Heaven (John x reader)
This is for @riversong-sam’s birthday challenge! Happy (belated) birthday! ~Lyrics are in italics~
Based on the song: Heaven by Bryan Adams
Warnings: PTSD, flashbacks + descriptions of Mary’s death, implied abusive!John, language, mentions of smut but nothing graphic
Word Count: 4.3k
A/N: This is my first ever John fic!! and I got heavy feels while writing the first part, I expect more to come. Feedback would be amazing!!
John sat up, again, in a cold sweat; his chest heaved as his lungs sucked in the cool air of the room he was in. It was how he woke up most of the time.
His clammy hand ran over his forehead, down his cheeks and back up again, through his hair, to soothe the aching in his temples. For once, the oxygen he breathed in didn’t have a tang of old beer or dust, or mold; it was clean air, and he lay on clean sheets.
He looked around the dark room slowly as his eyes adjusted to the low light, and he remembered where he was. To his left, there was a shape under the covers, breathing steadily; and he decided not to wake you, he’d already caused you enough inconvenience. Carefully, he peeled the sheets from over his legs and he set his feet on the cold hardwood floor. Usually a drink would satisfy his body’s need to sleep; maybe paired with a few sleeping pills, and he would finally get a full five or six hours.
He wished he didn’t have to, and the drinking seemed to make his dreams worse, more vivid, but it was the only way he could get those few hours of peace. As he left the room, his hand pulled the door shut, quietly.
The small kitchen down the hall had white cabinets that he avoided looking at during the day, but at night they were tinted grey from the darkness. His calloused, shaky fingers wrapped around the refrigerator handle and he pulled it open with little effort. The beer he’d bought on the way into town seemed to be gone; he’d drank it all within a few nights. With a heavy sigh, he straightened up and closed the fridge door, glancing around the room for something else.
He settled on a bottle of whiskey that was hidden in the back of one of the cupboards. By now he knew all of your hiding spots, much to your dismay. His neck craned until he found the neck of the glass object and he pulled it out, setting it gingerly on the table, the amber liquid making a sloshing sound as it stopped moving. John poured himself a glass, over a few ice cubes of course, and noticed his leather-bound journal laying across the kitchen table, where he’d left it earlier in the day. He paid no mind to the book, and continued on his way into the living room. He switched on the TV, not for any particular reason, but maybe it would occupy his mind for the time being. He sat down in one of the arm chairs that faced the television set, which was casting a low blue light over the room, and he let his head tilt back against the cushion of the headrest, exhaling slowly. He brought the cool glass to his lip and took a long drink of the alcohol, hoping the taste would stay there. Quicker than he’d hoped, he downed the whiskey and his eyes shut as he savoured the burning feeling. His muscles seemed to instantly relax.
John started back down the short hallway to get back to the bedroom. By then it must have been just after one in the morning. And here was no way to tell how long he would stay awake when he couldn’t sleep; hours felt like minutes.
At the end of the hall, his eyes were beginning to succumb to sleep and he pinched the bridge of his nose, pressing his thumb and forefinger over his eyes so he could at least make it back to bed without bumping into anything. Once his vision cleared up, his feet carried him all the way to the door and he paused. To his recollection, he had shut the door to the bedroom when he’d left, but it now was sightly ajar; and a glowing orange light was emanating from within.
“No..” He muttered before he was advancing on the door. He grabbed the handle and threw it open, only to be met with flames, hot and unrelenting, engulfing the ceiling and walls.
He shielded his face with his forearm and subconsciously looked for a crib as the fire crackled loudly, seemingly laughing at his efforts.
“Sammy, Sam..” He muttered, sweat building on the back of his neck and on his forehead. His legs seemed to stiffen, only allowing for slight movements when he wanted to go as fast as he could. His hands searched the blazing room blindly for his six-month-old son. The shirt he’d worn to bed clung to his body as sweat poured from his skin as the white-orange flames licked at the walls, intending to have the whole room, John included, for themselves.
