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John always showed up unannounced. You’d be halfway through cleaning your tools, or trying to get a few hours of sleep, and then— three knocks on your door. Always the same pattern.
You’d open the door, and there he’d be: blood on his shirt, jaw tight, eyes already scanning past you like he didn’t have time for this. “Sit,” you’d tell him, already grabbing your kit.
He never argued. Just dropped into the chair like a man used to being held together by other people. And you’d patch him up. Stitches. Bruises. Once, a burn that made your hands shake so bad you had to pause just to breathe.
He never thanked you properly. Not really. Just a quiet, “I owe you one,” on his way out.
You stopped believing that a long time ago. Because John Winchester didn’t owe people. He just… kept going.
So when you called him, you almost hung up before it rang twice. This was stupid. You knew it. He had bigger things to worry about than you. But your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and there was too much blood, and—
“Yeah.” His voice was rough, distracted. Like he was already halfway out the door for something else.
You swallowed. “John.”
Silence. Not long. Just enough to tell you he recognized something in your voice you hadn’t meant to show. “…What happened?”
You slid down the wall a little, pressing your hand harder against your side. It didn’t help. “Bad hunt,” you said, trying for casual. It came out thin. “I—I could use—” Your voice cracked. Damn it. “I could use some help.”
Another silence. This one heavier.
“Where are you?”
—
You didn’t expect him to come. Not really. You figured maybe he’d call Bobby, or send you a number, or—hell—tell you to hold pressure and walk you through it over the phone. That’s what people like him did. They delegated. They kept moving. They didn’t stop.
The door slammed open so hard it hit the wall.
You startled, fumbling for the knife you’d dropped somewhere nearby, but—
“It’s me.” John. He crossed the room in three strides, dropping to his knees in front of you like the world had narrowed down to this one moment. To you. “Let me see.”
You almost laughed. “Funny. That’s usually my line.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t even react. Just carefully moved your hand away from your side—and then went very, very still. “…Christ.”
Okay. Not great.
You tried to make light of it. “I’ve had worse.”
“Don’t,” he snapped, sharper than you’d ever heard him. His hands were already moving, pressing gauze down, checking the depth. Efficient. Precise. But there was something off.
Too fast. Too tense.
“John—”
“How long have you been like this?”
“Couple hours.”
His jaw tightened. “Why didn’t you call sooner?”
You blinked at him. “Because you’re not exactly on-call, Winchester.”
That hit something. He froze for half a second—just a flicker—but you caught it. Then he shook it off, grabbing supplies from your kit like he knew exactly where everything was. Of course he did. He’d been here enough. “Stay with me,” he muttered.
You huffed. “Not planning on going anywhere.”
“Don’t joke.”
Oh. Oh, that was new. You watched him for a second, really watched him, and… yeah. This wasn’t the man who showed up at your door like a storm you had to weather. This was someone… scared. Trying very hard not to be.
“…Hey,” you said, softer now. “I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not.” The words came out immediate. Automatic. Like he didn’t even think before saying them. And then, quieter, “You’re not.”
Something in your chest twisted.
He worked in silence after that. Cleaning the wound. Stitching you up with steady hands that didn’t match the tightness in his shoulders. You’d stitched him a dozen times. He’d never flinched like this. Not once.
“You’re pulling too tight,” you murmured at one point.
He adjusted instantly. “Sorry.”
You raised a brow. “Didn’t know you knew that word.”
“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Didn’t know you were this bad at taking care of yourself.”
You snorted weakly. “Look who’s talking.”
That earned you the ghost of a breath—almost a laugh. Almost. Then his hands slowed. “…You always pick up when I call,” he said, not looking at you.
It took you a second to realize what he meant. “…Yeah.”
“I just figured…” He trailed off, jaw tightening again. “Didn’t think you’d ever need it back.”
There it was. That thing he never said.
You shifted a little, wincing. “Everyone needs it back, John.”
He tied off the last stitch. Didn’t move his hands right away. “…Yeah,” he said quietly. “Guess they do.”
When he finally leaned back, you caught his wrist before he could pull away. He stilled instantly.
“You came,” you said.
It wasn’t an accusation. It wasn’t even a question. Just… something you needed to say out loud.
His gaze flicked up to yours, something raw and unguarded slipping through before he could stop it. “Yeah,” he said again. Softer this time. Like it meant something.
And for once, John Winchester stayed. Not pacing. Not planning his next hunt. Just sitting there on the floor beside you, close enough that if you reached out again, he wouldn’t pull away. Watching. Waiting. Like you were the thing that mattered.