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Code of the Boys

dodgerwinslow — Fri, 21 Sep 2007 00:05:13 CDT

Number thirty-six on Sammy’s list of reasons John Winchester was a shitty dad : You take everything out on Dean. You make him feel like crap all the time. You never tell him you’re proud of him, or that you love him, or that he did a good job or anything. You just yell at him, especially when you’re mad at me.

Code of the Boys

by Dodger Winslow

He found it in a book, being used as a bookmark. Even if he hadn’t recognized the handwriting, with its very specific cursive elements and large, curly-Qed "C", he would have known who wrote it simply because Dean would never consider "hating girls" to be part of any code except the code of "you’re a fag," an epitaph he favored when he was ten.

So this was Sam. Pure Sam. Typical Sam. If he wanted to learn something, he wrote it down, kept it in a pocket so he could pull it out and study it whenever he had a spare moment. If he wanted to figure something out, he made a list. Either way, once he had the subject down, his crib notes usually ended up in a book somewhere, or caught in a dryer filter, washed to shreds in a forgotten pocket once he’d finished stashing the information in that encyclopedia brain of his.

John held the paper carefully, smoothed the creases flat with his fingers as he considered the child his youngest son had been. Code of the Boys, it read. John smiled a little. Made sense. Everyone who had ever really mattered to Sammy was a boy—Dean, his old man, Pastor Jim, Bobby—so clearly there had to be rules to govern the way they acted.

And rule number one was "Always hate girls." That made sense, too. Women were sacrosanct in Sammy’s eyes, but girls sucked. They were his only competition for Dean’s attention, and they didn’t bring anything to the mix as far as he could tell. He told John as much once: said girls shouldn’t have even been invented. He was five at the time, and Dean was watching a girl instead of listening to whatever Sammy wanted to tell him.

It wasn’t until he was twelve or thirteen that Sam started to realize girls didn’t suck so much as they just confused the hell out of him. Poor kid. He’d never had Dean’s easy charm with the ladies, and he’d never recognized his own ability to lock a woman’s heart down for the duration with that sweet smile of his, and the way he blushed to the bone whenever one of them smiled back.

So "always hate girls" identified the code’s author beyond much question. And it also made the timeframe in which it had been put to paper more or less inarguable. Fourth grade, by John’s count. Leah Kinnesaul. That girl jerked poor Sammy around like a marionette on a string. Tall, skinny thing. Freckles and a rat’s nest of red hair that defied the laws of gravity. She beat Sam up as often as not. Must have had a hell of a crush on him to go to that much trouble; but smart as Sam was, even at that age, it never occurred to him the girl might just be trying to get his attention.

He thought she hated him. For absolutely no good reason he could fathom, she just started hating him one day. Punching him on the bus when she passed. Kicking him on the playground at recess. Pushing him in the lunchroom, or tripping him in the hallway so he fell in a humiliating sprawl of arms and legs and books.

It took John a while to figure out what was going on. At first, he thought the bruises were from Dean: instances where Sammy’s unpredictable bursts of speed or awkward agility caught his brother far enough off guard he didn’t get a punch fully pulled, or he held on a little tighter than he should have to keep Sam from wriggling out of a shoulder lock.

The boys played rough, and John encouraged that. It was good training for them and an excellent form of exercise for a bookworm who’d rather read about sports than play them. But beyond that, the physical contact forged a bond between the boys. They spent too much time together to always get along, and a little rough-and-tumble helped them sort things out before they turned into something more than they needed to be.

And the competition kept them close even as it made Sam work harder to keep up than he would have otherwise been willing to work. He bitched and moaned, without fail, about virtually every training exercise John ever devised. But he wrestled with his brother for fun, and worked harder to keep Dean from pinning him than he would ever work to keep his ass from getting eaten alive by a wendigo.

And Dean was unfailingly careful. In the long run, Sammy would have a good four inches on him, but when they were that age, Dean was solid muscle and Sam was more pudge than anything else. But even so, Dean made their wrestling matches and bitch-slap fights seem like something he only dominated in the end, and after significant effort. He never let Sam think he was out of the running from the get-go; worked hard not to look like he could take Sammy down without breaking a sweat. And even though the occasional bruise or scrape was bound to happen, Dean was always careful to make sure the only thing that got pinched with any regularity or severity was Sam’s ego. Maybe his dignity, now and again. Certainly his pride. But not more than that.

So after the third unexplained bruise, John started pushing for answers.

Sammy mumbled vague excuses, and Dean didn’t offer anything at all.
He figured out it was a girl by the fact that it didn’t stop. If it had been another boy, Dean would have broken the little bastard in half for even touching Sammy, let alone marking him. If it had been Dean, it wouldn’t have happened more than once in a blue moon. The fact that three bruises and a scraped elbow showed up in less than a week and a half meant it had to be a girl. Dean wouldn’t humiliate his brother by protecting him from a girl. And Sam would rather eat his own tongue than hit a girl himself.

Someday, that over-developed sense of chivalry was going to fuck the boy over if he didn’t outgrow it. He must have inherited that from Mary because he sure as hell didn’t get it from John. Or from Dean, who was about a chivalrous as a moose in heat, and half as subtle. But somewhere along the line, Sammy got the idea that you didn’t hit girls, even if they hit you first. And you didn’t say things around them that indicated your interest might be anything other than just being friends. And you sure as hell didn’t "ogle their hooters," as his brother liked to put it.

John had assumed Sam would eventually outgrow those idealized fantasies, but so far, he hadn’t. He was still shy as a virgin around girls. Hell, he probably still was a virgin.

John winced mentally. Mary would hate him for thinking about their son’s lack of sexualized indiscretions with the kind of derision he’d just indulged. Well, maybe not hate him, but read him the riot act at least. Tell him that was a hell of a way for a father to be when it came to sex and his own kids.

But as appalled as Mary might be with his thinking on the matter, it was still the way he tended to view it, especially when it came to boys … his or any other. Mary had her own fanciful notions when it came to sex, but she was a girl, so that was to be expected. He’d be surprised if she wasn’t appalled to find Dean had been getting laid on a regular basis from the time he was fifteen. Sixteen, tops. Or that John had dipped his own stick in the well at a much earlier age than that.

Callie Steinum was her name. He’d been thirteen going on thirty. She was seventeen and had been blowing boys behind the school since she was in seventh grade.

He wondered now if there wasn’t a darker reason for her being the way she was than just being an early starter; but at the time, he didn’t really give a shit. He just wanted to get on with it. Become a man. And Callie was up for the task. Or down on it, as the case might more accurately be termed. She blew him, and he fucked her, and they called it a date. He never spoke to her again.

It wasn’t an optimum situation, but that’s how it happened. And it happened that way a lot. Until he met Mary, sex wasn’t about love for him. It really wasn’t about anything other than getting laid. And maybe about being a man.

Or about feeling like one, at least.

And he didn’t want that for Sam, so he didn't know why he was so condemning of the way Sam still square danced like a schoolboy around the fairer sex, but he was. And he knew he was. He’d tried not to show it, but he knew he did by the way Dean dogged his little brother about being a virgin, about never getting any, about not being much of a man if he couldn’t close a deal Sammy wasn’t looking to close in the first place.

John never said a word on the subject, but he didn’t have to. Sam was smart enough to pick up on why Dean rode him so hard about it, to figure out how much Dean was just trying to protect him from the eventuality of their father thinking him somehow less a man for not being the way the two of them were: the way he was, the way Dean was.

For being more the way Mary had been. For having a sense of himself that was strong enough he didn’t need to supplement it by tapping anything that would give him the time of day just to prove to himself he was a man.
Or to prove it to anybody else.

Because, virgin or not, Sam was a man. He was man enough to tell his old man to fuck off, man enough to strike out on his own and to hell with the consequences. In that way, he was exactly the man John had been at his age, and even younger.

In that way, he was undeniably his father’s son.

John ran his thumb across smudged letters written in a child’s hand, read the second point in Code of the Boys: "Like video games."

That was vintage Sammy. Dean didn’t need to make lists of the things he liked, the things he hated. He just did it. Liked them. Hated them. But Sammy had to quantify everything. He made a list once of everything John had ever done that made him a bad father. It was a testament to Dean’s clandestine skills that the list showed up in a trash can, torn into small pieces, rather than on his pillow where it had no doubt originally been left.

Of all thirty-seven points Sam qualified to the list, he remembered number thirty-seven the most clearly. "You don’t even love your own son," had been that particular bitch. Not sons. Son. Number twenty-six was "You never listen to me." Number twelve had been "You’re never around when I need you." Number one was "You don’t care whether we want to move again or not because everything is always about you, and you never even think about what anyone wants except you."

He taped that list back together and kept it. Some day, when he was long dead and gone, Sam would find it in one of the back pockets of his journal, along with a response he wrote after he’d sucked down four fifths of a fifth of Irish whiskey: a note trying to answer each of those thirty-seven points, a note telling Sammy he did love him, and even though he knew he’d made mistakes, he’d always done the best he could.

He almost tore that note into as many pieces as Dean tore Sammy’s note into once he sobered up; but at the last moment, he decided to let it stand the way he’d written it. To let the drunk he’d fallen to tell his son things the boy would never hear any other way because he never listened to John. And because, as much as Sammy quantified everything, John quantified nothing. It was the way he was; the way he’d always been.

The third point in the Code of the Boys was "Read comics." Not like comics. Not enjoy comics. Just read them. Find common ground with his brother. Figure out a way to connect with Dean on Dean’s own turf.
That was vintage Sammy, too.

Read comics so he could be like Dean, even if he wasn’t.

The fourth point was "Don’t brag." John smiled again, considered the way this particular point fell dead center of the whole list, the same distance from the top as it was from the bottom. If it was Dean, that wouldn’t matter. But it was Sammy. And with Sammy, everything mattered. Where this point fell was a statement. It was the center of his whole idea of what the Code of the Boys was: don’t brag. Be like Dean, even if you aren’t. But don’t be Dean.

Don’t brag.

Number five was "Eat candy." It was a good follow up to an admonishment not to be his brother. Don’t be Dean; be Sam.
And Sam was candy. The kid had the sweet tooth from hell. The year gummy worms came out, they’d almost gone broke in service of his habit.

Dean loved food. All food. Any food.

Sam only loved candy.

But he did love candy. Any kind of candy. All kinds of candy.

Eat candy.

Be Sam.

The sixth point was as much about Dean as the two previous ones had been. "Don’t be a cry baby." It was Dean’s mantra, and he’d drilled it into Sammy’s head for years before it even started to take hold.

When Sam was four, he cried at the drop of a hat. By the time he was seven, he understood crying was a sign of weakness in Dean’s eyes, so he cried at the drop of a hat even while he was telling Dean that didn’t make him a crybaby.

By the time he was nine—by the time he was in fourth grade, by the time he hated girls and liked video games, by the time he wanted to be like Dean without being Dean—he would cry at the drop of a hat in front of anyone but Dean, but he wouldn’t cry in front of Dean to save his life.
Any more than Dean would cry in front of John.

The last point was the one Sam no doubt considered the most important. Most kids put their big guns first; Sam always saved his best for last. You don’t care whether we want to move again or not because everything is always about you and you never even think about what anyone wants except you was first. You don’t even love your own son had been last.

And Sam’s last point in the Code of the Boys was this: "Be strong."
Simple. Clear. Quintessential. Not "Be brave." Not "Be good," or "Be heroic," or "Be wise" or even "Be smart."

Just "Be strong."

You can’t order me around any more, Dad. This is my life, and I’m going to do what I want to do with it. You can’t stop me from going. You can try, but you aren’t strong enough to bully me any more, and I’ll kick your ass to prove it if I have to.

Be strong.

Stand up.

Be counted.

Be Sam.

Be strong.

John studied the note in his hand for several more seconds before he folded it up, slipped it into the back of his journal along with a scotch-taped list of his failings in Sammy’s eyes and a barely legible note trying to excuse those failings as things he hadn’t been strong enough to stand against when it counted. He closed the journal, banded it and set it aside.

When he stood, Dean glanced up from the comic book he was reading. The graphic novel. Whatever. His eyes were cautious, wary. He knew a storm was coming, and he was right in the middle of it, caught between the fury of two men who had never learned to pull their punches either to protect those they loved or make the fight look equal when it wasn’t.

"Where you going?" Dean asked.

John shook the question off. He walked out of the room and out of the house, stood in the cool night air and stared off into the distance in the direction of California.

Stanford University. Any other father would be proud. Any other father would have told his son what a fine man he’d become, shook his hand and sent him out to find the life he wanted to live.

The life he deserved to live.

The life Sam Winchester was never going to be allowed to live by things that wanted to control him in ways his father never had.

The near-silent pad of Dean’s feet behind him reminded John of a thousand times his kid had crept down a hallway in the dark, trying to be there for a man who lived his life by hiding the things that hurt too much to show. "You okay?" Dean asked after several seconds of not being acknowledged.

If you want to go with him, then go, he’d said.

Dean had looked at him, met his eyes when he asked, Are you telling me to go?

Number twenty-six: You never listen to me.

I won’t stop you, he’d raged at Dean, more angry than he’d ever been in his life. More frightened. Closer to the edge of coming apart than he’d been since he looked up and saw Mary bleeding on the ceiling of Sammy’s nursery. I’ve never tried to stop you. This has always been your choice, Dean. Stay or leave; it’s up to you.

Number one: You don’t care whether we want to move again or not because everything is always about you, and you never even think about what anyone wants except you.

Dean’s lip had twitched to a one-cornered smile. Nothing is ever my choice, Dad, he’d said quietly.

Don’t be a crybaby.

Fine, John had snarled back at him. Get the fuck out then. I don’t need you either, Dean. You think I do, but I don’t.

Number thirty-six on Sammy’s list of reasons John Winchester was a shitty dad : You take everything out on Dean. You make him feel like crap all the time. You never tell him you’re proud of him, or that you love him, or that he did a good job or anything. You just yell at him, especially when you’re mad at me.

