FIC: Of Bastard Saints, 13
May. 20th, 2006 06:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nilchanceTitle: Of Bastard Saints
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nilchance and beanside
Rating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
4 AM. John sat in the cheap hotel room's only chair, watching Sam's uneasy sleep. They'd had to stop for the night in a place that didn't have a gym attached, so with a silent apology to Chloe, John gave up on PT being regular until they found Dean. That left no way for John to burn off the restlessness that chewed at him in the small hours after he'd snatched a quick catnap.
If had been before the wreck, before John had been crippled, he'd have paced. Instead, he took the familiar position of watching over his boy. It didn't matter that they'd sealed the hell out of the room. It didn't matter that John had the dawning suspicion they weren't the ones being hunted anyway, not unless they got caught up in the wake of whatever was trailing Dean.
John wasn't used to full nights of sleep, anyway. Not after the last few years.
Sam mumbled something in his sleep, hand fisting in the pillow. John watched, waiting for him to settle, not sure what he was going to do if Sam didn't. Mercifully, Sam sighed and settled back in. His deep, steady breathing was a comfort. Always had been. It was the only thing that convinced John to sleep back in the day, knowing that his boy was safe and whole.
There was something missing, a nagging absence that kept John from peace. He shouldn't have one of them with him and not the other. There should be soft snoring, the occasional company as Dean stirred enough to check on his brother. He'd always been protective of Sammy, the baby, the troublemaker, the one most likely to need watching over. Dean had been steady, the one John didn't need to worry about. Dean had been gravity.
Not fair to either of them, but there it was. They should've had their mother, if they were talking about fair. John should've been able to sacrifice his life for his boys back in Jackson. John should've been able to keep them safe, give Sam his chance at his normal life, give Dean his chance to... what, settle down? Accept a life where he knew John had died for him?
Yeah. Except John was suddenly getting why Dean never would've taken that well. Looking down at the void where his leg used to be, John felt the loss of the hunt he'd never wanted to take up in the first place. He'd sure as hell felt the loss of their fucked up family when he'd thought he'd have to bury Dean.
John was getting the uncomfortable feeling that he'd been wrong about a lot of what he'd thought he'd wanted, what his boys wanted. What he thought he could live with.
What he was willing to sacrifice.
He hadn't been ready to be a father. Sure as hell hadn't braced himself for being a single father of two small boys in a world that was uglier than he'd known. Honestly, if John had realized what was waiting for his sons, he'd have been more careful about birth control.
He didn't regret one minute having them once they were there. They'd kept him steady, especially Dean. Dean, who was always there, constant as a compass pointing true north. There had been bad nights where John sat in the dark, gun in hand, thinking about it, thinking about it...
Dean seemed to know. He'd always wake up, or call, or drop in on John without warning. Luck, maybe.
Funny. Dean'd been the difficult baby, fussy and restless and loud. About drove Mary to drink once or twice, until she'd finally stomped over to John and shoved his son (that was how she put it, "his son") into John's arms.
The doctors had said Dean was a colicky baby. John never had any problems with him. The moment Mary had put the squalling, red-faced thing in John's arms, Dean had quieted, looking up at him with calm, trusting eyes.
Mary had flipped him off and stomped off to bed, grumbling under her breath. John had called out sick from work the next day, and spent it teaching his son how to assemble a carburetor. Bit more of John assembling, with Dean watching and occasionally clapping happily. Dean had eyed him with such fascination as he explained each part, and what it did, that John had been sure his son was a genius. Mary had laughed at him, but she had to admit, Dean was definitely Daddy's boy. And Daddy, well, his heart had belonged to Dean. When Sam arrived, he'd taken his own claim out on John's heart, on his life.
Some things didn't change, John thought, looking fondly over at Sam's sleeping form.
For a second, John almost didn't recognize the trill of his phone. He grabbed for it and flipped it open, glancing to make sure Sam hadn't heard that. It was probably one of his contacts. Again.
Too many of those calls. 'Is it true your boy attacked Bobby? What're you going to do about it?' 'Can you bring him down, John? If it comes to that-'
"John Winchester," he murmured.
There was a small noise, a little intake of breath. Easy to dismiss.
John sat up straighter, suddenly awake. "Dean?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam bolt upright. John gestured him silent, listening hard to the sound of breathing. He knew the way Dean breathed when he hurt and was trying to stay quiet about it. "Son. Stay on the line. I'm coming, it's all right. Where are you?"
