The Eternally Frustrated Writer

You’d decided all that within the first fifteen minutes of this class. The man is rude as fuck. He’s clearly got issues, but he’s also the best sparring partner you’ve ever had.

A face-full of leather quickly reminds you that despite your mind wandering, you are still in class. You swat John’s gloved hand away.

“You know princess, maybe you’d be better suited to pilates or yoga?”

You retaliate with a body shot packing far more force than that comment called for. It gives you a rush you weren’t expecting.

John winces at the contact, then tosses you a cheeky wink.

“Attagirl.”

Detecting an ounce of pride in his voice, you can practically hear your Daddy issues rattling the sides of their cage inside you. 

You break eye contact, denying yourself the satisfaction of seeing it in his eyes too.

John takes a small step back, noting the conflicted expression on your face. You’ve obviously weirded him out — and in a single session too, way to go.

He hovers near you for a beat, silently studying you, then strides off launching his gloves across the room in the process. The rest of the group all gather around him in the center. You linger on the edge.

“Alright, good work tonight everyone. No individual sessions this week ‘cause I’ve gotta head out of town for a job, so I’ll see you all next Monday.”

You had planned to stick around for some tedious small talk after, but the coffee truck out front is a lot more tempting right now, so you head out.

In a moment of weakness as you pass through the doorway, you quickly scan the room to catch a brief parting glimpse of John. He’s already left — which is definitely for the best. There’s a reason your friends keep begging you to date people that are not twenty years your senior. No matter how hot and grumpy they are.

---

John paces back and forth in the alley, pushing the image of his new student to the back of his mind. That is a problem for another day. 

As though he can sense his father about to make yet another terrible decision from miles away, John’s phone rings. Dean’s contact card lights up the screen.

He releases a deflated huff, hitting accept.

“Dad? Listen we’ve taken care of the rugaru in Fair Oaks so we don’t need y—”

John rubs his temple, his tone stern.

“I told you to wait.”

“I know that. But people were getting hurt and we’ve taken out plenty before.”

Failing to suppress his frustration, John barks down the line.

“I know that, son. But this one was more—”

A beat.

“—complicated than that.”

The muffled sounds of Sam putting in his two cents in the background snaps John out of his rage. He sighs.

“No, you know what Dean, you’re right I’m sorry. As long as you boys are okay.”

There’s a brief, uncomfortable silence on the other line.

“We’re fine, Dad. That’s not why I called anyway. Sam got an alert on his phone about some missing folks in this town- uh, Passing Falls, near Washington. That’s where you’re at, right?”

John scans the space around him, immediately on edge. He takes a mental note of the people around him, stilling for a moment when he finds a familiar face waiting in line at the coffee truck.

“Uh-huh.”

“You want us to meet you there? We’re about a day out.”

John tears his eyes away from her and forces himself to look at the ground.”

“No. I’ve got it.”

“Are you sure? Sam and I thought could stay for a couple days after and—”

John snaps. “I said no.”

John wishes he could take it back the moment the words leave his lips. Dean mumbles some generic farewell in response and swiftly hangs up. John tosses his head back and rolls his eyes at himself. Gold star parenting, as always.

That’s another problem for another day, because before he even realizes he’s moving, John’s boots are heading straight toward the coffee truck.

---  

Downtowns’s usual cocktail of gasoline and coffee in the air soothes you as you take in the view of the courtyard.

Some local kids sit huddled under a tree around a Nintendo DS, vibrating with excitement about whatever game they’re playing. An elderly couple shares a croissant on the bench. 

Is this place cute? Sure, but it’s all a little too Hallmark for you, so you tune it out.

Walking up to the coffee truck, you’re greeted by the same guy that’s served you every day this week. His name’s Carl or Chris or something like that.

“Hey pretty girl, what can I getcha today?”

You don’t mind the compliment, but this guy’s not your type, so you smile sweetly and brush it off.

“Just an oat flat white please, Carl.”

“Sure thing. It’s Cole, by the way.”

Your mouth opens to issue a half-assed apology, but you’re interrupted by the sound of a voice you recognise in the distance.

