Not a sound — not exactly. More like the absence of the right ones. The house had its own rhythm by now: the low hum of the refrigerator, the distant city noise leaking through the windows, the quiet, familiar creak of the house settling into itself. I knew it the way you know someone's breathing when you've slept beside them long enough.
Tonight, that rhythm was off.
My eyes opened to darkness. The digital clock on John's side of the bed read 1:07 a.m.
He wasn't supposed to be home for another two days.
I lay still, listening.
There it was — the front door. Not opening. Closing. Harder than necessary. Too fast. Like whoever had come through it hadn't been careful enough, or hadn't cared to be.
My pulse kicked.
I didn't move right away. John had drilled that into me early on, back when I'd laughed and told him I wasn't living in a spy movie. Don't move until you know where the sound came from. Don't rush. Don't panic.
So I stayed where I was, breathing shallow, counting the seconds between sounds.
A step. Then another.
Not heavy. Controlled. Whoever it was knew the space.
My hand slid under the pillow, then stopped. Wrong place. I adjusted, reaching instead for the nightstand drawer on John's side of the bed. It was always unlocked. Always.
The knife was right where it should be.
My fingers closed around the handle, familiar and grounding. I'd practiced with it more times than I could count — not because I wanted to, but because John had insisted. Because in his world, wanting didn't matter.
I swung my legs slowly over the side of the bed, keeping my weight light as I stood. The floor was cold. I welcomed it. It kept me present.
Another sound. Fabric shifting. A quiet exhale.
Too close.
I moved toward the bedroom door, knife held low, blade angled down the way he'd taught me. The hallway beyond was dark, but I didn't turn on the light. I didn't need to. I knew every inch of this house — where the shadows fell, where the walls narrowed, where sound carried.
I stayed close to the wall, heart hammering but steady enough to listen through it.
You're doing fine, I told myself. Just like he showed you.
The kitchen light flicked on.
That was the mistake.
Whoever it was had forgotten how the switch clicked — sharp, distinct. A sound I knew too well.
I exhaled slowly and moved.
Each step was deliberate. Quiet. I kept to the shadows, letting the darkness do half the work for me. When I reached the edge of the doorway, I paused, counting again. Three seconds. Four.
Then I stepped out and pressed the blade to his throat.
"Don't move."
My voice didn't shake. I was proud of that.
His hands lifted immediately.
"Easy," he said.
John.
The world snapped into focus all at once.
I froze — not because I wanted to, but because my body betrayed me, recognition crashing in faster than relief. His voice was wrong. Too rough. Too tired.
"John—" I started.
He moved.
One second the knife was in my hand, the next it was skidding across the floor, metal clattering loudly against tile. His arms wrapped around me before I could react, pulling me in hard, crushing me against his chest.
I gasped, the air knocked out of me.
"John," I said again, this time into his shoulder. "John, wait—"
He didn't.
His grip tightened, one hand pressed firmly between my shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of my head. I could feel his heartbeat through his shirt — fast, uneven. Not the calm, steady rhythm I was used to.
He was shaking.
That scared me more than the knife ever had.
"You're home," I whispered.
"I know," he said.
He didn't let go.
I could smell him now — gunpowder, sweat, something metallic beneath it all. Blood. Not a lot, but enough. My stomach twisted.
"You weren't supposed to be back," I said quietly.
"I know."
His voice cracked on the second word.
I pulled back just enough to look at him. His face was pale, drawn tight in a way I'd only seen a handful of times. There was a shallow cut along his cheekbone, already dried, and dark red soaking through the shoulder of his shirt.
"You're hurt," I said.
"I'll be fine."
"You're bleeding."
"I know."
I cupped his face without thinking, thumb brushing the cut gently. He leaned into the touch like it cost him something not to.
"Sit down," I said, firmer now. "John. Sit."
He hesitated.
Then he nodded.
I guided him to the couch, my hand never leaving his arm. The first aid kit was already in my head — bathroom cabinet, bottom shelf, left side. I grabbed it, along with clean towels, moving on instinct.
When I came back, he was still sitting exactly where I'd left him, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped tightly together. His gaze followed me the entire time.
"You scared me," I said softly.
"I'm sorry."
That was when I knew something was really wrong.
John didn't apologize unless he meant it.
I knelt in front of him with the first aid kit open at my feet, the apartment still too quiet around us. The kitchen light was the only one on, casting a soft, uneven glow over the living room. Shadows cut his face into angles that made him look older. Sharper.
I hated that look on him.
"Take your jacket off," I said.
He didn't respond right away. His eyes were fixed somewhere past me, unfocused, like he was still somewhere else entirely. I waited. Pushing him never worked when he got like this.
"John," I said again, quieter.
That did it.
He blinked once, then shrugged out of his coat with a stiffness that made my jaw tighten. The fabric slid down his arms and landed on the floor with a dull thud. Underneath, his shirt was darker at the shoulder, soaked through. The blood had dried at the edges, tacky and brown, but the center was still fresh.
