#johndeanna

[mpregjohnwinchester]

use a photo on your phone camera roll and write a quick scene/hc for it

well, this turned into a monster.

johndeanna, sam pov; 6k words, mature; cw discussions of character death, incest. unedited.

Sam has to keep himself busy, otherwise he’s gonna lose his mind.

Not that he isn’t already. Not that he’s even pushing any pretence of keeping it together, what with that last fight with Dad playing a constant live loop in his head, that code alarm ringing in his ears like tinnitus, phantom smells from the burning pyre lingering constantly under his nose. And that's to say nothing of Deanna, stone-faced and vacant, unreachable under the hood of the Impala. Yeah - that alone, Deanna's distance, her denial, is enough to make Sam feel certifiable.

So Sam keeps himself occupied, because there's really nothing else he can do right now. And besides - someone has to start the process of going through Dad's stuff.

Dad's truck's been sitting at the far end of the salvage yard for a couple of weeks, untouched and unspoken of since Bobby sent someone out to collect it from Nebraska. Tucked away where no one can see it; but Sam can’t forget that it’s there. Can feel its presence like Dad’s ghost, which is unsettling a thought as anything else. 

Someone really, really needs to deal with this, alright.

The trees around the yard rustle in the wind, and Sam can feel the budding Autumn chill on the back of his neck. Bobby will probably scrap the truck once Sam's done with it, which is just fine with him. He and Deanna have no use for it, and the idea of selling it on, of someone else driving it, making it their own, feels kind of unbearable.

So Sam ignores that chill, and gets to work.

There's a lot of crap inside. A lot. Sam picks out all the fast food wrappers, a grimace fixed on his mouth; keeps stumbling across empty pill bottles with stolen names on the labels. He’d noticed them before, among Dad’s things, but he hadn’t wanted to give it too much thought - kinda hard not to now - and there are unwashed clothes balled up in the footwells that seem to have been festering for months.

Yeah, definitely hard, not to think about the way Dad was living. How old and exhausted he'd looked, how startling that was when Sam first laid eyes on him back in Chicago; how bad things seemed to have gotten, in the four years he’d been in California. Pretty rough, having those as his last, most live memories of Dad. Almost as rough as finding him motionless on the floor, listening to a strange, unreal voice calling time of death; nothing compared to how cold Dad’s skin felt when Sam and Deanna had laid down next to him for the last time, kissed him goodbye. Sam just can't stop remembering.

He clears out all the trash. Feels a little robotic about it, a little numb. He keeps going until the inside is dealt with; then, Sam moves to the trunk. He opens it up with a wrench, and a deep, deep breath.

Dad's duffel bag is inside. Sam stares at it for a moment or two; it's worn and stained, and there's a hole fraying around where the zip rests. It’s the same one Dad has had for years and years, all packed up and ready to return to, like Dad was just on another job or something. Like a part of him believed that would be the case; that for all the noises he made about being willing to die in the fight with the demon, Dad never truly meant it.

Sam blinks at the tears forming in his eyes. Takes another deep, deep breath. Holds it in his body as he takes the duffel out of the trunk, sets it down gently on the floor, He can't bear to go through it just yet. That's definitely a job for another day. Or maybe never.

Sam lifts up the floor of the trunk to reveal the hidden compartment underneath, just to check there's nothing else left behind. Nothing personal, at least; because for all the inside of Dad's truck was a mess, his assortment of weapons are clean, maintained and perfectly organized. Military precision, Sam thinks, with a smile that's only half-bitter. He'll need Bobby to help him get all this stuff out; it's stuff they're gonna need, after all. Something tells him it's a bad idea to ask Deanna.

His eyes idly roam glinting silver pistols, jagged blades; they could definitely use all of this. As Sam scans the little shelves tucked under the weapons tray, something else catches his attention. Something he’s never seen before; looks like a flat wooden box.

He frowns; it looks a little out of place. He reaches in to pull it out.

There's a layer of dust over the top. Sam blows on it until most of it has gone, then brushes the rest away with his hand. It feels quite light, almost like it's empty. There's nothing but a padlock holding it shut.

Sloppy, Dad, Sam thinks, with a little more scorn than he can forgive himself for. Really sloppy.

It doesn't take him long to locate a box of paperclips amongst Dad's shit. The only lock picking tool you'll ever need, he used to say, if you know how to use it right - and Sam's learned well. He gets the padlock off in less than a second. He opens the box.