“T-take your brother outside..” John called, voice breaking and unsure who he was talking to. Vaguely he thought of his four year old son. His cheeks were flushed from the heat as his fists clenched around the thick air in the room. John could practically taste the smoke on his tongue as he tried to breathe in the little oxygen that was left, the oxygen that hadn’t already consumed by the blaze.
“John,” Someone called, softly. Freezing in place, his face suddenly pale and terrified, John Winchester looked up at the ceiling and felt his heart lurch, then stop altogether as shock overcame him.
“No!..” He gasped, knees beginning to buckle beneath him. The heat of the flames laboring his breathing.
Blood seeped from her stomach, staining the pure white nightgown a deep red, and her golden hair reflecting the light of the fire before it singed and turned to blackened dust. Her green eyes were wide with pain, regret, dread; an expression that haunted his subconscious each time his own eyes shut. A strangled cry left her rose-coloured lips as the flames enveloped her limbs, crawled up her torso, and tongued at her unblemished skin, leaving harsh red welts that only spread. He remembered the smell clearly.
John sat up suddenly, drenched in sweat once again. His breathing slowed to normal as he looked around the room. The living room, he’d never made it back to bed. The glass that had held his whiskey was shattered on the floor, clearly dropped from when he’d dozed off. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and running both hands over his face.
“Fuck...” He mumbled to himself, swiping tears away with the back of his hand.
The dreams that plagued him only enhanced his need for revenge, an answer; just something that would ease his tormented mind.
By now, the sun was barely up, casting a gentle orange light through the window, sparkling over the frost-covered ground. It felt like he was serving a sentence, and the only way to get out of that prison was to find whoever, or whatever, took her away from him.
It had been five years since Mary died.
Oh - thinkin' about all our younger years There was only you and me We were young and wild and free
John delicately held a tiny photograph of his wife, her hair yellow as the grass that grew in the fall, as he sipped the black coffee from a mug. It was often that he remembered Mary and their former life together; and he still wore his wedding ring. Sometimes on his left hand, sometimes around his neck on a chain. It would have only been their tenth anniversary earlier this year.
He liked to think of Mary as she was when they were first married; perfect in every way, young, and hopeful. He tried to only remember her this way, but when he was asleep, and drunk, he had no control over his most recent and petrifying memory. Sometimes he thought of his boys, and if they had grown up normally, staying in one place long enough for them to go to school. He thought of how much better it would be if they had a mother around; if he had been fast enough to get her out. Whenever he wasn’t thinking about the way she died, his mind eased and shifted to solace.
Lately, and luckily enough for him, one of the only things that kept him sane was you.
The first time the two of you met, he was covered in blood and scratches from a hunt he’d been on, and he needed help. Unfortunately, you were the only one who would be willing to be up for the task. John Winchester was notorious; but he’d needed a few stitches and a warm place to sleep.
Now nothin' can take you away from me We've been down that road before
“John?” You asked softly, approaching the chair where he sat in your living room, you had no way of knowing how long he’d been there. You saw him tuck something away in his jean pocket and he stood up.
“Morning.” He smiled softly, unconvincingly.
“How long have you been up?” You asked, crossing your arms across your chest, attempting to preserve your body heat on this cool October morning. He came closer to you and pressed a warm kiss to your lips. He was firm about it, you could tell he was stressed.
“Not long.” He finally said, leaving you slightly breathless with the feeling of his stubble on your skin. You knew he was lying. On average he got about four hours of sleep. It was a wonder how he managed to function. He gazed down into your Y/E/C eyes and sighed from deep in his chest.
“I gotta head out again.” He told you. You expected that, you nodded slowly.
When John stayed with you, it was brief. And usually only consisted of three things: lots of drinks, sex, and home-cooked meals. Then after a few days he was on the road again, and you knew for a fact that what you had with him was only temporary, reoccurring one night stands.
You were no stranger to things that went bump in the night, God knows you’d come across a few in your day, so you helped him with research whenever he needed it, of course, in the company of his favourite whiskey.
