Voodoo Child

mermaid | millennial | menace ✨️

[voodoochildthings]

Hello?

⋆˙⟡ I am VoodooChild, and this is my MySpace page Tumblr blog ⟡⋆˙

˙⋆ This is me | This is my masterlist ⋆˙

I'm here to tell you about the smut* I write (mainly on AO3) and to look at pretty gifs of Jensen Ackles, and it looks like I'm all done telling you about the smut...

*everything on this blog will be very filthy and NSFW, blanket MDNI!

[voodoochildthings]

⋆˙⟡ VC's Tumblr masterlist ⟡⋆˙

⋆˙⟡ Supernatural ⟡⋆˙

⋆˙⟡ Other fandoms ⟡⋆˙

[voodoochildthings]

⋆˙⟡ VC's Tumblr masterlist ⟡⋆˙

⋆˙⟡ Other fandoms ⟡⋆˙

》 One Piece | Sanji: Live to serve

4 K words, smut, you and Sanji have a mutually beneficial agreement

》 Watchmen: The Comedian

~700 words, smut obviously, you use him for your pleasure

[voodoochildthings]

Live to serve

Sanji x reader

You and Sanji have a mutually beneficial agreement.

Word count: 4K

Tags: MDNI! smut, 18+, secret relationship, Sanji loves to please, oral sex, fingering, p in v, multiple orgasms.

A/N: I've always had a little crush on Sanji, but it's become unbearable since OPLA came out. And I blame Taz Skylar and his Instagram account.

Enjoy!

You snort and shake your head at the boys while you get up and clear your plate, the mood in the kitchen light and cheerful. Both Luffy and Chopper are back to pretending to be walruses again and Usopp has engaged in an enthralling tale about the Sniper King’s adventures, but as fun as an evening of camaraderie might be, you have different plans for tonight. 

Sanji’s bent over a cutting board, garnishing a cheese platter that he just threw together when you put down your plate at the sink, casually excusing yourself from the party. 

“I’m gonna call it a night, I still have some work to do. You guys have fun! Oh and… Sanji? I probably could still go for some dessert later, if you wanna whip something up. I’m in the mood for something salty today, I think.”

Out of the corner of your eye you see Nami waving good-bye, Robin’s head turning, and, of course, Sanji just about catching the drink he almost toppled when he heard your request. You don’t turn to look at him, not wanting to risk Robin catching your glance. Discovering your little arrangement. She really is annoyingly perceptive, that one.

A little over half an hour later you’re sitting at your desk, brows furrowed over today’s newspaper. You’re trying to align the information printed with the things your little birds from all over the world wrote to you in their letters when you hear a knock at the door. Two short raps, followed by a long one. 

“Come in.”

The door creaks open, and a half bowing, long, slender figure appears in the doorway. Funny how he can make himself so small, you think as Sanji slips inside your room, quietly closing the door behind him. 

“Evenin’, love.” 

He straightens up as he makes his way toward you just to bow down low again when he reaches you. You can feel his cheek brushing against your hair, how he's greedily inhaling your scent while his hand carefully places a small plate in front of you, careful not to put it on your documents. 

“Chocolate soufflé, with a dash of Aqua Laguna salt. And I still had some of those white strawberries you liked so much.” The tone of his voice is so sultry, so charming, it sends a tingle down your spine. You turn a little to look at him, his keen eyes observing your reaction.

“That looks delicious, Sanji, thank you,” you say as you pick up the spoon, take a bite of the treat. You close your eyes, savor the explosion of flavors on your tongue with a soft hum as you lick the spoon clean. When you open your eyes again you can see Sanji staring at your mouth, his lips slightly parted, almost drooling on your shoulder. You have to giggle when a needy little huff leaves him. “Anything for you, dear.”

“Roll your tongue back up, Sanji,” you smirk, and he snaps back to reality. “You know you’re gonna be using it quite a bit.”

You can hear Sanji inhaling deeply, breath staggering as his ears turn pink. He clears his throat, takes a step back and sits on the edge of your desk. 

“Anything specific you're in the mood for today?”

You turn on your seat to fully look at him, standing there. He’s got his hands stuffed away in his pockets, you can see they’re balled into fists beneath the silky fabric of his trousers. His eyes are glued to you, follow you around the room as you stand up and walk over to your vanity.

“You know, I’m still not done working. I really have to figure some stuff out…” you sigh dramatically as you reach under your skirt, hook the waistband of your panties with one finger and quickly pull them down. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t get started.”

Sanji all but squeals as his head snaps to the side, turning to follow your panties’ trajectory as they fly over to the bed. You can’t help the self-satisfied smile on your face, you just love watching him like that. Big ocean eyes, adoring, practically begging for you to let him do your bidding. You know he has very little self-control when it comes to beautiful women, that he will bend over backwards to get praise from anyone with a nice pair of tits and a pretty smile, but you know he'll drop anyone if you summon him. He's even pried himself away from Nami to revere you.

It was purely carnal at first. You had gotten drunk on a long voyage after not setting foot on land for weeks, things had gotten boring for everyone on the Thousand Sunny. So you threw a party. Everyone had had a blast, and Sanji had waited on you, Nami and Robin hand and foot. Paid you compliments. Boosted your ego. And it had made something stir deep inside of you. 

You can’t fully recall the events of that evening, but you do distinctly remember squeezing his face with one of your hands, telling him that you’d kill him if he was ever to breathe a word of what was about to happen to a living soul – or Brooke – and then you’d been on each other. And boy, had he delivered. 

You had always imagined Sanji to be like one of those firecrackers that immediately exploded in your hand, but you’d never been so wrong. Behind the facade of that lovesick puppy, chasing after any short skirt, getting a nose bleed from talking to a woman for too long, there was an animal lurking, a lion waiting to be freed from his cage.

You don’t remember how many times he had made you come that night, but it was more than enough to break your previous record, and to make you crave more of it as soon as you were able to walk straight again. And Sanji? Happy to do your every bidding. Now, you'd like to think what you're doing is strictly physical, but if you were honest you would have to admit to yourself that you enjoy the attention. Really enjoy it.

When you’re back at your desk, you lay your hand on Sanji's cheek, softly guide him onto his knees as you sit back down. You’re met with zero resistance, and you feel his nose running up the inside of your leg as soon as he’s vanished under the table. You have to grin to yourself as you hear his blissful sigh, then you get back to work on your letters.

You feel Sanji’s hands wandering up and down your legs, caressing every inch of your skin with the soft tips of the fingers he’s so careful never to use in a fight, peppering feather-light kisses all over you. He pries your legs open, just like you’ve seen him do to all kinds of exotic fruit with practised ease, slowly getting you ready for what he’s about to give you. 

When his mouth finally reaches the inside of your thigh, he, apparently not being able to help himself, bites down on your flesh longingly, prompting a small moan full of surprise from you. It makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and you want to reach under the table, grab a fistful of his hair, tell him he’s doing good, but you’re not there yet.

You close your eyes, take a deep breath, focus on the sensation between your legs and try to relax. You've noticed over the past couple of weeks that Sanji has this weird, pressure relieving effect on you that's so much more enduring than when you just get yourself off. He'll just keep working you for hours and hours on end, putting you in an almost trance-like state as he pleasures you just the way you like it, without even so much as thinking about his own high.

You've learned not to be impatient, to savor Sanji's diligence as he makes sure every inch of your body gets worshipped the way it should. Your lower half is already tingling nicely when he finally comes close to where you really want him.

Your back arches involuntarily when his tongue runs up the inside of your thigh, you can feel your legs twitching but Sanji's firm grip keeps you in place. He places a kiss right in the valley where your leg ends, and then one more further up. You're not sure when you started holding your breath, but the gasp shaking your body when he finally runs his tongue through your folds fills your lungs with new life.

You feel the vibration in your core as he hums into your body, satisfied with the response he's eliciting from you. You can feel him nuzzling his nose into you, tongue lapping up every bit of wetness he can find. The first time he went down on you like that you were genuinely scared he'd suffocate, but you've come to learn that Sanji has a strong will to live. Especially when he's drowning in pussy. Now, you just lean back and enjoy the entertainment. 

You feel the buzz spreading through every cell of your body, the heat in your core rising, and if you let yourself, you could easily come right on the spot. But that's not what you want. You want to make this last, stretch it as far as you can, because once he pushes you off that ledge? You'll be a goner.

That's why, when you feel one of Sanji's slender fingers getting closer to your entrance, you tell him, “no.”

His movement stills immediately, you can feel him lifting his head. Like a good little soldier, waiting for your command.

“Not yet,” you huff, noticing how mellow your voice sounds. “Just your tongue, for a little longer.”

“Your wish is my command,” you hear his raspy voice from underneath your desk, and without further ado, he dives back in. You finally give up on reviewing the paper, let your head drop onto your arms that are lying on the table, and you notice how you almost fall off your seat because you keep scooting forward, your body seeking out more and more of the delectable sensation Sanji's providing you.

You feel Sanji's grip on your thighs tightening as he keeps devouring you, edged on by your moans that become less controlled with each passing moment. All the muscles in your lower body seem to be fighting against you, spasming as you try to ground yourself, try to control your breathing, but when Sanji finally finds that unforgiving rhythm that's just right for you today, you give in.

The sound you make is beyond sinful as you finally allow yourself the release you've been building up to. You know exactly what's going on in Sanji's head, that he must be bursting, finally reaping the reward of having you come on his face, but apart from his fingertips sinking deeper into your skin it doesn't show. He just keeps you high, firm grip on your thighs so you don't accidentally crush him.

He only eases up when your quivering legs finally start to slump, your moan turning into a staggered growl. He chuckles as he wipes his lower face on your thigh, keeping you close as you twitch in response to the feathery light kisses he scatters on your skin.

You groan, letting your head loll to the side, lids heavy, hair sticking to your sweaty face. Everything's still in a haze, you don't remember him getting up when you feel Sanji brushing the offending strain away with his thumb. You can smell yourself on him when he lowers himself to your level so his face is mere inches from yours.

“You good, princess?”

“Mhm,” is all you manage to press out, accompanied by a half-hearted nod that Sanji rewards with a light chuckle.

“Come on. Let's get you to bed.”

Before you fully realize what's happening, Sanji has swept you up, your body apparently weighing nothing to him, and carries you across the room. You're still breathing heavily, press your face into his firm chest and let yourself fall into his delicious, peculiar scent of cloves and some other spice he must have picked up in one of the many towns you passed through.

He gently places you on the bed, making sure your head is resting on a pillow and your skirt pulled down enough to cover you, and then he sits down next to you.

“That kinda took it out of you, huh?”

You sigh blissfully, heart still racing, but Sanji’s voice immediately reignites something deep within. You roll onto your side, prop yourself up on one elbow and look at him, expectantly. He raises his eyebrow, a puzzled look on his face.

“Oh, you– do you still want more?”

You can feel the confusion flicker across your face for a second, and then you see that intoxicating smile of his curling around his lips. 

“Sanji!” You both laugh as you playfully hit him in the chest, and then, before you could say “millefeuille”, he’s on you again. You squirm a little as he covers you with his long body, moan when you feel his hot breath against your neck. Sanji leaves enough space between the two of you so you can unbutton his blue pinstriped shirt and make quick work of his belt buckle. He’s already down to his boxers when you quickly peel yourself out of your shirt and bra while he pulls your skirt down, finally discarding it on the floor. 

Sanji’s kneeling over your naked form, drinking you in, his face appearing almost reverent in the low light. You bite your lip, earning a breathless huff from Sanji. He places his hand on your collarbone, then proceeds to trace it down your body, along your curves and dimples until it finally comes to rest just underneath your hipbone. 

“God, you’re beautiful.”

You hum softly, and while this kind of praise from Sanji is exactly what you want, exactly what gets your engine going, the sincerity he expresses it with goes straight to your soul. You tilt your head up, and, as he always does, Sanji gives you what you want.

You can positively taste the burning passion as he kisses you tenderly, a quiet little moan betraying how much he’s been longing for this. Still, he’s so soft, so controlled, not allowing himself to run wild. Stoically holding back. When you lift your hips, trying to seek out some friction in vain because Sanji’s too far away, you know what you must do.

There’s not a lot of space on your bed, but luckily, Sanji’s not the only one who knows how to use his legs. You wrap yourself around him, and, with the smoothest movement, spin him to lie flat on his back. Now, finally straddling him, you press down and feel his hot, throbbing cock pressed right up against your still needy pussy. 

Sanji groans as you slowly grind over him, only the thin fabric of his boxers separating your heat from his. His hands find their way to your hips, fingers denting your skin while he throws his head back, eyes closed. You run your palm over his chiseled chest, his lean body twitching in sync with your movements. For a second, you think you should drag this out as well, just keep riding him like this. But when you look at his twisted little face you decide you want him, stat.

You shift your weight so you can reach under yourself, and, unceremoniously, pull his boxers down only as much as you need for his cock to spring free. You grab him, maybe a little too tight, give him a couple of cursory strokes, and then sink down on him with no hesitation.

One of the things you love about Sanji is the fact that he's so vocal. Every little movement of yours is rewarded with a moan, growl or quiet curse. The way he whispers your name when your pussy clenches around him sends shivers down your spine every damn time, the way he mewls when your fingers wander over his skin makes you feel so powerful and wanted at the same time you could combust.

You shift a little, settling on his lap, allowing him to reach even deeper. Through hooded lids you can see that Sanji's eyes have fluttered shut, he looks like he's hanging on by a thread. Still, you decide to start grinding. You know he's not going to disappoint you. Your vision goes blurry when you start rolling your hips, Sanji's thick head inside you hitting that spot that switches off the outside world.

You can already feel yourself speeding up, your body just taking over, greedily seeking out another high. Your hips keep working him, nails digging into his hard surface in a way you're sure it would hurt a normal person, but you know he can take it. And even if he couldn't, he wouldn't complain.

When you feel you're close you lean back, prop yourself up on his thighs for a better angle, better purchase. You and Sanji almost fall out of rhythm as he tries to match your erratic movement, but when the wave finally crashes down over you, your back arching, toes curling, Sanji's got you. Like he always does. 

A loud, almost pained moan spills from your lips as he keeps thrusting while you ride your high, pulling you into him as your cries turn into whimpers before you finally go slack. 

You feel your arms on his thighs turn into jelly, but Sanji sits up in the blink of an eye, catching you before you can fall. He pulls you close, your bodies slick against each other's, your chest heaving way more noticeably than his. 

Sanji pulls you into a tight hug while you try to regulate your breathing, nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck while you try to come down. His hand wanders up and down your back, gently caressing you, keeping you as close as he possibly could. Whispering sweet nothings into your ear.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, lips ghosting over the shell of your ear. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you just looked? Like a goddess come down to earth just to bless me.” He inhales deeply, the squeeze he’s giving you turning possessive for an instant before he quickly regains his composure.

As soon as he notices you shifting, having recovered enough to move again, Sanji gives you space to lift yourself off him. He groans at the slight twitch your pussy gives around his still hard cock. 

“Okay. Wow. That was… that was good.” You fumble with your legs as you lift yourself off him, your body immediately protesting at the loss of contact even though you should be exhausted.

Sanji cocks his head, looks at you with that impish smile of his, the erection between his legs bobbing up and down.

“Good? Are you trying to hurt my feelings?”

You have to chuckle as you scoot closer, kneel next to him. You let your lips ghost over his shoulder to the back of his neck, where you place a couple of kisses before you whisper in his ear.

“That was amazing. You were amazing. Mind-blowing. Earth-shattering.”

You can feel the goosebumps rippling all over his body as you praise him just before he captures you in another kiss, just as searing hot as the last one, but way less controlled. You feel him brushing a strand of hair behind your ear and then quickly turning you so you're in his arms again.

He gently lowers you on the bed, eyes not leaving yours for a second. He runs his hand over your breast, circles your nipple once, then lets it move further down. You can’t control the way your body twitches under him, and it’s a good thing because Sanji knows exactly what you’re asking for, even if your mouth is refusing to say it. 

He dips down, lips trailing down your chest until they find your nipple. He licks a broad stripe over it, making you twitch again, and then takes it into his mouth. Your eyes flutter shut as he starts sucking on one while pinching the other with his fingers, and a little gasp leaves you as he pushes two fingers into the heat you've been desperately pressing up against him.

You’re not entirely sure for how long Sanji keeps working you, at this point, the thing turning you on most are the content, passionate little sounds he’s making while chasing your high. His voice is raspy when he finally drops your nipple from his mouth with a soft plop. You open your eyes to find him looking at you, enamoured with the way you're writhing beneath him. 