Sam was thirteen when he wrote that.

John proved himself a man by fucking a girl he never spoke to again. Sam wrote a list for his dad … a list his brother tore into little pieces in hopes of keeping a punch that wasn’t pulled from ever landing.

"Dad?" Dean prompted.

John turned, met his son’s eyes. "There’s some kind of predator hunting the rail yards outside Omaha," he said. "Might be a werewolf. Could be something else. Killed a couple of transients last week. Tore them up bad enough to make the front page without paying taxes, so I’m thinking there are probably more who’ve gone missing or showed up cold without meeting the gore requirements to play to ratings on the evening news. I’ll be heading out in the morning."

He left the rest unsaid. Dean nodded, hearing it anyway.

"I can handle it alone," John added, his voice tight in his throat, hurting with how hard it was to say something he didn’t want to say. "Isn’t outside my range if you have something else you need to do."

Dean didn’t even blink. "Sounds like fun," he said. "Count me in."

John nodded. He brushed past Dean, headed back inside. When they were back to back where he didn’t have to face his son when he said it, he added, "Wasn’t fair of me to take it out on you. I’m sorry if I … if I said anything to make you feel like I don’t appreciate you sticking around. I do. I know there are other things you could be doing. Other things you’d probably rather be doing."

"I’m not Sammy, Dad," Dean said. "I chose this when I was sixteen. I’m here because I want to be here."

Be strong.

"Make sure that's the reason," John said. "You’re no good to me if I have to wonder where your head’s at. I’d rather have a partner I can trust than a kid who’s only staying because he feels he has to."

Dean didn’t answer that. He didn’t say anything at all. He wanted to think he was the partner, but he knew his dad was telling him he was the kid.

"The keys are in the Impala," John told him. "She’s yours, if you want her. I bought a truck yesterday. It’s better suited to what I’m doing, anyway. More the kind of thing I should be driving now that you boys are old enough I don’t have to drag you around in the back seat any more."

When he walked inside, he closed the door behind him. Locked it.
He heard the Impala start up and drive away; felt the world crack around him as the roar of its powerful engine faded into the distance.

John spent the night in the living room, sitting in the dark, listening to his own heartbeat and waiting for it to stop. The Impala pulled back into the driveway as the sun broke over the horizon in the East. Dean unlocked the front door without knocking, walked in and tossed the keys on the table as he passed.

When he came out of his room again, he was carrying a duffel of clothes. "You driving, or am I?" he asked.

John stood. He stretched the kinks out of his back and legs before picking up the keys, dropping them back in his pocket where they’d been before he surrendered them.

"I am," he said.

It took five minutes to pack his own duffel. Dean was waiting for him in the driveway, leaning up against the Impala, drinking coffee out of a styrofoam cup he’d picked up at a local quick mart. There was a matching cup on the Impala’s hood. It breathed steam into the cool morning air as they waited.
John opened the trunk, stowed his duffel inside, then caught the one Dean tossed him and stowed it, too. He slammed the trunk, picked up the coffee and took a couple deep draws before observing, "Tastes like shit."

"Beggars can’t be choosers." Dean glanced at the empty street, then asked, "So where’s this fancy truck of yours?"

"I’ll pick it up when we get back," John said.

Dean grunted. "Then I guess you’re not driving."

John lifted an eyebrow. He studied Dean for a long moment, saying nothing.

"My ride, my choice," Dean said. He held his hand out for the keys. John waited a moment longer, then passed them over. "And my music," Dean added with a grin.

"Don’t push it," John advised as he dropped into the Impala’s passenger seat and pulled the door shut behind him.

Dean slipped behind the wheel, kicked the car to life. He revved the engine a little and smiled at the smooth growl of power that replied. "Sweeeeeet," he said more to himself than to John.

"You driving or you jerking off?" John asked.

Dean shifted the Impala into gear and backed out of the driveway. "I can do both," he said.

"More than I really needed to know."

"Then don’t ask next time." Dean reached into a box on the seat beside him, pulled out a tape and held it up. "Metallica?"

"No."

He tossed the tape back in the box and pulled out another. "Kansas?"

"You have any Eagles?"

"Hell, yeah." Dean dug around in the box for a moment, then pulled a tape out and popped it into the stereo.

"At a level that doesn’t make my ears bleed," John said when the stereo came on loud enough to wake all the neighbors and most of the dead.

"Dude." Dean reached out to turn the volume down. "When did you get so old?"

"About the time you started driving my car."

Dean flicked him a grin. "My car," he corrected.

"Yeah," John agreed quietly. "Your car." He leaned back, rested his head against the seat and closed his eyes. He listened to the Impala’s engine dig in, get down to business. Don Henley was singing about wasted time, and his son was humming to the tune under his breath. When they hit the highway, Dean opened her up, didn’t level her off until she hit eighty.

"Thank you," John said, his eyes still closed as he listened to the road passing beneath them.

He could feel the weight of Dean’s gaze when it shifted to him, feel the way his son was watching him, trying to find the right answer, trying to find the right words. "For not playing Metallica?" he asked finally.

"Yeah," John agreed. "For that."

"Sure. No problem."

"If you change your mind, it’s your car," John added.

"I know that."

John nodded. "Wake me when we hit the state line. Or when you’re ready to switch drivers, whichever comes first."

"State line," Dean assured him.

"I figured as much. But either way."

"Thanks for the car," Dean said suddenly.

John opened one eye. "Always intended for it to be yours," he said. "Somewhere along the line, I just forgot to tell you that."

"Told me now," Dean said quietly.

John closed his eye again. "Needed the tax write-off," he said.

Dean snorted. They settled to a companionable silence. Time passed. It had been nearly an hour when John opened his eyes again, watched his son drive the car he’d loved since before he could walk. Dean’s attention was focused on the road ahead. His lips were curled with satisfaction as he hummed to himself and tapped one thumb to the beat of music playing so low it barely cleared the grumbling roar of the Impala’s engine.

It was Kansas now, instead of the Eagles. John reached out, turned the song up a little. Dean grinned, but kept his eyes on the road.

-finis-

When the Art Bug Bites

dodgerwinslow — Wed, 25 Jul 2007 04:32:58 CDT

Just a little John love for the more visually oriented ...

I Always Did the Best I Could ...

Daddy's Boy

A Page from Another Life

Believe in Me

The King of Stupid Questions ...

dodgerwinslow — Tue, 03 Jul 2007 15:39:15 CDT

Sometimes Dean can be the king of stupid questions, but this one's a dilly, even for him. John, Dean, Sammy. Pre-series. Some profanity.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

by Dodger Winslow

"If we got in a wreck, and Sammy and I were both unconscious, and the Impala caught on fire so you only had time to save one of us, who would you save?"

John looked up from the book he was reading on the significance of color in protection and resurrection rituals to fix his son with an unblinking gaze.

"What?" Dean protested. "It’s a valid question."

"It’s a stupid question, Dean. The stupidest question you’ve ever asked. And that’s saying something, because you are the master of stupid questions sometimes."

Dean took a bite out of his sandwich, watching his dad as he chewed. "I thought there was no such thing as a stupid question," he said just about the time John went back to reading.

"Yeah, exceptions to every rule, son. And you’re a master of that, too."

"What?"

"Finding the exceptions."

"Thanks."

"That wasn’t a compliment."

"It never is."

John looked up again. "What did you say?"

"I said it never is." Dean’s eyes were calm, his expression impassive. He took another bite of his sandwich.

"Oh, I’m sorry, son," John said after a long moment. "Am I not being supportive enough of the unique and special person you are? Come over here and give me a hug. I’ll hold you and rock you and stroke your hair while I tell you how proud I am of you, and what a fine young man you’ve grown into, and how proud your mother would be of who you are, deep down in your heart, and in your soul, too."

"Hey," Dean protested. "Mom’s off limits when you’re being bitchy."

"Watch your mouth," John said, going back to his book.

"What are you reading?"

"Oh, for Christ’s sake, Dean!" He slammed the book shut with a sharp enough noise to flinch Dean in his chair. "Don’t you have something better to do than torture me?"

"Evidently not." Dean finished his sandwich in one last, over-sized bite, then licked his fingers clean. "You want me to make you something to eat?"

"I want you to let me work," John said. "Go find your brother and torture him for a while. Or study your Latin. Or go burn the school down or something. Just let me get back to what I’m doing."

"Fine," Dean said, pushing to a stand. "Sorry I bothered you."

He took his plate with him when he left the table, dropping it to a clatter in the sink as he passed from a height designed to prompt a reprimand. John gritted his teeth.

"Dean," he said.

Dean turned in the doorway, looking at him with that calm, level gaze that said "fuck you" and "who me?" at the same time.

"What is it?" John asked.

"What is what?"

"What do you want?"

Dean’s expression twitched so subtly someone else might have missed it entirely, or mistaken it for a hidden smile. John didn’t. He knew better. "If we got in a wreck, and Sammy and I were both unconscious," Dean said again, "and the Impala caught on fire and you only had time to save one of us, which one of us would you save?"

John studied his son, trying to figure out where the anger was coming from. He cast back in his head, trying to find some point of conflict they’d had over the past couple of weeks, but came up clean. Sam could hold a grudge for years, but two weeks was pretty much Dean's limit. Whatever he was angry about, it was something fresh, and something his old man hadn’t been paying enough attention to pick up on when it happened. Which, now that he thought about it, might be exactly what Dean was mad about.

"Why the hell would you ask me something like that?" he asked finally.

"Because I want to know."

John sighed. "Sit down."

"I thought you wanted me to go away."

"Sit. Down," John said again.

Dean came back to the table and sat down. He’d grown a lot in the past couple of months, but he didn’t sprout like a summer weed the way most kids his age did, outgrowing his own skin and then gangling about like some awkward marionette without a puppetmaster while he waited for the rest of his body to catch up. Instead, Dean just kind of stretched himself taller, filling out as he went, gaining mass through the shoulders and chest in particular, bulking up with his weight training now rather than simply getting stronger the way a child does.

The changes in him were more comprehensive than just a growth spurt though. He’d taken on an agility that superceded how athletes grew into their skills; started moving with an economy of motion that was the fruit born from years of training, of discipline, of challenges met and exceeded. There wasn’t much wasted in how Dean reacted to his physical environment now. He had a body awareness that showed in every line of his posture; he knew exactly where every limb was at any given moment in time, and how that position related to every other limb should the need to move quickly and efficiently arise. Even when he was being a petulant pain in the ass, there was a smooth grace to the way he walked that had begun to look almost predatory.

It was beginning to mark him an outcast at school.

Not that Dean ever really fit in, but he fit in less now. He was being pushed farther and farther away from the standard of normality his classmates strove to match shoe-for-shoe simply because those classmates had begun to see things in him they didn’t possess. Strength. Balance. Agility. Instinct. Dean had always had those things; but before, they didn’t show so much. Now, they did. He was starting to look as dangerous as he was capable of being.

Other boys who’d either ignored Dean in the past, or sought the lee side of his protective nature to seek shelter from the attention of bullies, were beginning to see him as a threat. He was being perceived as more than just competition, more than just another kid who fell on the high side of athleticism to the end of being admired as a stand-out rather than feared as a freak. They were starting to see him as someone to band together against, someone far enough outside the range of their own physical capabilities that pre-emptive measures were the only way to make sure he wasn’t anywhere near them if he decided to do what he now looked like he could do: really hurt them.

It isn’t fair, but it’s the way people were. They ostracized those they feared, or don’t understand; and Dean was both. He’d always been both, but more of his peers were seeing it now – seeing him for what he was and what he could do, if he wanted to – and the pressure of how they responded to that was changing Dean. It was isolating him more than he always was, defining him as someone who wasn’t allowed to seek companionship from kids his own age rather than merely someone who chose not to.

Dean fidgeted under the weight of John scrutiny. "Dude," he said finally, his tone almost over the line from near disrespect to outright insolence. "Take a picture. It’ll last longer."

And he was developing a mouth. A disrespectful mouth. His enthusiasm for the hunt, for training, for every aspect of the way they lived was turning more truculent by the day. He was beginning to resent his father for how alone he felt, beginning to show signs of belligerence that weren’t the kind of thing a CO could tolerate, but were exactly the kind of thing every father since the dawn of time had either learned to tolerate or given in to the urge to beat it gone. While he was leaning to the tolerating end of the spectrum, John had not entirely ruled out the option of beating the disrespect of his son’s tone gone.

"I’d save Sammy," John said finally. "In that situation, if I had to choose, I’d save Sammy."

Dean’s expression didn’t change. He just nodded. "Yeah. That’s what I figured."

"Why?" John asked.

"Why what?"

"Why did you figure I’d say Sammy?"

Dean shrugged. He looked away, developed a sudden interest in the wallpaper on the kitchen wall. "I don’t know. Just figured you would."

"Because he’s younger?" John asked.

"Yeah," Dean said quietly. "That’s why."

"Because he’s more vulnerable, and less able to take care of himself?" John pressed.

Dean shrugged. "I guess."

"Because he’s my favorite?"

Dean pushed himself away from the table and stood. "I’ve got things to do," he announced, turning to walk away.

"Sit down," John said again.

Dean kept walking.

"Dean."

The sound of his name – or perhaps the tone of his father’s voice – stopped him, but he didn’t turn.

"Put your ass back in this chair, or I will come over there and do it for you," John said.

Dean turned, walked back to the table, sat down again. His entire expression was shut down. He looked like someone had turned him off, like flipping a light switch to the down position.

"Is that what you figured?" John asked again. "That Sammy’s my favorite, so I’d save him instead of you?"

Dean didn’t answer.

"I asked you a question, Dean."

"Whatever," Dean said. "It was just a stupid question. You weren’t supposed to actually answer it."

John leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table between them. Dean wouldn’t meet his eyes. He was looking straight at him, but his eyes wouldn’t engage. They were short focused, fixed on a point between the two of them just to keep from having to meet his father’s eyes.