Cole’s pathetic puppy dog eyes bore into you as you find yourself entirely focused on John’s harsh tone coming from the alley.

“Uh, here’s that oat flat white.”

You snap out of it, taking the cup.

“Sorry Cole, long day.” 

You pretend you don’t see his phone number written on it. 

Taking a sip of the nectar of the gods, you notice a shadow appear on the asphalt, swallowing your own.

“Of course you’re an oat milk person.”

The deep, gravel in John’s voice makes you want to melt, but you push that feeling down as deep as you can.

You spin around, silently enjoying the fact you hair whips him in the face a little. You raise a brow at him.

“Gotta make sure there’s enough half fat, decaf, vanilla shit left for you.”

John huffs out a laugh.

“I’ll get the iced banana frappe.”

Cole stares blankly at you both. His voice shakes when he addresses John.

“Are you— did you really want that?”

John glares at the poor kid, intimidating him further.

“No. Coffee, black. Thanks”

While Cole makes John’s drink with trembling hands, you decide to interrogate him about the call, pointing at his phone.

“That sounded pretty serious. Everything okay?”

His posture straightens instantly, shoulders tense.

“Uh, yeah. Just my sons.”

You nod slowly.

“Wanna talk about it?”

John barks out a laugh.

“Sweetheart, that is one can of worms you don’t wanna open. Believe me.”

Noted. John makes toward a nearby bench. You aren’t sure whether to follow him or not so you linger for a second, which Cole unfortunately reads entirely the wrong way.

Rolling up his sleeves and attempting to work up the nerve, he clears his throat a few times. You brace for discomfort.

“Hey, listen, I was wondering if you’d maybe wanna catch the game together this weekend?”

Desperate for an out, your eyes dart around the truck looking for anything to help you change the subject. They land on his tribal tattoos.

“Uh-huh, maybe some other time. Cool ink, by the way.”

Awkward as hell, you mumble some shit about wanting tattoos, slowly backing away until you feel the wood of the picnic bench pressing against the back of your thigh. 

Cole diverts his attention to his next customer, ego sufficiently bruised.

John’s smug grin pisses you off as you sit down.

“You are cold as hell. That boy is down bad for you, you could’ve at least softened the blow a bit.”

You pout, refusing to give him the satisfaction. He continues the interrogation.

“Alright, so why boxing? You seem to enjoy smacking the shit out of people. You got some deep-seated issues I should be concerned about?”

Tilting your head to the side, you deflect the question.

“Have you?”

John groans, picking up a white napkin and waving it in surrender.

You decide to throw him a bone.

“Truth is, I don’t really have an answer for that. Guess I just wanted to feel a bit tougher?”

“You seem plenty tough to me.”

---

A few weeks later, getting coffee together after class has accidentally become a regular thing. 

Occasionally, John will rock up with a gnarly bruise or a fat lip. You’ve decided it’s best not to ask since that time he sarcastically told you he got thrown against a tree by a vampire.

Despite the fact you’re spending more time together than you really should be, you still know a grand total of fucking nothing about John Winchester, so today you’ve opted for a different approach. ‘Break bread’ and all that.

You dump the offering down in front of John with minimal confidence.

“What the fuck is that?”

You roll your eyes dramatically.

“It’s a cinnamon bun, old man.”

John frowns.

“You cut that ‘old man’ shit out right now.”

Taking a sip of coffee, you stare him down.

“Come on, just try it. A man can’t live off hard liquor and burgers alone.”

He huffs out a laugh.

“Sweetheart, I’ve got a son on the road and a friend in South Dakota that would beg to differ.”

Today feels like a good day to poke the bear.

“Hmm maybe you should introduce me? Is your son hot?” you tease.

No response, he’s stoic as ever. You go in for the kill.

“Or even better, your friend?”

That gets his attention.

“Even better?”

You stare him down, expecting him to clam up and get all awkward. Instead, he catches you completely off-guard.

“One of my individual session slots has just opened up. If you’re interested?”

You’re not sure if you’re meant to read into that or not.