“I, uh,” he says, voice cracking at the single syllable as he continues to pump his fingers into you. “I’m really sorry but I don’t think I can keep this up for much longer,” he huffs, eyes only shooting down to look between his legs for a second. You can’t see much with the dim light and his body so close to yours, but you’ve felt his hardness poking you. Felt the pre-cum oozing from his tip against your sizzling skin. 

You lift your hands, cup his face to look at it for a moment. Study the adoration, the devotion written all over it, brush that rogue strand of hair away only for it to immediately fall back in place. 

“Sanji?”

He holds his breath, eyes wide, trying to read your wish before you say it out loud. As he always does.

“Will you come inside me?”

The sound he makes is almost a whimper, and then he’s so fast you’re almost unable to follow his movements. Still on his knees between your thighs, he runs a hand over your ass and down your leg as he gently pushes it up to finally rest it on his shoulder. All air leaves your body when he presses into your wetness, his movement offensively unhurried for someone as consumed by lust as you know him to be. He runs his cheek over your calf, kissing every inch of skin he can reach as he slowly drives into you. His thrusts are deep, powerful, and it takes only a couple of them for you to almost lose yourself again. You can feel him tensing up inside you, and the moment you allow the moan that’s been trying to break free from you to escape you’re both gone. Sanji’s hips stutter as he paints your insides white, his entire body shudders before he collapses onto you, not halting his movement before the tension in your body subsides. 

You both lie there for a while, breathing falling into rhythm with each other, quietly enjoying the peace of the moment. Sanji rolls off you, careful not to break your skin to skin contact for a second. Pulls you into his arm before his back even hits the mattress. He gently caresses your shoulder, tracing imaginary lines on your arms.

You're not exactly sure how, but he produces a cigarette from somewhere, lights it on the oil lamp that's standing on the bedside table. He takes a long drag, slowly exhales, letting the smoke curl its way up to the ceiling.

“So,” he says, the cheeky grin already back on his lips. “You hungry for anything else, my queen?”

[voodoochildthings]

Like a prayer

Dean x reader

Word count: 3,5 K

Tags: MDNI, 18+, smut, mutual pining, sex pollen, Dean getting a BJ. That's it.

A/N: You might have seen this over on ao3 already, thought it's time for it to find it's way here.

There's just nothing else I can think about while listening to this song. It's just Dean getting sucked off. Heavenly.

Life is a mystery Everyone must stand alone I hear you call my name And it feels like home

"Jesus!" You drop the plate you're drying as the man in the tan trenchcoat suddenly appears in front of you.

He looks down, frowns at the pieces of broken porcelain on the floor, before he looks back up at you.

"No, it's me. Castiel."

You stare at him for a second, then sigh.

"I— yes, Cas, I know. How are things?"

The angel nods, the usual stern look on his face.

"I must apologize, but I don't have the time for idle small talk. Is Dean here?"

You raise your eyebrows.

"Still such a charmer," you mumble before replying to his question. "I haven't seen Dean in months. Is he... is he okay?"

Ah, Dean. Dean, Dean. You're a grown woman, but somehow, Dean always makes you a little nervous, even if he's only mentioned. In a good way. In all the good ways, if you're being honest. You're friends, when he's in town you get a drink. He has this way of saying your name that's just a little different from how everybody else says it, it's not wrong or anything, just peculiar. It makes you feel fuzzy.

Sometimes you talk over the phone, he sends you the occasional gif of a happy dog. You reply with a joke about him being just like a puppy, and that's basically it.

He never knew you've been carrying a torch for him for years, and there's no reason for him to ever know. What you have, your friendship, is good, and you're not going to ruin it by confessing to him like a little school girl.

Castiel scratches his chin.

"We're not sure actually. We were on a case and Dean got hit by a spell. He seemed fine at first, but then he suddenly just took off," Castiel sighs.

He opens the door to the cabinet where you keep your pots and pans, checking for Dean, seemingly oblivious to the fact that a man his size would not fit into such a small space.

"Cas, Dean's not here, and he's not hiding in my laundry basket either."

Castiel looks over to the door that leads to your basement.

"Did you check?"

You roll your eyes, then go get a broom and the dustpan.

"Why do you even think he would come to me?" You try to sound casual, not that it's very necessary with the way inflections go over the angel's head anyway.

"The spell will compel Dean to do things,” he says in his gravelly voice. "Certain... carnal things. And Sam has the theory that it could only be reversed by someone who..."

Castiel is interrupted by his phone buzzing. He fishes it out of his pocket, looks at the screen. Turns it around by 180°, twice. Then he looks back up at you and simply says, "I have to go."

You barely have time to process, and then he's gone, as sudden as he came.

You stand there, dumbfounded. You look around, knowing you're not going to find Castiel, you know how angels travel. You shake your head, and then you start sweeping up the shards on the floor and decide to move on with your day.

When you call my name It's like a little prayer I'm down on my knees I want to take you there In the midnight hour I can feel your power Just like a prayer You know I'll take you there

You stretch, cookie crumbles falling from your blanket. You look at your empty glass of wine, then at the clock. 11:17pm. As Netflix asks if you're still watching you grimace, reach for the remote and hit yes, then pause.

Yes, you are still watching, even if your thoughts keep drifting off to the strange visit Cas paid you this afternoon. And to Dean. You wonder what kind of trouble he's gotten himself into this time. If it's another stab wound, or maybe something actually serious. And you wonder why Castiel would come looking for him here, of all places.

You glance at your phone, fingers itching to text Dean, to find out what's going on. But you've decided to try not to meddle too much in all things Winchester. They'll be alright. They always are. Or never. Depending on who you ask.

You slide off the sofa to get yourself another glass of wine in the kitchen. As you shuffle over to the counter, where, in great foresight, you left the bottle of Pinot Noir, your eyes wander to the kitchen window. You squint as you pour your glass, and then, refill in hand, wander over to have a closer look at the car you spotted across the street. A car that you know all too well, with its sleek black paint job and angry looking radiator grill.

You leave the house in your slippers, wrapping the thin jacket you're wearing around your body against the night's chill. Dean just gives you a side eye as you rap at the window.

"You know, if you want to be a stalker you should probably get a less conspicuous car."

He rolls down the window. Just a little bit. As if he wasn't sure he should be talking to you.

"Uh, hey," he slowly says, still not fully turning to you. You raise your eyebrows at his strange behavior, then just go for the handle and open his door. And Dean? Dean's confused, seems stunned, like he doesn't know what he's supposed to do, which is very unlike him.

"Come on, what are you waiting for? I'm freezing my ass off out here," you say, as you try to hook him with a charming little smile. It works.

I hear your voice It's like an angel sighing I have no choice I hear your voice Feels like flying I close my eyes Oh God, I think I'm falling Out of the sky I close my eyes Heaven, help me

You almost have to push him inside. You're not sure why, but Dean's behaving like a goddamn mule. Even more than he usually does. When he's finally standing in your living room he looks around, scratches the back of his neck.

You've never seen him like this, so awkward, like he doesn't belong even though he's crashed at your place on multiple occasions and not even once had a problem walking around in his birthday suit when coming out of the shower.

You leave him standing there for a moment to go fetch him something to drink from the kitchen. Maybe a little bit of booze will loosen him up.

"Whiskey or beer?" You ask, glancing back at him weirdly planted next to your high table.

"Oh it's a whiskey kind of day," he sighs. Then, finally he moves, just a little, but it's progress. You pour him a glass of Jack, neat, as you know he prefers it, pick up your own glass of Pinot that's still waiting for you in front of the kitchen window and get back to the living room.

You manage to sit Dean down on your couch, shove the drink into his hand and sit close next to him. He flinches a little when your knee touches his thigh, but relaxes immediately as he takes a long sip from his glass. You've got a feeling he's faking it a little, though.

The small talk goes slow, you tell him about the wraith you ganked last week and the spirit that haunted the sauna of an uppity golf club upstate, but Dean refuses to tell you what he was hunting just before he appeared in your street. He doesn't even budge when you confront him about Cas showing up, looking for him.

But, ultimately, he seems to be getting a little more relaxed with every sip of whiskey. His torso slowly sinks into the cushions, he starts actually replying to your monologue. A cheeky smile appears on his lips now and then, and, somehow, his hand keeps brushing against different parts of your body.

Steadily, you're getting your old groove back, the friendly bantering that's an integral part of your relationship. Something's different though, you can't exactly put your finger on it, but the way Dean's looking at you, it's just... a little more intense than usual. One could almost mistake his look for the one he gives those girls, those who wiggle their tits at him, bite their lips when he makes a suggestive remark.

You know something's really up when his hand rests on your thigh, way higher than you'd normally let anyone touch without buying you dinner first. But it's Dean, so you let him. You're both still laughing at a story about a series of grave desecrations in Illinois that he just told, and you're tipsy, and he's flashing his pearly whites at you, and the fine lines on the corners of his intensely green eyes make him look so handsome, and you feel his hand on your thigh gripping you tight, and the other arm sneaking around your side, up your back, pulling you in.

And then he's on top of you, hot lips crashing into yours as he presses you into the sofa. You almost spill the rest of your wine as you lose your balance, swept up in Dean's fiery embrace, but somehow manage to keep the glass straight as he eats up your face.

He groans, and he's all over you, big, strong, virile. He smells like heaven. It's just like you've always imagined. Intense. Passionate. His tongue on yours is hot, wet, demanding. He tastes like raw, unfiltered pleasure. Unlike anyone you've ever tasted before. You're not sure how long the kiss lasts, but you're violently yanked back to reality when he suddenly pulls back.

You're lying there, on your back, eyes wide and blinking up at him. You still feel the ghost of his kiss on your lips, and all you want to do is pull him back in for more. But you don't get the chance, because the second Dean realizes what he just did he pushes himself back up and stumbles away from you. He's so quick on his feet that you barely have time to register the shame written across his face.

He mumbles an apology as he reaches for his jacket, already on his way out.

Dean's quick. But so are you.

When you call my name It's like a little prayer I'm down on my knees I want to take you there In the midnight hour I can feel your power Just like a prayer You know I'll take you there

Your hand grabs his wrist firmly. You both know that if he wanted, he could easily pull himself free. But he doesn't.

"Dean!" You just stare at him, holding on to him. Skin on skin hot, tingly. You search his handsome, freckled face, with the dreamy eyes and the plush lips, puffy from feasting on you.

He opens his mouth, evidently trying to find words that seem to be eluding him. He tilts his head, eyes pleading for you to let him go.

But you're not gonna let him get away with this one.

"What's going on, Dean?"

You continue holding his gaze as seconds tick by like hours, and then he cracks. Exhales, his shoulders sink a little. He's shy when he starts talking.

"That case we were on… there was this witch who was messing with a bunch of people in her neighborhood, creating all sorts of confusion, and we got her, but…" his voice trails off, he looks down at his feet.

"She hit me with a spell, and we weren't sure what it was at first, but now it's making me… want to do… things," he mumbles, and the blush creeping up his face doesn't stop at his cheeks. You furrow your brows, think back to what Cas said earlier this afternoon. About the carnal things Dean would want to do. You clear your throat.

"What, you mean like," and you desperately hope you sound as casual as someone who's not just getting the best news they've ever gotten, "is this some kind of fuck or die situation? Where you'll need to stick your dick into every viable female you come across?"

Dean almost looks a little offended at your words.

"What? No," and the little change in timbre at his words tells you that he's about to relativize his no. It's one of the things you've learned about Dean in all the time you spent together.

"I don't… I don't want to fuck every viable female. I just…" He swallows. So do you. It takes him ages to get the next sentence out.

"I don't know what's going to happen if I… well, if I don't. But Rowena says that I'll need to, uh, be with someone that I, well, like."

His eyes are still glued to the floor. Your mouth drops open as you process. You're not gonna pretend you don't know that Dean's not talking about liking someone as in "I'll send them a Christmas card."

"Are you saying you're here because…" You try to find the right words, words that are not going to make him wince again. And you're trying to be cool. Not to jump to conclusions. Even though it's hard. Very hard.

"You came to me because you need to be with someone you have feelings for?"

Dean nods, shakes his head, inhales and tries to turn around on you again.

"I'm sorry. This is stupid. I shouldn't have come here," he mumbles as he tries to get away from you, half-heartedly.

You yank him back, making him stumble. And you take the opportunity of his head being just a little easier to reach and firmly press your lips against his. Dean catches himself, you break the kiss as he straightens up.

He looks at you. You've seen him happy, angry, distressed. Relaxed and in pain. But you've never seen him like this. This look on his face, a mix of fear and hope, is new to you. It tells you he needs you. He wants you.

You pull yourself close to him.

"I'll help you."

Like a child You whisper softly to me You're in control Just like a child Now I'm dancing It's like a dream No end and no beginning You're here with me It's like a dream Let the choir sing

Dean's breathing is heavy.

His eyebrows twitch, the slightest confusion written across his beautiful face. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. He waits for you to speak. To be sure he's really not misinterpreting anything.

"What do you need?"

He nervously shifts from one foot to another. He bites his lip, runs his hand over his face, and you're not entirely sure if he's oblivious to what that makes you feel or if he's starting to put on a show. In any case it looks more than sinful.

"You… you want to help me?"

You nod.

This is it. The moment that will change everything. Forever. For better or worse. The tension between the two of you is thick, and you know Dean can sense it, too. Somehow, it feels like you're both frozen in time, unsure of what is going to happen next.

"We shouldn't, like, have sex, right?"

You tilt your head at his question. It melts your heart how shy he is, Dean freaking Winchester, looking at you like a deer in headlights.

"Tell me what you need."

Your voice is barely above a whisper. You're a confident woman. Sexually and otherwise. But the way this man is standing in front of you, the pleading look in his eyes, it takes you to a whole new level. Dean, who you know to be stoic, strong, self sufficient, suddenly putting his cards on the table like this. Needing you. Because you're what he wants.

"Maybe you could..." He looks at you, carefully watching your reaction, then nods down. Then you finally let go of his wrist, and you get down on your knees.

Dean's looking down at your form, kneeling in front of him. Unbelieving. You watch him closely as your hands wander to the button on his jeans, nimble fingers opening it, unzipping the fly. Then your gaze wanders down, because as nice as Dean's face is to look at, what you're about to uncover might be even better.

You start prying his jeans down, and while it's still clothed, the erection underneath is everything you want and more. Straining against the scarlet fabric of his briefs. Throbbing.

You want to take it slow, commit this moment to your memory, every single second of it, but you can't. You're hungry. So, so hungry. It's like you're acting on pure instinct now. You hook your finger into his waistband, and you pull his boxers down. And again, you feel like you're frozen in time, like this is a still of a movie you're watching, an out-of-body experience.

You watch yourself tying up your hair. You're on your knees, Dean Winchester standing in front of you, jeans bunched around his ankles. And right in front of your face, so close you only have to stick out your tongue to touch it, his cock. It makes your mouth water, just from looking at it. You run a hand down his hip, let it rest on his thigh. And then you do it. Stick out your tongue. Dean twitches as it lands on his tip, the short moment making him groan.

You let the tip of your tongue wander over his slit. Dean drops his head back as a low groan falls from his lips, his hand shoots out to steady himself on the doorframe. You close your eyes, relishing his taste on your tongue, savoring every inch of skin.

You lick a long, wet stripe along the lower side of his cock with your tongue flattened, then another with the tip, following the meander of a vein slightly to the left.

When Dean groans again, you decide to stop playing, even if you're having the time of your life, and suck his head into your mouth.

You glance up, see the relief washing over his handsome face as you finally envelop him. His hips buck against you, but you can feel him trying to still himself, trying not to force himself onto you. When you take him in deep, your nails digging into the skin of his thigh, his head shoots forward. He stares down at you, unbelieving, big eyes dark with lust as he balls the hand on the doorframe into a fist.

Quiet curses escape him as you bob your head back and forth, increasing the intensity you're pleasuring him with. When his hand finds your hair, fingers raking over your scalp, you're the one who moans, the sound of it muffled by his length in your mouth. He fists your hair, but it's such a tender gesture it just makes you want to give him more. Dean's not guiding you. He just wants to be close to you.

You're not sure for how long you keep going like this. You don't mind. It's the best way you can imagine spending a chilly night like this.

When his hands both wander to your jaw, cupping your face, he tilts your head up as far as it goes without making you drop his dick out of your mouth. You force your eyes open, blink up at him, so close to unraveling under your touch. He gently holds you, brushes his thumb over your cheek as you concentrate on your breathing, taking him in deep again.

