Pairing: John Winchester x fem!reader
Summary: The return of John Winchester didn’t go as planned. You’ve watched Dean and Sam carry the weight of their father’s choices for too long, and it’s time for you to finally speak up about it.
Warnings: Angst, heavy family tension, emotional confrontation, mentions of childhood trauma, strong language, references to toxic parenting, hurt/comfort, John Winchester being called out.
The bunker was unusually quiet when you stepped through the heavy iron door, your bag slung lazily over your shoulder. Normally, you’d hear Sam and Dean arguing over research or the faint hum of Dean’s music. Instead, the silence felt heavy, and stifling, as though something, or someone, was waiting.
You dropped your bag near the entrance, your footsteps echoing through the hallway as you made your way toward the library. Turning the corner, you stopped dead in your tracks.
Sam, Dean, and Mary sat at the table, their posture rigid and their faces tense. But it was the stranger at the table, a man with sharp eyes and an air of control, that pulled your attention. He hadn’t spoken a word, but his presence had already claimed the room.
“Y/N”, Sam said suddenly, his voice strained, though he tried to keep it casual. “You’re back.”
Dean shot you a glance, his expression softening just for a second before locking into that neutral look he wore when he was bracing for something.
“Yeah,” you replied, your voice slow and careful as your eyes flicked between them and the stranger. “Didn’t realize we had… company.”
Mary’s smile was faint, as she was trying to reassure you, though it faltered at the edges.
The man turned his gaze on you, and immediately, you felt it. The weight of his scrutiny, the way he scanned you like he was sizing you up. Something cold and dismissive simmered behind his eyes, and already, your skin prickled with unease.
Sam stood up abruptly, gesturing toward the man. “Y/N, this is … John …. Winchester. Our dad.”
The name hit you like a slap. You’d heard about him, more than enough. A man so consumed by the hunt that everything else had crumbled. The scars he left behind still marked his sons in ways they couldn’t even see. And now here he was, in the flesh, looking at you like you didn’t belong here.
He stood up, his movements deliberate, as though he was testing the ground he walked on. He extended a hand to you, his expression neutral but his tone dripping with subtle condescension. “I heard you’ve been keeping my boys healthy.”, he said.
Your lips twitched into a smile, but it was tight, controlled, like a taut wire ready to snap.
The anger started low in your chest, simmering. You weren’t one of the monsters hunters were after, so it was never a big deal. You were good at what you did, and that was what mattered. You didn’t need some jerk telling you what you had to be.
Your fists curled slightly on your sides. He didn’t know you. He didn’t know the fights, the sacrifices. Ten years with Sam and Dean, you’d saved their asses more times than you could count. They accepted you, powers and all, and treated you like family. This man? He didn’t get to judge you.
The tension built as you thought about the things Sam and Dean had told you. John Winchester was a hunter through and through. Anything that could remotely be a threat landed on his list. You wanted him to show it. You wanted Sam, Dean, and Mary to see.
Your smile firmed as your jaw ticked. The words came before you could stop them, sharp and deliberate.
“Yeah,” you said, your voice low and even. “I’m not human, by the way.”
Sam’s eyes widened instantly. “Y/N”, he whispered, shaking his head, panic threading his voice. “Stop.”
Dean shot forward slightly in his seat, his voice tense. “Don’t.”
“What?” you said, not looking away from John, your tone mockingly light. “He’s family, isn’t he? I think he deserves to know.”
John’s head turned sharply toward Mary. “John,” Mary said urgently, stepping forward, her voice firm. “She’s not a monster.”
“Oh, but I am, Mary.”, you said smoothly, tilting your head and letting the sarcasm drip off your words. Small deliberate nods began to form as you were watching John. “I’m one of the worst kinds you’ll ever know,” you said, each word dripping with venom.
The shift was instant. John moved, faster than you expected. His fist connected with your face, the impact shattering your nose with a sickening crunch. You stumbled back a few steps, the world spinning as blood poured from your nose and down your chin.