"Jesus," I muttered before I could stop myself.
He watched me carefully, like he was gauging my reaction, not to the injury—but to him.
"It looks worse than it is," he said.
I shot him a look. "You don't get to decide that."
A ghost of something passed over his mouth. Not quite a smile. Not quite relief.
I reached for the scissors and cut the sleeve carefully, peeling the fabric away from the wound. He hissed softly when the air hit it, breath catching despite his attempt to hide it.
"Sorry," I murmured.
"It's fine."
"It's not," I said. "But you can pretend it is if that helps."
That earned me a quiet huff of air through his nose.
The wound itself wasn't deep, but it was angry—an ugly graze that had bled more than it should have. I cleaned it slowly, methodically, my hands steady despite the way my chest felt too tight. He didn't flinch again, didn't even tense. He just sat there and let me do what I needed to do.
Too still.
Too quiet.
"You're supposed to tell me when it hurts," I said.
"I know."
"You're not doing that."
"I don't need to."
I paused, gauze hovering midair. "That's not what I said."
His gaze dropped to my hands. "You're doing fine."
That wasn't an answer either.
I finished cleaning the wound and wrapped it carefully, fingers brushing his skin more than strictly necessary. Not because I was being careless, but because I needed the contact. Needed to feel that he was here. Solid. Real.
He always scares me when he gets like this.
Cold.
Distant.
But tonight. It was quite different.
When I leaned back on my heels, I noticed his hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone white.
"Hey," I said gently. I reached out and placed my hand over one of his. "John."
He didn't pull away, but he didn't relax either.
"I need you to look at me," I said.
Slowly, like it cost him effort, he did.
His eyes were dark, tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. There was something unsettled there—something raw, pulled too close to the surface.
"The job," I said carefully. "Something went wrong."
He swallowed.
"Yes."
Just one word. Flat. Controlled.
I nodded, accepting it for now. I knew better than to push all at once. John opened up the way wounds did—only when you stopped pressing on them.
I packed the kit away and stood, then hesitated before sitting beside him on the couch. He shifted immediately, turning slightly toward me, like it was instinct.
"You came home early," I said.
"I know."
"You didn't call."
"I didn't want to."
That made me pause. "Why?"
His jaw tightened. He stared at the floor, shoulders hunched just a fraction, like he was bracing for impact.
"I didn't trust myself to talk," he said.
That landed heavier than anything else he could have said.
I reached up and brushed my fingers through his hair, careful of the cut on his cheek. He leaned into it immediately, forehead resting against my shoulder as if the weight of holding himself together had finally become too much.
And I let him.
I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him closer.
For a long moment, we stayed like that. No words. Just breathing. His, uneven at first, gradually slowing as he anchored himself against me.
"You're safe," I murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You're home."
His arms came around me then, slower than before but just as tight. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, breathing me in.
"I didn't want to scare you," he said quietly.
"You didn't," I lied.
He didn't call me on it.
We stayed there, suspended in that quiet space between what had happened and what he still hadn't said. I could feel it in the way his grip never loosened, in the way his breathing hitched every so often like something was trying to claw its way out of him.
Whatever it was, it wasn't finished with him yet.
And neither was I.
He stayed in my arms longer than I expected, and I didn't move. Let him come down from wherever he'd been. Let him realize he wasn't alone. My hands rubbed his back slowly, fingers tracing the tension in his shoulders, the rigid line of his spine.
Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes were dark, unreadable for a beat, and then raw. A tight coil of something I'd never fully seen in him before — fear, guilt, exhaustion.
"It... it didn't go as planned," he said, voice low, hesitant.
I frowned. "Tell me."
His jaw tightened, and I could see him fighting every word. "There... someone died. On my mission. A woman. She... she was collateral."
My stomach sank. Not because I didn't know that was part of his life — I did — but because the words made it real. She had nothing to do with him, nothing to do with this life I had chosen to be near. And yet... someone died, and he carried it.
"I'm sorry," I whispered.
He shook his head slightly. "You don't understand. She... she looked like you."
That stopped me cold. The room, the night, the faint hum of the city outside — it all fell away.
"What?" My voice barely carried.
"I... I was scared," he said, finally allowing the words to break free. "Scared because she reminded me of you. And I... I couldn't..." He swallowed. "I couldn't lose you too. I... I didn't know what to do."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. I reached up and cupped his face, fingers brushing against the dried blood, the sharp cut along his cheekbone. "Shh. Listen to me," I said, my voice steadier than I felt. "It's not your fault. None of it. You did what you had to do."
He leaned into my hand, eyes closing briefly, letting himself breathe for the first time in what I could tell was far too long. I slid closer, letting my legs curl around him, keeping him anchored. "It's not your fault," I repeated. "I promise. You're still here. You're here with me."