You're full of him. Your mind, your body, all of you. He is everything that matters, his pleasure the only thing that counts. The noises he's making, the little sighs, the deep groans, they have your heart beating out of your chest. You close your eyes again, concentrate on how he feels on your tongue, sucking, licking.

You keep a steady rhythm, tuning out the entire world around you, and when you feel the slightest change in pressure of his fingertips on the back of your neck, you know he's there.

You suck him in one more time and he meets you, thrusting into you, holding your head in place as he finally spills himself into you, his face twisted in bliss. Still shuddering, his thumb ghosting over your cheek, he says your name. That way, like he does. Dropping it from his lips like a prayer, worship, and absolution, all at the same time.

When you call my name It's like a little prayer I'm down on my knees I want to take you there In the midnight hour I can feel your power Just like a prayer You know I'll take you there

[londoncapsule]

JEFFREY DEAN MORGAN in RAMPAGE (2018) dir: Brad Peyton

[salt-and-sin-and-spn]

⛥ Headcanon of the day #14 ⛥

You told him to stay home. That you could handle the event alone. Blending in with a bunch of suits was nothing you couldn't handle on your own. But John insisted.

Even still banged up from the last hunt, the nasty cut on his forehead still threatening to burst open any second, he insisted on coming with you. So you don't fuck up our case, he said. Dick.

And now you're here, sitting at the bar, sipping on a dry ass martini, pretending to be listening to some bald guy who keeps yapping about how great of a businessman he is. And your eyes are glued to John.

Fucking John. Being as smooth as a 00 agent. A charming smile playing around his mouth. Both men and women hanging on his lips, several of them dumb looks on their faces.

You knew he was a great hunter. You just assumed it'd be more with the hands-on stuff. Research. Putting bullets into things. Cutting off extremities. You never imagined he could fake being an actual gentleman.

But there he is, making casual conversation, probably getting actual intel for the case, and looking ineffably handsome while doing so. Trimmed his beard, giving the gray a distinct silvery hue. He apparently even did something to his hair.

You pick the olive out of your drink, chew on the toothpick, still not listening to your conversational partner when John throws you a sideways look. You know he's going to scold you later for not being ladylike enough. A smirk tugs at the corners of your mouth at the thought. Maybe that's exactly what this evening needs.

You turn to the guy that just keeps rambling on, look him deep in the eyes and say, "no." You hop down from your stool, a little wobbly on your heels at first, but then march over to John. Your voice is dripping honey when you speak.

"Darling, I'm very sorry to interrupt your apparently very... stimulating conversation, but there's something I need you to see. Downstairs." John's expression remains the same on the surface, but you know him well enough to look for that one muscle beneath his left eye. And it's twitching like a mother.

You take his hand and just pull him along. Out of the main hall to find some broom cupord or something. Somewhere people aren't going to hear you, not immediately at least. And then you'll show him how to fuck up a case.

⛥Come and share your own headcanons here! The confessional is open.⛥

[pedrospascaled]

JEFFREY DEAN MORGAN AS JUDE FISHER Peace, Love & Misunderstanding (2011) - dir. Bruce Beresford

[salt-and-sin-and-spn]

⛥ Headcanon of the day #6 ⛥

You look at John from where you’re sitting on the couch, blanket tugged over your still naked body as he squeezes some oranges to make juice. Your jaw is on the floor. This day keeps getting crazier and crazier.

Weiterlesen

[insearchofsunrise-deactivated]

[salt-and-sin-and-spn]

⛥ Headcanon of the day #2 ⛥

You know drinking and smoking are bad for you. You still do it. You know you should cut back on the sugar. You’re still having that second serving of ice cream. And you know you shouldn’t be fucking John Winchester, but here we are.

Weiterlesen

[voodoochildthings]

Don't mind me, just curating some stuff for that girl who keeps going back to that toxic asshole ex lover of hers (it me)

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

reblog if you proudly romanticize literal villains ♡

[ambiguous-avery]

We all love a morally grey man who would burn the world down for us

[aniresrene]

And from that fire are the flames that warm us.

Like, why would anyone want us to be cold?

Rude.

[voodoochildthings]

Who's doing that?

[voodoochildthings]

This will be the last: Epilogue

John Winchester x reader | Fix-it Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Epilogue

20 years later, November 2nd, 2005.

Dean's standing at the kitchen window, arms crossed, brooding. He's been standing there for a while when his father joins him. They both stare outside, neither saying a word, the same stern look on both their faces.

Sam's opening a new bottle of wine when you join them. You run your hand through his hair, which has been quite challenging since that growth spurt he had 10 years ago. But he loves it, and so do you, so you give it your best shot.

"What's wrong with them?", you ask Sam, nodding at John and Dean. Sam just grins and rolls his eyes. It's John who speaks first.

"She should have been home half an hour ago," he says through gritted teeth.

"I told you you shouldn't have let her go. Man I swear, I hate that guy," Dean scoffs.

You can't help but laugh.

"You boys need to relax. Millie's 18 now, she can date whoever she sees fit."

Your youngest, Jake, shuffles into the kitchen, stuffing his face with jelly beans.

"You know she's only dating him to spite both of you, right?", he casually drops, then shuffles back out after grabbing a soda from the fridge. John and Dean look at each other, then at you.

"Go ahead and sit, we're starting lunch without her," you sigh, shaking your head.

You return to the table, take your place next to Jess and wait for the men to join you. You start uncovering the plates, Sam pours wine for anyone who wants some (except for Jake – "that is so unfair, I'm basically an adult"). He puts the bottle down and clears his throat.

"So, well, now that we're almost all together, I'd like to..."

He doesn't get much further because you hear the door going, and Millie walks in a couple of seconds later. She drops a motorcycle helmet in the corner, playfully smacks her twin brother in the back of the head as she passes him and then sits down, greeting everybody with a broad grin.

Dean's fuming. "Were you – did you go – I told you not to...", but John interrupts him after a scolding look from you.

"Dean, leave your sister alone. We'll talk about this some other time. I believe Sam was trying to say something?"

Millie crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue at her oldest brother, who angrily inflates like a puffer fish.

"Hey! Did you – Mom, did you see that! That's so—"

"Enough, both of you," you roar, shutting everybody up. You shoot Jess an apologetic look, but she just grins at the chaos in the Winchester household. She seems to have gotten quite used to it.

Sam clears his throat, again, and scratches his forehead.

"So, as I was saying, I wanted to tell all of you something..."

Dean's jaw drops and he almost jumps from his chair, pushing Sam out of the way and short of yelling at Jess. "Oh my God, you're pregnant! Yes! Finally! I'm so happy for you guys, I'm finally going to be an uncle!" There's a look of horror on both Sam and Jess' faces, and they go "what, no!" in almost perfect unison. Dean slumps back down in his seat, pouting, while Sam finally rambles on. "No, we're, we're just moving in together. Sorry you thought that..."

You lean over to hug Jess, chuckling. "Don't be sorry, Sammy. I'm sorry about your siblings' behavior. We're really happy for you two, that's a big step!" Sam smiles shyly, his cheeks a little pink.

You look at John, whose face is lit up with that same proud smile he only wears when something big happens. Like when the twins were born, Dean got accepted into the fire department academy, or when Sam got the full ride for Stanford. It looks good on him. You think back to when you met him, his face is fuller now, the dark circles beneath his eyes stem from age rather than pulling all-nighters on the road. You made him keep the scruffy beard though. It's become a lot more speckled with grey hairs these past few years. You snap out of your daydream when you hear Millie teasing Dean again.

"You know, if you wanna be an uncle that bad I could always arrange that," she grins an evil grin, prompting Dean to throw a piece of bread at her forehead.

"Way to ruin a moment, all of you," Jake huffs, rolling his eyes in contempt for his entire family.

And then you finally get on with lunch, you laugh, you chat about Sam and Jess' plans, and you steal more than one happy glance at your husband.

As the afternoon progresses and everyone spreads out in the house, you suddenly feel John's hands snaking around your waist while you're making yourself a cup of coffee.

"Whatcha thinking?" It still makes you shiver when he nibbles at your ear like that, even after all those years.

"Nothing, really," you smile. "'s just a beautiful life we have here."

John hums in approval. "It is. And I owe it all to you."

You roll your eyes, and although he can't see it, he somehow knows you're doing it.

He laughs. "Don't do that. You know it's true. If I hadn't found you that night, at that bar... who knows what would have happened."

A/N: You made it! Let me know if you liked it, I sure had fun writing it, they just all needed a place in the universe where they could be happy <3 And welcome to the John-girl-club 😏

[ambiguous-avery]

Millie crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue at her oldest brother, who angrily inflates like a puffer fish.

I LOVE this analogy and I have got to use it somewhere now 🤣🤣 sorry not sorry for shamelessly stealing this (with permission?)

I LOVED this mini series!! And I think it’s my first ever fic-it fic that fixed things from the beginning rather than the ending we don’t talk about

Definitely adding this to my top faves list! The domesticity, the sweetness, everyone getting the happy ending they deserve (yes, even you, John. Better not be dropping those kids off in random places anymore tho. I’m watching you.)

I love firefighter Dean (as opposed to the mechanic role we usually see people put him in - no hate at all for it, I just like a change in pace) and Sam bringing Jess around to meet his parents. Such a great way to start off my morning with this! 💜💜💜

Maaaaaaybe I’ll just slide on over and perch myself on the edge of the John-girls couch. Not fully sitting on it. But maybe on the arm rest.

[voodoochildthings]

Permission to steal the puffer fish granted, I'd be honored!

Thank you A, I'm so happy you liked it 😍 firefighter Dean just holds a special place in my heart, and notice how the position of his girlfriend is still open? 😏

Make yourself as comfortable as you can on the armrest, I'll be totally cool about it and pretend it's not a big deal 💕

[voodoochildthings]

This will be the last: Chapter 1

John Winchester x reader | Fix-it Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Epilogue

New Orleans, a hot summer night in July of 1985. You take your chances with a handsome stranger at the bar, but the man's got secrets.

Word count: 3.8 K

Tags: smut (p in v, a smidge of erectile dysfunction, safe sex – for now 😏), fix-it, witchy!reader, no use of Y/N, a bit of Louisiana voodoo vibes, canon-divergent, hurt and comfort, love story, John Winchester's stellar parenting. Will turn fluffy and domestic at some point, but not in this chapter.

A/N: I've written this a while ago, and somehow it has become one of my favorite pieces I've ever written. Maybe because I wrote it back when I had the time to do some actual research on what I wanted to write, maybe because in the meantime I've been radicalized into a John-ultra, maybe a little bit of both? Anyway, let me know if you enjoyed it, there's always room for another John-girlie *pats seat next to her*

July 2nd, 1985

You set the three bottles of beer down on the table. The night is hot and humid, as summer nights in New Orleans tend to be, your hair has been sticking to the back of your neck since you left the movie theater. That's why you decide to finally put it up in a loose bun, even though you had been going for a look that screamed more "party on a Friday night" than "library on Sunday morning".

Your friends are still going on about the new Ghostbusters movie you just saw, but you're not really paying attention. You're listening to the band playing, enjoying the bustling life in your favorite little bar. You scan the crowd, greet a couple of familiar faces, sip on your beer.

Your eyes finally land on a dark-haired guy sitting all alone at the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey. He's nice enough to look at, a face you haven't seen around before. Somehow, he looks like doesn't belong here. And he is definitely checking you out. Your gaze lingers for a second too long so that your friends notice, immediately starting to tease you about it. You turn back to your table, dismissing your friends, but they seem to be invested in the idea of you getting to know the handsome stranger.

As the place fills up, the music gets louder, more people start to dance. You keep sneaking glances at the brooding mystery man who just can't seem to keep his eyes off you. You drink, you eat, you laugh with your friends, and then suddenly, you're all very close to the bar.

You keep dancing with your girls, them being all giggly and trying to make you talk to the dark-haired man, but there's just something... Something feels off about him. You can't exactly put your finger on it, there's some sort of... darkness around him. But you're not that easily scared anyway, you know better than to buy into the whole satanic panic bullshit. Also, you've had one hell of a week and your friends could be right, getting laid by a rugged looking fella like him might just be exactly the stretching exercise you need to feel better.

While you're thinking all of that, you suddenly feel a vehement shove on your shoulder. You stumble forward and topple right into the handsome man's lap. Spilling your drink, you look back at your laughing friends, eyes wide with a look that clearly spells "I'm gonna kill you for this". Your friend yells "go get some," and they shake away, leaving you to handle the situation.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm down your slightly pink cheeks and look at the guy who is clearly enjoying the altercation.

"Your friends seem really nice."

He smirks down at you with dark eyes.

"Uhm, yeah. They're the best. Sorry about... all of this. They probably think it's hilarious."

He looks down at the big stain on his shirt, the wet fabric clinging to his skin, giving you the slightest idea of what his body looks like underneath it. It's a sight to behold.

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. I'll let it slip if you tell me your name."

You raise an eyebrow, thinking. Bite your lip. And decide to tell him.

He nods, repeating it. "That's a pretty name. I'm John, by the way." He takes your hand, kissing your knuckles. What a douche move, you think, it still makes you laugh. You know that type of man. They come to the south, looking for easy sex. They're pompous, all gallantry, and scared out of their minds their wives might find out so they give you a fake name. Most of the time their creativity peaks at John. Your eyes flicker to his left hand. You're not entirely sure, but there's a tiny mark that could indicate a wedding band that has been recently taken off. As in just for tonight. But you couldn't care less, you're not the one about to break their vows. You still can't resist poking fun at him.

"Funny how every stranger around here is called John," you grin, but try to keep your eye-rolling under control. You still want him to give you a good time tonight, after all.

You see a faint flash of concern flicker over his face, but he quickly recovers.

He laughs, runs his hand over his stubble, scratches his chin.

"Well, sweetheart, can I buy you a new drink?"

He fumbles with the lock to the building, confirming your suspicion that he's not from around here. The place isn't a hotel, he must've rented it privately. He finally manages to get the door open, pulls you inside and up to the second floor, where his apartment seems to be. This time, the door clicks open easily. As soon as you're inside, his mouth is back on yours. He's all tongue, pulling your body close to his and crowding it against the wall at the same time. You kick your shoes off, ripping at his clothes while he pulls you blindly into the next room, his back hitting first the frame and then the door. You barely have time to notice how scarcely the room is furnished, almost as if nobody really lived there. But that's how bachelor pads usually look like, right?

Your hands go to his belt, the clinking sound making the excitement in your core grow stronger. As soon as your hands are free again, he pulls your shirt over your head.

With the way you're tearing at each other, you decide that it's just more efficient to take your own clothes off, stripping down to your underwear while he does the same.

You carefully eye him from head to toe. He looks fit. His body is all muscles, but not those flashy gym muscles on steroids that are in fashion nowadays, no. This is the frame of a man who actually uses his body. To run, lift, punch maybe. Perhaps you should have been more careful than just to follow him home.

There's a hungry look on his face, his eyes seem to be glued to your chest, taking in your breasts in the lacy black bra, your tattoos that are usually covered by clothes. The pointy hip bones throwing the tiniest shadow over your abdomen in the dimly lit room. He's eating you up with his gaze, and you like it. You love it. The thrill, the challenge of all of it making your breathing heavier as you push him backwards to the bed. He tumbles back onto the mattress, giving you the opportunity to climb onto his lap. You run your hands over his chest, one grabbing on to his shoulder, the other going down, tugging at the waistband of his briefs.

John goes for another kiss, sucking your lower lip in, gently biting at it. He groans as your hand finally closes around his half hard dick, pulling it out.

You slowly start stroking him, looking down at how big he looks in your small hand. He leans back on his forearms, clearly equally enjoying the sight.

You grind your hips at him, pumping your fist up and down, but somehow you're not having the effect you hoped on him. You can see him starting to lose his nerves over his inability to get it up fast enough.

He opens his mouth to say something, but you shush him with your finger.

"Relax", you whisper, gently pressing him down so his back is flat on the mattress. "Close your eyes," you say, leaning down to trail a few kisses down his chest. You take his hand and place it on your breast, gently making him squeeze you. You watch his face, his brows unknotting the tiniest bit now that his eyes are closed. You can also feel his dick getting harder in your hand already. You know the look on his face, you know that he's thinking of someone else and you know not to take it personally. Your fingers trail down over his erection, gently cupping his balls, which he seems to like. His second hand goes up to your other breast, starting to massage both of them, his eyes still closed.