Sam was climbing out of bed, coming over to lean against John's side and listen. Whatever he heard made his expression sharpen, and he looked at John to whisper, "Is that-?"
There was a hard 'clunk' of the phone hitting the end of its cord, another as it hit the wall. Over that, John heard the edge of that voice, that fucking hated voice. "-they didn't need you."
Choking. A meaty thump.
From the way Sam stiffened, he'd heard. John switched the phone to his other ear, ignoring the fury he saw on Sam's face. He closed his eyes to focus, listening to that thing taunt his son, listening to Dean choke and fight. He could hear his own voice, harsh as he whispered a litany of, "Shoot it, Dean. Shoot it. I don't care. Shoot it, we'll deal with it, just live, just-"
He listened as-
Oh, Jesus. It knew. It knew Dean was alone.
John heard the sharp snarl of Dean's voice, harsher than he'd ever heard it, and the retort of the shotgun. The sound of the shell hitting its target, the thump as the body hit the ground.
Sam was pale, his hands locked on John's arm. He'd heard the shotgun, the thump.
After a second of heart-rending silence, John heard his boy's tortured breathing. The low, animal sounds of pain, horror, rage. John closed his eyes and exhaled, fumbling a hand out to cover Sam's and squeeze. To comfort him, because he couldn't reach Dean.
Dean was alive. Sam didn't need to know anything but that.
There was the sound of footsteps. Silence. The low, steady sound of rain hitting pavement. John would have to check the weather reports, see what parts of the country were getting hard rain, but for the moment he couldn't make himself hang up.
He wasn't surprised when he heard the phone being picked up. That low, poisonous murmur; it had picked a male, having realized that picking mothers wouldn't change a damned thing. It adapted. "John? Are you there?"
"I'm here," John said evenly.
"I thought you would be. Your boy's looking a little frayed around the edges. I knew you weren't father of the year, but damn, John. I thought we were pretending you loved them both, not just the one who reminds you of Mary."
John didn't flinch. "Best leave him be."
"Or what, exactly? You'll come to his rescue? That worked so well last time." The demon shifted tones, sliding into dangerous territory. "Is your favorite there? Are you listening, Sam?"
Sam's teeth clenched so hard John almost heard them creak. "I'm here."
"Good. You've earned a little vacation, boy. I think you'll keep until I'm done here. You just got less interesting. Isn't that what you wanted? Someone else to take your hit so you can have the picket fence?" It switched back to John. "Nice of you to train our boy for me, John. To fill him up with all the things you use against us. It'll come in handy when I've broken him. Thank you."
John bit off, "I've got better information than he does. There's things he doesn't know. Let me-"
"Been there. I've scraped out whatever usefulness you had." John heard the thing smirk. "Besides, I'm not interested in a cripple for a pet."
John's breath hissed out slowly as he remembered that night in the cabin. The things that the demon had wanted John to do to his son. Hurt him, degrade him, turn Dean into... "I'll shoot him first. You know that."
"Maybe. He's already straining. He shot a mother. Things will get worse before they're over, and you're not here to protect him. Not that you were ever interested in that." The demon stopped short, making a surprised noise. It sounded a little too much like delight. "Is that you, Sam? Very good."
John glanced sideways, and saw Sam's nose bleeding freely down his chin, onto his shirt. Sam's eyes slid half-closed, only the whites showing. John hissed, "Stop."
Sam ignored him, paling as the blood slid that much faster. His hand gripped John's arm hard, bruising. John reached over, gripping Sam by the back of the neck and shaking him. "I said stop, Sam." The blood was flowing faster. Sam's eyes fluttered like he was seizing.
"He's good, John. Talented. But it may come down between your boys. Can you choose one? Condemn the other? Can you-"
John hung up and snapped his hand out, catching Sam under the chin hard enough to snap his son's head back.
Sam gasped, jerking back to the hotel room, scrabbling at the chair. "Wha- I-" His eyes narrowed. "I almost had him."
"You almost had the body," John answered. He reached up, clicking on the room's light, and staggered to his feet. "Stay there. I'll get you ice. That'll bruise."
"You punched me! Of course it'll fucking bruise!" Sam started to push himself up, wobbled, and sat back down. "I could've stopped it. I could've given Dean time."
