Won’t Go Near You - part 12

Series masterpost

John Winchester x reader series.

Words: about 1400

Warnings: angst, violence, death.

A/N: All mistakes are mine alone. I know this chapter is a late. Sorry. I’ve been down and out creativity wise for months.

John woke from the buzzing of her phone. He must not have slept very soundly, because it didn’t make much sound at all, just the gentle buzz against the mattress between them where she’d discarded it already half asleep as they’d reached the motel. He glanced over, seeing her father’s name on the screen, flashing violently in the darkness. It was the dead of night and he really didn’t want to wake her. She’d been sleeping soundly for the first time in what seemed like forever. She deserved to sleep. She deserved to rest. Besides, for all he knew, Tom was calling to pick a fight about John, having had a few more hours to fill his courage with whiskey.

Of course, John realised that for Tom he was worth fighting about. He was unsure of how he would have taken him if it was his daughter who had taken up with a man his age. John was known to be a tad rigid and overprotective himself, he knew this.

Still a little hesitant, John weighed the phone in his hand along with his options. Was it worth it? Was it important? In fact, he still wasn’t sure he was doing the right thing when he slid his thumb across the screen to answer.

“You’ve got, John,” he said gruffly, sleep thick in his throat and picking sleep out of his eyes.

“John?” The sound of the voice on the other line slapped the remaining sleep right outa him. This was not Tom. This voice was colder, sharper. “Nice to have you, John.” Chills ran down John’s spine. “I was hoping for Y/N to be honest, but you’ll do…”

“What have you done?” John hissed through gritted teeth, it was all he could think of to say.

“Come see for yourself.” The voice on the other end snickered. “Next time I hear you asking around about me, next time your little bitch tries to kill me, you’ll die. Both of you. Stop chasing me.”

John was shaking by the time Clearence hung up the phone. Whether it was from rage or worry, he had no clue, but he was experiencing a healthy dose of both.

Ten minutes later John was in the truck, turning the key in the ignition, waking the monster of a vehicle with a mighty roar. The voice in the back of his head told him that it was sure to wake her, but he pushed it away. He had to do this, and she couldn’t come. John had no idea what horrors would meet him when he drove off into the night, but he knew it wouldn’t be pleasant.


His gun, loaded with silver bullets, was safely clasped in his hand. He kept it steady in front of him as he slowly made his way up the driveway, his senses on high alert for any sound or movement in or outside the house.

The porch steps creaked under his boots and the a little too warm night breeze ruffled his hair softly as he laid a hand firmly against the door handle. For a brief moment he let his mind acknowledge that he was about to enter the childhood home of the women he loved for the very first time. She’d taken her first steps here, learned to talk and read and the very basics of killing the horrors which would taint her life so fully. Had it only been under profoundly different circumstances it could have been nice, made him happy. This, he was sure, would not.

He tried the handle; unlocked, not a good sign. The door made no sign as he eased it open. He listened intently to the house, but there was nothing to hear. Stepping through the hallway, with its stacks of newspapers and journals lining the walls, he still heard nothing. In the living room he had to stop for a moment. Photos of her, their frames needing a good dusting, documenting the milestones of her young life; Y/N as a newborn, her riding a bike, holding her father’s hand on her first day of school, graduation and what looked like her on her the first hunt she got to go on. Happy, proud, so full of hope. John realised this was before life kicked her in the shin and laughed at her as she fell to the ground. God, he hoped things weren’t taking a turn for the even shittier…

Something stirred on the second floor of the house, almost too softly for John to hear it. Cautiously, he made his way up the stairs, attempting to be quiet as a mouse and consequently taking whoever, or whatever, was stirring up there by surprise. The hallway lay dark around him and two doors down the sound got louder, something was hiding behind door number three, something which was growing more agitated by his proximity. John held his breath as he eased the handle down and let it open ever so slightly, sending a sliver of light right down the hallway.

It was unmistakably Tom, and yet it was unmistakably not him anymore. His head snapped towards the sound, or the smell, there was no way of knowing. John tried saying his name, in a half whisper, but it was no use. Whatever he was now, he couldn’t understand him. Two seconds later he bolted on John, jaw snapping and eyes shining sickeningly, and he had no choice. John had no choice. The thing was rabid. It sure as hell was no run of the mill vamp. Tom was no longer there, what Clearence had made was no vamp. The reason for the bastards solitude dawned on John.

John popped a silver bullet through Tom’s skull, half expecting it not to work, and he fell limp to the floor, his blood and brain staining the carpet floor of what John now realized had to be Y/N’s old bedroom, the scattered remains of the life of a teen girl all around the walls and surfaces of the room. The pang in his gut was instant. There was no coming back from this. He, the man who loved her and was loved in return, had killed her father. Whether he had had a choice or not, there was no making this right.

John’s heart climbed up to his throat at the anger, guilt and sheer frustration at the situation. What made it all worse was that he had to lug the corpse onto his truck bed. It felt like a violation, but someone could easily have heard the gunshot and called the cops and John couldn’t let them find the body. He had to find a place to burn it, give Tom a hunter’s funeral. He had to do and fast, not knowing how the body would react to being dead. Fucked up, that was what it was, fucked up and beyond any repair.


The drive back was long, but to John it felt way too short. The burning had been a tough ordeal and by the time he had spilled whiskey on the ground and hit the road he dreaded seeing her. Hurting her was the last thing he ever wanted to do. Would she understand? Would she ever forgive him? Would she leave? A million questions were running through his mind as he drove.

Could he forgive himself?

It was early morning when he returned to the motel. He tried to be quiet as he opened the door, but to no use. She was already up, sitting on the bed, biting her nails.

She ran over to him and flung herself into his arms holding him tight.

“Where were you? You scared me half to death, John…” she whispered into the embrace.

He savoured the moment.

Felt her body against him and pulled her sweet smell deep into his lungs.

Maybe for the last time, he thought, his eyes threatening to well.

“Where were you?” She asked again as she let him go after a long, warm embrace, alarm starting to saound in her voice at his silence.

Next part

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