His gaze is firmly fixed on yours. The tension heats your cheeks, the look he’s giving you setting your body alight. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

You practically watch the thought cross his mind in real time. There’s a hint of an idea there for a moment, then it’s back to his signature frown. Always taking life too seriously. Punishing himself for that split second where he allowed himself to picture you on top of him. Head thrown back, mouth open, sweat glistening on your chest. 

You wonder if he’ll go home and really punish himself for the thought later. Or if he’ll indulge the fantasy for a few minutes longer behind closed doors.

He clears his throat, pulling you out of the depths of your mind.

“Look, full disclosure; I’m a widower, I drink too much, I have two sons that don’t like me very much, I practically live out of my truck, and I’m over 20 years older than you.”

You blink at him, somewhat taken aback by his candor. He continues.

“I’m not putting the moves on you. I just thought you might want the extra training, that’s all.”

The bluntness of it all stings a little, but you’re glad he said it, regardless. 

John has practically poured a bucket of ice water over whatever weird vibe there was between you, which is good because it was a recipe for disaster and you’ve decided to sort your life out — which is exactly why you agree to the 1-1 sessions. What could possibly go wrong?

---

In the gym, skin slick with sweat, you pound your fists against the bag.

John’s eyes track your every move, jaw clenched.

“Harder.”

You hit the bag again.

“Harder.”

And again.

“Harder.”

Again.

“Harder.”

You’re now officially sick of hearing the word ‘harder’, so this time you pummel the ever-loving shit out of the bag until you genuinely wonder if your hands are broken. And holy shit does it feel good.

John moves in closer and you can’t help but inhale the delicious smoky scent of his cologne. He studies the wild look in your eyes.

“Feel better?

You nod, breathless, chest heaving.

“Good.”

Pulse drumming in your ears, you’re transported back to that first session just the two of you.

John’s painfully intense gaze fixated on you as you hit the stupid bag. The words he said that you’ve found yourself hearing on repeat lately.

“Listen to me. Whatever fucked up shit you’ve got going on, whatever demons you’re running from— or to —you can lay down and cry about it, go bitch about it on the internet, OR you can fight it. Don’t throw in the towel just because you’re scared. Hit harder, feel better.”

In a turn of events surprising to absolutely nobody, things are getting a little too intense, so you decide to take five.

John heads out the back to make a call while you hit the water cooler.

Spiraling like an idiot, you run through every possible scenario in your head. At least you think you do, until you hear the scream. You’re suddenly hyper-aware that there are several scenarios you might have overlooked.

Bursting out the fire doors like a bat out of hell, you’re stopped dead in your tracks when you find John crouched over a dead body.

You recoil at the sight of it. It’s not the first dead body you’ve seen, but it’s definitely the gnarliest.

What was presumably a woman in her 20s full of life is now a pale, bloodless, husk with a permanent expression of sheer terror.

“Jesus fucking christ, John. What the hell?”

His head whips up in your direction, eyes frantic. You keep your eyes on him, desperately trying not to look at the corpse on the ground.

As bad as it sounds, the incessant shrieking from a middle-aged woman nearby offers you a small comfort, because you’re confident the scream you heard came from her and not the body John is currently crouched over. So if he didn’t do this, why is he crouched over the body?

John must have read your mind because within seconds he’s upright and heading straight for you. He grabs you by the elbow and steers you away from the crowd.

Once you’re out of sight from the chaos, he leans in close, his forehead practically touching yours.

“I’ll tell you everything, I promise. Just not here.”

You nod frantically, internally scalding yourself for enjoying being this close to a man who could potentially be extremely dangerous.

He pulls a set of keys from his jacket pocket and pushes them into your palm.

“Go to my truck and lock the doors. Do not let anyone in but me. It’s parked in the main lot — I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

Judging by the severity in his voice, any protest would be fruitless, so you nod in agreement. 

John places a hand at the small of your back as you slip away from the scene. Watching your every step until you’re out of sight completely.

You still feel the pressure of his palm against your back hours later. Sure, he could be dangerous, but that doesn’t stop from you sitting in his truck like an idiot, waiting for whatever comes next.