"You could've hemorrhaged."
Sam shook his head, furiously. He watched John as he got ice and a new shirt, his silence a warning than Sam was trying to come up with the worst possible thing to say. John let him stew, balling up the ice in a shirt and pressing it to Sam's chin, not gently.
"It's right," Sam said finally. "Isn't it?"
"Yeah. That's exactly right, Sam. I'm so fond of you I'm dragging you into hell to find Dean." Tiredly, John rubbed at his eye. "I'll start throwing your stuff in a bag. We can be back on the road in a few."
Couldn't protect them both. He was going to get them both killed by trying. Maybe he ought to leave Sam with someone until John could figure out a plan. Maybe he should stop trying to plan until he could think past that wounded, ragged sound Dean had been making before he bolted.
On his best day, Dean had his weaknesses. Now? Without anyone covering his back, without Sam to focus on? Loose cannon didn't begin to cover it. He was alone, afraid, hurting.
John washed Sam's blood off his hands. He tried not to remember. He tried to focus, to slide back into the tunnel vision that had always come with the hunt.
His focus was gone. He had been able to before, to make himself react like Dean was any other resource lost in the field that was too valuable to leave behind. It wasn't until he heard Dean's voice, distant on the line, that he'd been able to let himself believe that... Jesus. He'd died in that hospital when the nurse looked at him, told him he'd lost Dean and was fast on his way to losing Sam. He'd shut down. Easier that way.
Dean was alive. Breathing. Hurting.
Now John couldn't carve out the worry or the nightmare that would be facing down his own son. Even beyond the fact that it was Dean, his Dean, it would be a frighteningly competent soldier who'd been training since he was 8. It would be a man with access to every level of John's resources, who could disappear and make sure he was never found. That John had been able to track him this far said that Dean was still off his game, but John's boy recovered fast. Always had.
John met his own stark gaze in the mirror, the eyes of a man he wasn't sure could do the job this time. "Mary," he said hoarsely, "I'm sorry. Just... just tell him to hold on."
Like every other time, every other prayer, his only answer was silence and the rhythm of his son's breathing.
Closing his eyes, John breathed in, out. Tried to force the memories away. Of the things it wanted Dean for.
He turned away from the mirror, losing his balance and falling to his knees, the shock of it traveling up the prosthetic to what remained of his leg with a jolt of pain. He barely felt it, wrapped in agony. His stomach churned, and he felt blindly, barely reaching the toilet before it revolted.
Shakily shoving things in his bag, Sam heard the thump, the soft pained noise from the bathroom. He shook his head, refusing to let it thaw his anger.
Then, the retching began.
Fuck. Somehow pissed that his father was ruining his perfectly justified anger, Sam stalked to the sink, and unwrapped one of the little plastic cups. He dumped an Alka-Seltzer in, following it by a splash of water. Without knocking, he opened the door. John was back on his feet, looking at him with an inscrutable expression on his face.
Sam shoved the glass at him. "I'm almost packed."
"Good," John replied, accepting the fizzing liquid. "Thanks."
"Mmmph." Sam stalked back into the bedroom, stuffing more things in the bag with unneeded force.
After a few minutes, John came back out, looking a little better. "Sam, I-"
"Not talking now, Dad," Sam gritted.
John nodded silently. "Okay." He grabbed his bag. "I'm throwing this into the van." He walked out, breathing deeply of the cold air.
Dean would hold on. They hadn't come this far to lose him. They would find him. Anything else was unacceptable.
Authors:
nilchance and beansideRating: Adult
Disclaimer: We make no claim of ownership on the Brothers and Daddy Winchester. No infringement is intended, no money is made.
Author Notes: Set after the episode "Devil's Trap."
WARNINGS: Character maiming, more angst than you can shake a stick at, WIP.
4 AM. John sat in the cheap hotel room's only chair, watching Sam's uneasy sleep. They'd had to stop for the night in a place that didn't have a gym attached, so with a silent apology to Chloe, John gave up on PT being regular until they found Dean. That left no way for John to burn off the restlessness that chewed at him in the small hours after he'd snatched a quick catnap.
If had been before the wreck, before John had been crippled, he'd have paced. Instead, he took the familiar position of watching over his boy. It didn't matter that they'd sealed the hell out of the room. It didn't matter that John had the dawning suspicion they weren't the ones being hunted anyway, not unless they got caught up in the wake of whatever was trailing Dean.