There were many nights he showed up at your doorstep, battered and bruised, and he just needed a place to put his frustration; you did your best to help him. You spent hours under the sheets, bodies covered in sweat, muscles tense, hands pulling and grabbing as you gave your body to him, allowed him to do whatever he needed to. Maybe it wasn’t exactly a healthy relationship, but John appreciated every second you had to spare.
In the first couple of years that Mary was gone, he wouldn’t dare dream of sleeping with anyone else, but now that he was hunting full time, it took a toll. And he needed a way to reduce his stress.
But that's over now You keep me comin' back for more
His bag was already packed and near the front door. And as much as you hated to see him leave, he had to go save the world; you would be here when he got back.
“Well, stay in touch.” You gave him a soft smile. He never did, but you liked to think he at least thought about you while he was away.
“I’ll try.” He gave you one last nod and he made his way towards the door. You followed, to see him off. As he passed the kitchen, he avoided the white cabinets, pretending to scratch the side of his face. The sleek black car, a ‘67 Chevrolet Impala, sat near the curb as he loaded his bag in the trunk and got into the driver’s seat. As he pulled away, you gave a small wave. He smiled that classic smile of his and he drove down the street.
You hoped he would stop by Bobby Singer’s place to see his kids. On the off chance someone in the area of a case couldn’t, and Bobby didn’t have any cases of his own, John would leave them with him. But if Bobby was busy, John would call you.
Dean was turning ten in January, 1989, and Sam was turning six in May. They were growing fast, and the last time you babysat, you’d noticed bruises on Dean’s forearms and wrist. You’d asked him what happened, and he’d looked down told you that ‘Dad drinks too much sometimes.’ You remembered how your stomach dropped and how you’d knelt in front of him, hoping it wasn’t true. You cared for that boy like he was your own son sometimes.
“Dad says I need to build work on my aim.” Dean had said in a small voice. Obviously John already had him shooting, training. Even though Dean wasn’t keen on your attention, or your attention on his father particularly, he still knew when something wasn’t right.
That set you on edge a little, and you gave Bobby a call. He was as worried about it as you were, knowing full-well what John intended for the boys.
John did have a tendency to overreact, even about little things, especially when he was drinking, but you didn’t think he would go so far as to hurt his oldest son. It could be a symptom, you thought, with his history in the Marines and what he’d been through, it wouldn’t surprise you in the least.
You tried not to think about it too much, but if it happened again and you were there to notice it, you’d have to say something.
Dean had to be grown up from the minute his father started hunting full-time; Sam needed someone if his father wouldn’t be there.
Oh - once in your life you find someone Who will turn your world around
Days turned into weeks and you heard nothing from John Winchester, which wasn’t abnormal by any means. So, you went about your daily life as normal, going to work and checking in on other hunters, or providing them with a place to stay if they needed it.
John seemed to show up at your door the minute you were sure he wasn’t coming back.
There was a knock on your door a little after midnight. Your usual reaction was to pick up your shotgun and look through the peephole. When you were met with three sets of eyes, familiar eyes, you tossed your gun back to the closet and flung the door open, something must have been wrong.
His boots tracked small clumps of dirt onto the floor and you supported the older man’s weaker side for him. There was a wide tear in his old flannel shirt, under where his ribs were and blood bubbled out of the wound slowly, his fingers clamping over the sliced skin. Little Sam and Dean were at his flank, looking sleepy, like they had just woken up. As per usual, John had on a brave face for them; and for you.
Bring you up when you're feelin' down
“Boys, why don’t you go to the kitchen, I think there’s a few muffins left.” You swallowed hard and shuttled them in. There was another bruise on Dean’s arm. Sighing, you turned on the TV set to keep them distracted and went back to your front door, where John was leaning. He gave you a weak smile.
“Always show up in pieces don’t you, John,” You stated, moving under his arm and supporting him all the way down to the end of the hall where the bathroom was, he didn’t bother avoiding the white cabinets this time.