Inside are three different white envelopes. Unsealed. Sam frowns again. He has no idea what these could be.

He closes the trunk, and sits down on top of it so he can take a closer look.

He pulls the first envelope out, prises it open with his thumbs. Inside is a stack of Polaroids, held together with a paperclip. Oh.

Sam holds them up. The picture on top is old, pretty faded. It's of a blonde woman in sunglasses and bright orange flared pants, perched on a low fence with fields rolling out behind her. She's looking off to the side. Between the sunglasses hiding her face and the degraded quality of the image, it takes Sam a moment to realize he's looking at a picture of his mother.

His eyes start to smart again. Alone, here, with this photo, with Dad's memories, he lets them. 

Sam notices the text on the strip of white at the bottom; June 1975, in Dad's handwriting - everything labelled and organized, always. Sam smiles, despite everything. His mother was truly beautiful; Dad always said it, said it all the time.

Do you think I look like her, Sammy? Deanna used to ask, when they were younger. She’d ask it while standing in front of full length mirrors on wardrobe doors, lifting up her hair, turning side to side.

Sam, usually rattling with resentment and injustice at that time, rarely felt generous enough to agree; usually he'd just snort and go back to his book. He regrets that now, at the memory. He regrets a lot of things lately, a lot of the shitty ways he behaved.

Sam takes off the paperclip, and starts to look through the rest of the Polaroids. The first few are of Mom by herself. Mom sitting in a field in those flare pants, smiling with a single daisy in her hands; June 1975 again, maybe taken on the same day as the first one. Mom dancing at a bar with a woman Sam doesn’t recognize, September 1976. Mom with her head turned away from the camera, side profile grinning, holding up her middle finger; April 1977. 

Sam finds himself a little surprised by that picture. The way Dad talked about Mom, it'd be kind of hard to imagine her ever flipping Dad the bird. Doesn’t really feel like the kind of thing wide-eyed, respectable housewives do. But then again, Sam has wondered on more than one occasion if he knows that much about his mother at all, really. Who she really was.

Mom is pregnant in the next picture. Dad is standing next to her, arm around her. Mom has her hands on her swollen stomach, and she's smiling. Dad - Dad is smiling even wider. 

They're next to a crib. Sam recognizes the layout of Deanna's old bedroom from the other photos he's seen. There's a lot of pink. December 1978.

Sam feels that like a slap in the face. Sudden, stinging. A wave of grief for a woman, a life, he never knew. The smiling, carefree father he never really met.

Sam has never seen any of these photos before. He feels like he's looking through something intensely private. Something Dad wanted to keep close, keep just for himself. He draws another deep, deep breath; puts the paperclip back on the Polaroids, places them gently back in the envelope like they're made of glass. He's keen to see what's in the other ones.

The second envelope is unlabelled too. Inside is another set of Polaroids, clipped together; but there’s something else too. A beaded bracelet. Sam frowns, and pulls that out first.

He turns it over in his hand. It takes him a moment to realize he's holding the first gift he made for Dad in arts and crafts, back when he was in kindergarten. He remembers it so clearly because Deanna had laughed when he brought it home - men don't wear bracelets, Sammy - and when Sam had given it to Dad, he'd laughed too. But not with Deanna’s scorn.

Sam’s throat burns. It’s hard to believe, now, that there was a time when Dad still used to laugh, despite the fire, despite everything, but there was - and Dad had put that bracelet on, all gentle about it, like he was scared of breaking it. He'd ruffled Sam's hair and said, thank you, Sammy. I love it.

And Dad kept it. To this day, Dad held onto it. He never threw it out.

Sam has to stop for a second then; press the back of his hand to his mouth, like he's going to puke, because it feels kind of like that, even though nothing comes. In the safety of the quiet salvage yard, he lets out a rough sob. Dad - despite everything that happened between them, Dad still held onto a piece of crap Sam made for him when he was five. Carried it around with him in his truck, like a part of him. Wanted to keep the memory. 

Sam doesn't know what to do with that. It feels so big. He rolls the bracelet onto his wrist before he can feel stupid about it, and reaches into the envelope for the Polaroids.

Like the ones of Mom, they're clipped together. January 1991 is written on the strip on the bottom of the first photo. Sam recognizes his own seven-year-old face, his gap-toothed smile, the Goodwill clothes sitting far too big on his little body. He's sitting on a swing. There are chunks of snow like clumps of cotton wool on the concrete below, a woolly hat on his tiny head.