John wasn't used to full nights of sleep, anyway. Not after the last few years.
Sam mumbled something in his sleep, hand fisting in the pillow. John watched, waiting for him to settle, not sure what he was going to do if Sam didn't. Mercifully, Sam sighed and settled back in. His deep, steady breathing was a comfort. Always had been. It was the only thing that convinced John to sleep back in the day, knowing that his boy was safe and whole.
There was something missing, a nagging absence that kept John from peace. He shouldn't have one of them with him and not the other. There should be soft snoring, the occasional company as Dean stirred enough to check on his brother. He'd always been protective of Sammy, the baby, the troublemaker, the one most likely to need watching over. Dean had been steady, the one John didn't need to worry about. Dean had been gravity.
Not fair to either of them, but there it was. They should've had their mother, if they were talking about fair. John should've been able to sacrifice his life for his boys back in Jackson. John should've been able to keep them safe, give Sam his chance at his normal life, give Dean his chance to... what, settle down? Accept a life where he knew John had died for him?
Yeah. Except John was suddenly getting why Dean never would've taken that well. Looking down at the void where his leg used to be, John felt the loss of the hunt he'd never wanted to take up in the first place. He'd sure as hell felt the loss of their fucked up family when he'd thought he'd have to bury Dean.
John was getting the uncomfortable feeling that he'd been wrong about a lot of what he'd thought he'd wanted, what his boys wanted. What he thought he could live with.
What he was willing to sacrifice.
He hadn't been ready to be a father. Sure as hell hadn't braced himself for being a single father of two small boys in a world that was uglier than he'd known. Honestly, if John had realized what was waiting for his sons, he'd have been more careful about birth control.
He didn't regret one minute having them once they were there. They'd kept him steady, especially Dean. Dean, who was always there, constant as a compass pointing true north. There had been bad nights where John sat in the dark, gun in hand, thinking about it, thinking about it...
Dean seemed to know. He'd always wake up, or call, or drop in on John without warning. Luck, maybe.
Funny. Dean'd been the difficult baby, fussy and restless and loud. About drove Mary to drink once or twice, until she'd finally stomped over to John and shoved his son (that was how she put it, "his son") into John's arms.
The doctors had said Dean was a colicky baby. John never had any problems with him. The moment Mary had put the squalling, red-faced thing in John's arms, Dean had quieted, looking up at him with calm, trusting eyes.
Mary had flipped him off and stomped off to bed, grumbling under her breath. John had called out sick from work the next day, and spent it teaching his son how to assemble a carburetor. Bit more of John assembling, with Dean watching and occasionally clapping happily. Dean had eyed him with such fascination as he explained each part, and what it did, that John had been sure his son was a genius. Mary had laughed at him, but she had to admit, Dean was definitely Daddy's boy. And Daddy, well, his heart had belonged to Dean. When Sam arrived, he'd taken his own claim out on John's heart, on his life.
Some things didn't change, John thought, looking fondly over at Sam's sleeping form.
For a second, John almost didn't recognize the trill of his phone. He grabbed for it and flipped it open, glancing to make sure Sam hadn't heard that. It was probably one of his contacts. Again.
Too many of those calls. 'Is it true your boy attacked Bobby? What're you going to do about it?' 'Can you bring him down, John? If it comes to that-'
"John Winchester," he murmured.
There was a small noise, a little intake of breath. Easy to dismiss.
John sat up straighter, suddenly awake. "Dean?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam bolt upright. John gestured him silent, listening hard to the sound of breathing. He knew the way Dean breathed when he hurt and was trying to stay quiet about it. "Son. Stay on the line. I'm coming, it's all right. Where are you?"
Sam was climbing out of bed, coming over to lean against John's side and listen. Whatever he heard made his expression sharpen, and he looked at John to whisper, "Is that-?"
There was a hard 'clunk' of the phone hitting the end of its cord, another as it hit the wall. Over that, John heard the edge of that voice, that fucking hated voice. "-they didn't need you."
Choking. A meaty thump.
From the way Sam stiffened, he'd heard. John switched the phone to his other ear, ignoring the fury he saw on Sam's face. He closed his eyes to focus, listening to that thing taunt his son, listening to Dean choke and fight. He could hear his own voice, harsh as he whispered a litany of, "Shoot it, Dean. Shoot it. I don't care. Shoot it, we'll deal with it, just live, just-"
He listened as-
Oh, Jesus. It knew. It knew Dean was alone.