“Where would the excitement be if I didn’t?” He chuckled, his breath coming out slightly laboured. You sat him down on the edge of the bathtub and quickly pulled your first aid kit from under the sink.
“What was it this time?” You dared to ask. John chuckled softly, leaning back on his arm a little. He always managed to joke around with you.
“Rusty saw.” You pulled his flannel off and cut through the shirt he was wearing underneath with a pair of medical scissors so you could access the slice. You pressed an anti-septic wipe to it and his jaw clenched up, his eyes shutting. You sopped up some of the blood with a paper towel.
This must have hurt like a bitch but at least now it wouldn’t get infected.
“Alright, alright, it was a Shtriga. Almost got Sammy...”
“What?” You pressed your fingers to the wound firmly and looked up at him in surprise. His muscles tensed under your harsh touch.
“The boys were with you?” You scolded. John groaned softly again.
“They were back at the motel. Dean was watching him, but it got back to them before I did...Dean,” He tsked, taking a breath.
“I could blame him. He didn’t pull the trigger when he needed to; but it was my fault. I missed the kill. Shoulda taught him better.”
“John Winchester, I swear to fucking God. You know one of you could have died right?” You cleaned the wound quickly, causing him to groan, arching away from your hands.
“Jesus- Y/N! Gentle.” He practically growled, white-knuckling the side of the porcelain tub. His muscles contracted and then relaxed as you began threading your needle with fishing line.
Yeah - nothin' could change what you mean to me Oh there's lots that I could say
“You know I could tell you off, tell you to find someone else to run to when your guts are dragging behind you.” You spat. John scoffed.
“Go ahead.” He threatened.
“No.”
“Why’s that?” He asked as you turned to grab a cotton swab. You doused it with alcohol and ran it over the needle to sterilize it.
“Because you mean too damn much to this world.” You knelt in front of him, the sharp metal object between your steady fingertips.
To you. He meant too damn much to you, you wanted to say. You’d managed to hold your tongue this long, you weren’t quitting now.
Even if John Winchester managed to cause the end of the world, or if he broke your heart, it wouldn’t change how you felt about him; not in the slightest. And you didn’t know why. It was toxic but you couldn’t deny what you felt.
“They’ve been staying with the motel manager, going to school like they’re supposed to.” He bit his lip and hissed softly as the needle passed through his skin.
“Those boys are the only family you got, John. ‘Should be more careful.” You taped gauze over the closed cut and stood up, putting the first aid kit back under the sink. When you straightened, you walked out of the bathroom without another word. He got up, still holding his side, and he followed you.
“Y/N, just talk to me for a second.” He caught up to you surprisingly quickly and his hand wrapped around your arm, stopping you in the middle of the hall. He had a strong grip and a very authoritative voice.
“About what, John?” You fired back in a hushed tone, seeing the boys, both sitting on the grey shag carpet in front of the TV. You looked back up into John’s eyes.
“About the fact that you’d hunt whatever killed your wife, god rest her soul, to the ends of the earth rather than be a decent father? Maybe about your boys How their childhoods are going?” You glared up into his dark eyes, everything that you’d ever thought wrong of him pouring out.
In a way, you understood. He was just trying to protect them, and the only way he could do that was prepare them. But that didn’t make it right. He seemed to be in shock from the weight of your words.
“I know...” John said, he blinked and kept his eyes shut for a few moments, processing.
“But I need to do this.” He told you, bringing a hand up to cup your cheek gently.
“I need to find what killed her...if I don’t it’ll eat me alive, it already has been.” He exhaled heavily, you sighed.
Sometimes when he was really wasted, he was just as worried about you being pinned to the ceiling in his nightmares. He didn’t want to see you in that situation, however it might arise. Although he would never admit that.
“I get it, John, I understand, but you’re endangering your family because of this shit.” You countered, your voice pleading.