A wet smile grows on Sam's face as he looks through the rest of the pictures. There's one of him in some kind of diner, August 1987, the background dark but for a neon sign, smiling wide with some kind of food all around his mouth. He winces - embarrassing - and moves on. There are a few photos dated around this time. One of him coloring at a motel room desk, tongue stuck out in focus. Another of him holding a book upside down and grinning. 

Then - September 1983. His infant face blinks up at him. He’s all fat little limbs and confusion. Deanna’s in this picture too, crouched on the floor next to Sam’s carrier with a big toothy grin on her face. Her hair is in pigtails, and she's wearing a blue cotton dress. This picture would mortify her, Sam thinks, with a soft laugh. He doesn't have a single live memory of his sister wearing a dress.

Deanna's in a few more of the photos, Sam notices, as he rifles through. One in particular catches his eye. They’re at a fairground, by the looks of it; there’s a ferris wheel and a cotton candy stall in the background. May 1994 - and already, Sam’s taller than Deanna in this photo, but she's got an arm around his shoulder anyway, asserting her eldest sibling status. They're both squinting in the sun, smiling wide; and Sam finds himself looking at that photo for a while, because something is out of place. He notes with a frown that Deanna is wearing lipstick. Red lipstick.

Dad never let Deanna wear make up of any kind. He can’t have taken this picture; must have lost his shit when he saw it for the first time, too. He didn’t even like her wearing tinted lip balm. Deanna still doesn’t wear make up to this day.

Sam keeps looking at the photo; he remembers now. It was his eleventh birthday; Bobby had been the one orchestrating the fairground trip. And Sam remembers, also, that Dad didn't call that day. Dad was never home for his birthday by that point; but it was the first year of many that he’d forgotten to even call.

God, Sam had been so angry about that once, the way he'd been angry about most everything that Dad did. His distance, his absence. His presence, too; Sam couldn't tolerate that either, for how suffocating it was. 

Sam feels very far removed from that now. All that resentment, that rage. He feels like he could forgive Dad all of it, immediately. Forget it, too; if he could just see Dad one last time.

Sam gets to the final photograph. February 2001. Seventeen; he’s sprawled across a motel bed, all gangly, awkward limbs, hair so long it’s almost brushing his chest. He’s staring down at an open book. Well. Sam doesn't remember that photo being taken at all.

He sure remembers 2001, though. That was when things went from pretty bad to unbearable. 

That’s when they started having to quietly flee motels hours before check out to avoid covering the damage for broken appliances, holes and dents punched, kicked into walls. When Dad really started screaming at him, and Sam started screaming right back, Deanna pacing up and down with her hands over her ears until they wore themselves out. And then - Deanna lecturing Sam as she patched up his busted knuckles. Deanna, always, always siding with Dad. 

It was Dad she’d go after whenever he stormed out; Dad whose point of view she always supported. Always. No matter what.

February 2001; Sam stares at that picture for a while, lost in it. He can smell greasy rental kitchens, Dad’s dirty ashtrays, the vanilla body spray Deanna wore constantly at the time. The memories hit him all at once, bringing their residual anger with them. Because for all he and Dad fought, he and Deanna fought too, by then. They fought about Dad. About how Deanna never had Sam's back.

You could be going to school, Sam remembers saying to her. Well, yelling, really. You could be making something of yourself. But instead you're here. Following his orders. Cleaning up his messes. When are you gonna wake up, Dee?

Deanna's arms were folded, in a display of that Disappointed Mother Mode she'd adopted recently, but Sam could see that he was getting to her from the quiver in her shoulders. Dad needs me, she said, short, curt. And I am something. I'm a hunter.

Sam had laughed. It was cruel - god, he was so cruel back then - And you know what? You could be literally anything else you wanted to be. But you won't do a damn thing unless he tells you to do it.

That quiver flashed through Deanna’s eyes. She took a step towards him, folded hands in fists. You're talking about shit you don't understand, she'd said, tightly, the way she often did. Dad wants justice for Mom. So do I. And the quicker you get off that sky high horse of yours and start doing as he says, maybe we'll actually get somewhere.

You're brainwashed, Sam had told her. It's pathetic.