John heard the sharp snarl of Dean's voice, harsher than he'd ever heard it, and the retort of the shotgun. The sound of the shell hitting its target, the thump as the body hit the ground.
Sam was pale, his hands locked on John's arm. He'd heard the shotgun, the thump.
After a second of heart-rending silence, John heard his boy's tortured breathing. The low, animal sounds of pain, horror, rage. John closed his eyes and exhaled, fumbling a hand out to cover Sam's and squeeze. To comfort him, because he couldn't reach Dean.
Dean was alive. Sam didn't need to know anything but that.
There was the sound of footsteps. Silence. The low, steady sound of rain hitting pavement. John would have to check the weather reports, see what parts of the country were getting hard rain, but for the moment he couldn't make himself hang up.
He wasn't surprised when he heard the phone being picked up. That low, poisonous murmur; it had picked a male, having realized that picking mothers wouldn't change a damned thing. It adapted. "John? Are you there?"
"I'm here," John said evenly.
"I thought you would be. Your boy's looking a little frayed around the edges. I knew you weren't father of the year, but damn, John. I thought we were pretending you loved them both, not just the one who reminds you of Mary."
John didn't flinch. "Best leave him be."
"Or what, exactly? You'll come to his rescue? That worked so well last time." The demon shifted tones, sliding into dangerous territory. "Is your favorite there? Are you listening, Sam?"
Sam's teeth clenched so hard John almost heard them creak. "I'm here."
"Good. You've earned a little vacation, boy. I think you'll keep until I'm done here. You just got less interesting. Isn't that what you wanted? Someone else to take your hit so you can have the picket fence?" It switched back to John. "Nice of you to train our boy for me, John. To fill him up with all the things you use against us. It'll come in handy when I've broken him. Thank you."
John bit off, "I've got better information than he does. There's things he doesn't know. Let me-"
"Been there. I've scraped out whatever usefulness you had." John heard the thing smirk. "Besides, I'm not interested in a cripple for a pet."
John's breath hissed out slowly as he remembered that night in the cabin. The things that the demon had wanted John to do to his son. Hurt him, degrade him, turn Dean into... "I'll shoot him first. You know that."
"Maybe. He's already straining. He shot a mother. Things will get worse before they're over, and you're not here to protect him. Not that you were ever interested in that." The demon stopped short, making a surprised noise. It sounded a little too much like delight. "Is that you, Sam? Very good."
John glanced sideways, and saw Sam's nose bleeding freely down his chin, onto his shirt. Sam's eyes slid half-closed, only the whites showing. John hissed, "Stop."
Sam ignored him, paling as the blood slid that much faster. His hand gripped John's arm hard, bruising. John reached over, gripping Sam by the back of the neck and shaking him. "I said stop, Sam." The blood was flowing faster. Sam's eyes fluttered like he was seizing.
"He's good, John. Talented. But it may come down between your boys. Can you choose one? Condemn the other? Can you-"
John hung up and snapped his hand out, catching Sam under the chin hard enough to snap his son's head back.
Sam gasped, jerking back to the hotel room, scrabbling at the chair. "Wha- I-" His eyes narrowed. "I almost had him."
"You almost had the body," John answered. He reached up, clicking on the room's light, and staggered to his feet. "Stay there. I'll get you ice. That'll bruise."
"You punched me! Of course it'll fucking bruise!" Sam started to push himself up, wobbled, and sat back down. "I could've stopped it. I could've given Dean time."
"You could've hemorrhaged."
Sam shook his head, furiously. He watched John as he got ice and a new shirt, his silence a warning than Sam was trying to come up with the worst possible thing to say. John let him stew, balling up the ice in a shirt and pressing it to Sam's chin, not gently.
"It's right," Sam said finally. "Isn't it?"
"Yeah. That's exactly right, Sam. I'm so fond of you I'm dragging you into hell to find Dean." Tiredly, John rubbed at his eye. "I'll start throwing your stuff in a bag. We can be back on the road in a few."
Couldn't protect them both. He was going to get them both killed by trying. Maybe he ought to leave Sam with someone until John could figure out a plan. Maybe he should stop trying to plan until he could think past that wounded, ragged sound Dean had been making before he bolted.
