
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/7121119.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Supernatural
  Relationship:
      Jo_Harvelle/John_Winchester
  Additional Tags:
      Gunplay, Age_Difference, Unhealthy_Relationships, Self-Hatred, Unsafe
      Sex, Barebacking, Consensual_Underage_Sex, Public_Sex
  Collections:
      SPN_Kink_Bingo
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-06-07 Words: 1851
****** Gunshy ******
by saltandbyrne
Summary
     Fatherless blondes with something to prove are John's favorite kind
     of poison.
     (Jo is a teenager, age unspecified.)
Notes
     For the "Gun Play" square on my spnkinkbingo card.
     Title from Liz_Phair's_Gunshy.
What does it say about John's life that the sound of gunshots on
a Tuesday afternoon barely piques his interest.

It’s five o’clock somewhere but definitely not in central Nebraska. He's
already drinking anyway, just beer. The boys are at Bobby's and there's nothing
needs killing today.  John rolls his shoulders and slides a buck onto the bar.


The few beams of light brave enough to penetrate the dust streak the Roadhouse
in late morning sunshine, or is it early afternoon?  John rubs at his eyes.


Sal Moskovic is slumped over the same table he'd occupied all last night. He
snores like a bear but he's a decent enough guy, for a hunter.


Another three shots in rapid succession perk his ears up. Someone's got a
vendetta against the local wildlife or a twitchy trigger finger.
 
He’s imposing on Ellen’s perfunctory hospitality as is, leaning on the crutch
of Bobby’s phoned-in good word.  She doesn’t owe him a kind word after what
happened and he’s lucky if he gets eye contact any more.  If he were a smarter
man he’d sneak out before she fixes him with another one of those withering
stares, the kind that can twist a man up like an old bar rag.  Poor thing
doesn’t realize John’s got nothing left to wring out for her.
 
Another shot rings out, tight with frustration.  That’s not Ellen out there,
rumor has it she’d shot a Budweiser out of Merle Linstromd’s hand not three
weeks ago.  John narrows his eyes at the back door and heads outside.

Her hair's up in an afterthought of a pony tail, shoulders squared as she
levels her dad’s old Glock 17.  Her grip’s good but her stance is off, too
narrow.  John traces down her legs, tomboy tan and freckled with mosquito
bites.  She’s wearing a faded old shirt and a pair of cut-off shorts that would
temp a far, far better man than John.
 
“Heard the local empties are running a real menace around here.”
 
He folds his arms over his chest, grins at her as she wheels around and aims
dead at his chest.  Her father never would’ve stood for such poor trigger
safety but John just bites his lip.
 
“Shouldn’t startle a girl with a gun.”
 
“Shouldn’t go pointing something you can’t use.”
 
Her nostrils flare, jaw jutting forward and she just looks prettier.  She’s got
the best of both her folks, Ellen’s doe-bait eyes and her daddy’s long, long
legs.
 
“Fuck off, old man.”
 
Fatherless blondes with something to prove are John's favorite kind of poison.
 
“Let me help you, girl.”
 
She’s still bull-dogging her jaw but she lowers her gun, and that’s close
enough to a yes for John.  He turns her around to face her tin-can enemies.
 
“You’re getting too tense.”
 
He molds himself against her back, too close already and he’s about to get a
kick to the nuts or a soft sigh.  Her breath leaves her in a rush as he traces
his hand down her arm.
 
“Deep breath, just like that.”
 
He breathes in over her shoulder, moving in until every inch of him is pressed
against her.  She follows him, her back swelling against his chest as she takes
a deep inhale.
 
“Out.”
 
He purses his lips, letting his breath tickle over the top of her head.  He
could pick her up with one arm.
 
“Just like that.”
 
He crouches down to her line of sight.  Her shirt’s rolled up to the elbows and
her skin is so, so soft as he traces down to gently guide her hands to aim.
 
Most girls tremble when John gets this close but Jo’s stock still, hands up and
steady and her daddy really would be proud of her.
 
“One more time.”
 
He breathes in deep, drinks her in, cornflower blue and sun-bleached Sunday
best.  She smells like something he doesn’t deserve to remember.
 
“Breathe out and…”
 
She squeezes the trigger and John gets a little hard.  She nicks the can but
it’s not the dead shot she’d wanted.  She huffs with frustration, a hundred
pounds of fury backing up against him.
 
“Again.”
 
Good girls shouldn’t play with guns and John should’ve bit it in her daddy’s
place but here they are.
 
“Spread your legs.”
 
“If you’re lucky.”
 
She flirts like a kick in the teeth and John’s more than a little hard now. 
She graces him with a look over her shoulder, blue eyes flicking up as the
corner of her sweetheart mouth tickles at his beard.
 
“I was born lucky, sweetheart.”
 
He noses into her neck, greedy for her scent while his hands find the firm give
of her breasts.  She sucks her breath in, a little hiss that snakes down around
his leg and sinks its fangs into everything he hates about himself.  He’s damn
good at this, popping her buttons open with one hand as the other trails down
the soft plane of her stomach.
 
He can feel the warmth of her pussy through her shorts.  Harvelles are all hot-
blooded.
 