He exhaled sharply through his nose, one of his hands reaching up to grip my wrist, almost desperately. "I... I can't—I can't stop thinking about it. About what if it had been..." His voice faltered, broken by restraint.
I pressed my forehead to his, breathing him in, letting the quiet settle around us. "Hey. Breathe. I'm here. That's what matters."
He didn't speak for a long moment. Just let the weight of it sit on his shoulders, the way he always carried things. I rubbed his back again, slow, steady circles, letting him feel my presence as much as he let me feel his.
Finally, he moved slightly, shifting so I could see the faint glint of pain in his eyes, the shadow of guilt still hanging. "She... she looked so much like you," he whispered. "If it had been you... I—"
I shook my head, pressing my lips to his temple. "No. Stop that. You didn't lose me. I'm here. I'm fine."
He exhaled slowly, shoving the last bit of tension out of his body against mine. I could feel it—the residual coil of adrenaline, of control, of the mission still alive inside him—easing just a little.
I guided his hand away from my arm and slid the first aid kit aside. "Sit back. Let me take care of you now," I said, smiling faintly. "You've done enough."
He allowed it. Sat down on the couch, shoulders hunched, while I knelt in front of him again, cleaning up minor scrapes and cuts, smoothing out the blood from his shirt. He winced a few times, barely audible, but never complained. He never did.
When I was done, I leaned back on my heels and let my hands rest on his thighs. He looked at me, exhausted, but finally calmer. The fire that had burned behind his eyes earlier that night was still there, just quieter, more contained.
"You're a mess," I said softly, letting a small smile play on my lips.
"You think so?" His voice was almost teasing, a little edge returning.
I grinned. "I mean... not a real mess. But enough to make me fuss over you."
He looked down at me, letting the corner of his mouth lift, subtle but unmistakable. His hand slid to rest lightly against mine. For a long beat, he just stared.
And then, almost imperceptibly, he leaned closer. "You know..." His voice dropped, deeper this time, warmer. "You looked... breathtaking, holding yourself together like that. Defending yourself. I—"
He trailed off, and the tension in the room shifted. Not dangerous, not panic, just... charged. The kind of closeness that made every nerve in your body alive.
I swallowed, heart thudding. He smiled faintly, eyes darkening with that dangerous, confident gleam that always made me weak in the knees.
"And you know," he said finally, leaning just a little closer so his voice brushed my ear, "I can't resist that."
The words didn't need anything else. The heat, the promise, the unspoken continuation of this moment—they hung between us, taut and electric.
And I knew, right then, that tonight ended exactly where it should.
Summary: You had never met Sam and Dean's father. But, when he invited the three of you up to his hunting cabin for a getaway, you realized quickly that John Winchester was a hunk. Your first night there, you get sick, and John comes to your rescue
Word Count: 5.2k
Pairings: John Winchester x Reader
Warnings/Tags: 18+ only. MDNI. Smut. Fluff. Hurt/comfort. Age gap. Forbidden love (kinda?). PinV. Oral (female receiving). Orgasm play. Some dirty talk.
A/N: This is an idea that I had in my drafts from TWENTY TWENTY. I had completely forgotten about this entire word document I had with old fic ideas. I am playing around with my writing style a bit, trying to be a little more descriptive with my writing and less dialogue. I often struggle with finding the perfect balance between the two. I figured that since John is kind of niche fanbase, this would be the perfect one for me to play around with.
masterlist l requests
The cabin in the middle of nowhere was surrounded by dense forest. The outside was a little dilapidated, but certainly not falling apart. The log cabin was worn by weather, and time, and the once bright and colorful logs were now faded.
On the inside, the wood floors were scratched and worn, but it was warm from the rusty wood burning stove in the corner. The smell of roasting mahogany permeated the cabin. You were relaxing on the couch, while Sam and Dean had a beer at the old metal table, their asses parked in old metal chairs with torn yellow vinyl and exposed cushions.
“Why ya sittin’ there like a bump on a log sweetheart?” Dean asked, looking at the seven playing cards in his hand for his round of Gin Rummy with his younger brother.
You shrugged. “Just relaxing, I guess,” you said.
“Yeah,” Dean responded. “We don’t get a whole lot of time to do that.”
The three of you have been working non-stop. Most days, you felt like a hamster on a wheel and the days that you weren’t traveling with the Winchester brothers, you were meandering around the cold and empty bunker, reading and researching. Wake up, work, eat, go to sleep and repeat. So you were relieved when Dean and Sam’s father, John, invited you up to his remote hunting cabin for a week.
You’d never met John, but when you arrived at the cabin, he was there, sitting in a rocking chair on the porch and drinking a beer. Sam muttered something under his breath about how it was only noon and he was already boozing. Dean, as always, came to his fathers defense, saying that he’s on vacation, and that there’s no rules when you’re on vacation.