"If you want to," you say in a quiet voice, "you can call me by her name."

His eyes shoot open again and you wonder if you've gone too far for a second. His brows furrow again, he looks over your features in the dim light, a trace of sadness crossing his face before he shakes his head.

He then cups your cheeks, pulls you in for another one of those all-tongue-kisses, then unclasps your bra and pulls it off you. You can see his chest heaving as he lifts your ass up and tugs at your panties. You stand up quickly, shedding the last piece of clothing and giving him the opportunity to do the same.

For a second, you stand there, hypnotized by his naked body, his dick now standing fully erect between his legs. You're a bit surprised that, even already being on the larger end while half hard, he seems to be a grower.

"You got a rubber?"

He looks at you for a second, then nods and reaches for his night stand, pulling out a silvery package and tearing it open with his teeth. You carefully watch both him and his dick. At least he's not the kind of man that gets turned off by protection.

You lick your lips and climb back onto him when he's done, enveloping him in a kiss. His arms snake around you, running up and down your back, finding your ass, squeezing. His dick is patiently waiting, stuck between your writhing body and his while you press yourself up against him, running a hand through his hair, over his stubble, down his neck. His lips are puffy and red when you part from them. As you reach for him between your bodies, John pushes your ass up, giving you a little more room to align him to you.

You tease his head against your entrance, making him hiss in anticipation, and then slowly, inch by inch, let him sink into you.

Your eyes flutter shut as you try to adjust to his size, the curve of his dick perfectly pressing against your g-spot. You pull him in for another kiss and then slowly start grinding, your vision immediately going blurry. You know this probably isn't doing much for him, but right now, it's your turn. You'll let him fuck you however he wants later.

You start picking up the pace, pressing down on him hard, working yourself into a frenzy on his dick. John's hands dig deep into your ass, as if he's holding on for dear life. A sultry groan escapes his lips when you start moving up and down, involuntarily clenching around him inside you. You push his torso down, giving you more room to move freely. Using your hand to steady yourself on his surprisingly hard abs, you ride him like you would a mechanical bull. When his hands go back up to your tits, pinching your nipples, you can feel that your orgasm isn't far away.

You rock your hips against him hard, feeling the delicious drag of his dick inside you and dig your nails into his chest when he starts meeting your thrusts. Apparently this is doing something for him.

You hear his breathing getting shallower, lips parted, see his eyebrows twitching. It's obvious that he's close, so you let your eyes fall shut, focus solely on your sense of touch and his ragged breathing. He clamps his hand over your mouth as you come, stifling your moan as you fuck yourself hard on his dick, his thick fingers on your face grounding you nicely. The waves of pleasure coursing through your body are renewed as you feel John tensing up under you, spilling himself, biting back any sound. Your movements slow down as you try to catch your breath, your entire body tingling. You grin down at him, panting. He looks back up at you, and for some reason he seems a little overwhelmed. But you're not in the mood for a therapy session, so you just let him slip out of you, roll down from him and grab the box of tissues next to the bed to clean yourself up.

For a moment you're not sure if you should just get dressed and leave, but it's late, and you're tired. John seems to be able to read the question off your face, because after discarding the used condom he gets back into bed and pats the sheets next to him, so you decide to stay. Just for a little longer.

You idly lie there, head resting on his arm, your hand drawing circles on his chest. Inhale his scent, wooden and spicy, still riding on the high of your orgasm. Now that you're so close, you sneak a glance at the dog tags around his neck, which to your surprise actually have the name John engraved. You think back, trying to remember if the other veterans you've been with felt anything like him. Probably.

After a while, John gently pushes your shoulder, rolling you onto your back. You eye him curiously. He watches you for a minute, then his fingers start traveling over your chest, down to the intricate drawings that adorn your lower rib cage, just below your breasts.

"That's quite some ink you've got there,” he says, his voice suddenly sounding less tired than it had the entire evening.

Your lips twitch into a smile, but you don't speak. He continues, tracing the fine lines with his calloused finger.

"That's a vèvè, right?"

Your eyebrows go up in surprise.

"Look at that, somebody knows his voodoo."

John nods, his lips smiling faintly, but his brows betray him, deep in thought.

You turn back to your side, slinging your leg over his hips, enjoying the warmth of his body. For a while, you just lie there, the comfortable silence only disturbed by the scratching of your nails over the hair on his chest. But then, suddenly, you hear the door creaking, and shortly after that a tiny little voice.

"Dad?"

You pull the sheets up over your naked chest, eyes going wide in shock as you see the little boy, no older than six, trudging into the room, a tattered plushie dangling from his hand.

John shoots up, quickly pulling his briefs on and walks over to the boy.

"What's wrong, Dean?"

The boy looks at you, his eyes heavy with sleep. He scratches his belly, looking at you.

"I think Sammy's having a nightmare," he says, looking up at his father, then asks, "who is she?" John picks him up and leaves the room.

For a minute, you just sit there, processing. Then you slip out of the bed and start getting dressed. You're buttoning up your jeans when John comes back, alone.

"What are you doing?", he asks, his face tense. You blink at him in disbelief.

"What do you think I'm doing? I'm leaving," you mumble, looking for your shirt. You find it under the bed.

"Please... stay."

You raise your eyebrows at him.

"You've got kids??"

He furrows his brows.

"Yeah. So?"

You try to raise your eyebrows even higher, failing.

"So? So? Who the fuck was watching them when you were at the bar making googly eyes at me all evening? How old is that kid, six? Please tell me the other one's older," you hiss at him.

"Dean's turning seven next year, he takes good care of his little brother."

You shake your head, a disgusted look on your face.

"That's messed up, John. Honestly. Whatever is going on between you and their mother, you should really consider getting them back to her. Goodbye."

You go for the door, but John positions himself in the doorway, his big frame not leaving any space for you to slip through. You look at him in confusion. He's quiet when he speaks.

"I... can't let you leave. Sit down, please."

He nods toward the table and chairs in the far corner of the room. When you don't react you see him reaching for something, out of sight, in the hallway. He then takes a step toward you, careful not to touch you, but letting you see the gun in his hand.

Your eyes widen in horror. "Are you serious? You're gonna murder me with your kids sleeping next door?" You take a couple of steps back, scanning the room for possible exit routes as you feel cold sweat breaking out on your forehead. You should have been less trusting after all.

John screws up his face. "What? No! I'm... I'm not gonna kill you. Just sit down, will you?" He points with the gun. Feeling you don't have much of a choice, you sit down, watching his every move like a hawk.

He paces up and down for a moment, rubbing his free hand over his face. Then he sits at the table across from you, the gun resting on its surface. He takes a deep breath.

"I need you to summon someone."

You blink.

"You... what?"

"Don't play coy with me. I want you to talk to someone for me. Someone on the other side." You can tell by his voice that he is being absolutely serious.

You feel a muscle in your face twitch.

"... I don't know what you're talking about." Ridiculous, you think. How could an outsider like him possibly know that...?

He leans forward, slamming the gun on the table. It makes you flinch. For a split second he looks a bit taken aback by your reaction. He tries not to waver in his resolve.

"I know what you are. What you can do. You're saying this isn't yours?" His hand goes into a duffle bag sitting on the floor and pulls out a necklace. A necklace with a very familiar, green engraved talisman. One that you haven't seen in a long time.

Your brows furrow as he dangles the amulet in front of you.

"Where... where did you get this?"

He doesn't answer.

"So it is yours."

You shake your head, reaching for the pendant. He lets you take it. "No, it's not... it's... my Nana's."

You trace your thumb over the small green stone, a protective amulet, one like so many you've seen your grandma give to people back when she was alive. A gris-gris, she used to call it.

You look at John. You've had this weird feeling about him from the moment you laid eyes on him, but that darkness you felt... it's not aimed at you. It's directed inward, at himself. He's not going to hurt you. Not if you don't give him any reason to.

You bite the inside of your cheek, carefully considering.

His face seems hollow, dark circles under his eyes. Eyes that show determination, eyes that have seen things, eyes that... plead.

You know you probably shouldn't, but you decide to hear him out.

And then he tells you his story. About his wife, Mary. How they met, how they fell in love, how she was his safe haven. Made him feel whole. How they got married, had Dean, and then Sammy. And how she died. Engulfed in flames, pinned to the ceiling in Sam's nursery, blood dripping into his son's crib. His voice is monotone, like a recording. He's told this story before. Over and over. He's had to learn to shut himself off from it. He doesn't look up a single time while telling the tale, gaze fixed to his clenched fists.

He tells you that he's found out all about the supernatural, about monsters and ghosts. How he's been on the road ever since, trying to find whatever killed his wife and turned his life upside down. That he's been doing research, that he believes in all the chatter about voodoo, and that he found out about a family with powerful magical abilities in New Orleans. Your family. And then he asks you to summon her. Mary. To talk to her. So he can at least find out what exactly happened that night.

You sigh. Rub your eyes. Stare at his lips tightly pressed together as he awaits your response.

"John," you say quietly. "I... that's not how it works. I'm not... that's not something I can do."

He finally looks up at you, disappointment written all over his face.

He's silent for a minute. His lip twitches, then he asks, "that something you can't or you won't do?"

You chuckle sadly. "I can't. I don't have that kind of power."

You watch him let go of the gun, exhale sharply and bury his face in his hands. His fingers rake through his hair as he curses under his breath.

You sit there, watching him, the picture of a broken man with nowhere else to go.

You bite your lip, trying to stop yourself. You know you shouldn't meddle. But he just... something about him reminds you of a lost puppy, and you just can't help yourself.

"... I might know someone who could help, though."

His face instantly comes up from his hands. There's confusion in his eyes, disbelief, but also a faint shimmer of hope.

You stand up, walk over to the door as you speak. He follows you. The gun stays on the table.

"They're gonna need something of hers. Of your wife. Something personal, or a photo... and they're going to ask for payment."

John hurries to another bag lying close to the bed, fishes out a 100 dollar bill, raising his eyebrows in question. You nod. Then he pulls out a journal and flips through the pages. He takes out a piece of paper, the edges a little rough, and looks at it before handing it to you, together with the bill.

The photo has a crease down the middle, it's been looked at many times. There's John, his face a little rounder, no beard, no dark circles beneath his eyes. And the little boy from earlier, Dean, slightly younger but easily recognizable due to his many freckles. And there's a blonde woman holding a tiny baby. She's pretty, her smile is warm, even though she looks tired. Those must be Mary and Sam.

You nod at John. "Alright. I'll see what I can do."

John follows you to the door.

"Thank you," he mumbles, his head bent down, "and, uh, maybe... I just would like to have that back. When you're finished with it." He points at the photo in your hand. He seems to be slightly reluctant to let you walk away with it. It must be one of his most prized possessions.

You give a small nod. Then you leave, but turn around for a last time at the stairhead.

"I'll be back tomorrow. And don't you let those kids out of your damn sight."

⇢next chapter

[ambiguous-avery]

Alright. You got me. I’m hooked.

Am I a fully fledged John apologist? No. But do I want him to be happy? Yeah, okay, I do. Damn VC, I am instantly in love with this piece!! I regret not reading this when I can sit and binge all the parts of it in one go! I have some adult chores that are calling to me, but I’ll be back for more of this!! I’m so, so intrigued!

I love your descriptions of everything! The little hints at her abilities or at least sensitivities to otherworldly powers and such! And when she says that she doesn’t have that kind of power, it makes me wanna know what she can do!

Also not me looking up an inflation calculator for that 100 dollars in 1985. Google says that’s the equivalent of about 300 bucks in today’s money! 😱

I’ll certainly be back for more! You might just make a John-girlie out of me yet! 💜💜💜

[voodoochildthings]

Thank you for reading, friend!

Let's just say I panicked for a minute because I miiiight not have thought about inflation while writing this, but then I thought— 300 bucks for that kind of service? Still a bargain! We don't sell ourselves under value!

[rowanisawriter]

here this is for you *hands you a fic where i tore out a piece of myself still dripping blood and crammed it in between the lines and disguised it as a simple little story that i put on the internet for hundreds of strangers to see and maybe read and maybe think about*

[voodoochildthings]

Haha look, it's pwp *eye twitching violently*

[voodoochildthings]

This will be the last: Chapter 1

John Winchester x reader | Fix-it Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Epilogue

New Orleans, a hot summer night in July of 1985. You take your chances with a handsome stranger at the bar, but the man's got secrets.

Word count: 3.8 K

Tags: smut (p in v, a smidge of erectile dysfunction, safe sex – for now 😏), fix-it, witchy!reader, no use of Y/N, a bit of Louisiana voodoo vibes, canon-divergent, hurt and comfort, love story, John Winchester's stellar parenting. Will turn fluffy and domestic at some point, but not in this chapter.

A/N: I've written this a while ago, and somehow it has become one of my favorite pieces I've ever written. Maybe because I wrote it back when I had the time to do some actual research on what I wanted to write, maybe because in the meantime I've been radicalized into a John-ultra, maybe a little bit of both? Anyway, let me know if you enjoyed it, there's always room for another John-girlie *pats seat next to her*

July 2nd, 1985

You set the three bottles of beer down on the table. The night is hot and humid, as summer nights in New Orleans tend to be, your hair has been sticking to the back of your neck since you left the movie theater. That's why you decide to finally put it up in a loose bun, even though you had been going for a look that screamed more "party on a Friday night" than "library on Sunday morning".

Your friends are still going on about the new Ghostbusters movie you just saw, but you're not really paying attention. You're listening to the band playing, enjoying the bustling life in your favorite little bar. You scan the crowd, greet a couple of familiar faces, sip on your beer.

Your eyes finally land on a dark-haired guy sitting all alone at the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey. He's nice enough to look at, a face you haven't seen around before. Somehow, he looks like doesn't belong here. And he is definitely checking you out. Your gaze lingers for a second too long so that your friends notice, immediately starting to tease you about it. You turn back to your table, dismissing your friends, but they seem to be invested in the idea of you getting to know the handsome stranger.

As the place fills up, the music gets louder, more people start to dance. You keep sneaking glances at the brooding mystery man who just can't seem to keep his eyes off you. You drink, you eat, you laugh with your friends, and then suddenly, you're all very close to the bar.

You keep dancing with your girls, them being all giggly and trying to make you talk to the dark-haired man, but there's just something... Something feels off about him. You can't exactly put your finger on it, there's some sort of... darkness around him. But you're not that easily scared anyway, you know better than to buy into the whole satanic panic bullshit. Also, you've had one hell of a week and your friends could be right, getting laid by a rugged looking fella like him might just be exactly the stretching exercise you need to feel better.

While you're thinking all of that, you suddenly feel a vehement shove on your shoulder. You stumble forward and topple right into the handsome man's lap. Spilling your drink, you look back at your laughing friends, eyes wide with a look that clearly spells "I'm gonna kill you for this". Your friend yells "go get some," and they shake away, leaving you to handle the situation.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm down your slightly pink cheeks and look at the guy who is clearly enjoying the altercation.

"Your friends seem really nice."

He smirks down at you with dark eyes.

"Uhm, yeah. They're the best. Sorry about... all of this. They probably think it's hilarious."

He looks down at the big stain on his shirt, the wet fabric clinging to his skin, giving you the slightest idea of what his body looks like underneath it. It's a sight to behold.

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. I'll let it slip if you tell me your name."

You raise an eyebrow, thinking. Bite your lip. And decide to tell him.

He nods, repeating it. "That's a pretty name. I'm John, by the way." He takes your hand, kissing your knuckles. What a douche move, you think, it still makes you laugh. You know that type of man. They come to the south, looking for easy sex. They're pompous, all gallantry, and scared out of their minds their wives might find out so they give you a fake name. Most of the time their creativity peaks at John. Your eyes flicker to his left hand. You're not entirely sure, but there's a tiny mark that could indicate a wedding band that has been recently taken off. As in just for tonight. But you couldn't care less, you're not the one about to break their vows. You still can't resist poking fun at him.

"Funny how every stranger around here is called John," you grin, but try to keep your eye-rolling under control. You still want him to give you a good time tonight, after all.

You see a faint flash of concern flicker over his face, but he quickly recovers.

He laughs, runs his hand over his stubble, scratches his chin.

"Well, sweetheart, can I buy you a new drink?"