“Dad!” Sam’s voice broke through the ringing in your ears, furious. “She’s been with us for almost ten years now, and the first thing you do is hit her in her own home?”
Sam turned to face his father, eyes blazing. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Dean stepped forward too, though more reserved, his voice clipped. “Sammy’s right. You had no right to do that.”
John didn’t even look at them. He was watching you, his gaze dark and calculating as you straightened up, swiping a sleeve over your blood-smeared face.
Dean came down the steps, a tissue in hand. “Here,” he said softly, handing it to you.
“Mind your business, Dean,” John snapped.
Dean froze, anger flashing across his face, but before he could respond, you pressed forward against Sam’s outstretched arm. His grip held firm, blocking you.
“Don’t,” he whispered urgently, his tone desperate. Sam had no interest in seeing you throw John Winchester through a wall, even though you could see the temptation flicker in his eyes.
John watched, his gaze flicking to your face as your nose snapped back into place with an audible crack. The blood stopped flowing, and within seconds, there was no swelling, only the lingering streaks of red.
His expression was unreadable as he asked, voice calm but low, “What kind of monster are you?”
You tilted your head again, meeting his gaze with a cold, predatory smile.
“The kind you can’t kill,” you replied.
Sam pushed you back toward the corridor, his voice low and urgent. “Go,” he whispered. “Just go.”
You allowed him to usher you away, but you didn’t look back—not at John, not at the table. The storm you’d unleashed was theirs to deal with now.
Sam’s hand was firm on your shoulder as he guided you through the bunker, his pace quicker than usual. He didn’t say much, just muttering the occasional “Keep walking” under his breath when you were lagging behind. The library’s tension still clung to you like smoke, and your blood boiled just thinking about him.
When you finally reached your room, Sam opened the door and nudged you inside, his patience already frayed. He shut the door behind him with a soft but final click.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, his voice tight with frustration as he leaned back against the closed door, arms crossing over his chest.
You turned to face him, your movements sharp and restless, like a kettle about to boil over. “Yeah, maybe,” you shot back, your voice edged with irritation. Your hands were already in motion—fidgeting, fumbling with the edge of your sleeve before you gestured wide in exasperation. “But if there’s one thing I’ve learned throughout the years, then it’s that your dad is a piece of shit.”
Sam’s jaw tensed, and he pinched the bridge of his nose as though trying to will away the headache you were causing. You didn’t care. Your hands moved more energetically now, slicing through the air as you paced in front of him.
“And sadly,” you continued with a humorless laugh, “he just proved me right.”
You paused then, crossing your arms over your head and letting out a deep, annoyed sigh. It wasn’t enough to calm the energy buzzing through you, so you started pacing again, your socked feet nearly silent against the concrete floor.
“I won’t let him talk to you guys like that,” you muttered, your tone resolute, as if that explained everything.
“That’s not up to you, alright?” Sam’s voice rose slightly, his frustration flaring. He stepped off the door, his tall frame blocking your pacing path. “Yes, he’s an asshole, but this is something Dean and I have to handle. Not you.”
You froze mid-step, biting down hard on your lower lip to stop the retort threatening to spill out. Your hands twitched at your sides as you turned, doing another half-spin, your energy still finding ways to escape.
Sam let out a slow, measured breath as if trying to rein himself in. “We’ll have to explain to him now, what you are. I had hoped to avoid that in the beginning.”
Your brows furrowed at that, and you tilted your head toward him, your voice sharp but genuinely confused. “Why?”
Sam sighed again, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger before dropping his hand to his side. “Because he wouldn’t understand,” he muttered, his tone quieter now. “He doesn’t even know about Cas yet. This is gonna be a case of its own.”
He looked at you, his eyes tired but firm, as though he’d already decided how this would play out. “I want you to stay here, till we talk this out”, he said, the words slow and deliberate, his tone leaving no room for argument.
