This is a disclaimer.
AN: For the flashfic prompt "the naked truth".
Perfect sky is torn
He's seen her naked hundreds of times in the last two years. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to the sight of her, but he has seen it, in the shower with him, during one of those boil-a-lobster baths she loves, wandering from bathroom to bedroom without a stitch on her. She's never been inhibited that way, loves to sleep naked whether they've made love or not, just curling under the smooth covers, feeling them slide over her skin, with a smile and a sigh. It's freeing, she told him once. You know? A few hours every day without anything to restrict you. Same argument as the odd occasions when he slips a hand under her shirt while they kiss and finds she's not wearing a bra.
He's not sure what those restrictions she likes to get rid of are, exactly, but that's not the point. Maybe he would if he were a girl; who knows?
So he knows her inside out by now, body and soul, every scar, every freckle, every little imperfection that mars her paleness, every line her faint tan ends at, every nick on her legs where she's cut herself shaving.
But now, watching her pull the Impala off the road with a quick angry yank of the steering wheel, hearing the fury in her voice that lets her talk, at long long last, about her parents, the brutality of their deaths, the way she fell apart afterwards, so completely it's a miracle she's still alive and with him today, John Winchester thinks he's never seen Mary Roberts so completely, mercilessly exposed.
Later on, when he tells her about Vietnam, about lush green jungles shattered with explosions and rivers running red, about bodies scattered across a field like dolls fallen victim to a child's anger and the accusing look in Alex' sightless eyes when they found him, he realizes she's never seen him like that, either.