He fumbles with the lock to the building, confirming your suspicion that he's not from around here. The place isn't a hotel, he must've rented it privately. He finally manages to get the door open, pulls you inside and up to the second floor, where his apartment seems to be. This time, the door clicks open easily. As soon as you're inside, his mouth is back on yours. He's all tongue, pulling your body close to his and crowding it against the wall at the same time. You kick your shoes off, ripping at his clothes while he pulls you blindly into the next room, his back hitting first the frame and then the door. You barely have time to notice how scarcely the room is furnished, almost as if nobody really lived there. But that's how bachelor pads usually look like, right?

Your hands go to his belt, the clinking sound making the excitement in your core grow stronger. As soon as your hands are free again, he pulls your shirt over your head.

With the way you're tearing at each other, you decide that it's just more efficient to take your own clothes off, stripping down to your underwear while he does the same.

You carefully eye him from head to toe. He looks fit. His body is all muscles, but not those flashy gym muscles on steroids that are in fashion nowadays, no. This is the frame of a man who actually uses his body. To run, lift, punch maybe. Perhaps you should have been more careful than just to follow him home.

There's a hungry look on his face, his eyes seem to be glued to your chest, taking in your breasts in the lacy black bra, your tattoos that are usually covered by clothes. The pointy hip bones throwing the tiniest shadow over your abdomen in the dimly lit room. He's eating you up with his gaze, and you like it. You love it. The thrill, the challenge of all of it making your breathing heavier as you push him backwards to the bed. He tumbles back onto the mattress, giving you the opportunity to climb onto his lap. You run your hands over his chest, one grabbing on to his shoulder, the other going down, tugging at the waistband of his briefs.

John goes for another kiss, sucking your lower lip in, gently biting at it. He groans as your hand finally closes around his half hard dick, pulling it out.

You slowly start stroking him, looking down at how big he looks in your small hand. He leans back on his forearms, clearly equally enjoying the sight.

You grind your hips at him, pumping your fist up and down, but somehow you're not having the effect you hoped on him. You can see him starting to lose his nerves over his inability to get it up fast enough.

He opens his mouth to say something, but you shush him with your finger.

"Relax", you whisper, gently pressing him down so his back is flat on the mattress. "Close your eyes," you say, leaning down to trail a few kisses down his chest. You take his hand and place it on your breast, gently making him squeeze you. You watch his face, his brows unknotting the tiniest bit now that his eyes are closed. You can also feel his dick getting harder in your hand already. You know the look on his face, you know that he's thinking of someone else and you know not to take it personally. Your fingers trail down over his erection, gently cupping his balls, which he seems to like. His second hand goes up to your other breast, starting to massage both of them, his eyes still closed.

"If you want to," you say in a quiet voice, "you can call me by her name."

His eyes shoot open again and you wonder if you've gone too far for a second. His brows furrow again, he looks over your features in the dim light, a trace of sadness crossing his face before he shakes his head.

He then cups your cheeks, pulls you in for another one of those all-tongue-kisses, then unclasps your bra and pulls it off you. You can see his chest heaving as he lifts your ass up and tugs at your panties. You stand up quickly, shedding the last piece of clothing and giving him the opportunity to do the same.

For a second, you stand there, hypnotized by his naked body, his dick now standing fully erect between his legs. You're a bit surprised that, even already being on the larger end while half hard, he seems to be a grower.

"You got a rubber?"

He looks at you for a second, then nods and reaches for his night stand, pulling out a silvery package and tearing it open with his teeth. You carefully watch both him and his dick. At least he's not the kind of man that gets turned off by protection.

You lick your lips and climb back onto him when he's done, enveloping him in a kiss. His arms snake around you, running up and down your back, finding your ass, squeezing. His dick is patiently waiting, stuck between your writhing body and his while you press yourself up against him, running a hand through his hair, over his stubble, down his neck. His lips are puffy and red when you part from them. As you reach for him between your bodies, John pushes your ass up, giving you a little more room to align him to you.

You tease his head against your entrance, making him hiss in anticipation, and then slowly, inch by inch, let him sink into you.

Your eyes flutter shut as you try to adjust to his size, the curve of his dick perfectly pressing against your g-spot. You pull him in for another kiss and then slowly start grinding, your vision immediately going blurry. You know this probably isn't doing much for him, but right now, it's your turn. You'll let him fuck you however he wants later.

You start picking up the pace, pressing down on him hard, working yourself into a frenzy on his dick. John's hands dig deep into your ass, as if he's holding on for dear life. A sultry groan escapes his lips when you start moving up and down, involuntarily clenching around him inside you. You push his torso down, giving you more room to move freely. Using your hand to steady yourself on his surprisingly hard abs, you ride him like you would a mechanical bull. When his hands go back up to your tits, pinching your nipples, you can feel that your orgasm isn't far away.

You rock your hips against him hard, feeling the delicious drag of his dick inside you and dig your nails into his chest when he starts meeting your thrusts. Apparently this is doing something for him.

You hear his breathing getting shallower, lips parted, see his eyebrows twitching. It's obvious that he's close, so you let your eyes fall shut, focus solely on your sense of touch and his ragged breathing. He clamps his hand over your mouth as you come, stifling your moan as you fuck yourself hard on his dick, his thick fingers on your face grounding you nicely. The waves of pleasure coursing through your body are renewed as you feel John tensing up under you, spilling himself, biting back any sound. Your movements slow down as you try to catch your breath, your entire body tingling. You grin down at him, panting. He looks back up at you, and for some reason he seems a little overwhelmed. But you're not in the mood for a therapy session, so you just let him slip out of you, roll down from him and grab the box of tissues next to the bed to clean yourself up.

For a moment you're not sure if you should just get dressed and leave, but it's late, and you're tired. John seems to be able to read the question off your face, because after discarding the used condom he gets back into bed and pats the sheets next to him, so you decide to stay. Just for a little longer.

You idly lie there, head resting on his arm, your hand drawing circles on his chest. Inhale his scent, wooden and spicy, still riding on the high of your orgasm. Now that you're so close, you sneak a glance at the dog tags around his neck, which to your surprise actually have the name John engraved. You think back, trying to remember if the other veterans you've been with felt anything like him. Probably.

After a while, John gently pushes your shoulder, rolling you onto your back. You eye him curiously. He watches you for a minute, then his fingers start traveling over your chest, down to the intricate drawings that adorn your lower rib cage, just below your breasts.

"That's quite some ink you've got there,” he says, his voice suddenly sounding less tired than it had the entire evening.

Your lips twitch into a smile, but you don't speak. He continues, tracing the fine lines with his calloused finger.

"That's a vèvè, right?"

Your eyebrows go up in surprise.

"Look at that, somebody knows his voodoo."

John nods, his lips smiling faintly, but his brows betray him, deep in thought.

You turn back to your side, slinging your leg over his hips, enjoying the warmth of his body. For a while, you just lie there, the comfortable silence only disturbed by the scratching of your nails over the hair on his chest. But then, suddenly, you hear the door creaking, and shortly after that a tiny little voice.

"Dad?"

You pull the sheets up over your naked chest, eyes going wide in shock as you see the little boy, no older than six, trudging into the room, a tattered plushie dangling from his hand.

John shoots up, quickly pulling his briefs on and walks over to the boy.

"What's wrong, Dean?"

The boy looks at you, his eyes heavy with sleep. He scratches his belly, looking at you.

"I think Sammy's having a nightmare," he says, looking up at his father, then asks, "who is she?" John picks him up and leaves the room.

For a minute, you just sit there, processing. Then you slip out of the bed and start getting dressed. You're buttoning up your jeans when John comes back, alone.

"What are you doing?", he asks, his face tense. You blink at him in disbelief.

"What do you think I'm doing? I'm leaving," you mumble, looking for your shirt. You find it under the bed.

"Please... stay."

You raise your eyebrows at him.

"You've got kids??"

He furrows his brows.

"Yeah. So?"

You try to raise your eyebrows even higher, failing.

"So? So? Who the fuck was watching them when you were at the bar making googly eyes at me all evening? How old is that kid, six? Please tell me the other one's older," you hiss at him.

"Dean's turning seven next year, he takes good care of his little brother."

You shake your head, a disgusted look on your face.

"That's messed up, John. Honestly. Whatever is going on between you and their mother, you should really consider getting them back to her. Goodbye."

You go for the door, but John positions himself in the doorway, his big frame not leaving any space for you to slip through. You look at him in confusion. He's quiet when he speaks.

"I... can't let you leave. Sit down, please."

He nods toward the table and chairs in the far corner of the room. When you don't react you see him reaching for something, out of sight, in the hallway. He then takes a step toward you, careful not to touch you, but letting you see the gun in his hand.

Your eyes widen in horror. "Are you serious? You're gonna murder me with your kids sleeping next door?" You take a couple of steps back, scanning the room for possible exit routes as you feel cold sweat breaking out on your forehead. You should have been less trusting after all.

John screws up his face. "What? No! I'm... I'm not gonna kill you. Just sit down, will you?" He points with the gun. Feeling you don't have much of a choice, you sit down, watching his every move like a hawk.

He paces up and down for a moment, rubbing his free hand over his face. Then he sits at the table across from you, the gun resting on its surface. He takes a deep breath.

"I need you to summon someone."

You blink.

"You... what?"

"Don't play coy with me. I want you to talk to someone for me. Someone on the other side." You can tell by his voice that he is being absolutely serious.

You feel a muscle in your face twitch.

"... I don't know what you're talking about." Ridiculous, you think. How could an outsider like him possibly know that...?

He leans forward, slamming the gun on the table. It makes you flinch. For a split second he looks a bit taken aback by your reaction. He tries not to waver in his resolve.

"I know what you are. What you can do. You're saying this isn't yours?" His hand goes into a duffle bag sitting on the floor and pulls out a necklace. A necklace with a very familiar, green engraved talisman. One that you haven't seen in a long time.

Your brows furrow as he dangles the amulet in front of you.

"Where... where did you get this?"

He doesn't answer.

"So it is yours."

You shake your head, reaching for the pendant. He lets you take it. "No, it's not... it's... my Nana's."

You trace your thumb over the small green stone, a protective amulet, one like so many you've seen your grandma give to people back when she was alive. A gris-gris, she used to call it.

You look at John. You've had this weird feeling about him from the moment you laid eyes on him, but that darkness you felt... it's not aimed at you. It's directed inward, at himself. He's not going to hurt you. Not if you don't give him any reason to.

You bite the inside of your cheek, carefully considering.

His face seems hollow, dark circles under his eyes. Eyes that show determination, eyes that have seen things, eyes that... plead.

You know you probably shouldn't, but you decide to hear him out.

And then he tells you his story. About his wife, Mary. How they met, how they fell in love, how she was his safe haven. Made him feel whole. How they got married, had Dean, and then Sammy. And how she died. Engulfed in flames, pinned to the ceiling in Sam's nursery, blood dripping into his son's crib. His voice is monotone, like a recording. He's told this story before. Over and over. He's had to learn to shut himself off from it. He doesn't look up a single time while telling the tale, gaze fixed to his clenched fists.

He tells you that he's found out all about the supernatural, about monsters and ghosts. How he's been on the road ever since, trying to find whatever killed his wife and turned his life upside down. That he's been doing research, that he believes in all the chatter about voodoo, and that he found out about a family with powerful magical abilities in New Orleans. Your family. And then he asks you to summon her. Mary. To talk to her. So he can at least find out what exactly happened that night.

You sigh. Rub your eyes. Stare at his lips tightly pressed together as he awaits your response.

"John," you say quietly. "I... that's not how it works. I'm not... that's not something I can do."

He finally looks up at you, disappointment written all over his face.

He's silent for a minute. His lip twitches, then he asks, "that something you can't or you won't do?"

You chuckle sadly. "I can't. I don't have that kind of power."

You watch him let go of the gun, exhale sharply and bury his face in his hands. His fingers rake through his hair as he curses under his breath.

You sit there, watching him, the picture of a broken man with nowhere else to go.

You bite your lip, trying to stop yourself. You know you shouldn't meddle. But he just... something about him reminds you of a lost puppy, and you just can't help yourself.

"... I might know someone who could help, though."

His face instantly comes up from his hands. There's confusion in his eyes, disbelief, but also a faint shimmer of hope.

You stand up, walk over to the door as you speak. He follows you. The gun stays on the table.

"They're gonna need something of hers. Of your wife. Something personal, or a photo... and they're going to ask for payment."

John hurries to another bag lying close to the bed, fishes out a 100 dollar bill, raising his eyebrows in question. You nod. Then he pulls out a journal and flips through the pages. He takes out a piece of paper, the edges a little rough, and looks at it before handing it to you, together with the bill.

The photo has a crease down the middle, it's been looked at many times. There's John, his face a little rounder, no beard, no dark circles beneath his eyes. And the little boy from earlier, Dean, slightly younger but easily recognizable due to his many freckles. And there's a blonde woman holding a tiny baby. She's pretty, her smile is warm, even though she looks tired. Those must be Mary and Sam.

You nod at John. "Alright. I'll see what I can do."

John follows you to the door.

"Thank you," he mumbles, his head bent down, "and, uh, maybe... I just would like to have that back. When you're finished with it." He points at the photo in your hand. He seems to be slightly reluctant to let you walk away with it. It must be one of his most prized possessions.

You give a small nod. Then you leave, but turn around for a last time at the stairhead.

"I'll be back tomorrow. And don't you let those kids out of your damn sight."

⇢next chapter

[aniresrene]

WHOA WHOA

Wait a whole minute! Am I becoming a John apologist?

hell no. BUT DAMN. This first chapter sucked me in!

Voodoo, Hoodoo, slapping the shit out of john, I think that checks all the boxes for me!

[voodoochildthings]

Tihi thank you, amor!

I would have loved for the show to lean more into the whole hoodoo stuff, if Jarpad and Jackles weren't irreplaceable I'd call for a reboot with some poc in the writer's room to get some of that black magic in there! ✨️🌿🔥

Thank you for reading my old grumpy asshole smut 💕

[voodoochildthings]

This will be the last: Epilogue

John Winchester x reader | Fix-it Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Epilogue

20 years later, November 2nd, 2005.

Dean's standing at the kitchen window, arms crossed, brooding. He's been standing there for a while when his father joins him. They both stare outside, neither saying a word, the same stern look on both their faces.

Sam's opening a new bottle of wine when you join them. You run your hand through his hair, which has been quite challenging since that growth spurt he had 10 years ago. But he loves it, and so do you, so you give it your best shot.

"What's wrong with them?", you ask Sam, nodding at John and Dean. Sam just grins and rolls his eyes. It's John who speaks first.

"She should have been home half an hour ago," he says through gritted teeth.

"I told you you shouldn't have let her go. Man I swear, I hate that guy," Dean scoffs.

You can't help but laugh.

"You boys need to relax. Millie's 18 now, she can date whoever she sees fit."

Your youngest, Jake, shuffles into the kitchen, stuffing his face with jelly beans.

"You know she's only dating him to spite both of you, right?", he casually drops, then shuffles back out after grabbing a soda from the fridge. John and Dean look at each other, then at you.

"Go ahead and sit, we're starting lunch without her," you sigh, shaking your head.

You return to the table, take your place next to Jess and wait for the men to join you. You start uncovering the plates, Sam pours wine for anyone who wants some (except for Jake – "that is so unfair, I'm basically an adult"). He puts the bottle down and clears his throat.

"So, well, now that we're almost all together, I'd like to..."

He doesn't get much further because you hear the door going, and Millie walks in a couple of seconds later. She drops a motorcycle helmet in the corner, playfully smacks her twin brother in the back of the head as she passes him and then sits down, greeting everybody with a broad grin.

Dean's fuming. "Were you – did you go – I told you not to...", but John interrupts him after a scolding look from you.

"Dean, leave your sister alone. We'll talk about this some other time. I believe Sam was trying to say something?"

Millie crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue at her oldest brother, who angrily inflates like a puffer fish.

"Hey! Did you – Mom, did you see that! That's so—"

"Enough, both of you," you roar, shutting everybody up. You shoot Jess an apologetic look, but she just grins at the chaos in the Winchester household. She seems to have gotten quite used to it.

Sam clears his throat, again, and scratches his forehead.

"So, as I was saying, I wanted to tell all of you something..."

Dean's jaw drops and he almost jumps from his chair, pushing Sam out of the way and short of yelling at Jess. "Oh my God, you're pregnant! Yes! Finally! I'm so happy for you guys, I'm finally going to be an uncle!" There's a look of horror on both Sam and Jess' faces, and they go "what, no!" in almost perfect unison. Dean slumps back down in his seat, pouting, while Sam finally rambles on. "No, we're, we're just moving in together. Sorry you thought that..."