“Gonna take more than that to get me off.”
 
Her arms are still up, elbows locked tight even as her legs spread a little. 
He slides his fingers past her fly, down to the edge of some panties he’d bet
his life are worn-thin cotton and too good for the blood on his hands.  She’s
wet.
 
“Not a fucking virgin,” she growls, her voice straining as he tucks into her
and circles his trigger finger over her clit.
 
“Think you know about getting fucked ‘cause you let some schoolboy stick his
dick in you?”
 
“You here to teach me something or keep talking?”
 
There was a time when John was made for better things than this.  He buries his
face in her hair and shoves her shorts down her colt thighs.
 
“Get on your knees.”
 
Her panties have little sunflowers on them, barely visible from too many loads
of her mama’s bleach.  She clicks the safety back in place before she reaches
back to start tugging them down with one hand.
 
“Keep ‘em on.”
 
He tucks them to the side and she’s golden-haired everywhere, damp-darkened and
pretty.
 
“I’m on the pill.”
 
Girls weren’t like this when John was in high school.  He’d thrown a box of
condoms and a prayer to every major deity Dean’s way and hoped for the best
years ago.  John doesn’t have any condoms.
 
“Good.”
 
John gets his pants down just enough to get his cock out, holding himself hard.
Elastic pushing her candy-store pussy out like a gift from God, John strokes
one finger through her lips and sucks it into his mouth until he can’t stand it
any more.
 
She feels as sweet as she tastes, wet like a peach and tight like a pinky-
swear.  He’s big but she can take it, muttering motherfucker under her breath
and trembling just that bit that gets his cock leaking.
 
John tugs his overshirt off, a blue-green flannel he’d stolen back from Dean
two towns ago.  The Nebraska sunshine splashes picnic-pleasant across it as he
spreads it out on the grass in front of her.
 
Pulling her back with his fingers digging into her hand-span hips John sighs,
watching a tendril of blonde hair shake loose over plaid.  She’d always liked
picnics.
 
A shake of his head and he’s back, buried balls-deep in his old friend’s
babygirl while he grabs his gun and tosses it in front of her face.


"Strip it."


"What?"


"Strip your gun."


He gets a hand in her thick hair, yanks back enough to make her snarl.


"Now, girl."


"You're inside me," she hisses, tugging against his hand as she tries to glare
back at him.


"Think it's hard trying to flush a backed up glock while someone's trying to
make you come?"


He buries deep, where she's wet and willing under all that snarl.


"Try doing it while something's trying to rip your throat out."


He snakes two fingers down the front of her panties, circling around his cock
inside her to catch some slick before he glides over the eager bundle of her
clit.


She catches her moan between her lip and her teeth as she slides the magazine
out.  She's not as quick as Dean and she's nowhere near as careful as Sammy but
she's stubborn as shit. She gets the piece open and dumped on his spread-out
shirt with a smirk and a squeeze of that jailbait pussy that would kill a less
seasoned sleaze bag than John Winchester.


"Happy?"


Up on her elbows, fingers gun greased and her hair fuck messy she growls,
shameless, the thrill of death and danger so close getting her wetter than any
man ever will. It's John's fault, this feral girl, this wild thing he orphaned
years ago.


He bends over her back, beard bristling against the baby hairs on her neck.


"Get it loaded and knock off three of those goddamn cans or I'm not pulling
out."
 
She curses his name as she snaps her piece back, a sentiment he wholeheartedly
agrees with.  She whines each time he fucks into her but she doesn’t stumble
even as she pops the spring back into place and locks it up.
 
John closes his eyes and pulls her back onto his cock.
 
Bam.
 
Bam. 
 
Bam.
 
“That’s it, darlin’.”
 
She nails each one, riding the recoil back to slam into him.
 
He hitches his hips up and grinds three fingers over her clit.  John’s a
bastard who should’ve swallowed the end of that gun she’s holding years ago,
but he never finishes first.
 
He hauls her up to hear her come, drown in it, store it away for those nights
when sunflowers and sun-sweet girls turn to ash in his mouth.
 
“Come inside me,” she pants, still gripping up around him like she means it
even if she shouldn’t.
 
John growls as he comes, loads her up until there isn’t an inch inside her he
hasn’t stained. She’s all honey-drip when he pulls out and Christ, she’s gonna
soak right through her panties before she even makes it back to her room.
 
He’d pull his teeth out to get his mouth on her but she’s already groping for
her shorts and shuffling her hair back up.  She balls his shirt up and tosses
it at his chest as she rises onto forced-steady legs.
 
“My mama’s gonna be back soon.” She drawls it, long and teasing, eyes alight
with the kind of mischief you love until the world throws real trouble in your
lap.
 
He can still taste her in his mouth and it’s enough to keep the sickness from
crawling out of him.
 
She tucks her daddy’s gun into the back waist of her shorts and watches him
stagger to his feet.  His knees crack and he makes that grimace he swore he’d
never live long enough to make.
 
She’s close enough to kiss, to wrap up in his arms and pet and promise that
everything’ll be alright.  John folds his arms over his chest.
 
“Next time you stay, John Winchester, you be sure to leave your door unlocked.”
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