"Never ask a question you aren’t prepared to hear the answer to," he said.

"Yes, sir. I’ll remember that."

The way Dean said "sir" was an insult. It was his idea of a rebellion, using an expression of respect as a disrespect. He’d been doing it for a while now. John had let it slide. He didn’t let it slide this time.

"You call me ‘sir’ in that tone of voice again, and you and I are going to dance, boy," John said grimly. "Do you understand me?"

It was the first time he’d ever threatened Dean with an outright beating. Perhaps it was long overdue. He didn’t like the idea of dominating his sons, or of giving them the idea he might actually kick the crap out of them if they pushed him too far rather than just turning them over his knee for the kind of application of hand to ass that Dean had outgrown by the time he was seven. But as much as he didn’t like it, sometimes that was all a kid Dean’s age understood. Threats rather than promises. Discipline rather than affection. Loyalty rather than love.

He wondered passingly what Mary would think of that as a parenting doctrine. He didn’t let the thought take hold and stick around because he was pretty sure he knew what the answer would be, and he had a full-blown, teenaged rebellion to put down before it escalated into something that was going to require the Marines to be called in rather than just applying a little weekend warrior slap down.

Right now, he couldn’t afford to be Dean’s mother. Dean needed his father. And since he’d served in both those steads since Dean was four, he knew when he could and when he couldn’t afford the luxury of trying to be both. This was one of those times. Right now, Dean needed the hardcore hard line of his father much more than he needed the compassionate understanding of a mother he’d never really had, or at least hadn’t had long enough to understand how woefully inadequate John had always been at trying to mimic that parental aspect to acceptable end result.

"Yes, sir," Dean said. The tone of his ‘sir’ wasn’t a disrespect this time, but it wasn’t as far from it as John would have liked. Dean was a stubborn little bastard. Sometimes he was so much like his old man it made John ache that he hadn’t been able to instill more of Mary in the boy.

"Now answer the question," John ordered. "Is that what you thought?"

"Is what what I thought," Dean returned as if he didn’t remember something he wasn’t going to ever forget.

"That Sammy’s my favorite, so that’s why I’d save him instead of you."

Dean’s eyes focused in then. Fast, sudden, fierce. One moment, he was gazing at that point midway between them, and the next, he was glaring into John’s eyes, every line of his expression hurt and outraged and angry. Very, very angry.

"Is he?" Dean demanded.

"What do you think?"

"Yeah," Dean said, his tone vitriolic. "I think he is." He nearly spat the words at John, he was that hurt, that angry, that threatened by the mere possibility that his father might have a favorite and it wasn't him.

"Fine then." John leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, deliberately distancing himself from his son’s emotion. "We ever get in a wreck, and the Impala catches on fire so I only have time to save one of you, I’ll make sure I save you and leave Sammy there to burn up."

It was the lowest blow he’d ever thrown. And perhaps the most necessary.

Dean blinked. His face went white. His anger just drained away, like someone pulled the plug on him. Which is exactly what his old man had done.

"No," Dean said. "That’s not what I meant."

"Sure it is," John said. "You want me to pick between you and Sammy. I can only save one of you, and the other has to die. That was the question, right? And if I save Sammy, you think that means I love him more than I love you. So fine, Dean. I’ll save you. Problem solved." He picked up his book, flipped it open to a totally random page. "There’s your answer, son. Now go find something else to do. I have things to read I might need later."

Dean leaned into the table. "That isn’t fair."

"What?" John didn't look up from a page he couldn’t have actually read right now if his life depended on it. "And your question was?"

"You should save Sammy," Dean said.

He still didn’t look up. Still pretended he was reading when he wasn’t. Still pretended his son’s sudden anxiety didn’t matter to him when it did. "But I won’t. I’ll save you."

"Dad."

"What?"

"Save Sammy."

"No."

"Please."

He did look up then, met Dean’s gaze with one of his own, as flatly, coldly, inflexibly indifferent as he could make it. "No, Dean. If I save you, Sammy will think it’s because I love him more. And if I have to pick a way for one of my sons to die, that’s the one I’ve got to go with. At least that way, he’ll die understanding I love him so much I’m doing everything I can to save what’s most important to him in this world. And for Sammy, that’s you. So I’ll save you. For Sammy. And hey, that works out well for you, too; doesn’t it? Winners all around."

"Dad." Dean was nearly crying now. His features were twisted up, his expression agonized. There were tears in his eyes he was fighting with everything he had to keep from falling.

"What, Dean?" John had to count to himself to keep his mind off how much he wanted to reach out and pull Dean to him, hold on to him, assure him he’d find a way to save them both, that he loved his sons that much that nothing would ever succeed at making him choose between them. "Isn’t that what you wanted to know?"

Dean hung his head and cried then. He let it go and just cried.

John put the book down and pushed to a stand. His joints ached, and he felt a thousand years old. He wanted Mary so much right now it was hard to breathe. He needed her here to compensate for what he’d done, to hold Dean and be gentle with him, to heal the wounds his father inflicted to keep deeper wounds from taking hold.

He needed her there to explain this to Dean while she let him cry, to keep their son from ever thinking Sammy was his father’s favorite. To keep Dean from ever giving in to believing he was less important in his father’s eyes just because Sammy was vulnerable while Dean was strong; so when push came to shove, it was Sammy John invariably worried about, invariably tried to save.

He needed Mary to do that for him; but she wasn’t here, and if he tried to do it, Dean would never learn what he had to know. The most important lessons were always the hardest ones. The most painful ones. And this one was going to cut them both to the bone. It was going to leave a scar that would never heal, but at least it would be a scar, and not an open wound that rotted Dean from the inside out every time he indulged the fear that, in his father’s eyes, Sammy was more important. That his father loved Sammy more.

Because no matter how much this hurt, that hurt more. And he wouldn’t let Dean feel that. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Not that. Not ever.

"I’ve got things to do now, son," John said. "If you have any more questions, I’ll be in the garage."

He walked out of the kitchen, leaving Dean behind, crying. With the possible exception of tearing himself away from Mary as she was burning on the ceiling of Sammy’s nursery, leaving her behind because the only way he could show her how much he loved her as she died was by leaving her to save her sons, it was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

"Dad?"

John straightened, wiped quickly at his face, struggled to structure his voice before he answered. It surprised him how calm he sounded, how unemotional his voice was when he said, "Yeah, Sammy. What is it, son?"

"Dean’s crying."

"Yeah. I know."

"You know?"

"Yes. I know. Don’t worry about it. It doesn’t have anything to do with you."

"Don’t worry about it?" Sam demanded. He was ten, and he sounded twenty seven. It was a level of disdain he’d learn to express before he rounded the bend on eight.

John could hear Sammy threading his way through the crap that littered the garage. He wiped at his face again, then cleared his throat as he picked up the knife he’d been sharpening on a whet stone and went back to the work of trying to look busy.

"Dad?" Sammy said from right beside his shoulder.

John turned his head, looked at him. Only a couple of months ago, Sam had been short and pudgy. Now he was thin as a rail and almost as tall as Dean, trying to outpace his brother to the end of ending up nine feet tall.

"Kinda busy right now, Sam," he said.

Sam looked at him, studied him. "Are you crying, too?"

John laughed in a way that was more a burst of air than actual laughter. "Marines don’t cry, son. They kick ass."

"Why are you crying?" Sam asked. A panic had started in his eyes. It was spreading like a virus through every line of his posture.

"Hey," John said firmly. "Stop it."

And just like that, Sam calmed down. He quit panicking, his expression settling back to one of confusion and concern.

His ability to be that for Sam was on its last legs. He could see the end of it coming in how much his younger son was already beginning to question everything he said and virtually every order he gave. In just the last year, Sam had shifted from worshiping the ground his daddy walked on to thinking his old man might possibly be a domineering asshole who issued orders just because he could. He hated to see it happen, but he’d known it would be the way he and Sam ended up long before now.

Sammy was simply too much like him in all the wrong ways and too much like his mother in all the right ones. The combination was a recipe for nitro, and thinking nitro would come to any end other than eventual combustion was Army thinking, not Marine thinking. Which is to say: Wrong.

It was inevitable that he and Sam were going to spend most of their lives toe-to-toe in a way he and Dean never had; but for right now, Sam was looking at him like he still knew the secrets of the universe, or at least had some clue what they might possibly be. Like he was the begin-all end-all of what a man could be, or at least was someone worthy of respect and obedience. Like he hadn’t just left his fourteen year old sobbing in the kitchen as if he couldn’t be bothered to take the time to comfort him, or at least hadn’t left him there without a damn good reason he was going to explain now, because it sure needed explaining as far as Sammy was concerned.

"This isn’t about you, Sam," John said. "And it isn’t something you need to worry about."

"How can I not worry about it?" Sam demanded. "You’re crying. Dean’s crying. What happened? What did you say to him?"

There it was: Sam giving him a hands-on demonstration of the kind of relationship they were going to have by the time Sam hit Dean’s age. At the tender age of ten, he was already feeling he had the right to call his old man to an accounting for actions taken he would never understand because it would never occur to Sam to believe his father loved his brother more.

"You can not worry about it because I told you not to worry about it, Sammy," John snapped.

Sam looked at him, dismayed, upset, worried. "I can’t just not feel something because you tell me not to feel it, Dad," he said, his ‘you aren’t being reasonable’ tone just about enough to make John want to smack him. "It doesn’t work that way."

"Really," John said. "And just how does it work, Sammy? You being an expert on this kind of thing and all."

The implication that he was out of line didn’t work on Sammy. It never worked on Sammy. "It works this way, Dad," he said reasonably. "You say something that hurts Dean, and Dean gets hurt."

John just looked at Sam. He studied him in the garage’s crappy lighting for almost a minute, wondering when in the hell this child had surpassed him in the ability to win an argument by any means other than yelling louder than his ten year old opponent. Sam had his mother’s brains and his mothers capacity to cut John off at the knees. You say something that hurts Dean, and Dean gets hurt. How do you argue with that kind of logic?

"Yeah, you’re right, Sam," John said tiredly. "That is the way it works. Thanks for explaining that to me." He went back to sharpening his knife. "Why don’t you go talk to your brother. Tell him stupid jokes to cheer him up or something."

"Dean’s crying, Dad," Sam repeated. "He’s not bummed, he’s crying."

"I know that, Sammy. God help me, I know it."

If he let himself cry in front of Dean, it would have crashed Dean’s entire world. But he could let tears run down his face in front of Sam, and Sam always understood them for what they were. So sitting in his garage on an overturned bucket, sharpening a knife that was illegal in three states and already so sharp it could cut a man without him ever feeling it, he didn’t worry about the tears rolling down his face as much as he did his best to ignore them.

Sam reached out, wrapped his arms around John and put his head on John’s shoulder. "It’s okay, Dad," he said. "Whatever you said, Dean will forgive you."

"Ah, shit, Sammy." John thrust to his feet, breaking free of his son’s embrace so roughly he almost knocked the boy over. "Don’t say something like that to me."

"Like what?" Sam asked in genuine confusion as John walked away from him.

John found himself in a corner, glaring at a scatter of greasy tools neglected on an old workbench he hadn’t touched since shortly before moving in this place over a year ago. You could have eaten with his shop tools in Lawrence, he kept them that spotless, that perfectly maintained. But he’d lost that somewhere, lost the ability to be responsible in how he treated the things he loved, be they tools or children or something else that wasn’t tormenting him to guilt pang at this particular moment.

"Just … just go somewhere else, will you?" he said. "I can’t talk to you right now."

"That isn’t fair."

"What?"

"It isn’t fair," Sam repeated. "Dean’s crying, and you’re crying, and you want me to just go somewhere and pretend like it doesn’t matter? That isn’t fair, Dad."

"Yeah? Well welcome to being my son, son. Life isn’t fair, and neither is your old man."

"I’m not a kid," Sam said, not indignant so much as he was imformative. "You can talk to me. You can tell me what happened; it won’t freak me out or anything."

"Nothing happened," John said.

"That’s a pretty stupid thing to say," Sam countered. "Obviously something happened. What was it? What did you say to him?"

"Watch your mouth, Sammy."

"Dad!"

Sam’s exasperation was almost palpable. It was a good match for John’s level of frustration. "Did you ever think that maybe it wasn’t what I said to him?" John demanded a little tersely.

Sam thought about that for a moment. "No," he said finally.

John laughed in a coarse burst of sound. "Why not?"

"Because what is Dean going to say to you that makes him cry? That doesn’t make sense."

"Sometimes life doesn’t make sense," John allowed tiredly.

Sam sighed. "Okay. Fine. What did he say to you then?"

"He asked me a question."

"Oh."

Sam didn’t say anything else. He as quiet for so long John turned to see what he was doing. He was just standing there, staring down at his feet, looking ten again instead of sounding twenty-seven.

"What?" John prompted.

"He asked you the car question, didn’t he." Sam surmised quietly.

John frowned. "You have a name for it? The car question?"

"Yeah. The car question. The one about the car and the fire and saving only one, right? It’s a stupid question."

John walked back across the garage. He crouched down to look at Sam eye-to-eye and asked, "Why would he ask me something like that?" He felt a bit like a fool, requesting insight on his fourteen year old from his ten year old; he did it anyway, if for no other reason than because Sammy shared so many personality traits with his mother, asking him things sometimes gave John an idea what Mary would have said in response.

There were times he could almost swear Mary was speaking to him through Sammy. He knew it was a stupid, indulgent, frivolous thought; but even so, there were times it still felt like that’s what she was doing.

"It’s just a thing that’s going around at school," Sam explained. "You’re supposed to take your two best friends and think of which one you would save if you were in a car wreck and you could only save one of them."

"How do you know about this?" John asked. "You and Dean aren’t even in the same school."

"’Cause he asked me the same thing."

"He what?"

"He asked me the car question. He said if you and him were in a car wreck, and I could only save one of you, who would I save."