You lean over to hug Jess, chuckling. "Don't be sorry, Sammy. I'm sorry about your siblings' behavior. We're really happy for you two, that's a big step!" Sam smiles shyly, his cheeks a little pink.

You look at John, whose face is lit up with that same proud smile he only wears when something big happens. Like when the twins were born, Dean got accepted into the fire department academy, or when Sam got the full ride for Stanford. It looks good on him. You think back to when you met him, his face is fuller now, the dark circles beneath his eyes stem from age rather than pulling all-nighters on the road. You made him keep the scruffy beard though. It's become a lot more speckled with grey hairs these past few years. You snap out of your daydream when you hear Millie teasing Dean again.

"You know, if you wanna be an uncle that bad I could always arrange that," she grins an evil grin, prompting Dean to throw a piece of bread at her forehead.

"Way to ruin a moment, all of you," Jake huffs, rolling his eyes in contempt for his entire family.

And then you finally get on with lunch, you laugh, you chat about Sam and Jess' plans, and you steal more than one happy glance at your husband.

As the afternoon progresses and everyone spreads out in the house, you suddenly feel John's hands snaking around your waist while you're making yourself a cup of coffee.

"Whatcha thinking?" It still makes you shiver when he nibbles at your ear like that, even after all those years.

"Nothing, really," you smile. "'s just a beautiful life we have here."

John hums in approval. "It is. And I owe it all to you."

You roll your eyes, and although he can't see it, he somehow knows you're doing it.

He laughs. "Don't do that. You know it's true. If I hadn't found you that night, at that bar... who knows what would have happened."

A/N: You made it! Let me know if you liked it, I sure had fun writing it, they just all needed a place in the universe where they could be happy <3 And welcome to the John-girl-club 😏

[voodoochildthings]

This will be the last: Chapter 3

John Winchester x reader | Fix-it Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Epilogue

Three months later, you spot a couple of boys playing catch in front of your apartment building.

Word count: 3.4 K

Tags: smut (p in v, breeding kink), John being a terrible parent and getting smacked for it, hurt and comfort, love story, family fluff

October 18th, 1985

It's a busy October afternoon, you've been running errands preparing for your great-aunt's 90th birthday, when you turn the corner to your street. In the distance, you see a couple of boys in front of your building playing catch. They instantly remind you of Sam and Dean.

John has, surprisingly, kept in touch, calling from time to time, giving you updates on the boys. He says it's because Dean wants to talk to you. And he is a chatty little Cathy, that one. He has finally started school, regularly telling you about all of the cool things he's learning, complaining about Sammy always taking his books, wanting to learn as well.

As you get closer to your building you smile at how similar the boys really look to John's kids, the older one has short hair, the younger one is skinny, long hair, and seems to keep tripping over his own long limbs.

And then the older one spots you. He waves, flailing his arms wildly, and your jaw drops as actual Sam and Dean come running toward you.

Sam stops a few feet away from you, a shy grin visible right and left from his pacifier, while Dean full on runs into your legs.

"Oh good, you're finally here. We've been waiting for ages. Come on, I wanna show you my report card. Your hair looks really pretty like that by the way. I told Sammy he couldn't take his truck out of the bag until you got here because..."

You kneel, holding Dean's shoulders, looking at him.

"Hey, hey. Hang on. I'm happy to see you too, but... where's your dad?"

Sammy finally gets the courage to come closer, extends his little arms and lays his head on your leg. Dean's still beaming at you.

"Oh right, I've got a letter for you. Dad made me promise to take extra special care of it." He fishes a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to you.

Your brows furrow as you read it.

Hey,

I'm sorry to spring this on you like this.

I've got a lead on the knife and I can't take the boys with me. I know they'll be safe with you.

I'll be back in a couple of days.

J.

You look at Dean, still smiling, then at Sam, his face pressed into your thigh. You run your hand through his hair, take a deep breath and crumple up the note in your balled fist.

"Alright, let's get you inside then," you sigh, preparing mentally for a long weekend of babysitting. If you had known at this point that it'd be almost two weeks until you see John again, you probably would have screamed.

The next day, you take the boys to your great-aunt Tessie's birthday. Dean is the life of the party, chatting everyone's ears off, stuffing his face with pie and bouncing around on a sugar rush. Sam's a little more guarded, timidly tied to your apron strings. He does enjoy playing with Tessie's old Beagle, though. You get a lot of eyebrow wiggles from inconsiderate relatives, joking about how you found yourself a couple of kids before finding a husband, but you brush them off. You're just happy Sam and Dean are having a good time, get to be normal kids for a while.

On day 4, when Dean starts asking when John's coming back, you take them to the Aquarium. They marvel at the sharks, you get them each a serving of curly fries and Sammy's so proud because he almost managed to stay inside the lines on his coloring sheet.

On day 7, the boys are playing catch outside in the street, when you suddenly hear Sam crying. You find them sitting on the doorstep, Sammy rubbing his eyes, but other than that okay. Then you see Dean, his arm around his little brother, comforting him, a nasty scrape on his own knee. You pick up Sammy and steady Dean to help him inside. He doesn't shed a single tear, his tiny jaw clenched.

On day 9, Sammy actually talks to you for the first time. He shuffles into the living room where you're sitting, tugging his blanky behind him, takes out his pacifier and looks at you saying, "book?" Your heart almost melts at that one, and you spend most of the afternoon reading to him.

Day 13 is the day that John finally shows up. Dean has been helping you with the cooking, he's gotten really good at peeling potatoes, and Sammy's stacking cardboard boxes in the living room. You hear the roaring of an old engine, and a couple of minutes later an unfamiliar knock. You wipe your hands on a towel, throw it on the counter and go to get the door.

John looks tired, his hair's greasy and where there used to be thick stubble, there's now a full grown beard.

His face snaps to the side as your palm connects with his cheek, making a loud cracking sound.

John slowly turns his head back to look at you.

"Alright, I guess I deserved that."

You turn around, leaving John standing in the doorway and walk back to the kitchen as the boys run past you to greet their father.

You finish up the meal, put it on the stove while John talks to the boys in the hallway and sit down at the table. You chew the inside of your cheek. Seeing John appear on your doorstep like this... it made you angry. Even though you feel it should be a good thing that he came to pick up his boys. Right?

A couple of minutes later, he walks in. He awkwardly stands there, scratches the back of his head, watching you sitting there with crossed arms and a look on your face that could kill people.

"Can we talk?"

Your eyes narrow at him. "Now you wanna talk? You show up two weeks after just dropping off your kids here unannounced, and now you want to talk?"

He sighs. "Listen... I'm sorry. I should've asked. But I had to make a quick decision and... I knew they'd be safe with you."

He looks at you with pleading eyes. You don't respond.

"I... it's over now, you know. He's dead."

A look of surprise flickers across your face.

"You... you killed the demon?"

John nods.

"Believe me, it wasn't easy. But I did."

You swallow, your lips pursed.

"Well. Good for you. I guess you finally can go back to being a dad, then."

John bites his lip. He looks down, shame written across his features. That one really hit home.

"I'm sorry. I'll... we'll get out of your hair."

He slowly turns around, leaves the kitchen.

You swallow as you watch him walk away. You're not sure why, but all of this, the entire situation just makes you want to scream. It has you wound up like you rarely are, and all because of this man that, if you're being honest, you barely know, and his kids that shouldn't be your problem. You inhale deeply and listen to what's going on in the living room.

You hear John talking to Sam and Dean, rummaging with their bags, Dean arguing and Sam starting to cry.

You wait for the fighting to calm down, but it doesn't. Sam's sobbing, Dean's throwing a full-blown tantrum and you can hear John starting to lose his nerve just before you decide to intervene. You step into the doorway and all three turn to look at you.

"Dinner's ready in 10 minutes. Why don't you boys help me with the plates, John, you can go take a shower. There's fresh towels in the cabinet."

He clenches his jaw, his eyes darting from you to his sons and back. Dean's little face is still red, Sam's got a hiccup. You gently guide the boys back to the kitchen and point John in the direction of the bathroom. He rubs his hand over his face, then obliges.

He's back just as you're serving dinner. Sam and Dean are already sitting at the table when he comes into the kitchen. His hair is damp, the color on his face looks a little livelier. He hasn't shaved and is still wearing the clothes he was before, but it's a start.

When you all sit down to eat everyone's quiet at first. But when John asks how the past two weeks have been, Dean starts talking again, going into minute details, and so you eat and sit and laugh until it's bedtime for the boys. Dean begs his father to stay, "just for one more night," and John redirects the question to you with his look. You bite your lip, look at him, then at Dean, then Sam. And then you nod.

It takes John longer to get them to sleep than it has taken you the past couple of days. When he comes back, he sits at the table with you. You go to the fridge, get two bottles of beer and put one down in front of him. He nods appreciatively.

The silence in your kitchen is deafening. Neither of you talks. You take a sip of your beer while John only stares at his, then at you, and back at his beer. You don't really feel like talking since you're not the one who's got some explaining to do. The stare you're giving him might possibly be a little too intimidating. He starts fidgeting with the label on his beer, and then, another minute after that, he finally speaks.

"So... it sounded like the boys had a good time with you."

Your jaw twitches, the unforgiving look still on your face.

"They missed you."

He looks down. Smiles a sad smile.

"Looks like they don't even want to leave anymore."

Your expression softens a little at that. Have Sam and Dean been so starved for attention that they would rather stay with you than their dad? The thought is so uncomfortable that you decide to push it away. You clear your throat.

"...and you're a certified demon slayer now, huh?"

John seems a bit confused at your sudden change of topic, but goes along with it. Not that he'd be that keen on talking about how great of a parent he is. He starts telling you all about how he tracked down the knife, the one for killing the demon. About how he had to summon and then get rid of a djinn to do so. How he tried various spells to locate the demon, how he teamed up with a couple of other hunters to finally gank it. It all sounds absurd, so much of it depending on luck, so many ways this could have gone wrong. You're glad the boys didn't get caught in the crossfire of all of it.

John goes from this story into others, telling you about the things he's hunted. You've always been a firm believer in the supernatural, you know things, but the creatures he tells you about... vampires, women in white, the occasional chupacabra. It's wild. You can feel your tension melt away by the minute, conversation with John flowing easily. He seems like a different person, now that he's finally finished this job of his.

After a while, you move into the living room. The kitchen is only so comfortable, and you're starting to feel a little tipsy as you're getting to the bottom of your second – third? – bottle of beer.

You slump down on your couch, stretching out your legs. John follows you, looking around, unsure where to sit, seeing you're occupying all of the couch. You smirk at him, then pull your feet back a little, making space for him. Your bodies still touch as he sits his huge frame down.

You make yourself comfortable and listen while he finishes the story about a revenant he crossed paths with as you slowly start pushing your toes under his warm thigh. You're not really paying that much attention to what he's saying though, you just like the sound of his voice, deep, rumbling. You like looking at him, at the glowing eyes surrounded by his dark lashes and thick eyebrows. 

You only realize he must've asked you a question because he suddenly stops talking and just sits there, returning your gaze. You blink.

“What?”

He huffs, smirking as he pries out one of your feet from under him and takes it into his hand. He presses down firmly on one spot that makes your vision go blurry for a second when he repeats his question. 

“I asked,” he says with that stern look on his face that you've seen multiple times now, “if I can make it up to you.”

You tilt your head, look at him. Then you sigh and shake your head.

“John,” you start, and you're surprised by how soft your voice sounds. “I'm not the one you need to make things up to.”

You take in his features, watch his gaze drop and his lip twitch. He inhales, seemingly bracing himself. He knows what you're talking about. 

“Look, I… I don't know what to say. I tried. I'm still trying. I'm doing the best I can.”

He's raised his voice, just a little bit, and his nostrils are flaring. You narrow your eyes, wait for him to lash out at you. You're ready to give him a piece of your mind. But he doesn't. So you speak again, quietly.

“I don't think you are.” 

His jaw clenches. He looks down. He squeezes your foot that's still resting in his lap for a couple of seconds before he realizes he's about to hurt you. Then he takes another deep breath and looks up at you again, with those pleading eyes. The ones that make you want to give him anything. 

“Can you help me? Be better?”

Your heartbeat stutters. You take him in, sitting there, asking you to… to what? You chew on the inside of your cheek, your heart picking up the pace as if it's trying to make up for the beat it skipped.

You want to speak, say something. That you'll help him. That you'll be there. For him. For the boys. To kick his ass if he ever pulls shit like that on his sons again. To hold him close and pick up the pieces when he needs you to.

But you don't know how, so you don't. Instead, you crawl over to him, your hands landing on his thigh and shoulder, and kiss him.

He meets your lips with fervor, buries his hands in your hair. You keep kissing, biting, tugging at each other until you're flat on your back, John towering over you, hungry for every bit of skin of yours he can reach. He pushes his hand under your shirt, playing at the wiring of your bra while you start unbuttoning your pants. He straightens up, takes his shirt off, revealing a couple of nasty bruises that weren't there the last time you saw him. But you're quickly distracted by his hands going down to his jeans, mesmerized by the way his body looks and moves. 

As soon as you both shed your clothes, your hands are on each other again. His kisses are wet and hot on your body, you moan as you feel his hand getting closer to your wetness. He pushes a finger into you, his thumb circling your clit as your eyes start fluttering shut. He feels so good so close to your skin, but you want more. Need more. When you tell him, he pulls his fingers from you and reaches down to tease the tip of his dick against your entrance.

You open your eyes, furrow your brows at something you remember, and just in time.

“You got a rubber?”

John halts, looks at you.

“I… I don't have one on me.”

You stare at him. It seems like you're both frozen, even though your bodies are sweltering hot.

John opens his mouth, then slowly says, “I mean… I could just pull out?”

You blink at him, eyebrows twitching.

“Are you crazy? What if you get me knocked up?”

John tilts his head, and you could swear there's a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“So…?”

You blink again, stare at him for a little longer. Then you whisper, because you're not sure you want to hear what you're saying.

“Fuck it.”

John's inside you a second later. He slides right in because of how wet you are, and you feel the air being punched out of your lungs as he enters you. He groans, buries his face in your hair, and without further ado starts thrusting into you.

Your eyes are closed as you concentrate on the feeling of his skin on yours, his body melting into yours. He pulls you close to him, so close it's making it hard to move, and you surrender yourself to him.

The way he moves inside you... it's starting to feel familiar, and yet like nothing you've ever felt before.

As you arch your back, reveling in the pleasure, you feel him shifting, his knee sliding off the narrow couch. The way he holds onto you makes another wave of heat go to your core, but you need him to be able to move freely. To give you everything. 

You give him another kiss, lick against his tongue, and then you push him off you. There's confusion written over his features, but only until he realizes you're turning around. Bracing yourself against the low backrest of your couch, you stick your ass up at him, the curve of your back swaying left and right with your movement. You can't see him in this position, but you hear his low growl, just before he sinks his digits into the skin of your behind.

When he buries himself in your pussy again, he goes so much deeper than before. It makes you whimper. As he drives into you, he pulls your ass flush against his hips with every thrust, and you have a hard time breathing. You can feel that the way you're reacting to him fucking you is driving him crazy, the sounds you're making putting him dangerously close to the edge. Still, he picks up speed, pounding into you. You try to be quiet, but when his hand finds your clit the moan that drops from your lips is so sinful that you know what's going to happen next.

John thrusts again, and once more, panting, and then speaks with a shaky voice. 

“I can't… I'm gonna…”

You feel him starting to pull out, but your hand goes to his upper thigh, nails clawing into him, keeping him close.

“Don't pull out,” you pant.

You feel him stiffening up, hesitating. 

“Fill me up, John, I need to feel you inside me.” You barely get the words out, arousal thick in your throat.

And then he starts moving again. With all his weight he snaps his hips forward, driving into you fast, sloppily, and then he snakes his arms around your torso, almost crushing you as he pulls you into him. You feel his dick twitching against your walls, the warmth of his come inside you, his body shaking behind you. It's everything you need and more for the orgasm to rip through you, every nerve end in your body going off like a firework. You moan breathlessly and slump into the couch as he collapses onto you, slick with sweat.

As you're standing in the bathroom getting yourselves cleaned up, you keep stealing glances at John. Tall. Dark. Brooding. And, hidden under that surface, soft. Vulnerable. You watch the muscles on his back moving underneath the skin, underneath the scars. You step up close to him, run your hand down his spine. He watches you in the mirror. You have to swallow before you speak, quietly.