John Winchester was crazy handsome. His pearly white teeth, and salt and pepper beard made you swoon. Sure, he was old enough to be your father, but you’d heard stories about the flirty Winchester. Like father, like son, no doubt.
“You must be Y/n,” he said, setting his longneck bottle down on the wood table next to him and standing up. He reached for your hand and immediately, something came over you that made you embarrassingly shy.
“Hi,” you said bashfully, meekly shaking his hand.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he said, his voice deep and low, almost sending a hum right through your chest. “My boys here have told me a lot about ya.”
You snickered, and looked behind you at the Winchester brothers, hoping they’d come to your rescue.
“HI, dad,” Dean said, walking up the two rickety wooden steps to embrace his father in a hug, firmly smacking his back.
“Hi son,” John replied before releasing Dean and giving Sam a hug as well. Sam wasn’t nearly as affectionate as Dean. When his father embraced him, he froze before gently hugging him back.
You could cut the tension between Sam and his father with a knife. You knew that Dean was closer with John than Sam was, but you didn’t really know the extent.
“Make yourselves at home,” he said, opening the creaky screen door for you all to follow behind him. At first, you were a little taken aback by how old the cabin was, but once you smelled the fire burning, you were immediately comfortable.
“It ain’t much,” he said, still walking around, craning his neck to turn and look at you with a smile. “But it’s the perfect little getaway.
Your bladder was full, and even though you’d put it off for as long as you could, you got up to pee. Even though you had every intention of going right back to your warm spot on the couch, you couldn’t help but peek at the pile of cards on the table.
“You got rummy in the pile,” you said, pointing to the seven of spades and the seven of diamonds in the middle of the table. You weren’t even sure whose turn it was, but you assumed it was Sam’s when Dean shouted.
“Son of a bitch!” Dean said as Sam picked up the two cards, laying them out in front of him.
“Thanks, kiddo,” Sam said and you responded with a smile as you plopped back on the couch.
“Anytime.”
About an hour had passed and you all of a sudden felt feverish, dizzy and your throat was killing you. It was becoming harder and harder to breathe with the pressure in your chest. You told the boys that you weren’t feeling that great and that you were going to lie down.
Sam and Dean were playing poker now, and they were so engulfed in their game, that they barely acknowledged you, or cared.
The bedroom had old, peeling floral wallpaper on each wall. The dresser was an antique, the wood along the edges chipped and frayed. And the bed? Not the coziest. But you didn’t even care when you plopped onto the old lumpy mattress with checkered sheets. Every time you moved, the springs and the headboard would squeak so you tried your hardest to not move at all. And after a while of laying there, you were certain you wouldn’t have the strength or energy to move anyways.
The fever was getting worse as each minute passed. Your entire body was covered in sweat, but you were freezing cold and shivering at the same time. Water. You needed water. But you were too weak to move, so you reached for your phone to text the boys and ask them for water. Preferably with lots of ice.
The text was sent and you put your iPhone on the nightstand next to you before rolling over and going right to sleep.
You woke up to loud footsteps walking through the front door of the cabin, heavy work boots slamming along the squeaky floorboards. After peeking your eyes open, you could tell that it was dark out, but you had no idea what time it was. You didn’t hear any birds chirping, so you knew it had to be before four in the morning. With a groan, you reached for your phone to check the time. Twelve thirty in the morning.
“Holy shit,” you groaned to yourself, rolling over on your back to rub your eyes. You’d been asleep for about twenty minutes but it felt like you were asleep for days. You felt no better. Your fever was even worse, with a puddle of sweat pooling in the small of your back.
John was home now after going night fishing. He mentioned that night time was the best time to get a few lines in the water. He had promised you that he was going to take you fishing at some point during the week and you were extremely excited about it so you prayed that you’d start feeling better soon.
You had a little crush and Sam and Dean's father. You wondered to yourself how something so wrong could feel so right. Sure, he was old enough to be your father, but who cares? Really, at the end of the day, you were a consenting adult. A grown adult, too.
When you first arrived at the cabin, you were immediately attracted to John. When he spoke, smiled, when he breathed for that matter, something inside of you fluttered and you didn’t know if it was your heart or your ovaries. It was like a magnetic pull that you hadn’t ever felt before.
John gave you a tour of the small cabin while Sam and Dean unpacked their bags in their shared bedroom. There were only three rooms, and there was no chance in hell you were sharing a room with either one of the messy brothers.
“And this will be your room,” he said, bringing a hand to the back of his head, tousling his own hair. He looked…nervous. But from the stories you’ve heard about John, nervous wasn’t really in his vocabulary.
“Thank you,” you smiled, plopping your duffle bag on the bed and standing there awkwardly, not sure what to say next.
“Yeah, like I said, it ain’t much but it’s the perfect getaway.”
“Yeah,” you scoffed. “Lord knows I needed a getaway.”