"What did you tell him?"

"I said him," Sam answered like the fact that John even had to ask made him the stupidest dad ever.

"Why?"

"Because you’d kill me if I let him die to save you."

John just stared at his son. He could feel tears starting to run down his face again, but it didn’t really occur to him to wipe them away.

"What?" Sam asked. "That’s the right answer."

"Yeah," John agreed. "It is."

"So why are you crying then?"

"I think I've sprung a leak."

Sam snorted. "So what’d you say?" he asked. "You told him me, right?"

"Yeah," John said quietly.

"Because he’d kill you if you let me die to save him. See? That’s the whole point of the question. Which is why it’s a stupid question. That and because somebody always ends up getting their feelings hurt. I think maybe that’s the point of it, too. Which makes it double stupid."

John reached out, put his hand along the side of his son’s face. "You’re right," he said quietly. "It is an incredibly stupid question."

"That’s what I said. I told Dean that. I told him not to ask you."

"What did he say to that?"

"He said he wanted to know." Sam started to say something else, but changed his mind.

"What?" John prompted.

"Nothing."

"Don’t nothing me, Sam. Tell me what you were going to say."

Sam shrugged. "I was just going to say I don’t think Dean gets it. I don’t think he understands the point of the question. I’m not saying he’s dumb or anything," Sam added quickly, "because he’s not. I just don’t think he gets this particular question. Which since it’s such a dumb question, kinda makes him smart to totally not get it. In a way. Sort of, if you look at it right."

"Why do you say he doesn’t get it?"

"Because he got mad at me when I said him. He got really mad. He even hit me. See?" Sam pulled up the sleeve of his shirt to show John a small bruise on his upper arm.

"Why’d he do that?" John asked quietly.

"Because he told me if I ever let you die for any reason, he would kill me himself. Especially if saving him was the reason. I tried to explain to him that you’d kill me if I saved you instead of him, and he said he didn’t want to hear it. That it wasn’t a game. That if it ever came to a call between him and you, I had to pick you. He made me swear it. Which is stupid, isn’t it? Like I’m going to pick you if something like that ever happens just because I swore I would."

John laughed quietly. "Come here," he said, reaching out to pull Sammy into a hug. Though the embrace seemed to surprise him a bit, Sammy responded easily, wrapping his arms around John’s neck and hugging back in a way Dean never would have, but Sammy always did.

John held onto Sam for several minutes, taking comfort in the small knowledge that whatever else he’d done wrong as a father, he’d at least done something right with Sammy. Or Dean had. One of them had raised a hell of a smart kid. Or maybe it was both of them who’d raised him.

When he let Sam go and stood, Sammy grinned up at him. "That’s two hugs in ten minutes," he said. "According to Dean, that officially makes you a girl."

"Oh it does, does it?"

"Yup."

"Well this girl is still the one in charge around here, so lets see how Dean likes taking orders from a girl."

"Oh, he’ll love that," Sam said, his grin splitting wider. "Are you going to go talk to him now?"

"What? Are you psychic now?"

Sam laughed. "No. I just know you, and you’re a real girl when it comes to Dean crying."

John reached out, bipped his son on the back of the head. "Don’t call your old man a girl," he said. "It’s disrespectful."

"Yes, Ma’am," Sam said smartly.

John looked down at Sam for a long moment, then said, "Thank you, Sam. You helped me out here."

"I did?" Sam sounded surprised.

"Yeah. You did. Sometimes it helps to get somebody else’s opinion. And you have good opinions. Especially when it comes to your brother."

Sam looked very proud of himself. "Cool," he said. "So that means it really would be me you’d save over Dean then, right?" And then he snickered.

"Don’t ever ask me that again, Sam," John said.

"Oh come on. I never asked you in the first place. Dean asked you." Then, as if it had suddenly occurred to him his dad might do otherwise, Sam asked, "You are going to say me if he asks again, right? Because you will totally make him mad if you say him."

"Absolutely," John said.

"But if I ask, you’re supposed to say him. You get that, right?"

"Are you suggesting I’m stupid, Sammy?" John asked.

Sam actually had the grace to look a little embarrassed by the question. "No. I just thought I should make sure. You know: better sure than sorry."

"I’m going to go talk to your brother," John said. "Why don’t you make yourself scarce for a while?"

"Okay. Then can we go out for pizza?"

"Sure, Sam. Then we’ll go out for pizza."

"But you have to promise to drive really careful," Sam added. And then he grinned. " ’Cause you wouldn’t want to get in a wreck or anything."

"Oh, you’re hilarious," John said.

"Yeah," Sam agreed, shoving at his dad by pushing against his arm just because it happened to be close enough he could do it. "I totally am."

It took him a while to find Dean, but when he did, he wasn’t terribly surprised where they ended up.

There was a small creek not far from the rental, and it was where Dean liked to go when he wanted to be alone. John found him there, sitting on a muddy bank, half a dozen yards above the actual creek itself. He had both knees drawn up to his chest, his arms draped across them, his hands dangling near his feet.

He glanced up when he heard John pushing through the underbrush. He watched but didn’t say anything while John worked his through the weeds and dead sticks until he made his way clear, took a seat beside Dean on the bank.

"Hey," Dean greeted finally. His voice was quiet, subdued.

"Hey," John returned, stretching his legs out in front of himself as he spoke. His knees were much older and more incautiously used than his son's were. They no longer bent the way a fourteen-year-old's knees bent.

Dean returned his attention to the small trickle of water running through the scattering of rocks below. It was almost too pitiful to even be called a creek, but it was all they had, so Dean was making do. He tossed small stones into the water's path while John watched. It didn't make time pass more quickly or more easily, but it did give him something to do while he waited for his dad to say something.

They sat together in silence for several minutes before Dean realized John wasn't going to open the conversation, so he offered, "Sorry I asked you that. It was a stupid question, I guess."

"Yeah," John agreed. "It was. An incredibly stupid question."

Dean shot him a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, then went back to staring down at the creek. "Guess I made myself sound like a real punk, huh?"

"Yeah. You kind of did."

Dean nodded. "Sorry," he said again.

"It’s okay. Everybody’s allowed to be a punk once in a while."

Dean grunted.

They sat there for a while, not talking, just sitting. "I’d want you to save Sammy," Dean said suddenly. His voice was quiet, his eyes carefully averted from anything John might try to engage. "If something like that ever really did happened, that’s who I’d want you to save, okay? Sammy, not me."

"No. It’s not okay."

Dean sighed. "You're not going to let me off the hook?"

"No. Not for asking a question like that."

"Fine," Dean said. His tone wasn’t disrespectful this time, it was just weary. "Whatever."

"Whatever?" John repeated.

"Yeah. Whatever. I'm a punk and that's okay, but you're not going to let me off the hook for it. Whatever."

John sighed. "Do me a favor, will you, Dean?"

"I know," Dean said. "Don’t ever ask you that again."

John smiled a little. "Well, okay that, too; but I was actually thinking about something else."

"Oh. Sorry. What?"

"Put your head someplace of me. Just for a moment."

"Okay," Dean agreed.

"Think about being in a position of having to choose between me and Sammy if you could only save one of us."

"I don’t want to think about that," Dean said quickly.

John turned his head, looked at his son. Dean was still staring down at the creek. He wouldn’t turn his head, wouldn’t meet his eyes.

"Look at me," John said quietly.

Dean obeyed, his gaze completely deferential, almost to the point of submissive.

"Don’t cow in front of me. Look at me."

Dean swallowed hard, but he squared his shoulders a little and engaged John in a more equal manner. His eyes were raw, wounded. He’d taken a hit, and he was hurting. He didn’t want to show as much, but he did because John gave him an order, and he was obeying it.

It was both an apology and a plea for forgiveness.

"That’s my point," John said. "What you feel just thinking about thinking about it? That’s the same thing I feel when you ask me who I’d save between you and Sammy."

"Yeah," Dean said. "I know. It was a stupid question. I shouldn't have asked it."

"That kind of thing isn’t a game for you and me like it is for your school buddies," John added. "It isn’t fun. It isn’t something to do because you’re bored." He studied Dean's eyes for a long moment, then said, "That’s my worst fear, Dean. Having to choose between you and your brother. And knowing that no matter which of you I chose, the other might think I love them less because of the choice I have to make."

"I wouldn't think that, Dad. You could choose Sammy, and I wouldn't think that. I'd want you to choose Sammy."

"That's not the point, Dean. Can't you see how much asking me a question like that puts my head somewhere I don’t want to ever have to go? How much it hurts just to think about having to make a choice like that?"

Dean nodded. He’d broken away from John’s gaze again and was looking at his hands. "Yeah," he said hoarsely. "I realized that after you left. Sorry. I didn’t mean to do that to you."

"You and I’ve kind of been partners since your mother died," John said. "In addition to being father and son. I depend on you a lot more than most fathers depend on their kids. Maybe more than I should sometimes."

"I’m up to it," Dean said quickly.

"I know you are," John agreed. "And that’s a big part of why I can do it. But even though I can, I probably shouldn’t. Actually, I know I shouldn’t. But sometimes I just don't see any other choice. I can't see any other way to do what has to be done to protect you and your brother except depending on you more than I should."

Dean looked up, met his eyes. "It’s okay, Dad. I like being partners with you."

"I know you do. And I know I can trust you. You and I are alike, Dean; but Sammy’s not like us. He got lucky: he had you to help raise him instead of just depending on me."

"That’s not fair," Dean protested. "You did a good job raising me."

John offered his son a small smile. "Well, certainly I got a good end product, so I have to figure I did something right. But what I’m trying to say is that Sammy’s not like you and me. He's not tough like you, not a hunter like you. He’s more of a kid like he should be. Like he can afford to be, because you aren't. And he’s vulnerable like a kid, which is why I’m always telling you to take care of him. It's not because I think he’s more important than you. It's because you’re my partner, Dean; and Sammy needs taking care of. You’re the only one I trust to do that; the only one I can depend on other than me when it comes to protecting Sammy."

Dean nodded. "I know that, Dad."

"Do you?" John asked quietly.

Dean’s eyes narrowed, questioning.

"Do you know the part about him not being more important than you, Dean?" John asked. "Because sometimes I’m not sure you do. Sometimes I think me asking you to take care of him makes you think you’re expendable, and he’s not."

"That isn’t what I think," Dean said. His voice was convincing; his eyes were less so.

"Are you sure, Dean? Because that seemed like the question you were asking me. That seemed like what you wanted to know."

"I know you love me," Dean said.

"Yeah. But do you know I love you just as much as Sammy?" John hesitated a full two seconds, then added, his voice almost a whisper, "If not more?"

Dean looked away. He stared at the creek, looked into the underbrush on the opposite bank, glanced up at the sky that was starting to go grey with the first indications of coming dusk.

When he finally looked back to John, his eyes were three years old again. He was a little boy, sitting on John’s lap, eyes filled with tears, face twisted with fear as he asked, But will you love him more than me, Daddy? You won’t love him more than me, will you?

I’ll never love anybody more than you, Dean-o, he’d said then. And he meant it. He’d meant it then, and he meant it now.

"He’s a lot like Mom," Dean said. "I know you see that because I see it."

"Yes," John agreed. "He is."

"So …?"

Dean stopped then, waited on him, dying inside while he tried to look like he already knew the answer to this one.

"I’ll never love anybody more than you, Dean-o," John said.

He hadn’t called his son that since before Mary’s murder. It was a nick-name that died with her, along with so many other things that both of them needed and loved and wanted.

Dean let out the breath he was holding in a small puff. He looked away, stared down at the creek. "Okay," he said, his voice a tremor on the acknowledgement.

"Will you remember that for me, son?" John asked. "Even if someone tells you differently some time? Even if someone tries to use it against you, tries to make you feel like Sammy’s my favorite just because I have to worry more about him than I do you? because you’re my partner, and he’s the one both of us are in charge of protecting? Will you remember it isn’t true, Dean? Will you remember this conversation? Remember that I’ll never love anybody more than I love you? Never? No matter what?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "I’ll remember."

"I told you that once already. Do you remember?"

"Yes," Dean whispered.

"Do you think I was lying to you?"

"No."

"Do you think I changed my mind?"

"I’ll remember it this time, Dad," Dean said. "I promise, okay?"

"You have to, Dean," John said. "I’d do anything for you. I’d trade my life for you. I’d trade my soul for you, and consider myself lucky to get the chance to do it. I love you that much, son; and more. You’ll understand some day when you have kids of your own; but right now, you just have to trust me on this: You only have one first child. I love Sammy. I love Sammy more than life itself. But not more than you, Dean. Never more than you."

"Okay." Dean was nodding now, his breathing harsh, ragged, his eyes staring at the mud between his feet like it held the secrets to the universe. "Okay, Dad. Okay. I’ll remember."

"Good," John said. "Because the only thing I can think of that’s worse than having to pick between you and Sammy would be to have you think I picked Sammy for any reason other than because that’s what I know you’d want me to do. Pick him instead of you, because I know you love him that much, the same way I love you."

"I would, Dad," Dean said. "I really would."

"I know you would, son. And you know what I'd want you to do, right? Because family comes first. Before revenge, before anything. We're on the same page on this, aren't we?"

Dean was still nodding, still staring at the mud between his feet. "I’d pick Sammy for you, Dad," he said. "That’s the right answer, right? That I’m supposed to save Sammy for you, right?"

John reached over, put his hand on the back of Dean’s neck, pulled his son’s head close, into his shoulder, speaking down to him, whispering near his ear as he said, "You save yourself, Dean. And then you save your brother. That’s how you love me, okay? That’s the way you show me that you love me."

Dean nodded. "Okay. I will, Dad. I will."

"I know you will, son. I trust you."

He held on to Dean like that for several minutes longer. Dean stayed where he was willingly, leaning into John's shoulder, trembling. John kept his mouth near Dean’s ear where he could tell him secrets he didn’t have to actually say for Dean to hear them and know they were true.