On his best day, Dean had his weaknesses. Now? Without anyone covering his back, without Sam to focus on? Loose cannon didn't begin to cover it. He was alone, afraid, hurting.
John washed Sam's blood off his hands. He tried not to remember. He tried to focus, to slide back into the tunnel vision that had always come with the hunt.
His focus was gone. He had been able to before, to make himself react like Dean was any other resource lost in the field that was too valuable to leave behind. It wasn't until he heard Dean's voice, distant on the line, that he'd been able to let himself believe that... Jesus. He'd died in that hospital when the nurse looked at him, told him he'd lost Dean and was fast on his way to losing Sam. He'd shut down. Easier that way.
Dean was alive. Breathing. Hurting.
Now John couldn't carve out the worry or the nightmare that would be facing down his own son. Even beyond the fact that it was Dean, his Dean, it would be a frighteningly competent soldier who'd been training since he was 8. It would be a man with access to every level of John's resources, who could disappear and make sure he was never found. That John had been able to track him this far said that Dean was still off his game, but John's boy recovered fast. Always had.
John met his own stark gaze in the mirror, the eyes of a man he wasn't sure could do the job this time. "Mary," he said hoarsely, "I'm sorry. Just... just tell him to hold on."
Like every other time, every other prayer, his only answer was silence and the rhythm of his son's breathing.
Closing his eyes, John breathed in, out. Tried to force the memories away. Of the things it wanted Dean for.
He turned away from the mirror, losing his balance and falling to his knees, the shock of it traveling up the prosthetic to what remained of his leg with a jolt of pain. He barely felt it, wrapped in agony. His stomach churned, and he felt blindly, barely reaching the toilet before it revolted.
Shakily shoving things in his bag, Sam heard the thump, the soft pained noise from the bathroom. He shook his head, refusing to let it thaw his anger.
Then, the retching began.
Fuck. Somehow pissed that his father was ruining his perfectly justified anger, Sam stalked to the sink, and unwrapped one of the little plastic cups. He dumped an Alka-Seltzer in, following it by a splash of water. Without knocking, he opened the door. John was back on his feet, looking at him with an inscrutable expression on his face.
Sam shoved the glass at him. "I'm almost packed."
"Good," John replied, accepting the fizzing liquid. "Thanks."
"Mmmph." Sam stalked back into the bedroom, stuffing more things in the bag with unneeded force.
After a few minutes, John came back out, looking a little better. "Sam, I-"
"Not talking now, Dad," Sam gritted.
John nodded silently. "Okay." He grabbed his bag. "I'm throwing this into the van." He walked out, breathing deeply of the cold air.
Dean would hold on. They hadn't come this far to lose him. They would find him. Anything else was unacceptable.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-05-20 10:44 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 01:31 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-20 10:54 pm (UTC)Too many questions, I look forward to the answers.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 01:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-20 11:00 pm (UTC)YES find him! Excellent idea! Love your way of thinking dude
no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 01:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-20 11:25 pm (UTC)So much of John's love, so much of Sam's persistance, so much of the Demon's evilness...and Dean's angst. And loneliness.
*waits patiently for more*
:)
no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 01:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 12:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 01:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 01:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 02:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 02:29 am (UTC)Wonderful chapter!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 02:02 am (UTC)*grin*
Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 03:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 02:04 am (UTC)But um... might want to update the blood pressure meds.
I'm glad you're...enjoying (?) it. *grin*
Thanks!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 03:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 02:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 03:58 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 02:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 04:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 02:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 07:22 am (UTC)Another great chapter, and it makes me want to reread the previous one. You've totally got me hooked. Great job, both of you! :D
no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 02:10 am (UTC)I'm glad you're enjoying it! Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 03:00 am (UTC)Yeah, I realized the parallel as I was typing. :) I figured that was the purpose. I understood Dean throwing up more than John... I mean, did John have that reaction when he got Sam's phone call in "Faith"? When he seemed to be totally ignoring Dean in the back seat in "Devil's Trap"? You might be noticing I have a grudge against John. :) He has a lot to prove to me. :)
Also, HAPPY BIRTHDAY! :)
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Date: 2006-05-21 08:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 01:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-21 07:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 01:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 01:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 01:26 am (UTC)I'm glad you're enjoying it.
no subject
Date: 2006-05-22 01:27 am (UTC)