“Dean workin’ you to the bone?” He said, flashing a flirty, half smile in your direction.
“Always,” you said, looking down with a smirk.
After the tour, the four of you were congregated in the living room. John was telling you about the town that was about ten miles from the cabin, telling you where his favorite hunting spots were, and where he usually goes fishing.
“I’ve never gone fishing,” you said, looking at John, and he looked at you as if you just confessed a mortal sin.
“Never?” He asked, tilting his head at you in shock.
“Never,” you said, giggling and shaking your head.
He couldn’t believe it. Apparently, fishing was John’s favorite thing to do to pass time, and his face lit up when he talked about taking you fishing for the first time.
“You’re gonna love it,” he beamed. “There’s this lake about a mile away, so it’s a bit of a walk but it’s seriously going to take your breath away.”
“I’m just not much of a morning person,” you said with a grimace, but he cut you off immediately.
“No, me neither,” he sat up. “That’s why you go at night. It’s so much better at night.”
The two of you made plans to go night fishing - on one condition. There was no way in hell you were baiting a hook.
“Sweetheart,” he smiled, bringing an open hand to cover his eyes with a chuckle. “You hunt monsters for a living and you're afraid of a little worm?”
You and John were in your own little world, and you could feel the eyes of Sam and Dean watching every movement, every flirty smile and giggle. They didn’t like where this was going, but John took pleasure in the fact that there was nothing they could do about it.
After being startled out of your sleep by your door swinging open and hitting the wall, you opened your eyes enough to see John standing in the doorway. He was staring at you, his mouth open with confusion and concern.
“What is going on?” He asked, his voice filled with concern as he rushed to your bed side, kneeling down on one knee and stroking your sweaty hair off of your face.
“You’re burnin’ up, sweet pea,” he said, his hazel eyes met yours, brow furrowed in concern.
“I-I’m okay,” you shuddered. “I think I just have a little cold.”
“Little cold my ass,” he stood up, and walked with heavy, intimidating footsteps out to the living room where Sam and Dean still played their game of poker.
“What’s wrong?” You could hear Dean from the other room, pretending like he had no idea what was going on.
“‘What’s wrong??’” He shouted. “What’s wrong is that poor girl is in that room all alone, shiverin’ to death, burning up!” John was angry, and you felt a little sorry for the boys. Yes, they definitely should’ve gotten up at least once to check on you, but you could take care of yourself.
You heard Sam and Dean try to tell their dad that they had no idea that you were sick, that they just thought that you were tired and going to bed. Then you heard John’s retort - telling them that men take care of women. It’s their job.
Before long, John was back in your room with medicine and a glass of ice water.
“Here, sweetheart,” he said, placing two Advil capsules in your mouth before bringing the cold rim of the glass of water to your dry lips.
After you swallowed the pills, you continued chugging the water until the glass was completely empty. John snickered. “Little thirsty?”
You exhaled and rested your head on the damp pillow.
“A bit,” you replied dryly. John noticed your sweat covered pillow and got up to get another one from the closet.
“C’mere,” he said, snaking his hand around the back of your head, lifting you up gently. He threw the other pillow on the ground and slid a new one under your head. “Better?”
“Much,” you closed your eyes. “Thank you, John.”
“Don’t mention it, kiddo.”
You giggled to yourself. Sam had been calling you “kiddo” for as long as you could remember. You thought it was ironic, and maybe they were more alike than they thought.
Before you drifted back to sleep, Sam and Dean were both in the doorway of your bedroom to check on you.
“Y/n,” Sam said, gently knocking on the woodwork.
“She’s fine,” John said sternly, still stroking your sweaty hair. “I’ll deal with you two later. Get out.” He barked and you heard four feet retreat to the other room as the door closed.
“They didn’t know,” you said weakly with your eyes closed, John’s calloused and cool hands on your warm face was bringing some relief to your fever.
“They know better,” he said, his voice gentle now. The dramatic change from stern to gentle was dreamy. Like he was stern, and rough with everyone except for you.
Before you knew it, you were asleep again.
“Dad, you can’t,” Dean said, still playing cards with Sam while John opened the fridge looking for a beer.
“Can’t what?” John replied, walking over to the counter and rummaging through the cluttered junk drawer for his bottle opener.
“You know what,” said Dean, not looking at his father but looking at the cards he was dealt. There was silence for a moment, followed by the sizzle of the bottle opening, and the slamming of the junk drawer.
“Last time I checked…” John started as he walked towards the table to sit with his sons. “…I’m your father, you’re not mine.”
“Do you have any idea how complicated this is going to make things?” Sam chimed in. He knew how his father was. He was never going to settle down, and once he broke your heart, the brothers were worried that you’d never look at the same.
John leaned back in his chair, looking back and forth between his sons. He could see the worry in their eyes. They cared about you, and he could see that.