You opened your mouth to protest, stepping forward as if to challenge him, but Sam was faster.
“Just us four,” he said firmly, his voice brooking no nonsense. “This is a family matter. I’ll come back to you when it’s done.”
He held your gaze for a moment longer, and then, as though to hammer his point home, he added, “Till then, you stay… here.”
The emphasis on the last word made you scowl, your teeth sinking into your lower lip again as you glared at him. Sam lingered for just a second longer, giving you a last-searching look before he turned, slipping out of the room and shutting the door firmly behind him.
You stood there, glaring at the door as though your frustration alone could bring him back so you could argue properly.
“Unbelievable,” you muttered under your breath.
With a groan, you flopped onto the edge of your bed, elbows braced on your knees as you buried your face in your hands. You sat there like that for a moment, trying to let the tension bleed out of your shoulders, but it wasn’t happening.
Instead, you pushed yourself upright again and started spinning in slow, aimless circles, muttering to yourself all the while. “What a shit show,” you said finally, the words quiet but dripping with annoyance.
You dropped back onto the bed with a dramatic sigh, arms spread out to the sides as you stared at the ceiling. The adrenaline was fading, leaving you feeling drained and just a little bit trapped.
A few hours had passed, though they felt much longer. You had paced your room, lain on the bed staring at the ceiling, and even contemplated sneaking out just to get away from the buzzing frustration inside you.
Finally, there was a knock on the door.
Sam didn’t wait for a response before pushing it open, leaning against the frame with that exasperated but determined look he always got when dealing with you. “You can come out now.”
You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Oh, I can? How generous of you.”
Sam sighed, but his lips twitched as though fighting a smile. “Just … can you please behave?” He pushed off the doorframe and started walking down the hallway, expecting you to follow.
“Me? Behave?” you echoed, feigning offense as you trailed behind him. “When have I ever done anything but behave?”
Sam turned his head slightly, giving you a look. You rolled your eyes but grinned.
As you neared the library, Sam slowed his pace and leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Be nice,” he said pointedly.
You smiled at him, sweet, saccharine, and entirely fake. “Aren’t I always?”
He didn’t look convinced.
When you entered the library, the tension in the room hit you like a wall. John, Mary, and Dean were sitting at the table, though none of them looked particularly relaxed. Mary offered you a faint smile, Dean’s gaze flickered nervously between you and his father, and John… well, John looked as unreadable as ever.
But you didn’t miss the way Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat like he was bracing for another explosion.
You clapped your hands together, the sound breaking the silence like a crack of thunder. “Great,” you said, planting your hands on your hips as you scanned the room. Your smile was all teeth, fake, but not unfriendly. “Have we all calmed down? What did I miss?”
John stood up slowly, his movements deliberate, as though trying to project calm authority. It didn’t quite work—not with Dean’s nervous glances and Mary’s thinly veiled concern.
“I have to apologize for my previous behavior,” John started, his voice steady but edged with something you couldn’t quite place. “I wasn’t aware of what you mean to my sons, regardless of your origin or … race.”
His words hung heavy in the air, but he pressed on, his gaze fixed on you. “You kept them safe when I wasn’t around, and I wanted to thank you for that.”
He extended his hand toward you, the gesture formal, almost mechanical.
You looked down at his hand, your fake smile faltering just a fraction. You didn’t miss the way Dean stiffened, his nervousness clear as his eyes darted between you and his father. But there was something else too — hope. Just the smallest flicker of it.
You let out a soft, slow breath through your nose before looking back at John. After a moment of consideration, you reached out and shook his hand.
“I forgive you for hitting me,” you said, your voice calm but cool.
John nodded, his lips curving into a small smile that might have fooled anyone else into thinking it was genuine. But you felt it. Something bitter lurking just beneath the surface, like a bad taste he couldn’t quite hide.
“Just don’t let it happen again,” you added, your grip on his hand tightening for just a second longer than necessary.