He didn't say anything more than he'd already said. But Dean heard him anyway.

John released his son finally, patting Dean’s shoulder in a way that told him to sit up, restructure himself, clear his throat, clear his eyes, pretend like nothing monumental or important had passed between them. Dean obeyed the way he always did. The way he always would.

John nodded just to let Dean see how much a Marine approved of how his fourteen-year-old partner was conducting himself. Dean was still a child in some ways, but in so many others, he was already a man. A man John could trust. A man John could count on.

John wanted Dean to know that. He wanted his son to know how his father saw him.

"Sammy’s jonesing for pizza tonight," John said when Dean was staring at the creek below them like a bored teenager rather than a shattered child trying to hold it together. "You up for that?"

"Sure."

"Figured you would be. Let’s head back to the house. I’ve got some reading to finish before we go."

John stood, and his son followed suit.

"What are you reading?" Dean asked as they walked back to the house.

"Just boring ritual crap," John said. "But you never know when that kind of thing will come in handy. Who knows? Some day I might want to come back from the dead to kick your ass for salting my bones the wrong way. Hate to have the only thing standing between me and that end being the color of the candles I burned."

"You’re never going to die," Dean said. "You’re invincible."

"Yeah. Me and Superman."

Dean grinned. "Dude. Ego check: you are not Superman."

John lifted an eyebrow at him.

"Batman is much cooler," Dean added after a beat, his grin wider, deeper, happier. "And he’s one hundred percent Human. No super powers. No alien from outer space. He’s just a regular guy who’s pissed off enough to do what has to be done."

"So … that makes me Batman then?"

Dean laughed. "Hell, yeah. You can be Batman if you want, as long as I get to drive the batmobile, and you don’t start calling me Robin."

"If not you, then who?" John asked, grinning, too.

"Gimme a break. The Boy Wonder? Who else could that be but Sammy?"

They both laughed at that, and were still laughing several hours later, eating pizza with Sammy as the three of them took turns asking each other stupid questions.

-finis-

Short Fiction

JDsgirlBev — Tue, 19 Jun 2007 01:10:13 CDT

Title: It’s Not That Easy

Author: JDsgirlBev
Rating: G
Pairings: None
Length: 756 words
Pre-series: Wee!chesters
Spoilers: None
Status: Complete
Disclaimer: The Winchesters et al belong to Eric Kripke and the CW. Damnit.

Sometimes, John Winchester reflected wearily looking down at the top of Sammy’s head, as the three year old sobbed and drooled into his father’s right shoulder, sometimes life was a real pain in the ass. He kissed the top of Sammy’s head, and turned his attention to his other son, who was clinging to John’s other shoulder, arms and legs wrapped around his father like some boy sized limpet. Occasionally Dean moaned softly.

It was 11:30 at night and John was at the tag end of exhausted after a 12 hour shift at a lumber yard, where he’d picked up a temporary job filling in for 2 other men. The boys had been fussing for a couple of hours now and John was dizzy from walking them both back and forth across the kitchen floor of the tiny apartment they were calling home this month.

Sammy murmured a sleepy “Bewy hurts, Dada,” before nuzzling closer to John, depositing a streak of drool and snot across his father’s neck.

“Your belly hurts, Sammybear?” John murmured back. “What did you eat at Mrs. Johnson’s today, besides the lunches I gave you?”

“We had some cake Daddy, at Gerry’s birthday party, ‘member?” Dean questioned. “Mrs. Johnson let Gerry and us lick the bowls when she was makin’ it.”The seven year old squirmed as a stomach cramp took him.

“Poop, Dada,” Sammy declared urgently. The boy had recently been able to warn John of impending number twos in time for John to get him to the toilet. But tonight, a familiar aroma assaulted John’s nose, telling him that Sam had already done the deed. Great.

John reached for the diapers. No disposables left, only the half dozen “just in case” cloth ones. Just fucking great. He’d be washing diapers in the morning before heading off to work.

John shifted Dean around to his back. The boy pressed his forehead into his father’s neck as he carried Sammy into the apartment’s only bedroom and laid him on one of the two single beds.

John bent over his son and undressed him, the aroma becoming stronger as each layer of clothing came off.

“Hush little Sammy, don’t say a word, Dada’s gonna buy you a...CHRIST!” For a second, John’s head whirled. How in the HELL did Sam’s poop turn GREEN: lush, dark, forest GREEN?

“Daddy? Is Sam’s poop supposed to be that colour?” Dean asked, close to John’s ear.

“Er...No Dean. No, it’s not.” John’s memory suddenly flashed to the birthday party he had interrupted when he picked up the boys at 7:30. A big sheet cake, half consumed, covered with... dark green icing. His boys were in considerable discomfort, and Sam was green from the top of his butt crack to his belly button, but all John could do was chuckle.

“Come on Sammy, I think we need to give you a bath. You too Dean-o.”

John sluiced the semi-liquid greenery off Sam, and wrapped him in a big towel while he scrubbed out the tub, then filled it with warm water and added a dollop of chamomile soft soap. He knelt beside the tub while the boys played, smoothing back Sam’s hair and rubbing Dean’s back until they were both blinking and yawning. The worst of the cramps were over and the boys could sleep now.

As he tucked them in Sam whispered up into his father’s kiss, “S’eep wif us, Dada?”

“Ok, Sammy. How about you Dean? You too old to let your Dad cuddle up long enough for your brother to go to sleep?”

“Ok, Daddy,” Dean replied, and scooted aside enough for John to half lie down, part propped up against the headboard, precariously close to the edge of the bed. He reached out and switched off the lamp, leaving the room dim.

Sam burrowed into the hollow of John’s neck, a warm, sweet smelling weight on his shoulder, and Dean laid his head on the other side of John’s chest, doing his limpet impression again.

“Song?” Sam whispered, almost asleep even as he spoke. Looking down at his sons, John felt an enormous lump come into his throat.

“Sure thing Sammybear...

It's not that easy bein' green;
Having to spend each day the color of the leaves.
When I think it could be nicer being red, or yellow or gold-
or something much more colorful like that....

Sometimes... just sometimes, life was good.

-end

Title: Compassion’s Gift

Author: JDsgirlBev
Rating: PG
Pairings: John/OFC
Length: 1000 words
Spoilers: IMToD
Status: Complete
Disclaimer: Just for snorts and giggles. John, et all belongs to Kripe and the CW.

There had been pain for so long that sometimes that’s all he remembered. He didn’t know anymore how long it had been since he sacrificed himself so that his son could live; Decades? Centuries? The sudden lack of marrow deep agony was almost too much for him to understand.

He lay quietly, cautiously extending his senses. He was lying on something soft...a bed? Cool air drifted against his face.

He slowly opened eyes that had seen countless versions of the demon torturing Dean or Sam, as he was forced to look on, screaming in anguish, helpless to even call their names as a comfort.

A bedroom, shadowed and quiet. It looked vaguely familiar, as if he had been here a lifetime ago.

"John?" Was that his name? Yes. The name felt right even as the sound of it faded.

Then..."Dad?" His heart hammered in his chest as he looked towards the source of the sound. "Dad it’s Dean, Dean and Sam. Can you see us? We’re right here Dad. We’re right here with you."

He blinked, trying to clear vision suddenly blinded by tears. There was brighter light, and the shadows resolved themselves into four figures. God...no, not this..I can’t stand this. But he’d stood much, much worse, and he knew he’d stand more if it meant that his son would go on living.

"You can’t fool me, you evil son of a bitch." This isn’t real, CAN’T be real. His voice was raw with enough screaming for a dozen men.

"John Winchester," the tone was acerbic "you’re not in hell. You’re messin’ up my best bedroom," suddenly the voice broke to a tremulous whisper "and I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my whole life." John tried to fight down the hope that flickered to life inside him. The demon had never used Missouri before.

He’d seen Sam turned into a being of power and evil who crushed John between palms that burned and smoked on his flesh. He’d seen Dean beaten and tortured into insanity.

He’d had dark visions of making love to Mary, only to discover himself engulfed in the flames that took her from him. He’d been forced to watch Mary coupling with the demon, believing it to be her own husband. He’d seen Mary pick up a knife and plunge it into his heart, and laugh while she watched John die. He’d seen Mary’s anguished face turn to him and ask "Why didn’t you save me John? You should have saved me."

But he’d never seen Dean and Sam kneeling beside him with tears running unheeded down their scared white faces.

"Dean? Sammy?" John’s voice broke and if this was the demon’s next form of torture then it worked, because there was no way that he could stop himself from reaching for them. No way they could stop themselves from reaching back. "My boys."

Missouri had to turn her back and wipe furiously at her eyes. The Winchester men had been strong for so long, it was heart wrenching to watch them break.

Missouri stared at the other occupant of the bedroom. Outwardly a pale, pretty girl with long dark hair, Death stared calmly at John Winchester, a small secret smile twitching Her lips.

She walked to the bed, and watched John and his boys. John looked up at her, puzzled at her familiarity. Then his breath caught in his throat as he realized what She was.

The yellow-eyed demon had often taunted John with Dean’s near acceptance of the deal to get his father back. An awful fear, that Dean had finally made the deal that brought John back from hell, at the cost of Dean’s own life, ripped at John’s soul.

Death knew John’s fear, and saw the hair trigger quick determination to fight to the last breath in his body to save his son, even if it meant going back to Hell himself. It amused Her to see the human determined to fight a primodial force like Death itself, and truth to tell She admired it. This man was willing to spend himself unflinchingly on behalf of others.

"No, you needn’t worry, John, your son is safe." Her smile stretched Her lips marginally. "So are you, John. When the demon possessed a Reaper, one of My children, he broke the rules by which we operate. Which allowed Me to do some rule breaking of My own."

"You’re sure there are no strings attached?" Sam demanded. He didn’t like the way Death was smiling at his father.

"Always the lawyer," Death sighed. She didn’t look at Sam or Dean, or Missouri. Her eyes met John’s steadily. "No, no strings attached. I have received a...gift from your father."

"I don’t understand," Sam was confused by this sudden talk of a gift. He didn’t trust it. "What gift?"

"Reapers are My daughters. One was... broken. There must be another to take her place." John was suddenly overwhelmed with visceral body memories of making love to a woman with long dark hair who wept for a child taken from her.

Missouri understood it first. She gasped and her eyes widened in amazement.

"What?" Dean asked, looking from Missouri to Death and then to his father. "Oh, dude, you didn’t!" he breathed, shocked and amazed in turn.

"With DEATH?" Sam yelled. "We spent a year trying to get you back and you were... I don’t believe you!"

"How little you understand your father, Samuel. How little honour you give to a man who spent a year enduring torments that would break you to HEAR of them, to save the lives of his children. Your father freely gave a gift of compassion and mercy."

Death and John Winchester stared at each other for a long moment.

"Thank you, John, and I make you this vow: When it is time for you, and for your sons, Death will be gentle."

-end

Title: Safe Haven

Author: JDsgirlBev
Pairings: John/Ginny Maddox
Rating: R- for graphic sexuality
Length: 2672 words
Status: Part 1 of a series. Complete
Spoilers: Mild spoilers for the Pilot.
Disclaimers: Only Ginny is mine. John is Eric Kripke’s . Which is SO not fair!

He’d been coming to The Haven Bar and Grill four, maybe five, times a year for the last 5 years now.

It was a good place for him: Quiet atmosphere, drinks not watered down, simple tasty food, in generous portions. The waitresses were almost always pretty and young, friendly and outgoing. Sometimes he’s see the same faces two or three visits in a row, but this was a college town, and there was a high turnover in staff.

There was an inexpensive, fairly good motel about 5 minutes walk away, and after his first few visits they gave him a discount on the room.

He’d gotten lucky here in other ways too. Almost every time he came to The Haven, some woman, usually one of the waitresses, would offer to buy him a drink. Sometimes he’d take it, and go with her for a few hours of forgetfulness.

The bartender was a different story. Her name was Ginny, and she was older, and quieter than the other girls. He found out on his fourth visit that Ginny owned the place. It had taken him that long to get her to actually TALK to him. It took him almost 2 years of visits to get her to call him anything except “sir”, and even longer for her to call him John instead of Mr. Winchester.

She always had a smile for him though. Knew that he preferred beer before 10:00 and Jack, straight up, after; knew that he preferred to sit at the bar with beer, and at a particular corner table with the Tennessee whiskey and his food.
***

He’d been coming to her bar a few times a year for a while now... maybe 5 years. It seemed to be a good place for him.

She could see the tenseness when he’d first enter the bar gradually fade to the point where, if you didn’t know what to look for, you wouldn’t see it. If it was early, he’d sit at the bar first, order a beer and watch the place, eyes clicking from one face to another. Assessing.

Her father had been a beat cop for almost 20 years before they forced him behind the desk which killed him inside six months, and he had always done the same quick assessment when he walked into a new place, on duty or off. Look at the eyes Ginny, they’ll tell you everything you need to know.

Once John finished checking the people, he’d check the exits, the table placement, making sure it was all the same as last time. No surprises if it came to a fight or he needed a quick getaway.

At first she thought he was running, then she thought he was an undercover cop. Now she knew he was neither. If he was running he wouldn’t keep coming back. If he was undercover, he’d be meeting people, doing business, setting things up. But he was always alone; a big, tough, dangerous man whose face changed completely when he gave her one of his rare, beautiful smiles.

He carried weapons that, if she hadn’t been a cop’s daughter, she would never have noticed. A pistol in the small of his back, a smaller gun in his right boot from the slightly heavier way that foot landed. There were knives too. A big hunting knife in a sheath at his hip, and a small one in a forearm sheath. He always carried a small duffle too, one that Ginny had never seen the contents of.
**

The waitress who brought his drink to the corner table he preferred was one he’d spent time with his last trip through. Big boobs, dagger tattoo low on her belly, liked her sex rough. It had been a hell of a couple of days; ah...Melanie.