His fit of frustration blinded him to the not-small flash of hurt in her eyes; but still, Sam walked out after that, because even he knew he wasn't allowed to press the Mom issue. Mom was an automatic out, an automatic shutdown of any meaningful conversation that Sam would try to have. Because that was always shit he didn't understand; not worth getting into, unless he wanted Deanna to end up punching him, anyway. He knew from experience that Deanna had a better set of fists on her than most hunters twice her age and size. He was smarter than to fuck with that.

And, Mom; something that connected Dad and Deanna in a way that Sam could never touch. He doesn't remember what Mom's cookies smelled like, how her laugh sounded, how her hugs felt. Wasn't sentient enough yet on the night of the fire to be particularly bothered about witnessing a house, a life, burn to the ground. Sam remembers always feeling like an outsider in something he was apparently a huge part of. It just made him angrier.

February 2001; yeah. Not a whole stretch of time back from August 2001. No photos from around that time - and, around that time, the night Sam left forever. Not that Sam needs photos; he'll be able to hear Dad's roar of you walk out that door, you never fucking come back, clear as a bell, for the rest of his life. He's never wished he could erase it more.

He doesn't realize he's still crying until a tear lands on the Polaroid in his hand.

Dad had cried that night as well, that night Sam walked out. Then again, Dad cried a lot as time went on, all the time, really; rarely in front of Sam, but Sam would hear him anyway. It would usually happen when Sam was meant to be sleeping - not that he really could, over the sound of those breathless, drunken sobs. Over Deanna's soothing murmurs of it's gonna be okay, Daddy, because whenever Dad got home at stupid o'clock in the morning, stinking like sweat and whisky, she’d always rush out of bed. Straight to his side like a nursemaid never off the clock. Pathetic, Sam would think, every time, even if he did only say it the once. Just felt, all too often, like Deanna couldn’t stop proving his point.

Those old memories usher in another; something Sam hasn't thought about in a very, very long time, as he gently clips the Polaroids back together like he hadn't disturbed them, slots them back into the envelope. Probably 2001 as well; some nondescript night where Sam had woken up to the sound of a decaying front door rattling on its hinges; followed up by a loud, hissed curse. Deanna, as always, sitting up dutifully in their shared bed, without so much as a sigh of complaint.

Sam listened to Deanna in the dark, going down rickety stairs, her footsteps sounding dainty in this out of place way. Heard her going to the kitchen, the hiss of the faucet as she got Dad a glass of water and three ibuprofen. The sound of her bare feet on the wood floors as she went back to him, got Dad cozy on the couch. Started the process of calming him down.

Sam wasn't sure what compelled him to get up that night too. To take himself to the top of the stairs like a kid eavesdropping on fighting parents. But from his vantage point, if he craned his neck just right, he could see into the mildewy living room. He could see Deanna kneeling before Dad on the couch, undoing his shoelaces with one hand. The other was holding Dad's. Fingers interlaced. Dad’s grip looked tight, his fingers tiny in hers; but she didn't seem bothered.

Dad was looking at Deanna. Staring at her, really, with his mouth quivering, tears spilling indulgently down his cheeks. There was blood on his shirt, Sam noticed; there often was. Dad had been getting into a lot of fights.

Sam watched Dad cup Deanna’s face, Her hand stilled on his laces; she let Dad tilt up her head. My beautiful little girl, Sam had heard him murmur. What would I do without you, huh?

Those quivery lips moved into something that resembled a smile, and Sam didn't need to see Deanna's face to know that hers were doing the same. For a moment, nothing happened; Dad didn't seem to blink. And maybe Sam left before he could see Dad kiss Deanna on the mouth, or maybe he completely imagined it; it's still not entirely clear in his mind. Still doesn't quite make sense, that that's what he saw; or what he thought he saw, anyway. Or even why his mind would even concoct something like that. He was half-asleep, he guesses.

And besides, he told himself afterwards, Dad was pretty damn wasted. It's not beyond the realm of possibility to think that he'd been in enough of a state to mistake Deanna for Mom. Deanna would have known that, Sam is sure; and Sam is sure, certain, that Deanna would have taken it in stride. She would have reassured Dad quietly, and gently pushed him away. Confident that he wouldn’t even remember in the morning.

Do I look like Mom, Sammy?

Sam breathes in the burnt Autumn air; it's getting a little dark. Bobby will be calling him for dinner soon. Dinner is usually prepackaged chilli, canned Ravioli, shit like that; Sam's stomach is beginning to churn for even the thought of it. He’s not seen a vegetable in weeks. 