“Y/n’s a beautiful girl,” John argued. “And it’s been a long time since I’ve been interested in a woman.”
“She is beautiful, dad, but come on.” Sam said, almost with a whine. He could see the writing on the wall, and he knew that this could end badly.
“Boys,” he barked, having enough of them talking to him as if he were a teenager who couldn’t control himself. “If she wants me, then she can have me. And there ain’t nothin’ either one of you can say or do to stop that.”
This came down to one thing, and one thing only - jealousy. Neither Sam nor Dean had feelings for you, but you were like a sister to them. They were protective over you. Every time you went on a date with some douche bag, they didn’t appreciate it, and it took everything out of them to not hunt down whoever hurt you and beat them, or kill them. It's going to be a little more complicated now that it’s their own father now.
“If you hurt her, dad…” Dean trailed off.
“We're choosing her over you,” Sam finished the sentence for Dean. “Hope that’s something you’re prepared to deal with.
John rolled his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table, standing up and slamming his half full beer down. “You guys need to have a little more trust in your old man.” He said, walking away as the brothers looked at each other with a scoff.
“Yeah, right,” Sam muttered under his breath.
John tried as hard as he could to not wake you as he opened your bedroom door to check on you. He was practically tip toeing through the room, knowing the soft spots on the wood floor. He just wanted to check on you one last time before he went to bed. Your forehead was starting to cool down as he placed the front of his hand to your skin. Turning on his heels to walk out, John heard a quiet and pathetic whimper.
“John,” you whined, reaching your hand out for him.
“I’m here, hun,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding your hand in his. “What is it?”
“Don’t leave,” you whined, your words muffled by the pillow.
“Sweetheart,” he chuckled, looking down at the floor. His sons were right, this was a bad idea. “I’ll be right next door.”
“Please.” You moaned. “Don’t want you to leave me.”
John chuckled again. “Shit, darlin’.”
He weighed out his options. John wanted to be there for you, to take care of you, but he knew he was a little too old for you, and he didn’t want to complicate anything with you and the boys.
You weakly hooked your arm around his, trying with all your might to pull him down into the bed with you.
He settled into bed next to you, cupping your warm face with his cold hands, stroking your cheek with his thumb.
“Your hands are so cold.”
“You know what they say,” John said, leaning in to plant a loving kiss on your forehead. “Cold hands, warm heart.”
This made you chuckle, and the chuckle made you cough. John felt bad but he thought it was kind of cute how helpless you were. One thing about John was that he loved being needed. He loved taking care of his partners. To him, it was his main priority, and he didn’t mind one bit. He just gently shushed you,
“I’m sorry honey,” he said, cooing and chuckling at the same time, as if he felt bad, but it was still funny. “I won’t make ya laugh anymore.”
You allowed your eyes to open a little bit, just enough to look at him. “I like you making me laugh.”
Hearing you say that made John want to make you laugh all the time.
“Yeah, well,” John said, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close and you practically melted into his body. “Let’s focus on getting you better and I’ll have you laughin’ up a storm, sweet pea.”
The steady rhythm of his heart beating by your ear, along with him gently dragging his fingertips along your spine and neck, lulled you back to sleep.
Before now, you’d never felt safe. Truly safe. You’ve had partners, but they always turned out to be jackasses. And Sam and Dean protected you all the time, but not like this. This is what you truly needed.
The bunker was always dark since there were no windows. But, that morning, the sunlight peeking through the cheap plastic blinds woke you immediately. You still weren’t feeling great, but your fever had subsided. You groaned at the intrusive sunlight beaming into the room, and turned on your belly, burying your face in the pillow.
John’s laugh was almost a roar when he stood up to close the blinds. “Wow, you weren’t kiddin’,” he said, twisting the wand, closing the blinds. “You really aren’t a morning person, are ya, doll?”
You groaned in response and he slunk back into bed next to you. At some point in the night, you must’ve stripped because your shirt and bra were gone, exposing your glistening skin.
“You’re so soft, y/n,” John said as he ran his calloused palm along your back. You moaned, so starved for touch that even that little touch of his hand made you shiver.
“I’m not soft, I’m sweaty,” you said into the pillow, and John laughed again.
“You must’ve been hot, sweetheart,” he said. “You damn near ripped your clothes off in the middle of the night.”
“Sorry,” you turned your head to face him, a little embarrassed. It wasn’t like you to get naked in front of a man you’d just met.
“Ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for, honey,” he said, sitting up and looking you in the eyes. John did not want you to be sorry or feel embarrassed. This was what he wanted, for you to be comfortable around him.
The two of you laid there in silence. You thought now would be a good time to go out in the living room, mortified of what Sam and Dean would think if they were to see you and their father exiting the room at the same time.
“Wanna go fishing?” You asked, desperately trying to find a reason to leave before Sam and Dean woke up.