She was at the bar now, whispering and giggling with a couple of the other waitresses. There was a sudden silence, and they all turned to look at him at once.

He was tired tonight though, and the last hunt had been a bastard. Too many terrified hookers dead under their Johns before he salted and burned the bones of the pimp who possessed the men.

Thank God it was a Tuesday, the bar had emptied except for Ginny and the three waitresses.

“You guys can go, if you like.” Ginny called from behind the bar at 11:30. “There’s not going to be any customers in the next couple of hours, so take off early. There’s a storm coming in, so go on now, before it gets any worse.” As if to emphasize her words, the storm’s first snow came hissing against the bar’s front window.

John chuckled ruefully to himself as the young women eyed him speculatively as they passed his table. Seems he’d picked up quite a reputation. He wasn’t in the mood for that kind of wildness tonight. Tonight he just wanted a quiet drink, a hot meal, and a soft bed... not necessarily in that order... and someone to rub his aching back wouldn’t go astray either. He had the drink and the meal. The bed and the back rub were a different story.

Ginny spent the next while doing the till, locking the door and putting the night’s takings into the old fashioned safe.

She knew John well enough by now that she brought a big bowl of beef stew and a couple of hunks of crusty bread to John’s table, along with a Jack for him and a Chivas for herself. They had started having these after hours chats in the third year of John’s visits, and it had become a comfortable ritual now.

He looked tired, and the way he moved suggested he was stiff and sore. She glanced at the clock behind the bar, surprised that it was almost 12:30.

“You should go get a good night’s sleep,” Ginny suggested as John nursed the last of his JD.

“My truck is gonna make for a hard bed,” he said, voice rough with exhaustion.

“Your truck? What about the motel?”

“Hockey tournament,” John sighed, “They’re full.”

“There’s no way I’m going to let you sleep in that truck in the middle of a February blizzard. You can sleep on my couch. It’s lumpy, but it’s warm.” John thought of all the reasons why he should refuse. He got to his feet.

“Go through the kitchen, up the stairs, and turn right,” she directed. “I’ll be right behind you, I just have to set the alarm.” He hesitated, but found himself moving to follow her directions.
**

Ginny watched his indecision as she directed him to her second floor apartment, and she thought for a moment he was going to refuse, but he turned and went through the darkened kitchen, his booted feet beating a slow advance up over the stairs.

Behind the bar she activated the alarm and then went through the commercial kitchen. She reached the top of the stairs at the same time John did. His eyes automatically clicked around the Ginny's small kitchen.

Ginny looked critically at John, he felt her scrutiny and looked back at her.

“Sit,” she instructed, “I’ll be right back.” She turned left into her bedroom and after she pulled a blanket and pillow out of her closet, she slowly picked up a bottle of peppermint and rosemary lotion.
***

He didn’t know what had prompted him to accept Ginny’s offer of her couch, but now in the warmth of her kitchen, he was glad that he had. The wind had picked up, and just the thought of trying to sleep sitting up in the cold cab of the truck made his shoulders protest.

He heard Ginny moving around in the other room, and slipped the Glock out of the waist band of his jeans, and fished the .38 snub nose out of his right boot and slipped them into his duffle. He slipped the straps of the forearm sheath and bundled the silver dagger and his big belt knife into the duffle as well.

“Um...,” she said. She carried a couple of blankets and a pillow in one arm, and a small bottle in her other hand.

“I noticed that you were kind of stiff, and I wondered if you might want...that is...this is really good for sore muscles, and I could...”

He opened his mouth to refuse, and was actually startled to hear himself accept the offer of a back rub.

Ginny put the blankets and pillow on the kitchen table, and stood looking at John for a moment. ‘Um... I can’t do it through your shirt.”

John blinked at her, then with a sheepish grin started to unbutton the heavy plaid flannel shirt. He straddled one of the old fashioned kitchen chairs. The olive drab T-shirt with the fading U. S. M.C. that still mostly fit, stretching over shoulders that were heavier with muscle than in his corp days came next, baring his upper body. He sat ramrod straight on the chair, waiting for her to begin.
***

Ginny stood behind John, the bottle of lotion momentarily forgotten as she stared at his back.

Even in February, his skin was the warm brown of a man who worked in the sun, telling Ginny that his travels took him into the southern states often. The hard muscles told her that whatever his work was, it was physical. But what really took Ginny’s attention were the scars.

On the top of his right shoulder a short, narrow scar looked like someone had let a cigarette burn out there. Three long parallel scars that curved down over his shoulder and back looked like claw marks, the small, star shaped scar on the back of his right arm was unmistakably a bullet scar.

“Ginny?” John asked over his shoulder. He saw the look of astonishment, and concern on her face, cursed under his breath and started to rise. He stilled as her fingers lightly traced the three lines of scar left by an angry ghost in Texas.

Most of the women he’d been with in the last few years had reacted to his scars in a highly sexual way, licking and sucking at them, sometimes biting hard enough to leave their own less permanent marks on his skin.

“Sorry,” she said, and John heard the shake in her voice. There was a sudden smell of mint and then Ginny’s hands were on his shoulders firmly rubbing the lotion into his skin.

He grunted as she hit the kinks in the muscles, but soon relaxed as her hands and the lotion did their work. He folded his forearms onto the back of the chair and dropped his forehead onto them.

At first Ginny’s hands were brisk and firm, but he became aware that her touch was changing. And as tired and as sore as he was, he could feel the slow pull of desire in his belly and the pressure of need swell his cock.
**

The feel of his skin under her hands was almost literally intoxicating to Ginny... smooth like winter silk over the dense muscle. Somewhere in the back of her mind someone was shouting this is a bad idea, but she didn’t believe it, and you are SO in trouble, and she DID believe that.

Then John was standing in front of her, his height and the breadth of his shoulders making Ginny feel small and overwhelmed by his man to her woman.

His eyes are so green.
Her eyes are so blue.

Then their lips brushed, and fire exploded along Ginny’s veins.

He put a hand out and slid it around to the small of her back, pulling her forward the few inches necessary to bring her against his chest.

She tasted sweet and smoky, like the scotch she’d drunk earlier and her mouth was pliable and soft and inviting. Her hair tickled his hands and wrists as he brought them up to touch her face. He brushed the soft strands back behind her ears so that he could kiss her cheeks, her eyes, her temples.

Ginny’s senses were swimming... how could a man that big and hard and tough have such amazingly soft and gentle lips? How did such calloused fingers brush her skin that lightly? And where the hell were her knees? They seemed to be doing a damn poor job of keeping her upright.

“Ginny..” he rasped against her ear.

“Bedroom, God... now John.” He didn’t need to hear anything further. John crouched slightly and put his arms around her, lifting her just a couple of inches off the floor.

He cracked his knee off her dresser, in the dark, and bumped his hip on her closet door before he finally laid Ginny down on her bed. With a few swift movements he kicked off his boots and stripped out off his jeans. The he was kneeling beside her, and Ginny’s arms were sliding around him, pulling him down to her.

The springs protested his weight but all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears, and Ginny whispering his name.

Just undressing Ginny was an erotic delight. It has been a while since John had the luxury of taking his time with a woman. He had never really considered Ginny as a sexual partner. Normally he liked to keep sex and emotional attachment separate and he liked Ginny and thought of her as a friend.

Something in the back of his mind was screaming at him, this is a bad idea, but the softness Ginny’s neck and the wild thud of her pulse under his lips distracted him.

Her bra was pretty and lacy and he slid a finger under one strap and eased it down her arm, lazily following the dark material with his lips down to the crook of her elbow, swirling his tongue over the delicate skin there, before sliding a finger under her other bra strap and treating her other arm to the same gentle kisses before returning to her lips and the smoky sweet taste of scotch.
***

Ginny’s fingers drifted up and down his back following the dip and curve of his spine, then playing soft games with the dark curling hair at the nape of his neck.

The snap on Ginny’s jeans gave to John’s fingers. The downward slide of the zipper exposed her belly and John’s fingers splayed warm and firm over her skin. With a series of tugs her jeans, sneakers and socks came off and were dropped over the edge of the bed.

Ginny’s eyes drifted closed and all her concentration was in the feel of John’s lips and fingers as they caressed and licked and kissed from the soles of her feet back up to the soft mound between her thighs, over her belly and ribs. His gentle sucking under the angle of her jaw had Ginny’s breath coming in short shallow pants.

“I want to be inside you Ginny, need you.” he whispered hoarsely. “Let me inside you...” The slow stroke of his fingers as he pulled her satiny panties down caused Ginny to arc up into his hand.

“Mmm, need you too John,” She opened her eyes and John could see the emotion that filled them. “I wanted you, all this time...want you now...please.

Ginny wrapped her legs around John’s back as he lowered himself between them. Then he could feel the heat of her under him, the wetness around him as he pushed slowly inside her. She made a high pitched noise in the back of her throat as he filled her.

Then John was rocking them both slowly and deliberately to a place where, for a time, there was no more loneliness, no more pain, only the sweet languid joy of togetherness, and completion.

Afterwards she slept with her head pillowed on his chest, her hair spread over his chest and shoulder. The warmth of her breath teased against his skin.

I am SO in trouble he thought, but for once he didn’t care.

-end

Safe Haven: Hold On To The Night

Author: JDsgirlBev
Pairing: John and Ginny Maddox
Rating: R- for graphic sexuality
Length: 2047
Status: Part Two of a series. Complete
Spoilers: Mild spoilers for the Pilot
Disclaimer: John belongs to Eric Kripke and the CW, sadly.

John Winchester hovered contentedly on the border between awake and asleep. He could feel a woman’s soft, full breasts against his chest, and legs tangled intimately with his. He nuzzled deeper into the warm concavity of her neck, and she stirred slightly against him. John licked a lazy tongue over her skin, tasting the salt of sweat, and underlying that, the sweet taste of woman. He could feel the giggle as he nibbled and licked up to her ear. Mary, ah Mary... The giggles turned into an appreciative humm as John’s cock stirred into life.

“Again, John?” What the hell...ah Ginny, sweet, shy, gentle, NOT-Mary Ginny. John raised his head from Ginny’s neck. His arms were wrapped tightly around her. She twisted a little in his arms. “You wouldn’t let me go,” she murmured, “after we made love, you wouldn’t let me go.” Her breasts pressed against his chest as she leaned a little closer and brushed his lips with hers.

“Was Mary your wife?” Ginny asked softly.

“Oh, God, Ginny I’m sorry. Did I call you Mary when we were...?”

“ No. You were dreaming, and you said her name.”

“I’m sorry,” John said again. “Yes, Mary was my wife. She...died 18 years ago.”

“It’s alright John, I knew there’d been someone you loved and lost.”

“I still love her Ginny. I always will.” Ginny knew what that meant don’t ask me for what I can’t give you.

“I know John.” I accept whatever you can give. They understood each other. She had felt the tightening of his muscles when she asked about Mary, and she felt him relax again.

“Oh! It’s so cold!” Ginny said with a shiver. The storm still howled outside, and only a small battery powered lamp that Ginny didn’t recognize burned on the table beside her bed.

“Power went out about an hour ago.” John rolled Ginny onto her back, his fingers twined in hers, slightly over her head. His larger body pressed her down. “There’s other ways to keep warm. He began kissing and nibbling along the line of her collarbones. Ginny giggled again as his stubble tickled her throat, and it turned into a gasp as he hitched his body slightly back so that he could kiss a hardening nipple before swirling his tongue over it.

Pretty nipples, John thought lazily as they became erect under the attentions of his lips and tongue. GOD! That’s what comes of thinking with your cock, John. He reared back a little and through the growing fog of her arousal, Ginny could feel that his body was tense again. She opened her eyes to see him looking down at her with something like shock and fear on his face.

“Ginny, are you on the pill?” She relaxed and wriggled against him just a little, delighted to feel the breath stutter in his chest, and the slight involuntary buck of his hips.

“I don’t need to be John, I can’t get pregnant.” She could see that he was going to ask her about it, and lifted her legs around his back again, opening herself, pulling him closer, inviting him into her warmth.
**

Much later John reached out and turned off the battery lamp. The power had come back on sometime during the night.

The storm was still ongoing, but daylight filtered in around a curtained window. In the fitful grey light John craned his neck to see over Ginny’s shoulder. She was asleep, face down on his chest, straddling his hips, legs stretched down outside his, in almost exactly the same position she had been in during her last climax. Sweet, shy, gentle, Ginny, who was certainly gentle and sweet, but who had lost all her shyness the second time he buried his face between her legs and leisurely licked, sucked and nibbled her into twisting, shuddering frustration before letting her come so hard he thought she had passed out. Oddly enough, for all the activity of the past seven or eight hours, John was no longer desperately tired and his back was free of the knotted tension of the previous day.

Christ, I need a coffee. And as loath as he was to wake Ginny, he was getting damn hungry. Hot wetness surrounded his left nipple, and sharp teeth bit down on him with just enough pressure to make John wince.

“Haven’t you had enough yet, woman? It’s breakfast time,” he growled in his best menacing tones.

“Not by a long shot, man! And I AM having breakfast,” she attempted to growl back before turning her attentions to his right nipple. John’s stomach chose that moment to add it’s two cents worth to the argument. “All right,” Ginny rolled her eyes in surrender, “ I’m outvoted, food it is.”

Ginny padded naked to the closet who’s door had attacked John the previous night and pulled an oversized sunshine yellow sweater over her head.

At the bedroom door she stopped and looked back at John, standing naked beside the bed, stretching fit to pop his shoulders. His tall body was marked by several tattoos and scars; a warrior’s body, she marveled.

Ginny mentally compared John to the golden perfection of her ex-husband’s body, the one who had divorced her when they discovered she couldn’t have children.

Edmond was smooth, lightly muscled, blue eyed and blond, with an infectious laugh and boyish smile. Nothing like the intense, gruff, darkness of John Winchester, who had shown her more of caring and gentleness in one night than Ed had in two and a half years.

