met John, and he promised to take her away from all that.
Mary fought off a bitter laugh and hauled herself up the stairs.
“John?” she called.
The upstairs was mostly silent, except for the low buzz of the TV in her and John’s bedroom. She was about to head for the master bedroom at the end of the hall, when she heard something in the nursery. Just a creak of a floorboard. John must have gone in to check on Sammy.
Mary turned into the nursery, blinking at her husband’s back while he bent over Sam’s crib.
“John?” Mary whispered.
“Shhh,” a voice hissed. The man in the nursery turned around, a glint of yellow eyes catching the light of the street lamps outside. “You’ll wake the baby.”
“You!” Mary growled, prowling into the nursery. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here? In my home?”
“Coming to check on my investment,” Azazel said, scratching under Sam’s chin. “He’s beautiful. All in all, Mary, I think I’d prefer him to you.”
“Well that’s too fucking bad,” Mary hissed, keeping her voice low and praying whatever happened next, Dean would sleep through it. “Now you get the fuck out of here, or so h—”
Azazel twisted around, his arm striking out lighting fast, a flash off silver blade in his hand glinting in the moonlight.
Mary realized she couldn’t get another word out before she registered the pain. But when the pain did finally hit, it was crippling. Mary dropped to her knees, clawing at her throat. When she moved her hands away, she saw the crimson blood that covered them, black in the dim lighting.
She tried to scream, but all that came out was a low gurgle.
She tasted blood in her mouth now too. God, it was everywhere.
She tried to glare at Azazel, but she couldn’t seem to see him anymore. All there was were shadows.
“Shhh,” Azazel’s voice cut through the fog. “Just let it go, Mary. I promise I’ll take good care of Sammy. And Alastair seems quite taken with your Dean.”
Please, God, no, Mary screamed in her mind, before she realized that no one was listening, no one would save her family. And as the last glimmer of the streetlight through the window vanished, Mary knew it was all her fault. And that hurt the worst.