“Sweetheart…” John said, twirling your hair in his fingers. “…we have plenty of time to get to the lake. Let’s just focus on getting you better.”
“But Sam and Dean-.”
“Will be perfectly fine.” John said, cutting you off. John wasn’t afraid of his sons. The way he looked at it, he was an adult, you were an adult, and you both didn’t have to answer to either one of them.
“I just don’t want them to be mad,” you said with a frown.
“You just relax and let me handle my boys.”
You finally felt a wave of relief wash over you. Just like how you’d felt last night, you’d finally felt like you could just let loose and let someone take care of you. John could feel you relax in his arms, and he knew that he was responsible for that.
“Thank you, John,” you whispered, looking up at him, gazing into his eyes, hoping he wouldn’t make you make the first move. The tension weighed heavy in the small bedroom, and you nuzzled closer to him, batting your eyelashes, dropping every hint that you could to get him to kiss you.
He turned on to his side, the bed squeaked just a little bit when he grazed your cheek and rested his nose against yours, foreheads touching.
And finally, John kissed you. Deeply. He did not give a shit if you got him sick. He needed you. Badly.
His lips were soft and moist against yours, and you moved as close as you could to him, wrapping one leg around his. His skin was cold compared to yours, and it felt so damn good.
John was the first one to open his mouth, and you followed, gently pushing your tongue past his lips to meet his. Once your tongues touched, John took the lead. Guiding your tongue with his, swirling and fluttering, before pushing your tongue back in your mouth and bringing your bottom lip into his mouth. He gently sucked on your lip, grinding it between his perfect teeth. There was no control in the moan that left your mouth, and he responded with a smile, exhaling gently against your lips.
There was a break in the kiss, and he was staring at you now. “You sure you wanna do this?” He asked again, and you nodded, wrapping your hands around the back of his neck, pulling him in closer for another kiss.
The two of you kissed for a while longer. Nothing more. Until he put his hand on your shoulder, gently pushing you to lay on your back as he settled in on top of you. You couldn’t tell if it was your fever, or John, but your body immediately got hot.
“Why’d you get all warm there, toots?” He said, teasing you with a sideways smirk, touching the tip of his nose to yours. You responded with a bashful giggle, brushing your cheek against his in an attempt to hide your embarrassment.
“Nuh uh,” he said, pulling back to look at you. “God, you’re fuckin’ beautiful.” His rough hands sliding down your smooth skin made you shudder as he snaked it along your jaw, down your neck, and your bare chest.
“John,” you whispered, arching your back and begging him to touch you more. Your erect nipples, and goose pimpled breasts were desperate for him, and he popped one in his wet, cool mouth.
His tender touch was driving you mad. John was taking his time, wanting to get you riled up. He savored every flick of his tongue against your nipple, slithering his hand up your smooth belly, firmly gripping your other breast. The sounds that left your mouth were sinful and desperate, and he chuckled deeply, the vibrations on your nipples sending a shockwave directly to your clit.
“Awhhh,” he cooed. “You’re so…” he said, peppering gentle kisses along the curves of your breast. “….so sensitive, baby girl.”
“J-John,” you mewled. “Need you. Please.”
You reached your hand for his crotch, palming his hard cock over his sweatpants.
“Take it easy, sweetheart,” John said, taking your hand off of his cock. “Lemme take care of ya,” he said, looking up at you as he kissed your sternum and down to your belly button before making his way to your hip. He sucked and nibbled on your flesh until he left a mark, and then licked along your waist. You tried to keep it together, but his tongue dragging along your sensitive skin tickled, and you jumped, eliciting another evil chuckle from John.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said as he sucked and nibbled on your other hip, leaving an even larger, speckled hickey on your skin. Your breathing was heavy now, and he sat up, sitting down on his feet.
“Lemme just get these out of the way,” he hooked his fingers into your sweatpants, and dragged them off your legs. He stood before you, scrubbing a hand down his beard, taking you in.
“Fuck you’re gorgeous,” he said, crawling back on the bed and settling in between your legs. “I could just eat.” He delivered a kiss to your inner thigh. “You.” Another kiss. “Up.”
And without another word, John dove into your dripping, desperate cunt. He took long, slow laps from your clit, to your aching hole. Over and over. And over again. “John,” you whimpered. “Please.” Your voice was filled with need.
He could feel how much you needed more, and he happily obliged, thrusting two long digits into your pussy, pumping with long, slow strokes. Your hips lifted almost involuntarily, silently asking him to pay some attention to your clit. John chuckled devilishly before taking your clit into his mouth, almost like he was trying to siphon the swollen and tender nerve bundle. He was clearly experienced, rolling it around between his lips, already bringing you to the edge of an orgasm.
John paused for a brief moment, only his eyes visible from your mound, but you could see the flesh around his eyes crinkle, and you know he was smiling.
“What?” You asked breathlessly.
“Nothin’,” he said, before diving back into you.