For a moment, the room held its breath. You could feel Dean watching you intently, almost as if he expected you to start swinging. You wanted to. Oh, how you wanted to. A good one-on-one with John Winchester would’ve been satisfying on so many levels.
Not for him. Not even for yourself.
You released John’s hand and let it drop back to your side. Your smile returned, sharper this time, though you said nothing more. The tension in the room remained, heavy and unspoken, but you had made your point.
A few days later, things in the bunker had settled into an uneasy quiet, though the tension never quite disappeared. It clung to the edges of every room, especially when John Winchester was there.
You had just come back from the kitchen, a tray balanced carefully in your hands, carrying a few cups of coffee. As you stepped into the map room, your gaze immediately took in the scene: Mary, John, Sam, and Dean were sitting around the table, deep in what looked like forced small talk.
And then, in the middle of the room, there was a sudden flutter of wings.
“Hello,” came Castiel’s calm, gravelly voice as he appeared out of thin air, standing like a statue among the chaos.
“Jesus, Cas!” Dean exclaimed, jerking slightly in his chair.
You didn’t miss a beat, walking past Castiel to the table. “Oh hey, Cas,” you said casually, patting his shoulder as you passed by.
“Hey,” Castiel replied, his tone clipped but warm enough.
You didn’t pause long enough to notice the way Dean’s posture stiffened, his nervous energy creeping back into his movements. Instead, you set the tray down on the table, distributing the cups of coffee. One in front of Sam, one in front of John—pausing for just a second longer as you placed his, your eyes meeting his with an observing, deliberate look.
John didn’t miss it. His gaze flickered, brow furrowing faintly, but he said nothing.
Satisfied, you turned and walked around the table, heading toward the bookshelves, feigning interest in their contents as you listened.
“I see you’re having a visitor,” Castiel remarked, his tone neutral as he started up the steps toward the table. His gaze landed on John, studying him with that quiet intensity only an angel could manage.
Sam stood quickly, his movements just a little too purposeful. “Uh, Cas—this is John Winchester. Dad, this is Castiel.” He hesitated, then added under his breath, “Angel of the Lord.”
John, to his credit, didn’t react visibly. He stood up, extending his hand toward Castiel, his movements as deliberate and controlled as always.
“Nice to meet you,” John said, his voice steady.
Castiel shook his hand, though a faint frown creased his brow as his gaze flicked to you for just a second—he could feel the tension in the room too.
And you? You couldn’t help yourself. The words slipped out, smooth and dripping with passive aggression.
“Be careful, John,” you said lightly, turning just enough to meet his gaze. “You don’t want to accidentally slip and hit him, like you did with me. He won’t be as forgiving as I am.”
Dean’s head snapped toward you instantly, his stare sharp and accusing. It was the kind of look that said shut the hell up without him having to say a word.
Castiel’s frown deepened as he looked between you and John, his confusion clear. “Why did you hit her?”
Before John could answer, you shrugged dramatically, smiling as you batted your lashes at Castiel. “Because he’s racist.”
Dean’s death glare could have melted steel, and you felt it burning into the side of your face. The last thing he needed was an angry angel provoked by some stupid comment you made. It was enough to pull you back, slightly.
“Don’t worry, Cas,” you added quickly, holding up a hand in mock reassurance. “It was just an accident. And I’m perfectly fine, as you can see.”
You flashed an over-the-top smile at Castiel, the kind that made it clear you were anything but sincere. The tension in the room spiked again, the passive aggression rolling off you like a wave.
John didn’t say anything, but you could feel his gaze on you, hard and unreadable.
Castiel, to his credit, didn’t rise to the bait. He simply tilted his head slightly, as though filing the entire exchange away for later, before turning his attention back to Sam and Dean. “I have news,” he said, his voice shifting back to its usual calm as though nothing had happened.
Relieved by the distraction, Sam and Dean leaned forward, eager to focus on something other than you and John’s little war. Cas explained the new information he’d gathered about the case they’d been working on over the past couple of months, his voice steady and methodical. You stayed quiet by the shelves, though you couldn’t resist the occasional glance toward John, who remained silent, his expression carved from stone.