Anyway - Sam shoves that old memory (dream? imagination?) back into some dark eave of of his mind where it belongs. He touches the bracelet on his wrist - thanks, Sammy, I love it - and thinks about the way Dad had ruffled for his hair, the way he smiled in that photo in Deanna's nursery, the Dad he could have been, kind of sort of was for a while, when Sam was very small, until years and years of the life slowly took him apart. The Dad Sam always knew was still in there; the Dad that was good.

Yeah - Sam takes that version of Dad with him, as he moves onto the final envelope. Wonders if, maybe, he'll find that version of Dad inside. More pictures of him looking young. Happy. Not the broken, exhausted old man Sam can’t help but keep on seeing every time he closes his eyes.

This envelope is a little heavier than the others. Sam presses it open with his thumbs. Makes sense, if it's the heaviest; this must be Deanna's envelope. Dad was closer with Deanna than he was with anybody, and he knew her a hell of a lot longer than he knew Mom.

Sam pushes around inside. He was correct; there are more Polaroids here than in the other envelopes. Lots more. But unlike the others, they're not clipped together. They’re just laying haphazardly inside. There's also another envelope stuffed in this one. Folded up small to fit.

Sam sees the glint of a silver chain peeking out from the bottom. The necklace is a little tangled up when he pulls it out; it has a little pendant shaped like a rose, with some kind of fake red gem in the middle.

Sam remembers this necklace, he realizes, as he studies it. Deanna had picked it up at some dollar store or other; thought it looked cool. And she'd been pissed as hell when she lost it. She'd looked for it everywhere. Made Sam look everywhere too. That had sure been a long night.

Sam gets this feeling he can't describe, as it crosses his mind that the necklace may have been in Dad's possession this whole time. But why - why would he do that? Had he picked it up by accident? Decided to hold onto it, forgot to mention it? Was he entirely unaware that it was even lost in the first place?

Or - well. Sam has no fitting explanation for the or. 

He pockets the necklace, not really thinking too much for now about whether it'll be a good idea to return it to Deanna or not. That weird feeling spreads through his gut.

It gets worse still when Sam's reaches into the envelope again; when his fingers brush something else. The small lock of hair is held together by a rubber band. Hair. Blonde hair.

It could, Sam thinks, as that feeling climbs his spine, be Mom's - some couples keep each other’s hair, right? That's a thing, right? - but Sam somehow knows that it isn’t. That this lock of hair belongs - or belonged - to Deanna.

He drops it straight back into the envelope.

There's a part of Sam that wants to put the damn thing away now. Put everything he’s seen so far up to more shit you don't understand, to another thing he couldn't possibly have really seen. Because this - none of this - there’s no explanation Sam can live with that makes sense. And with that in mind - he should stop digging around in Dad’s shit right now.

But there's a bigger part of Sam that feels differently. And that part takes over before he can think too much about what he's doing.

Sam's fingers are shaking a little as he takes out the Polaroids. He pushes them together like a deck of cards, and starts to look through.

He half-expects to see pictures of Deanna as a kid, like with his envelope; pictures of her on swings, at diners, with her arms around Sam. But there aren't any; most of them seem to be of her as an adult, or at least as an older teenager. Sam can't pinpoint it exactly, because the photos aren't dated like the others - and unlike the others, in most of them, Deanna isn't smiling or posing. There's one of her working on the Impala at the side of a dirt road, bent over the hood in those tiny denim shorts she only dons in 100 degree weather, the look of focus on her face suggesting she didn't know the photo was being taken. There's one of her at night in a parking lot of some kind, a hand in her shirt pocket, her irises red in the flash, a confused look on her face. Another of her from the back; standing up a bar, her hair glowing under the low lights, flanked by two men on stools. They’re both looking at her, Sam notices. Then again, Deanna can't go anywhere without men looking at her.

It brings another memory back to Sam, as he stares dumbly at that photo. They'd just finished up a job, a black dog maybe, somewhere in Arizona; and Dad had taken them out to a bar kinda like the one in the picture, dank and yeasty, the kind of bars they only ever went to, really. Sam was bored and miserable, twirling the straw around in the diet coke he’d been nursing since they got there, while Dad and Deanna proceeded to get wicked, wicked drunk. 