"You know... you could always stay for another couple of days. Just, ya know, for the boys." He looks at you over his shoulder, a faint look of surprise on his features. You see him searching your face for a while, and then a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He turns to you, lays his hand on your cheek, thumb gently stroking over your skin, and pulls you in for a deep kiss.

⇢Epilogue

[voodoochildthings]

This will be the last: Chapter 2

John Winchester x reader | Fix-it Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Epilogue

You're not sure why you return to John's place, but you do.

Word count: 3.4 K

Tags: smut (f receiving oral, p in v), domesticity, Sam and Dean as kids, family fluff, developing relationship

July 3rd, 1985

It's late afternoon when you find yourself on John's doorstep. You raise your hand to knock, hesitate for a moment, then the door opens. You look down at the young boy from yesterday, a leather pouch in his hand, eyes going wide as he sees you.

"Hey there," you smile down at him. "Dean, right?"

The boy nods. He looks you up and down.

"What have you got there?"

Dean blinks, then sticks out his skinny arm, showing you the hunting knife he is holding.

You raise your eyebrows. "Your dad lets you play with that?"

Dean shakes his head, a stern look on his tiny face.

"I'm not playing. I'm training." You wonder how a kid his age is able to speak with that much gravitas already.

"Oh, training. I see," you nod. "Just promise me you'll be careful, alright?"

He nods again, solemnly, and slips past you, leaving the door ajar. You go in and close it behind you.

The place is quiet. You carefully venture inside, looking for John. The room to the left, the one you had him as a midnight snack in yesterday, is empty. In another room to the right, on a worn out couch and tucked under a baby blue blanket, is another boy, much younger than Dean. His chest is slowly rising and falling, a strand of hair slightly moving in front of his nose every time he exhales. That must be little Sammy.

You walk ahead into the kitchen and finally find John sitting at the table, hunched over a book, jotting something down. You knock on the doorframe.

He looks up, turning to face you, hastily closing the journal he was writing in. It's the one he took the photo from, yesterday. He stands up, loudly pushing the chair back, and takes a couple of steps towards you. He's close to you now, a little too close if it were somebody else you met less than 24 hours ago, towering over you. But then again, it's not like he hasn't already slept with you, held you at gunpoint and told you his entire life's story. Hell, you even met the kids.

He just stands there for a second, stunned. You look him over. He hasn't shaved, the same dark circles surround his hazel eyes.

"You came."

You gaze up at him. You can feel his breath fanning over your cheek.

"Yeah. You sound surprised."

He scratches the back of his head, runs his hand over his face.

"Uh, no. Right."

He looks unsure of what he's supposed to do, now that you're actually there.

You press past him, sit down at the table, dropping your bag on the floor. He follows you, moves to sit down, then decides against it. He goes to the fridge, which, as he opens the door, you can see is practically empty.

"Want a beer?"

You snort at his exceptional hospitality and nod.

He slams the fridge shut, twists off the caps and hands you one of the bottles. He takes a big gulp from his and you watch a small droplet of condensed water run down the bottleneck, over his lip, into his stubble. Your eyes wander down a little further, over his jaw, down to the Adam's apple that bobs noticeably as he swallows. You clear your throat and take a sip of the cold beer.

"Alright," you sigh, pulling a small booklet out of your bag. You open the page where you scribbled everything down and hand John's photo back that you'd carefully placed between the pages. He doesn't look at it before tucking it away in his journal.

"There's good news and bad news," you slowly start, not quite sure where to begin.

"The good news is, I found out what killed your wife." John's eyebrows go up in anticipation.

"The bad news is... well, it's... bad."

You proceed to tell him all about what you were able to find out. About the yellow-eyed demon who goes by the name of Azazel, and about what he did to baby Sam. John listens without saying a word, scribbling down a few key elements of your story up until the point where you tell him about the demon's plan, the special children and the coming war, then he just keeps carving his pen into the paper, tearing the pages. There's a vein very prominently popping on his forearm, his knuckles are white.

You tell him the little that your people actually know about demons, how they're nearly invincible, but you also tell him the legend of an old knife, a dagger that's supposed to be able to kill them. His face takes on a new look of resolve at that point.

He sits there for a while, brooding, mulling over what you just told him. You stay quiet, watching a manifold of emotions crossing his face. It worries you, the anger, the grief, but especially the determination. You think of Dean, "training" with his knife, and little Sam who looked so peaceful, asleep on the old sofa. And then, as if he had felt it, you suddenly hear a kid's naked feet waddling towards you, stopping in the doorway.

You turn to look at him. He's a skinny kid, tiny fists rubbing the long hair out of his tired eyes, the knitted blanket he was sleeping under tightly clutched in one of them. He looks at his dad questioningly, sucking on his pacifier.

You squat next to your chair, getting on eye level with the boy.

"Hey little man. You're Sammy, right?"

He nods.

"That's quite a cuddly blanket you've got there."

He grins a cheeky grin, then shily toddles over to his dad. He tugs at John's pants, then points at the fridge.

John ruffles Sam's hair. "You hungry, lil' buddy?" He nods, again.

John stands up, lets his gaze roam over the empty kitchen. He scratches his neck.

"Well, I guess I can make you a grilled cheese sandwich..."

You stare at John. He looks slightly taken aback, apologetically shrugging. At least he's embarrassed.

"Does the stove work?"

His eyes flicker over to the unused kitchen appliances.

"Uh, yeah, but I don't..."

You stand up, grabbing your bag.

"I'll be back in a few. And you're reimbursing me."

When you come back a little over 20 minutes later, you're carrying a brown paper bag full of groceries, Dean at your side, carrying the second bag. He's barely able to look over it but happily babbling away.

"You know, one time my dad took me shooting cans and I hit all of them. Even the small ones. And another time, when we were at the roadhouse, Bill let me throw his knife and I almost hit the target. But I didn't really try that hard so it doesn't count. And one time, when we were with Ellen, Jo was still in her belly..."

You have a serious look on your face, listening to all of his tales, replying in all the appropriate places with wows and ahhs.

When you enter the kitchen, John's standing there, Sam on his arm, watching your conversation with Dean. His features are... soft, somehow. It's a look you haven't seen on him before. There even might be a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You put your paper bag down on the table and help Dean with his, shooting John a look that's supposed to be scolding, but you can't help but grin a little.

You then start unpacking, peeling potatoes, chopping vegetables, Dean trying to help every step of the way. John's not that much of a help, but at least he uses the time to throw a ball back and forth with little Sam, so it's fine by you.

Not much later you've got dinner ready, and all three boys' eyes are gleaming at the look of the beautiful, home-cooked meal.

You all dig in, Dean still chatters away and Sam, to your surprise and unlike any other kid his age you've met, starts picking at the food but only eats the green vegetables. You sip at your beer, taking in the scene. The sheer domesticity of it is... well, comforting somehow, and you're not exactly sure why, but seeing John like this, actually laughing with these two boys... it makes you happy.

After a while, John takes the boys to bed, both clearly fighting to stay awake, Dean a little more successful than Sam. While he's away, you start piling the dishes in the sink. If John thinks you're going to cook for him and do the dishes he can think again.

When the kitchen looks somewhat presentable again you turn around, startled to find John leaning in the door frame, arms crossed. You didn't even hear him coming back. Has he been watching you clean his messy kitchen?

You stand there, a little unsure of what to do and wipe your hands on your jeans. You open your mouth, but John's quicker.

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

"For the research. And... and for dinner."

You nod, biting your lip.

John slowly crosses the room in only a few strides, and there he is again, crowding your personal space. The tension in the room is palpable, at least.

His hand goes to your face, his thumb brushing over the soft skin on your cheek. He tilts your chin up, and you can already feel yourself sinking into his gaze like it's quick sand. Funny how as a kid, you had hugely overestimated the role quicksand would play in your life. And you surely hadn't imagined it being that handsome.

John takes another half step and his chest is flush with yours, his hand gently pulling you in, and then your lips meet. It is a soft, almost chaste kiss, wildly different from the way he kissed you yesterday. Yesterday, he was playing a part. He was pretending to be someone you'd want to go home with. Tonight, he's actually John.

He lifts you up, grabbing you firmly by your ass, gently pushing you into the wall behind you.

You pull back a bit to look at him, but his lips chase you. When he finally breaks the kiss you're not sure what it is you're reading on his face. There's gratitude, there's questions, and there's hesitation.

He tries to kiss you again, but you pull away in the little space you have left between him and the wall. You shift a little, trying to get him to drop you, but he doesn't. His grip on you is tight.

"John... you don't have to..."

You watch his brows furrow.

"If you don't want this I'll stop."

You shake your head.

"That's not it. You're clearly not ready to..."

"No. I am."

His eyes meet yours with a pleading look. His voice is barely audible when he speaks again, and it feels like he is whispering because he's afraid of the words coming out of his own mouth.

"I want this. I want you."

Your hands find his hair, you press your body up against his. One of his arms wraps around your back, the other firmly under your ass as he carries you toward the bedroom. He doesn't let go of you when he sits you on the edge of the bed, dropping to his knees like a sinner ready to repent. His lips break away from yours, finding their way down your jaw, over the pulse point on your neck. You feel his nose brushing over your skin as he makes his way down to your hips, fingers tugging at your waistband. You push yourself up on your hands, allowing him to pull the fabric off you, pants and underwear in one go, sliding them down your legs.

You sit there, watching him watch you. His hands are on your thighs, slowly rubbing up and down, his gaze glued to your exposed pussy. He gently spreads your legs, scooting closer to you and plants a kiss on the inside of one of your thighs. He traces lines up and down with his lips, your eyes almost fluttering shut at the heavenly burn of his stubble on your sensitive skin.

When your hand finds his hair again, you can feel him leaning into your touch, wanting you to caress him, like he's been starved for affection. You run your nails over his scalp. He groans. Shivers. And then you feel his tongue licking a stripe up, halting just next to your wetness. He starts nibbling at your flesh, teasing you without touching you where you want him to, nuzzling his head into your crotch while refusing to give you any sort of relief, right until you finally take matters into your own hand. You grab a fistful of his hair, gently but determinedly guiding you where you need him. You can feel him smiling against you as he lets out a soft moan. How out of character for such a tough guy, and that's the last thing you think just before your brain switches off because his tongue finally finds your clit.

He's still slow, tongue flat against the bundle of nerves between your legs. You can tell he's relishing your taste, taking the time to savor you. Your breathing hitches when he finally starts circling you with the tip of his tongue. You let go of his hair, let your upper body hit the bed and arch your back, giving him better access to your most intimate parts. One of John's hands is holding on to your hip, pressing you into the mattress, when you feel a finger of the other one gently teasing your entrance.

Your eyes finally close with a sultry moan when he pushes two of his calloused fingers into you, curving them and immediately finding that spot that, if handled well, will make you forget your own name.

You just lie there, taking him, his movements painfully slow at first, but picking up speed with every little whimper that leaves your lips. He pumps into you with purpose, his tongue continually flicking against you. After a while, he starts sucking, burying his face between your legs. He angles his wrist, suddenly applying even more pressure exactly where you want it, and it doesn't take you long to reach the point of no return. You bite down on your own arm, trying to stifle the moans escaping you as John makes you come, your hips twitching from the intense stimulation. But he keeps you pinned down, licking and fingering you through the orgasm until your body goes limp. When his grip on you finally loosens, the sheets beneath your pussy are soaked.

John stands up, wipes his mouth with his forearm while looking at the messy state he's left you in. Usually, men tend to have a proud look on their face after making you come like that, but John's... serious. It's not that he's not enjoying himself, but he's concentrating, like this is something of the utmost importance that he has to do just right, or else.

While he starts to undress, you crawl up on the bed and sit to get your own shirt off, your breathing still quick. You fumble a little with your jewelry, your necklace catching on a thread as you try to get naked, and when you look back at John he's already fully in the nude. That man really is quick and quiet. He's standing at the side of the bed, touching himself, a condom ready to go.

"Come here," you whisper, and he crawls onto the bed, one knee pressing between your thighs. You kiss him, guiding his hands to your body, pulling him close. You take the rubber from his hand, take him into your palm, start stroking him until he's ready. He stops kissing you to watch your fingers roll the protection over him, his breathing getting heavier. Then his eyes wander back up to you.

As his hands run over your breasts you suddenly notice something that hadn't been there before. You're a little surprised you didn't see it earlier. A thick, silvery ring on the finger that yesterday only bore that faint mark, making you suspicious. John put his wedding band back on. You look up at his face, studying him. His eyes are religiously following his hands, drinking in the way your skin dips under his touch. He doesn't seem as distracted as he did yesterday. Tonight, he is in the room with you. But there's still sadness lingering on him, sadness that you now understand will never go away. Not really.

That doesn't mean you can't take his mind off it for an hour or two. You reach between your bodies, your hand finding his dick to line him up to your entrance. You tease him against your wet skin, once, twice, and then he pushes inside you. Again, he goes painfully slow, making you feel every inch of him. When he's fully seated, he just stays there, not moving, looking you so deep in the eyes it almost makes you blush – a ridiculous feeling, considering that the man is literally inside you.

His arm snakes under your neck, pulling your bodies impossibly close, while the other hand lands on your torso, his thumb caressing your skin. Right next to the ink that ultimately made him pull that gun on you yesterday. You push the thought away. And then, he starts to move. Slowly dragging himself out of you, pushing back in. His rhythm is steady, his hips grinding against yours, all of him touching all of you. His lips wander down from yours, nibbling at your ear, his breath hot on your skin.

Tonight, he's taking charge of your pleasure. You let him. He's the one setting the tone, but he's gentle, almost shy. And you let yourself be soft for him. You wrap your arms around him, hold him, whisper sweet nothings into his ear. At some point, when you call him good, you can see him visibly shivering under your touch. He picks up his pace after that, his movements becoming more uncoordinated by the second. His constant grinding already has you so on edge that it doesn't take a lot more to send you flying, your second orgasm not as intense as the first, but long and stretched out. You're still so physically close that it's hard to see, but you can feel his face twisting as he comes from your pussy clenching around him, spilling himself while squeezing your entire body tight.

He doesn't immediately move, letting both of you come down from your high before he gets up to clean himself up. He's back in the bed a couple of minutes later, pulling you close. Again.

It's a strange feeling, you're not exactly sure what to make of it. He holds you close, wants to be there with you, and at the same time he's far, far away. Talk about emotional baggage.

You both lie there, quiet, but not sleeping. You can hear John's thoughts racing, even though he's completely still. You turn to look at him. You bite the inside of your cheek, debating whether you should say what you want to say. Whether it would just start a fight, and whether you'd just up and leave based on his reaction. But you're not one to hold your tongue.

"John... this is no life for your boys. Dean should be in school, not playing with knives. And Sam hasn't said a single word all evening."

You prepare for him to snap at you, mentally going into defense mode. But John just looks at you, lips tight, and sighs.

"I know. You're right. It's just..."

He stares up at the ceiling for a couple of seconds. Then his hand goes over his eyes, rubbing his temples.

"I just can't let it go. Can't let her go."

You swallow. Honesty. You hadn't seen that coming. You look at him for a while longer, then turn around, pressing your back and your icy feet against his warm body.

"Just promise me you'll at least try to do right by them." You close your eyes, feel his heavy arm going around you, pulling you into him.

"I'll try," you hear him say, just before you drift off to sleep.

⇢next chapter

[voodoochildthings]

This will be the last: Chapter 1

John Winchester x reader | Fix-it Ch. 1 | Ch. 2 | Ch. 3 | Epilogue

New Orleans, a hot summer night in July of 1985. You take your chances with a handsome stranger at the bar, but the man's got secrets.

Word count: 3.8 K

Tags: smut (p in v, a smidge of erectile dysfunction, safe sex – for now 😏), fix-it, witchy!reader, no use of Y/N, a bit of Louisiana voodoo vibes, canon-divergent, hurt and comfort, love story, John Winchester's stellar parenting. Will turn fluffy and domestic at some point, but not in this chapter.

A/N: I've written this a while ago, and somehow it has become one of my favorite pieces I've ever written. Maybe because I wrote it back when I had the time to do some actual research on what I wanted to write, maybe because in the meantime I've been radicalized into a John-ultra, maybe a little bit of both? Anyway, let me know if you enjoyed it, there's always room for another John-girlie *pats seat next to her*

July 2nd, 1985

You set the three bottles of beer down on the table. The night is hot and humid, as summer nights in New Orleans tend to be, your hair has been sticking to the back of your neck since you left the movie theater. That's why you decide to finally put it up in a loose bun, even though you had been going for a look that screamed more "party on a Friday night" than "library on Sunday morning".