Once Cas finished, the room fell into an uneasy silence.
“Well,” Cas said finally, straightening and giving Sam a nod. “I’ll continue looking into it.” Without another word, he disappeared, vanishing in the same quiet, fluttering way he’d arrived.
The silence that followed was deafening.
John didn’t say anything. Neither did Sam or Dean. For once, you decided not to push. You turned back toward the bookshelves, biting back the smug smile threatening to cross your face.
A week later Sam, Dean, and Mary had some things to look into, that’s why they decided to leave you and John at the bunker.
Mary stood in the doorway of the kitchen, her gaze flicking between you and John with a faint hint of amusement. “You sure I can leave you two here together without someone getting hurt?”
You paused from where you stood at the stove, flipping eggs in a pan, and shot her a quiet nod. “We’ll survive,” you replied dryly, though the edge of your voice carried a hint of humor.
Mary stepped over to John, pressing a light kiss to his cheek before turning to you, offering a small, soft smile. “Take care,” she said warmly.
Your gaze softened just a little. “You too,” you replied quietly. Then, with a smirk, you added, “And if anything goes to shit, call me.”
Mary chuckled, nodding her thanks before disappearing out of the kitchen, her footsteps fading down the hall.
With her gone, the room felt quieter. Heavier.
John leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed as he watched you. His gaze was steady but curious like he was trying to figure out a puzzle he didn’t quite understand. You focused on the stove, refusing to let his presence throw you off.
“You want some?” you asked, your voice even, though your shoulders were tight.
“Sure,” John replied simply.
You grabbed two plates, carefully placing the bacon and fried eggs onto them—separate and deliberate—before sliding one across the counter toward him. John accepted it, his expression shifting slightly as he studied the arrangement.
“How did you know that?” he asked, curiosity slipping into his voice as he gestured toward the bacon and eggs.
A small, sharp chuckle escaped you as you turned back to grab your fork. “Well, Dean likes them separately.”
John nodded faintly, the barest hint of understanding passing over his face. He didn’t comment further, and you didn’t offer any more explanations.
With plates in hand, the two of you made your way back into the library. You sat down across from each other at the table, the scrape of chairs and clink of utensils filling the silence as you both started eating.
It was quiet for a while. Too quiet.
Finally, he broke the silence. “I am very thankful for what you’re doing for my sons, you know,” he said, his voice low but steady. “They can be happy to have you around.”
You didn’t look up immediately, but your fork paused mid-motion. Slowly, you lifted your eyes to meet his, your expression unreadable but the sharp edge in your gaze unmistakable. You studied him for a moment, then let out a soft breath through your nose.
“Don’t you think we should talk about what’s really bothering you?” John’s tone was calm, but there was a weight behind the words like he’d been holding them in for too long.
You glanced back down at your plate, cutting into your food again with unnecessary precision. “No, actually not.”
John frowned slightly. “Why not?”
“Because I promised Sam and Dean to be nice,” you replied, your voice laced with biting sarcasm. You tilted your head just slightly, a humorless smirk pulling at your lips. “And I mean, I am nice, am I not?”
John hesitated, his brow furrowing slightly.
“I mean, I made you breakfast.”
“You made me breakfast,” John repeated thoughtfully.
The words hung in the air for a moment before you snorted, shaking your head, finally looking at him again. “If that isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”
John nodded faintly, his expression softening for just a second before his next words came, unflinching and direct. “Yeah, sure. But wouldn’t it be better if you didn’t have to fake it and were actually… nice? I mean, I’m sure Sam and Dean would like that better. Don’t you think?”
You froze for half a beat, your grip on your fork tightening as your gaze darkened.
John shrugged faintly, unbothered by the rising storm in your expression. “You know, I’m just saying. It just seems a bit egotistical of you.”