“That shit is what tore my family apart, Y/N. It will not stand by and watch it happen again to someone else.” He told you, making it sound convincing enough, although he made his children sound expendable.
“It was just a little mistake, just this once.” He went back to talking about the incident with the Shtriga, sighing softly. You nodded, taking a small step back, knowing that your point probably wasn’t getting all the way through his thick skull. You knew he loved those boys, but his judgement was clouded whenever he was hunting. It was like a switch went off in his brain and he was stuck in that moment before it was over.
“You should eat something...” You decided it would be better to discuss all this later, when everyone had calmed down a little. A small, apologetic smile made its way to your lips before you returned to the kitchen.
But just hold me now Cause our love will light the way...
Baby, you're all that I want When you're lyin' here in my arms
Your back was pressed against John’s chest as you lay in bed, his arms wrapped around your hips. His torso had a thin layer of moisture coating it and he pressed his lips to the top of your head. A shower did him good.
You’d put the boys to bed in the guest room a while ago with full bellies and warm blankets, maybe for once they’d get a decent night’s sleep.
“I think I might stay here a while...if that’s okay.” He said softly, after minutes of silence. You over and looked at him.
“I want the boys to go to school for longer than week. This place is still warded from pretty much everything right?” John kept his eyes on the pillow, he was laying on his side; he rarely slept on his back so he avoided looking at the ceiling.
Yes, your home was warded from everything evil, perfectly safe. You nodded, reaching over to cup his cheek and making him look at you.
“You stay here as long as you want, you got that?” You asked him and he nodded his eyes beginning to droop. The pain-killers were kicking in, not that a big strong hunter like himself needed those, as he told you.
“Got it.” He ran his fingers through your damp Y/H/C hair. He had to say, he was falling for you, even though he hated to admit it.
I'm findin' it hard to believe We're in heaven
He felt better when he was with you; like he didn’t have to worry about anything anymore. After a few minutes of silence, John spoke again, pulling you a little closer, maybe the drugs hadn’t taken yet, after all. His fingers were calloused after only a few years of hunting, but they were still soft, gentle when they touched your skin.
“Y/N, I never thanked you.” He mumbled into your hair as you started to drift. He inhaled softly, you smelled like your coconut shampoo. Your hands wove around his waist a little tighter, getting comfy, and you tucked your head under his stubbled chin. It was hard for him to admit that he felt like he was floating on air for the first time since Mary.
“I never thought I’d meet another person that I-...that I feel so strongly for.” A blush crept up onto his cheeks. He hadn’t realized that your breathing was shallow, your eyes were shut and you were asleep, but he kept talking. Or maybe he had realized it, and he just wasn’t comfortable pouring his heart out while you were awake.
“Jim Murphy- um, Pastor Jim, he said that I could leave the boys with him if I needed, but I think this is better. Better for them.” He stroked your hair behind your ear softly, twirling a few strands as he did so and cherishing the feeling of your body against his.
And love is all that I need And I found it there in your heart
“I want them to have someone like you around. Be there when they get home from school and kiss their bruises...” He smiled softly.
“I’m not going anywhere anytime soon...”
He lay awake for a while, after pressing a kiss to your temple, his hands running up and down your smooth skin. He was just thinking, and for once not about Mary.
He thought of all the things that would be different had Mary not died. Had she not been killed. He’d set aside a college fund for both his boys when they were born. If he was lucky, or if they were lucky enough to get out, they could go to school and be normal kids. They could get married, have children of their own, have the normal life after that he never got to have. The way he saw it, unless he could find a way to balance keeping his kids safe, and hunting down the evil son of a bitch that took away their mother, there wouldn’t be a future for any of them.
That night when he fell asleep, John finally dreamed of something that wouldn’t keep him up at night. He saw you. It was Christmas morning, and the boys’ eager faces came running into the living room. There was a wedding ring on your left hand as well and he smiled as you tucked yourself into his side.
If he was going to be happy, even just a little bit, then this might be his last shot.
He slept through the night.
It isn't too hard to see We're in heaven
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