They told Sam - but mostly each other - the story of how they wasted the thing, because Sam, as usual, wasn’t allowed to join for the actual hunt part. The details kept getting more and more elaborate, Deanna’s voice rising with excitement; that manic hint to her laugh growing, the more wasted she got. And Dad's smile was warming up and up, his eyes lingering on her for longer and longer periods, shining with the pride he rarely offered verbally. A part of Sam hoped Deanna saw that, at least.

When Deanna went up to the bar to get in the fifth or sixth round - Sam would lose count as quickly as they would - Dad's eyes followed her. His apparent good mood saw an interruption, as he shook his head. 

See that bartender? he’d said, without looking at Sam. Gives me the creeps, the way these horndogs look at your sister. Who the fuck does that guy think he is.

Dad often complained about the way men acted around Deanna. Sam just shrugged. I’m sure she can handle herself, Dad.

Not the point, Dad muttered. Locking eyes with him, finally. Hey Sammy, listen. When I'm not around, you need to start lookin' out for your sister. If you see what I mean.

Sam didn't see what he meant. Dad had this way of speaking in riddles, or at least they were riddles to Sam. He shrugged again, didn't say anything. Giving Dad a cue to fucking elaborate.

Dad huffed. Problem is, Dee's a looker. A real looker, just like her mother. 

Sam stayed quiet. Wasn’t sure what he was meant to say to that.

Dad narrowed his eyes. You ever see anyone gettin' too close to her, you come and tell me right away, alright?

Sam nodded. Felt easier. Wasn’t too sure what else to do.

And Dad had pressed his beer to his lips and kept on watching Deanna up at the bar. Didn't seem to blink as he gulped his drink down, placed the bottle back on the table. And Sam watched Dad watching Deanna, saw the line of his gaze moving up and down her body, from her big boots all the way up to the neckline of her crop top; and Sam thought to himself, at that, that the way Dad looked at Deanna wasn’t all that different than any other guy did. The horndogs. It wasn't a welcome thought; but it sure as hell crossed Sam's mind anyway.

And Sam dismissed it just as quickly as it had come. It wasn't a thought he could keep around, not beyond that mere split second. Not when he had to be wrong.

Sam stares into the envelope. He decides, with his pulse in his ears, that he doesn't want to see any more of these weird Polaroids. Any more erratic angles; any more of Deanna apparently not even knowing she’s having her picture taken.

He puts them back in the envelope. And now, it’s really about time that Sam left it there; about time he accepted, willingly, that whatever Dad and Deanna had going on, he is, was and always will be, outside of it. That it's not at all - nowhere in the ball park of - what it looks like. 

What it sometimes kind of felt like. What it kind of feels like now. 

Sure, Dad was never winning any parenting awards; on a good day, or maybe a bad one depending on how you looked at it, he'd admit it himself. But - this...

Yeah, Sam could really leave it there. Put the envelope back in the box, salvage the nice photos, and burn everything else. But there’s still that other envelope. The smaller one.

His fingers close around it. He watches his hand take it out. Watches, watches himself.

Sam can see why it’s folded now. It’s perfectly Polaroid shaped. 

On the front, Dad’s handwriting: Summer 2002. The year after Sam left, he registers, somewhere in the back of his mind.

He starts unfolding. Watching, watching himself.

The first Polaroid is on another dirt road. Deanna’s sitting on the hood of the Impala, sunglasses balanced on her head. The wind is blowing her hair around. She’s holding a bottle of Jack in one hand, and there’s a cigarette dangling between her fingers on the other. Sam has never seen Deanna smoke.

The next photo, she’s still on the hood. She’s got a leg cocked up beneath her, a hand tangled up in her hair. Bottle of Jack posed between her legs. She’s pouting. She looks kind of ridiculous; and something in her expression belies that she knows it.

In the next photo, Deanna’s sitting upright on the hood again, laughing hysterically. It’s funny, how Sam can hear Dad laughing too, laughing from behind that damn camera. Laughing like he never did, not since all those years ago. Laughing at his daughter - sitting, posing like that.

Sam keeps going. Keeps looking.

Deanna and Dad are both in the next photo. Sam can see the length of Deanna’s arm; she’s angling the camera down at their faces. Dad’s got his eyes closed tight, his lips pressed against her cheek. There’s the biggest grin on Deanna’s flushed face.

Sam’s gut feels weightier, weightier.

In the next picture, Dad’s mouth is on Deanna’s neck. 