“Okay,” you replied curtly, the single word snapping from your lips like a whip. You set your fork and knife down with a clink against the plate, your movements sharp and deliberate. You leaned back in your chair as you stared him down.
“You wanna know why I don’t like you, John?” you asked, voice low and edged with anger. “It’s because you’re a piece of shit.”
John’s shoulders stiffened, his face hardening as your words landed, but he said nothing.
“I don’t know if you realize this,” you continued, each word sharper than the last, “but you broke your sons. Not just traumatized them—you broke them. Especially Dean. You turned him into a soldier before he even knew how to be a kid. Before he knew what a normal childhood was. Dean was still a child himself when you put a gun in his hand and told him to protect Sam. Do you have any idea how much that weighs on him? How much that STILL weighs on him?”
John’s voice came quiet, almost bitter, as his jaw tightened. “I did what I had to do. I raised him, didn’t I?”
A bitter, snarky chuckle escaped you as you shook your head. “Raised him?” you sneered. “You didn’t raise him, John. You dumped the weight of your failures onto his shoulders and called it parenting. Dean didn’t get to be a son—he became a replacement for you. A stand-in father for Sam. You forced him to sacrifice everything for your toxic obsession while you chased monsters instead of being there for them.”
You leaned forward, your gaze locked on him, eyes burning with unspoken rage. “And Sam? He ran. He ran as far away from you as he could, and I don’t blame him for it. He had to leave because he couldn’t breathe under you. He couldn’t watch Dean fall apart while you stood there pretending everything was fine.”
Your voice dropped, colder now, every word precise and deliberate. “Dean stayed. He stayed because you convinced him he had to. Because you made him believe that his worth—his entire purpose—was to keep this family from falling apart. Do you know what that does to a person? What it’s still doing to him?”
The words hung in the air like lead, settling deep and heavy. John didn’t say anything. His hands curled into fists against the table, his face unreadable, though his silence spoke volumes.
“You fucked them up, John,” you said, quieter but no less damning. “You taught them that love was conditional. That family was just a duty. You stole their childhood, their safety, and their chance of a normal life. And for what? Your vengeance? Your pride?”
You paused, letting the words settle like a slap to the face. “Dean still jumps at every barked order because you trained him to obey without question. Sam fights tooth and nail against everything you stood for because he’s still trying to unlearn you. You think they’re fine, but they’re not. They carry your mistakes with them every single day.”
You paused for a second. John’s face had paled slightly, his eyes staring somewhere distant as if he could see the damage, you described unfolding in front of him.
“I shouldn’t be the one telling you this, but you asked. So, here’s your answer.”
You picked up your fork again, resuming your meal with deliberate, almost dismissive movements, as though the conversation hadn’t just cracked something wide open.
For a long moment, John sat there in silence. He didn’t move, didn’t look up, as though the weight of your words was too much to bear.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low, rough around the edges. “I am sorry.”
The fork paused mid-air as you glanced up at him, your expression shifting—just for a second. You let out a slow breath, setting your fork back down.
“You don’t have to say that to me,” you said softly, your voice calmer now. “Tell it to them. They need to hear it from you.”
John looked at you, and for the first time, you saw something close to regret in his expression. His shoulders sagged, his pride and stubbornness seeming to melt away.
“Stand up for the mistakes you made,” you continued, your voice steady. “And for God’s sake, stop barking orders at them. They’re not your soldiers, they’re your sons. And they deserve better.”
You leaned back slightly, your gaze never wavering. “Respect them. Apologize to them. And for once in your life, let them decide who they want to be.”
John nodded slowly, as though the weight of your words had finally settled into his bones. “Thank you for telling me,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse. “I’ll talk to them when they get back.”
You gave him a single, small nod and picked up your fork, the silence between you shifting—still heavy, but somehow different.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was something.
Authors note: It felt so good writing this, I can tell you. John Winchester slander is allowed in the comment section! Let me know how you liked it. ^^