John reached for his jeans and t shirt. The trail of dark hair that arrowed down his belly drew her eyes further down... damn. Breakfast would never get made this way!

Ginny fried some sausages and hash browns while John made the coffee. He was about to flip the coffee pot on, but had second thoughts. He scooped some of the ground beans back out of the basket. His coffee was notorious for it’s strength, and there was someone other than him to drink it with this morning.

The coffee was done well before the sausages and hash browns, and John sat, steaming mug before him, and watched Ginny’s quick, economical movements.

She slid a well filled plate in front of him and turned back to the stove to fetch her own and pour a coffee for herself. She blew on the black brew and took a healthy mouthful.

“Good GRIEF!” she exclaimed. John was about to apologize for making it so strong when Ginny continued “This stuff is too weak to stand up by itself.” She frowned at John, and he gaped at her for a second before he sputtered with laughter.

By the time they had finished breakfast, the storm was starting to blow itself out. They sat in the kitchen’s warmth, lingering over coffee and yesterday's papers for almost a half hour. Then they washed the dishes in companionable silence.

Ginny went back into the bedroom to make the bed. John followed, intending to lend a hand, and perhaps “allow” Ginny to take up where she had left off.

Ginny pulled curtains away from the window whose presence John had noted earlier. The flood of glorious light that splashed over the bed took him by surprise. A 3 foot by 5 foot stained glass window faced him. On a field of green and white stalked a red beast with a front foot raised, and barbed tongue extended. Ginny noticed where he was looking.

“The Welsh flag,” she smiled. Maddox is a Welsh name, and my grandmother was a real nationalist!” John went to the window to get a closer look, and stiffened in surprise. The carved window frame was dense with protective runes and sigils.

They quickly made the bed, and just as quickly messed it up again as Ginny did, indeed, want to be allowed to finish her interrupted “first course”. John’s cock agreed.

Afterwards, when Ginny was in the shower, John prowled around the apartment, which was bigger that he'd expected. In all three bedrooms, the window frames were carved and decorated with the protective sigils he’d seen in Ginny’s room.

At the top of the stairs, he discovered what the dark of the stairwell, and his own tiredness had hidden the night before...the same carved protective devices. He wondered who had put them there.

He was glad to see them, whoever the unknown carver had been. He was could rest a bit easier on the road, knowing that Ginny was under protection until he got back. Where did THAT come from?, he wondered. But he knew he'd be back. There was something happening in an old theater in Albuquerque, and some cattle mutilations in Santa Fe...shouldn’t take more than a couple of weeks each. Then.... John’s stomach did a funny flop...then maybe a trip to Stanford, check on Sam.

The boy had been in California for almost 16 months, and John was just now getting used to the idea that Sam’s life was completely...normal. He’d settled into a dorm, had a job and a pretty blond girlfriend. He was living the life that John had ACHED to give him, but couldn’t. Dean knew that John was making these trips to California, but they didn’t talk about it. Over a year and it was still too raw a wound to be probed.

But he knew that he would be back to The Haven. The irony of that name wasn’t lost on John.

The shower shut off, and John could hear the beeping of snow plows. He knew he could leave within the next couple of hours. He closed his eyes and sighed. He’d have to make do with memories until he could get back.
**

Ten days later, Ginny was pulling a draft beer for a customer when the door opened and a tall, thin, black man stamped snow off his feet as he entered the bar.

His eyes clicked around the room, from face to face, assessing first the people and then the layout. Ginny stilled as he came to the bar and ordered a rye and ginger. Whatever this man was, he was the same as John Winchester. There was the same intense watchfulness, the same tension and air of danger. The same drag of his right foot that told her a gun was hidden there.

“Ginny Maddox?” he questioned quietly. He smiled at the look of worry that passed quickly over her face.

“My name is Gabe Watson. I have a message from John Winchester. He says to tell you he’s ok. He’s between Santa Fe and Albuquerque.”

“Thank you Mr. Watson.” Ginny said with a rush of pent up breath.

“John said you’d say that. My name is GABE, and I hear you make a pretty mean beef stew.”

Ginny called Melanie over and had the younger woman take over at the bar, while she and Gabe sat at the corner table.

Ginny watched him as he ate. Gabe’s eyes followed new arrivals, and she knew he had the layout of the place as firmly in his head as she did herself.

“What are you Gabe, you and John?”

“Just men who travel looking for work where ever we can find it.” Ginny’s eyes dropped to Gabe’s neck where a tattoo could just be seen above the line of his heavy sweater.

“The internet is a wonderful invention Gabe. You can look up almost anything. That tattoo on your neck is a protective Mandala.” She could see the almost imperceptible shift in Gabe’s body language.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he answered smoothly. “I have a tattoo, yes, but it’s just a tattoo.”

The next month saw three more hard, dangerous men with the name John Winchester on their lips, enter The Haven. Ginny welcomed them and said nothing about the discrete tattoos, or talismans they wore. But she spent a lot of time on her computer and in the dusty back stacks of the University Library, and she learned a lot.

- end

Un uomo tutto d'un pezzo - John Winchester

JDsgirlBev — Mon, 21 May 2007 18:20:55 CDT

Usando le parole di Freddie Mercury e dei Queen..."I'm going slightly mad" Io sto impazzendo!

Mi hanno tentato, mi hanno allettato, mi hanno promesso John Winchester, e invece non se ne vede l'ombra!
All'inizio ci hanno detto che John sarebbe apparso in "What Is and What Should Never Be" (Quel Che E' e Come Non Dovrebbe Mai Essere"). JD stava lavorando, e non ha avuto la possibilita' di partecipare. A quanto pare, John e Mary dovevano essere divorziati nella prima stesura dello script, ma vista l'assenza di JDM, si e' deciso che John fosse comunque morto. Ci sono rimasta male, ma, di fronte al lavoro...
Poi, ci hanno assicurato che JDM sarebbe apparso in "All Hell Breaks Loose, part 1". JD era anche citato ufficialmente in alcuni articoli. Invece, niente. A questo punto, era decisamente seccata. Infine, mi hanno detto che la parte di JD in "All Breaks Loose, part 2" sara' 'breve'. Che vi devo dire, ormai ero oltre lo stato di furia, un po' come andare in prigione senza passare direttamente dal VIA: che cosa diamine sta succedendo?
Se non c'e' John nell'episodio, ditemelo direttamente e smettetela di farmi impazzire!

**~**
"Breve".
"BREVE"?
"BREVE"??!!!
Altro che breve, un micro-nano-secondo!

Ehi, Mr. Kripke...come la vogliamo mettere?
~~*~~

Certo, tutti sappiamo che per la maggior parte dei fans tutto gira attorno ai fratelli, al loro viaggio attraverso il mito e verso l'eta' adulta e l'eroismo, il sarcasmo e il sex appeal, e che Dio ci aiuti, persino la macchina ha un ruolo di primo piano!
Ma, per quelli di noi che ritengono John un personaggio altrettanto interessante, un uomo che vorremmo conoscere di piu' e meglio, tutto cio' e' davvero frustrante. Quindi, Mr. Kripke, se stai leggendo, ricorda le parole di Prince, qui parafrasate: "Sono uomini, e non ragazzi, quelli che governano il mio mondo".

John Winchester come padre.

Nella fandom di Supernatural, la questione se John Winchester sia stato un buon od un cattivo padre e' soggetto di accesi dibattiti.
Alcuni fans addirittura arrivano a definire John 'unicamente negligente'.

Durante la scorsa settimana, queste discussioni mi hanno davvero fatto agitare. Un commento in particolare, che riteneva che John avesse usato i suoi ragazzi come esche per lo Striga, mi ha talmente fatto ribollire il sangue che non ho potuto rispondere. Quelli di voi che mi conoscono ben sanno che si e' trattato di un fatto davvero eccezionale e grande autocontrollo!

Ecco quindi la mia difesa di John Winchester come un buon padre.

Alcuni fans ritengono che John Winchester sia stato un padre terribile, ossessionato con il suo desiderio e bisogno di vendetta al punto di sacrificare la felicita' dei suoi figli, addirittura consapevolmente arrivando a metterli in pericolo pur di ottenerla.

Alcuni fans pensano che John avrebbe dovuto lasciare Dean e Sam alle cure di Padre Jim, del suo partner nel garage Mike e sua moglie, oppure a dei parenti di Mary. Secondo loro, i ragazzi sarebbero stati meglio. Sarebbero stati piu' sicuri.

Si, John avrebbe potuto lasciare I suoi figli con Jim Murphy, o Mike, o distanti parenti di Mary. Lontano dagli occhi, lontano dal cuore. Si sarebbe risparmiato il cambio dei pannolini, i primi dentini, i bagnetti, le coliche dei tre mesi, non avrebbe dovuto insegnare a Sam a camminare e a parlare, i litigi tra fratelli, i classici fagioli o le monetine infilate su per il naso o nelle orecchie, fare la spesa, lavare i panni sporchi, cucinare, lavare i piatti, magari fare due lavori per riuscire a sbarcare il lunario e mettere il cibo in tavola, il morbillo, la varicella, cucire i bottoni, portare i ragazzi a tagliarsi i capelli, ginocchia sbucciate, la scuola, i compiti a casa, e tutte le altre migliaia e piu' di FANTASTICHE attivita' richieste dal crescere un pupo di sei mesi e un bambino di quattro.

Invece, John si e' buttato anima e corpo nella sua missione, facendosele dare senza risparmiarsi cosi da proteggere Mike e i parenti di Mary, in modo che le loro famiglie non dovessero passare nell'inferno in cui la sua famiglia si era trovata. Davvero un brutto carattere, visto che invece avrebbe potuto starsene a letto a dormire in santa pace, senza pensare alle alter donne che come la sua Mary, venivano uccise e bruciate sopra alle culle dei loro figli. Da un demonio.

Non solo John ha dovuto affrontare l'omicidio della moglie, ma la sua intera visione del mondo e' stata violentemente distorta. I demoni esistono! Sono reali, e sono venuti a prendersi la sua famiglia….

Non c'era modo per John di sapere per che cosa o per CHI i demoni potevano venire la prossima volta. Potevano essere i suoi ragazzi, o lui stesso. L'unico modo che John aveva per proteggere la sua famiglia era quello di tenere i bambini con se' (per quanto lui ne sapesse a quel punto, lui era l'unica persona con esperienza diretta dell'esistenza dei demoni) e dar loro gli strumento necessari per potersi difendere nel caso John non potesse. John non era riuscito a salvare Mary, una colpa che portava sempre con se', sebbene cos'altro avrebbe potuto fare e' davvero difficile da decidere.

Ossessionato dalla vendetta. Si tratta ancora di vendetta quando cerchi di uccidere un serpente nella tua casa che ha gia' ucciso tua moglie e potrebbe cercare di uccidere ituoi figli? A me sembra solo buon senso.

John che usa I suoi figli come esca. Si, certo.

John stesso ha ammesso di essere stato tutt'altro che un buon genitore. Ha fatto molti errori, ed alcuni piu' gravi di altri. Tuttavia, non e' mai stato freddo o abusive. La miglio riprova sono proprio Dean e Sam.

Nessuno cresce in uno spazio asettico. Dean e Sam hanno imparato ad essere uomini grazie all'influenza e all'esempio, giorno dopo giorno, dato da John. John avrebbe potuto diventare un ubriacone, un alcolizzato, avrebbe potuto diventare un padre violento, come il padre di Max Miller. John avrebbe potuto diventare disinteressato e distaccato, ed abbandonare i suoi figli a loro stessi.

Ma non ha fatto nessuna di queste cose. Invece, e' diventato un uomo ancor piu' dedicato a proteggere i suoi figli e a dar loro i mezzi per proteggere se' stessi. John e' andato in prima linea per difendere tutti gli altri, molti dei quali non erano e non sono mai stati consapevoli di essere in pericolo.

Certo, Dean si porta dietro un carico di tristezza e senso di colpa, ma perlomeno e' vivo. Sam desidera una vita normale, ma non e' stato John a portargliela via, e' stato il Demone dagli occhi gialli.

La vita di un Cacciatore e' certamente brutale, fisicamente e psicologicamente, ma "C'e una guerra in arrivo…" ed e' grazie a John che Dean e Sam forse potranno sopravvivere.

John Winchester non era certo un uomo facile, ma era di certo un uomo migliore, e un padre migliore, di quanto gli si dia credito.

~

"E il settimo giorno, Dio si riposo', e John Winchester prese il suo posto!"

~

Testo tratto da Il Fantasma dell'Opera

"Vorrei tanto che tu fossi ancora qui, in qualche modo
vorrei tanto che tu fossi vicino...

A volte sembra nei miei sogni
Che tu sia tornato

Vorrei tanto sentire ancora la tua voce...
Ma so che non accadra' mai... "

~

La mia icona dice tutto. John mi manca, e voglio davvero rivederlo in Supernatural.

Lo show e' grande e mi piace tantissimo, e' proprio il mio tipo di show. Mi piace l'occulto, il soprannaturale, e, a parte Snakes on a Plane (che davvero mi ha ridotto ad una ragazzina urlante, piedi sollevati da terra, strilli e faccia nascosta), quel tipo di 'cose paurose' non mi crea nessun problema.

Ma, come ho gia' detto in alter occasioni, per me, John ERA lo show. John e' un personaggio con molte sfaccettature, complesso, e sfumature che normalmente non vediamo piu' in televisione. Di solito, il suo e' il tipo di personaggio che vediamo al cinema.

John e' certamente un personaggio ben scritto e ben conception, ma il 75% di John consiste in cio' che Jeffrey Dean Morgan ci mette come attore. Le espressioni del viso, il linguaggio del corpo, le emozioni espresso con un lieve cenno del capo, lo sguardo negli occhi di un personaggio, il tono della voce, la mascella serrata, le labbra tese, tutto questo non viene scritto ma dipende solo ed unicamente dall'attore in questione.