Deanna’s grin is gone; her mouth’s drooping open a little. Sam can see the whites of her closed eyes.

Weightier. Weightier.

He keeps looking.

The next Polaroid seems to have been taken in a motel room. Kinda nicer than their usual fare; Sam can tell that by the velvet headboard topping the bed, the matching gray curtains behind Deanna where she stands. She’s holding a rifle, a big one; it’s covering half of her face. 

It’s not covering it enough for Sam to miss the way her eyes smoulder at the camera this time, in this way that looks practised, intentional. She’s not joking this time. Not laughing at herself anymore.

She’s wearing a t-shirt that just skims the midst of her hips. Sam can see the strip of pale pink panties underneath. Did Dad - like her that way? Did he enjoy seeing Deanna handling weapons - and not just because he was impressed with her prowess?

God. God.

The next Polaroid is even worse. 

Deanna’s kneeling on the bed, in front of that headboard, her thighs parted. And oh, Sam can see her panties again alright; he can see her stomach too, her bare waist. The outline of her tits, suggestive; covered by Deanna's hands. Deanna's hands, on Dad's leather jacket, the only other piece of clothing she has on.

No, not the only other piece; Sam can just about see the black lace around the tops of her thighs. Stockings.

Her hair is in a cascade down her shoulders. She’s half-smiling, half biting her lip.

No.

Next photograph; and Dad’s jacket hangs loosely on Deanna’s body now. Her tits are bare.

She’s in the same pose; only now, with her head tilted a little back. Her eyes closed again, like in the last picture. Mouth slack; and there’s a hand on her face. A hand with scar tissue, house fire burns; a wedding band glinting on the ring finger. A hand Sam would know anywhere. 

The photograph blurs before his eyes. His tears are different now; born of an emotion he can’t identify. Nothing like his earlier grief.

Sam shoves the photos back into the envelope. The envelope back into the box; slams it closed. His hands curl into fists. He can’t catch his breath.

He shuts his eyes. Acid lurches up from his stomach, hits out at the back of his throat. His limbs feel weak. It takes every last ounce of control inside him not to slump off the hood, fall to his knees, and violently puke.

Sam doesn’t know how long he sits there, on that hood. All he knows is that despite the falling dusk, the cold winding through the fibres of his clothes, the teeth he can vaguely feel starting to chatter, he can’t move.

Because the thing is - he didn’t want to know. Sam never, ever, wanted to know.

You can explain things away; but you can never, ever forget them.

He should’ve expected that Bobby would come out looking for him eventually. 

Bobby approaches John’s truck slowly, the way he always seems to kind of tiptoe around Sam these days. “You been out here for hours, kid."

Sam eyes the floor. All he can think to say is, “Where’s Deanna?”

Bobby leaves a pause. Then, “She’s sleepin’. Figured we should let her get her rest. She ain’t been doin’ much of that.”

It’s true. She hasn’t. Nor has Sam. None of them have.

“Gettin’ a little worried about her,” Bobby admits, after another of those pauses. “She’s takin’ this hard. She was crazy about her Daddy.”

Sam doesn’t say anything. Bobby must notice; he must, because the silence just feels awkward now. And Sam doesn’t mean to be cold; he really doesn’t. He’s just numb.

“You got everything you need from John’s truck?” Bobby asks, eventually.

Sam nods. He can’t speak.

“All good for me to junk it?"

Another nod. Yes. Crush it to pieces with every last little fucking piece of him inside.

Sam already put John’s duffel back in the trunk. His box, its photos, its necklace, its hair, along with it.

Bobby nods too. “Alright. Now get your ass inside before you freeze to death.”

Sam could. It’s very, very cold out here.

He lets Bobby walk up the path in front of him. Lagging behind, Sam slides a finger under the elastic of the bracelet on his wrist. He tugs on it until it snaps; hearing the beads scatter their pieces across the floor isn’t much, but it’s something.