Your friends are still going on about the new Ghostbusters movie you just saw, but you're not really paying attention. You're listening to the band playing, enjoying the bustling life in your favorite little bar. You scan the crowd, greet a couple of familiar faces, sip on your beer.

Your eyes finally land on a dark-haired guy sitting all alone at the bar, nursing a glass of whiskey. He's nice enough to look at, a face you haven't seen around before. Somehow, he looks like doesn't belong here. And he is definitely checking you out. Your gaze lingers for a second too long so that your friends notice, immediately starting to tease you about it. You turn back to your table, dismissing your friends, but they seem to be invested in the idea of you getting to know the handsome stranger.

As the place fills up, the music gets louder, more people start to dance. You keep sneaking glances at the brooding mystery man who just can't seem to keep his eyes off you. You drink, you eat, you laugh with your friends, and then suddenly, you're all very close to the bar.

You keep dancing with your girls, them being all giggly and trying to make you talk to the dark-haired man, but there's just something... Something feels off about him. You can't exactly put your finger on it, there's some sort of... darkness around him. But you're not that easily scared anyway, you know better than to buy into the whole satanic panic bullshit. Also, you've had one hell of a week and your friends could be right, getting laid by a rugged looking fella like him might just be exactly the stretching exercise you need to feel better.

While you're thinking all of that, you suddenly feel a vehement shove on your shoulder. You stumble forward and topple right into the handsome man's lap. Spilling your drink, you look back at your laughing friends, eyes wide with a look that clearly spells "I'm gonna kill you for this". Your friend yells "go get some," and they shake away, leaving you to handle the situation.

You take a deep breath, trying to calm down your slightly pink cheeks and look at the guy who is clearly enjoying the altercation.

"Your friends seem really nice."

He smirks down at you with dark eyes.

"Uhm, yeah. They're the best. Sorry about... all of this. They probably think it's hilarious."

He looks down at the big stain on his shirt, the wet fabric clinging to his skin, giving you the slightest idea of what his body looks like underneath it. It's a sight to behold.

He shakes his head. "Don't worry about it. I'll let it slip if you tell me your name."

You raise an eyebrow, thinking. Bite your lip. And decide to tell him.

He nods, repeating it. "That's a pretty name. I'm John, by the way." He takes your hand, kissing your knuckles. What a douche move, you think, it still makes you laugh. You know that type of man. They come to the south, looking for easy sex. They're pompous, all gallantry, and scared out of their minds their wives might find out so they give you a fake name. Most of the time their creativity peaks at John. Your eyes flicker to his left hand. You're not entirely sure, but there's a tiny mark that could indicate a wedding band that has been recently taken off. As in just for tonight. But you couldn't care less, you're not the one about to break their vows. You still can't resist poking fun at him.

"Funny how every stranger around here is called John," you grin, but try to keep your eye-rolling under control. You still want him to give you a good time tonight, after all.

You see a faint flash of concern flicker over his face, but he quickly recovers.

He laughs, runs his hand over his stubble, scratches his chin.

"Well, sweetheart, can I buy you a new drink?"

He fumbles with the lock to the building, confirming your suspicion that he's not from around here. The place isn't a hotel, he must've rented it privately. He finally manages to get the door open, pulls you inside and up to the second floor, where his apartment seems to be. This time, the door clicks open easily. As soon as you're inside, his mouth is back on yours. He's all tongue, pulling your body close to his and crowding it against the wall at the same time. You kick your shoes off, ripping at his clothes while he pulls you blindly into the next room, his back hitting first the frame and then the door. You barely have time to notice how scarcely the room is furnished, almost as if nobody really lived there. But that's how bachelor pads usually look like, right?

Your hands go to his belt, the clinking sound making the excitement in your core grow stronger. As soon as your hands are free again, he pulls your shirt over your head.

With the way you're tearing at each other, you decide that it's just more efficient to take your own clothes off, stripping down to your underwear while he does the same.

You carefully eye him from head to toe. He looks fit. His body is all muscles, but not those flashy gym muscles on steroids that are in fashion nowadays, no. This is the frame of a man who actually uses his body. To run, lift, punch maybe. Perhaps you should have been more careful than just to follow him home.

There's a hungry look on his face, his eyes seem to be glued to your chest, taking in your breasts in the lacy black bra, your tattoos that are usually covered by clothes. The pointy hip bones throwing the tiniest shadow over your abdomen in the dimly lit room. He's eating you up with his gaze, and you like it. You love it. The thrill, the challenge of all of it making your breathing heavier as you push him backwards to the bed. He tumbles back onto the mattress, giving you the opportunity to climb onto his lap. You run your hands over his chest, one grabbing on to his shoulder, the other going down, tugging at the waistband of his briefs.

John goes for another kiss, sucking your lower lip in, gently biting at it. He groans as your hand finally closes around his half hard dick, pulling it out.

You slowly start stroking him, looking down at how big he looks in your small hand. He leans back on his forearms, clearly equally enjoying the sight.

You grind your hips at him, pumping your fist up and down, but somehow you're not having the effect you hoped on him. You can see him starting to lose his nerves over his inability to get it up fast enough.

He opens his mouth to say something, but you shush him with your finger.

"Relax", you whisper, gently pressing him down so his back is flat on the mattress. "Close your eyes," you say, leaning down to trail a few kisses down his chest. You take his hand and place it on your breast, gently making him squeeze you. You watch his face, his brows unknotting the tiniest bit now that his eyes are closed. You can also feel his dick getting harder in your hand already. You know the look on his face, you know that he's thinking of someone else and you know not to take it personally. Your fingers trail down over his erection, gently cupping his balls, which he seems to like. His second hand goes up to your other breast, starting to massage both of them, his eyes still closed.

"If you want to," you say in a quiet voice, "you can call me by her name."

His eyes shoot open again and you wonder if you've gone too far for a second. His brows furrow again, he looks over your features in the dim light, a trace of sadness crossing his face before he shakes his head.

He then cups your cheeks, pulls you in for another one of those all-tongue-kisses, then unclasps your bra and pulls it off you. You can see his chest heaving as he lifts your ass up and tugs at your panties. You stand up quickly, shedding the last piece of clothing and giving him the opportunity to do the same.

For a second, you stand there, hypnotized by his naked body, his dick now standing fully erect between his legs. You're a bit surprised that, even already being on the larger end while half hard, he seems to be a grower.

"You got a rubber?"

He looks at you for a second, then nods and reaches for his night stand, pulling out a silvery package and tearing it open with his teeth. You carefully watch both him and his dick. At least he's not the kind of man that gets turned off by protection.

You lick your lips and climb back onto him when he's done, enveloping him in a kiss. His arms snake around you, running up and down your back, finding your ass, squeezing. His dick is patiently waiting, stuck between your writhing body and his while you press yourself up against him, running a hand through his hair, over his stubble, down his neck. His lips are puffy and red when you part from them. As you reach for him between your bodies, John pushes your ass up, giving you a little more room to align him to you.

You tease his head against your entrance, making him hiss in anticipation, and then slowly, inch by inch, let him sink into you.

Your eyes flutter shut as you try to adjust to his size, the curve of his dick perfectly pressing against your g-spot. You pull him in for another kiss and then slowly start grinding, your vision immediately going blurry. You know this probably isn't doing much for him, but right now, it's your turn. You'll let him fuck you however he wants later.

You start picking up the pace, pressing down on him hard, working yourself into a frenzy on his dick. John's hands dig deep into your ass, as if he's holding on for dear life. A sultry groan escapes his lips when you start moving up and down, involuntarily clenching around him inside you. You push his torso down, giving you more room to move freely. Using your hand to steady yourself on his surprisingly hard abs, you ride him like you would a mechanical bull. When his hands go back up to your tits, pinching your nipples, you can feel that your orgasm isn't far away.

You rock your hips against him hard, feeling the delicious drag of his dick inside you and dig your nails into his chest when he starts meeting your thrusts. Apparently this is doing something for him.

You hear his breathing getting shallower, lips parted, see his eyebrows twitching. It's obvious that he's close, so you let your eyes fall shut, focus solely on your sense of touch and his ragged breathing. He clamps his hand over your mouth as you come, stifling your moan as you fuck yourself hard on his dick, his thick fingers on your face grounding you nicely. The waves of pleasure coursing through your body are renewed as you feel John tensing up under you, spilling himself, biting back any sound. Your movements slow down as you try to catch your breath, your entire body tingling. You grin down at him, panting. He looks back up at you, and for some reason he seems a little overwhelmed. But you're not in the mood for a therapy session, so you just let him slip out of you, roll down from him and grab the box of tissues next to the bed to clean yourself up.

For a moment you're not sure if you should just get dressed and leave, but it's late, and you're tired. John seems to be able to read the question off your face, because after discarding the used condom he gets back into bed and pats the sheets next to him, so you decide to stay. Just for a little longer.

You idly lie there, head resting on his arm, your hand drawing circles on his chest. Inhale his scent, wooden and spicy, still riding on the high of your orgasm. Now that you're so close, you sneak a glance at the dog tags around his neck, which to your surprise actually have the name John engraved. You think back, trying to remember if the other veterans you've been with felt anything like him. Probably.

After a while, John gently pushes your shoulder, rolling you onto your back. You eye him curiously. He watches you for a minute, then his fingers start traveling over your chest, down to the intricate drawings that adorn your lower rib cage, just below your breasts.

"That's quite some ink you've got there,” he says, his voice suddenly sounding less tired than it had the entire evening.

Your lips twitch into a smile, but you don't speak. He continues, tracing the fine lines with his calloused finger.

"That's a vèvè, right?"

Your eyebrows go up in surprise.

"Look at that, somebody knows his voodoo."

John nods, his lips smiling faintly, but his brows betray him, deep in thought.

You turn back to your side, slinging your leg over his hips, enjoying the warmth of his body. For a while, you just lie there, the comfortable silence only disturbed by the scratching of your nails over the hair on his chest. But then, suddenly, you hear the door creaking, and shortly after that a tiny little voice.

"Dad?"

You pull the sheets up over your naked chest, eyes going wide in shock as you see the little boy, no older than six, trudging into the room, a tattered plushie dangling from his hand.

John shoots up, quickly pulling his briefs on and walks over to the boy.

"What's wrong, Dean?"

The boy looks at you, his eyes heavy with sleep. He scratches his belly, looking at you.

"I think Sammy's having a nightmare," he says, looking up at his father, then asks, "who is she?" John picks him up and leaves the room.

For a minute, you just sit there, processing. Then you slip out of the bed and start getting dressed. You're buttoning up your jeans when John comes back, alone.

"What are you doing?", he asks, his face tense. You blink at him in disbelief.

"What do you think I'm doing? I'm leaving," you mumble, looking for your shirt. You find it under the bed.

"Please... stay."

You raise your eyebrows at him.

"You've got kids??"

He furrows his brows.

"Yeah. So?"

You try to raise your eyebrows even higher, failing.

"So? So? Who the fuck was watching them when you were at the bar making googly eyes at me all evening? How old is that kid, six? Please tell me the other one's older," you hiss at him.

"Dean's turning seven next year, he takes good care of his little brother."

You shake your head, a disgusted look on your face.

"That's messed up, John. Honestly. Whatever is going on between you and their mother, you should really consider getting them back to her. Goodbye."

You go for the door, but John positions himself in the doorway, his big frame not leaving any space for you to slip through. You look at him in confusion. He's quiet when he speaks.

"I... can't let you leave. Sit down, please."

He nods toward the table and chairs in the far corner of the room. When you don't react you see him reaching for something, out of sight, in the hallway. He then takes a step toward you, careful not to touch you, but letting you see the gun in his hand.

Your eyes widen in horror. "Are you serious? You're gonna murder me with your kids sleeping next door?" You take a couple of steps back, scanning the room for possible exit routes as you feel cold sweat breaking out on your forehead. You should have been less trusting after all.

John screws up his face. "What? No! I'm... I'm not gonna kill you. Just sit down, will you?" He points with the gun. Feeling you don't have much of a choice, you sit down, watching his every move like a hawk.

He paces up and down for a moment, rubbing his free hand over his face. Then he sits at the table across from you, the gun resting on its surface. He takes a deep breath.

"I need you to summon someone."

You blink.

"You... what?"

"Don't play coy with me. I want you to talk to someone for me. Someone on the other side." You can tell by his voice that he is being absolutely serious.

You feel a muscle in your face twitch.

"... I don't know what you're talking about." Ridiculous, you think. How could an outsider like him possibly know that...?

He leans forward, slamming the gun on the table. It makes you flinch. For a split second he looks a bit taken aback by your reaction. He tries not to waver in his resolve.

"I know what you are. What you can do. You're saying this isn't yours?" His hand goes into a duffle bag sitting on the floor and pulls out a necklace. A necklace with a very familiar, green engraved talisman. One that you haven't seen in a long time.

Your brows furrow as he dangles the amulet in front of you.

"Where... where did you get this?"

He doesn't answer.

"So it is yours."

You shake your head, reaching for the pendant. He lets you take it. "No, it's not... it's... my Nana's."

You trace your thumb over the small green stone, a protective amulet, one like so many you've seen your grandma give to people back when she was alive. A gris-gris, she used to call it.

You look at John. You've had this weird feeling about him from the moment you laid eyes on him, but that darkness you felt... it's not aimed at you. It's directed inward, at himself. He's not going to hurt you. Not if you don't give him any reason to.

You bite the inside of your cheek, carefully considering.

His face seems hollow, dark circles under his eyes. Eyes that show determination, eyes that have seen things, eyes that... plead.

You know you probably shouldn't, but you decide to hear him out.

And then he tells you his story. About his wife, Mary. How they met, how they fell in love, how she was his safe haven. Made him feel whole. How they got married, had Dean, and then Sammy. And how she died. Engulfed in flames, pinned to the ceiling in Sam's nursery, blood dripping into his son's crib. His voice is monotone, like a recording. He's told this story before. Over and over. He's had to learn to shut himself off from it. He doesn't look up a single time while telling the tale, gaze fixed to his clenched fists.

He tells you that he's found out all about the supernatural, about monsters and ghosts. How he's been on the road ever since, trying to find whatever killed his wife and turned his life upside down. That he's been doing research, that he believes in all the chatter about voodoo, and that he found out about a family with powerful magical abilities in New Orleans. Your family. And then he asks you to summon her. Mary. To talk to her. So he can at least find out what exactly happened that night.

You sigh. Rub your eyes. Stare at his lips tightly pressed together as he awaits your response.

"John," you say quietly. "I... that's not how it works. I'm not... that's not something I can do."

He finally looks up at you, disappointment written all over his face.

He's silent for a minute. His lip twitches, then he asks, "that something you can't or you won't do?"

You chuckle sadly. "I can't. I don't have that kind of power."

You watch him let go of the gun, exhale sharply and bury his face in his hands. His fingers rake through his hair as he curses under his breath.

You sit there, watching him, the picture of a broken man with nowhere else to go.

You bite your lip, trying to stop yourself. You know you shouldn't meddle. But he just... something about him reminds you of a lost puppy, and you just can't help yourself.

"... I might know someone who could help, though."

His face instantly comes up from his hands. There's confusion in his eyes, disbelief, but also a faint shimmer of hope.

You stand up, walk over to the door as you speak. He follows you. The gun stays on the table.

"They're gonna need something of hers. Of your wife. Something personal, or a photo... and they're going to ask for payment."

John hurries to another bag lying close to the bed, fishes out a 100 dollar bill, raising his eyebrows in question. You nod. Then he pulls out a journal and flips through the pages. He takes out a piece of paper, the edges a little rough, and looks at it before handing it to you, together with the bill.

The photo has a crease down the middle, it's been looked at many times. There's John, his face a little rounder, no beard, no dark circles beneath his eyes. And the little boy from earlier, Dean, slightly younger but easily recognizable due to his many freckles. And there's a blonde woman holding a tiny baby. She's pretty, her smile is warm, even though she looks tired. Those must be Mary and Sam.

You nod at John. "Alright. I'll see what I can do."

John follows you to the door.

"Thank you," he mumbles, his head bent down, "and, uh, maybe... I just would like to have that back. When you're finished with it." He points at the photo in your hand. He seems to be slightly reluctant to let you walk away with it. It must be one of his most prized possessions.

You give a small nod. Then you leave, but turn around for a last time at the stairhead.

"I'll be back tomorrow. And don't you let those kids out of your damn sight."

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