John e' apparso fisicamente in soli 9 episodi. Ma la sua influenza, il suo carisma, traspare in ogni singolo episodio, e io sono ancora convinta che ucciderlo sia stato un errore.

Eric Kripke ha parlato del viaggio verso la maturita' che Dean and Sam hanno intrapreso e del fatto che sia necessario per loro imparare a camminare da soli. Si tratta, ovviamente, di una storia ben nota, dalle piu' antiche civilta' a Guerre Stellari. L'uomo che emerge dal ragazzo e diventa un eroe. E naturalmente, ogni scrittore desidera confrontarsi con questi archetipi.

Pero' io voglio vedere JOHN. Io voglio saperne di piu' sul suo personaggio. Voglio saperne di piu' su cosa lo rende cosi' UNICO. Dall'interesse espresso nel nostro forum, e su altri forum, dalle opinioni espresse sulle boards della CW stessa, anche altri fans vogliono la stessa cosa. Inoltre, alla maggior parte di noi davvero non interessa COME John sia riportato indietro. Basta che sia appena plausibile, a noi va bene, ce lo prendiamo... ehm... e ce lo teniamo ben stretto! L'ho detto l'anno scorso e lo ripeto ora: John dovrebbe uno spin off. [NdT: "Supernatural: Origins", il fumetto, in pratica e' lo spin off show, e racconta dei venti e piu' anni prima della serie]

Ma, nel frattempo, speriamo che Jeffrey possa dedicare una piccola parte del suo semre piu' impegnato tempo per tornare su Supernatural per 7 o 8 volte per stagione (o anche di piu'!), perche' noi vogliamo John!

20 Fatti su John Winchester

di Carmendove
http://carmendove.livejournal.com/
(se ripostate, ricordate di dare credito a Carmendove.)

01. John Winchester non parla dei demoni. Sono i demoni che parlano di John Winchester.

02. Il gelato di John Winchester non si squaglia mai. Non oserebbe.

03. Quando John Winchester ti sorride, o c'e' un proiettile diretto alla tua faccia, o ti aspetta una lunga notte calda.

04. John Winchester non pulisce piu' le sue pistole in pubblico. Troppe donne sono morte l'ultima volta.

05. All'inferno, ogni demone deve fare un esame che si chiama "Come <s>sconfiggere</s>... Come evitare John Winchester".

06. Quando John Winchester ti dice "salta", tu salti e basta.

07. Parlando di uomini maturi e sexy, John Winchester batte George Clooney a occhi chiusi. Anche quando Clooney prova a fargli lo sgambetto.

08. John Winchester ha un aspetto giovanile perche' i capelli grigi e le rughe hanno paura di comparire. E giustamente.

09. John Winchester ha incontrato il Diavolo, una volta. Esatto, una volta sola.

10. Se non pensi che 'trascurato' sia sexy, non hai mai incontrato John Winchester.

11. John Winchester e' la personificazione del detto "i 50 sono i nuovi 30". Davvero.

12. John Winchester non si fa male quando lo sbattono contro un muro. Quel lamento che sentite e' il muro che chiede pieta'.

13. Quando Sam aveva due anni, un lupo mannaro lo aveva intrappolato in un angolo della loro baita. John e' arrivato e ha guardato il lupo mannaro negli occhi finche' questi non si tramutato di nuovo in uomo ed e' scappato tutto nudo nella foresta.

14. John Winchester ha sempre con se' tanto di quel sale che il punto di congelamento del suo corpo si e' abbassato permanentemente di 15 gradi.

15. Il sole non cala senza il permesso di John Winchester. Stessa cosa per le foglie che cambiano colore. E la neve? Non ci pensa neppure.

16. Una volta, un poliziotto ha provato a fare la multa a John Winchester per eccesso di velocita'. Invece e' finito con il dare una multa a tutti quanti gli altri per eccesso di lentezza.

17. John Winchester in effetti e' morto tre anni fa. Ma il paradise lo ha buttato fuori, e l'inferno non se l'e' sentita di tenerselo, cosi' l'hanno rimandato sulla Terra. John Winchester ora e' immortale.

18. Non e' l'amore che fa girare il mondo, ma un ordine di John Winchester.

19. John Winchester non ha bisogno di mentire. Quando dice a qualcuno che lui e' un dottore, la loro mano va direttamente alla fronte e dicono di sentirsi la febbre.

20. Una volta, John Winchester ha sedotto sette donne, ha fatto incazzare Quattro uomini ed ha esorcizzato un demone solamente entrando in una stanza.

* Per favore, non aggiustate la ricezione del vostro schermo, il disturbo che state sperimentando e' l'universo che si muove per ruotare attorno a John Winchester.

John che punta la pistola contro lo Yed. Testo nell'immagine:
"Anche se cammino nelle ombre della valle della morte,
non avro' paura del male,
perche' John Winchester cammina con me"

[under the pic]
Molti membri del nostro forum sono fans di Supernatural e di John Winchester. Venite a visitarci!

Il song-video di SPN per eccellenza.. "Bad Ass" di kkenfield. Meglio che non stiate mangiando o bevendo, questo video e' pericoloso per monitors e tastiere, credetemi! Purtroppo, non e' possible inserirlo nella pagina, ma potete vederlo nell'acconto di Photobucket di Morgan's Maniacs. [link?]

Tera75 ha fatto questo songvid su John e le sue difficili scelte in "In My Time of Dying."

Helen

JDsgirlBev — Mon, 14 May 2007 00:16:21 CDT

A film by Sandra Nettlebeck

This movie is the story of Professor Helen Leonard (Gillian Anderson) whose life is taken over by clinical depression. Jeffrey plays David, her husband, who tries to support her despite the sometime difficult conditions her disease imposes on them as a couple.
"Helen is the...portrait of a marriage, and a story of friendship, of courage, devotion and the triumph of the heart over the mind."

The film is tentatively scheduled to start shooting in September

http://thelittlefilmcompany.filmtrackonline.com/pdf/LittleFilms_Cannes2007.pdf

More of Joanne's You-Tube Mania!

JDsgirlBev — Sun, 06 May 2007 22:56:00 CDT

Some of my favourites, hope you enjoy. Also please comment on youtube, these people work very hard for our entertainment. :)

Redbook Interview de Jeffrey Dean Morgan

JDsgirlBev — Tue, 10 Apr 2007 13:55:11 CDT

Interview de Jeffrey Dean Morgan
By Rebecca Davis
REDBOOK
Mars 2007
Redbook :Après des début difficiles (j’ai notamment raté deux appels téléphoniques de Jeffrey Dean Morgan), cette star élégante a prouvé qu’il était aussi charmant et chaleureux que ces personnages à la télé. Il était dans son appartement de New York City avec son chien Bisou pendant que nous parlions (à vrai dire lui parlait et moi je ricanais comme une écolière) et je dois dire… que j’ai commencé à avoir un petit béguin. Et, par « béguin », je veux dire que je serais prête à l’épouser. (D’ailleurs j’ai bien envie de choisir la robe )
En voici un peu plus à propos de cette interview/ricanement :

Redbook: J’ai entendu dire que Shonda Rhimes (créatrice, productrice et rédactrice de Grey’s Anatomy) est en train d’écrire un show pour vous. Je suis vraiment très survoltée par ça.

Jeffrey Dean Morgan: Nous sommes deux. Je suis réellement excité moi aussi à cette idée. Je l’ai vue lundi soir et d’après ce que je sais, cela devrait se faire en mai ou juin ? Connaissant Shonda comme je la connais, j’ai hâte de travailler là-dessus.
RB: La rumeur dit que Shonda reste très secrète à propos de ses scénarii… dans vos rêves les plus fous, que pourrait-elle écrire pour vous ?

JDM: Et bien je ne sais pas. L’autre nuit quand j’allais la voir, elle est accourue vers moi en me disant "tu es ma muse !". Donc je dois lui faire confiance plus qu’à quiconque avec qui j’ai travaillé. Et je sais que quoi qu’il se passe, ce sera super et j’attends juste de travailler à nouveau avec elle. Elle me manque sincèrement, et je suis heureux de l’avoir dans ma vie. Donc, vous savez, …. … Je sais ce que vous savez, c’est une série à propos du journalisme. Elle m’avait déjà dit que c’est le meilleur role qu’elle ait jamais écrit. Mais vous savez, c’est une aventure : Vous ne savez jamais ce qui va plaire au public.
RB: Si vous étiez en train d’essayer de séduire quelqu’un, que feriez-vous ?

JDM: Les diners romantiques sont sympas
RB: Est-ce que vous cuisinez ?
JDM: Et bien ça dépend. Quelquefois un dîner romantique peut être ruiné par tous les plats à préparer, il est donc plus judicieux de sortir pour dîner. Mais j’adore cuisiner.
RB: Dites en nous un peu plus à propos de votre chien !

JDM: Elle est super craquante… Elle est croisée rottweiler. Elle est la même que lorsque je l’ai récupérée sur Venice Beach il y a neuf ans. Elle devait avoir quatre ou cinq jours, des gars l’avaient dans une boîte et elle n’aurait probablement pas survécu une journée. Elle a reçu ce nom parce qu’elle ne pouvait pas ouvrir les yeux et qu’elle embrassait donc littéralement les alentours. Je l’ai nourrie au biberon pendant un mois. C’est maintenant une chienne de ville, elle adore ça. Elle ne craint personne pour se balader en ville.
RB: Ca a pris un moment avant que vous n’arriviez où vous êtes.. Vous est-il arrivé de penser à abandonner ?

JDM: Oui, oh oui. Il y a deux ans je me disais "Ca ne va jamais marcher" J’étais prêt d’avoir 40 ans, et Mon Dieu, je vivotais. J’essayais de penser à mon avenir et j’aurais adoré avoir une famille et, je pensais « qu’est ce que je fais ? » et en fait, je n’avais pas de réponse. Et, soudain, pour une raison inconnue, tout est arrivé en même temps. En 5 mois, j’ai obtenu Weeds, Supernatural et Grey’s. Je pense que beaucoup de choses tiennent à la chance. Je veux dire que ça aide d’être bon, et je pense que je fais de mon mieux et je pense que je m’améliore (rire) En fin de compte c’est ce que j’espère faire. Mais vous savez, pourquoi tout ça arrive à ce moment précis de ma vie, je ne sais pas. J’aimerais dire que c’était mon Karma ou quelquechose comme ça mais qui sait ?

http://redbook.ivillage.com/you/0,,bb6mmzt4,00.html

Pour voir la photo de Bisou et de son maître : http://morgansmaniacs.wetpaint.com/page/Bisou

A wetpaint tutorial~~READ BEFORE POSTING!

JDsgirlBev — Mon, 09 Apr 2007 10:13:45 CDT

Registered users can: add comments; create and watch pages; post and reply to comments; and invite others to join the community

Writers can: add and edit content; create and watch pages; post and reply to comments; and invite others to join the community.

Moderators can: move, rename, lock, and delete pages; move and delete comment threads; promote members to new roles; ban disruptive users.

In order to post on this site there are a few basic things that you need to know about....first of which is the EASY EDIT button at the top of the page. ANY content that you add to the page MUST be done through the EASYEDIT button.

Click on it, and in a few seconds the tool bar will appear. You'll see most of the same tools that any word processor has, such as font size and align text. To add text click on your enter button a couple of time to bring the cursor down to where you can see it.

ANY article that you want to copy and paste onto your page just do it, and wetpaint will format it automatically so that you won't have any funny symbols such as "can&t". Pictures will come along with the text too.

If you copy an article in it's entirety, BEWARE the dreaded copyright!! Most publications are very lenient, and will allow a certain amount of copying of their copyrighted material. They don't have to be, so be polite and post a very clear notice stating where you obtained a article. Like this:

Author's Name (if any)
TV Week Magazine
Monday, January 29, 2007
All Rights Reserved

If you keep lifting article after article from the same source, even if you credit, you can expect them to take exception. They won't much appreciate you lifting large chunks of their property on a continuing basis.

Any images that you have in your own files that you'd like to put up, click on the "image" icon and follow the directions that pop up....the only frustrating thing you might encounter is that the image tool bar floats, and follows your cursor. Try dragging it down to the bottom right corner and click on the scroll bar...that seems to work for me.

Again, many pictures are copyrighted so beware!

When you are finished, click on spell check, please. I am a NOTORIOUSLY poor speller, but with a spell check in front of us we can make the effort to have our work as polished as possible!

SAVE BEFORE EXITING!!!

I can think of few thing MORE frustrating than going to the trouble of getting everything JUST right, then siting back, clicking to go to another page and FORGETTING to save....your page WILL be LOST, GONE, VANISHED and KAPUT, as I have found out to my horror!! After you save it may take up to a minute for the page to load

Good luck...and HAVE FUN!!!

If you have any questions contact me or Naughty on our forum.

The Jaws that Bite, the Claws that Catch~ The dreaded copyright thingy!

JDsgirlBev — Mon, 09 Apr 2007 10:11:05 CDT

This website was constructed for, and is maintained by, fans of Jeffrey Dean Morgan. It is not affiliated with Mr. Morgan or his management in any way.

Copyright of articles and images found within this website, remain the sole property of their registered
owners. No infringement is intended.

No money is being charged, or made, by members or administrators of this site. So, no Vorpal swords, please... I would look awfully funny without my head, and I'm sure NO ONE wants to galumph.

Kabuley

JDsgirlBev — Mon, 02 Apr 2007 18:28:47 CDT

Ok...it's official...I AM twitterpated! Sorry people....try this... KABLUEY...THIS is the reason you shouldn't load new pages at 3:30 in the morning.

Grey's Anatomy Discussion Page

JDsgirlBev — Tue, 16 Jan 2007 19:05:32 CST

There is no abstract available for this page revision.

Grey's Anatomy Discussion

JDsgirlBev — Tue, 16 Jan 2007 15:00:04 CST

There is no abstract available for this page revision.