You just lie there, hips lifted, back arched, and arms stretched above you as John worked you with his hands and mouth. It was ecstasy - pure ecstasy. The pleasure became a little more intense, your toes clenching and curling so hard that your legs were beginning to cramp. The coil in the pit of your stomach slowly forming, a shiver traveling down your spine.
“John-” you whimpered. And he knew you were close, but he didn’t ease up, he didn't slow down. He continued doing exactly what he was doing. Not a moment later, you were coming undone underneath him. Your breathing was now a desperate staccato, panting as your walls clenched around his finger. The pulsations traveled from your pussy, to your puckered ass, tightening and loosening together in unison.
“Well, shit sweetheart,” John said, withdrawing his dripping fingers from your cunt and gently rubbing your clit. A shockwave was sent through you, as John tortured your post-orgasm clit.
Overstimulated, you cried out, closing your legs. “Ah-ah,” he tisked. “Cooperate please and keep 'em open.”
You whined as you opened your legs, allowing John to continue to attack on your body. You couldn’t take it, you all but begged him to stop, and the line between pleasure and pain was completely blurred. “John,” you shrieked. “Please, I can’t take it.”
He didn’t stop, and he noticed that you were clenched so tight, and holding your breath. “Breathe, baby girl,” he whispered, knowing you were going to cum again. “You can do it, I know you can.”
Your body convulsed in another mind shattering orgasm, and you were positive that you would pass out if he did that to you again. But, god damn, did it feel amazing.
He stopped, careful to not hurt you or scare you away.
“Don’t get too excited,” he said, standing up and dropping his sweatpants to his ankles before stepping out of them and crawling back into bed. He gripped one of your ankles and rested it on his shoulder while he lined his rock hard cock up with your pussy. “Not done with you yet.”
He slid in with ease, your warm and wet core inviting him in. John was a very well-endowed man, and you swore you could feel the thick veins rubbing against your soft vaginal walls. “Fuck!” you squealed as he pumped slowly into you. You felt every velvety inch as he entered you.
“This pussy is heaven,” he groaned, leaning down to whisper in your ear. He was face to face with you now, grinding into you as you slid his hand down your face before kissing you. It was passionate and meaningful. You can’t remember the last time a man actually touched you during sex, let alone kissed you.
Your tongues danced together in perfect harmony while he sped up. The sounds of your juices made a squelching noise as he pounded into you.
John’s eyes rolled back in his head, and you could feel his whole body tense up. He was close, and you wanted to torture him the same he had tortured you. You purposely squeezed your pussy around his dick. It was amazing, you had thought to yourself, how he had somehow managed to grow even harder.
He grunted, almost whined as you clenched around him, and he knew you had done it on purpose.
“You think you’re funny, baby girl?” He asked, thinking he could easily turn you over and fuck you from behind until you were crying. But, he knew that you were sick, figured he would save his crazy, sexual deviancy for another time.
A quiet, flirty giggle escaped your mouth and he tilted his head back, eyes squeezing shut.
“I can’t hold it anymore, babe,” he said, pulling out and letting his hot seed pool on your waist.
John sat up on the edge of the bed, catching his breath before standing up and sliding his sweatpants back over his bare ass. He silently exited the room, and you could hear Sam and Dean quietly talking over coffee in the other room.
“Shit,” you thought to yourself. There was no chance in hell that they hadn’t heard you. But, your door opened again, interrupting your thoughts as John walked in with a towel to clean you off. He plopped back down in bed next to you, staring at you.
Why does noboby point out the fact that in John Winchester Journal it’s written that when Sam was 7 y/o, a hunter named Anderson knew that he had demon blood in him. He told John that he was hunting Sam, John didn’t quite understood what he was talking about but he knew that this man tried to kill his son and that wasn’t going to happen again. John kidnapped him but it’s 11 y/o Dean who killed him and ended up being bloody.
Why does nobody point out the fact that Dean was only a child when he killed a hunter because he was trying to hurt Sam ??
"In military parlance, surprise…is an element on our side."
"What do you need?"
"The satellite's fifteen hours away by puddle jumper. I recommend that we put together a small crew. Say, myself, Grodin…and a pilot."
"I'll go."
"No, Miller can handle it. Major, I need you to keep searching for alternate Alpha sites, just in case this fails."
"The hive ships will be in range of the satellite in 49 hours. We're going to need every last second of that time."
"Questions? Okay, let's get on it.
Well, Rodney… I don't mean to put any undue pressure, but at this moment, that satellite is the only thing standing between the Wraith and Atlantis."
"No undue pressure."
We all know that sam sleeps on the bed thats farthest from the door, i'm thinking about young teenchesters where, after a really hard and scary hunt, (maybe sam was taken captive or he was hurt badly,) dean sleeps in the bed with sam to keep him safe, and sam waking up halfway through the night to find john wrapped around them both, and sam has never felt more safe