[amiwritesthings]

happy DFF ami <3 may i ask something incredibly self-indulgent...

how would john react if he knocked deanna up??

ugh spike this question is KILLING ME for reasons i cannot elaborate on (yet) BUT

my johndeanna hcs tend to run a little darker than the johndean ones and i need you to know that john has been secretly fantazising about knocking her up for years. he'd never tell her or let it come out in some kind of breeding kink scenario but the breeding kink in his mind is mighty, he is just that unhinged about his baby girl.

to find out that he accidentally-on-purpose succeeded? best. news. ever. his external reaction kinda depends on how deanna is feeling about it/when in their lives it happens tho.

late teens/early twenties deanna will probably freak out, have all kinds of feelings about it and be a little afraid of his reaction bc she might have been unintentionally playing a little fast and loose with the birth control pills (she's not good with sticking to a schedule okay) but he will be so reassuring and kind and trying so hard not to appear too giddy bc this is his wildest fantasy come true and god he wishes he knew which time it happened, if it was a quick romp in the back of the car or when he had her spread out on a bed and taken her apart for hours and hours until she was too weak to even stand. and she will look up at him with her big disney princess eyes and ask, all small and worried, "You're not mad?" and he will brush the hair out of her eyes and smile at her and tell her that it's okay and they will figure it all out and kiss her so gently with his hand on her belly.

now, john and deanna a little later in life all settled down in their little incest cabin in the woods? elated! tears of joy! celebratory orgasms! best day of his life and not even trying to hide it!!

[lovetransaction]

JOHN AND DEANNA and they're not agreeing on John's course of action for this hunt right now lol

[deanwinchesterpregnant]

.

[infinemmonstrum]

happy birthday to me I'm gorging on ice wine and johndeanna

[imadethisfor]

I made this for our front porch area https://t.co/JdED7Vb5DD

I made this for our front porch area pic.twitter.com/JdED7Vb5DD

— JohnDeanna (@JohnDeanna4) October 9, 2018

[mpregjohnwinchester]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dean Winchester/John Winchester Characters: Mary Winchester Additional Tags: Always Female Dean Winchester, Lingerie, Roleplay, Vaginal Sex, Incest, Misogyny, Dirty Talk Summary:

The girl in his bed isn’t quite his wife, but in the glowy relative darkness she has room to morph. At 21, Deanna resembles her mother so much that John has a hard time looking directly at her face without feeling those waves of grief roaring anew, growing into something loud and ugly, something that makes him irritable and mean for no reason at all; but not here. Here, John can get close to it; close enough to smell the glistening heat of Deanna's cunt, the trace citrus of her shampoo, the burnt-vanilla of whatever dollar-store body spray she’s spritzed herself with. John’s never sure how much Deanna remembers about Mary - they don't talk about her, not like that, not in any tangible, detailed way that'll throw grit in the wound of her absence - but Mary’s perfume did always have something vanilla about it.

[mpregjohnwinchester]

look back into the sun

been talking with @deanwinchesterpregnant, about, well, dean winchester being pregnant. or deanna. here's a short extract from a fic i wrote several thousand words of in one day last year and haven't touched since bc it's just rotting in my drafts 🥲

Deanna found out in a gas station bathroom. She’d been carrying the test around with her for a week. Praying her period would surprise her in the meantime, knowing in her heart that - and she couldn’t stand it anymore. It was hot outside, Sammy had been whining about it for the last hundred miles, and she’d been nauseous the whole drive, terrified to mention it. The two pink lines showed up right away.

The bathroom smelled terrible. She wiped off the test, stuck it in her pocket and threw up in the toilet, like her body was waiting for confirmation. She didn’t feel any better afterwards.

They settled in a motel after sundown, on the outskirts of Bumfuck, Pennsylvania. Everything had felt so normal, in a dreamlike way. Sam had been complaining about them staying in one room, about the privacy he was so obsessed with; John had snapped that he could start making demands when he was bringing some money in himself. Deanna sat next to Sam on the end of their bed, knees touching, as John ran down what he thought they were hunting. They didn’t really need a rundown, though. Missing hearts, pathologist notes John somehow managed to get hold of, query animal attack. It was pretty fucking obvious, and werewolves are straightforward enough.

Sam said as much, then went for a run. John rolled his eyes and let him go, even though it was late, because his resolve to fight with Sam was always in pieces at the end of a long day like that. 

Deanna remembers touching the back of her father’s arm and saying, voice all tight, “Daddy, can I talk to you?”

John looked at the test for what felt like a full minute. A full minute for him to say, “Oh.”

Deanna stood in front of him, arms coiled around her waist like ropes. Quietly, she said, “Yeah.”

John blinked at her. Then stared, like he was seeing her for the first time. “Is it mine?”

“How could you ask me something like that?” Her voice came out all hoarse.

Deanna’s eyes misted over. She felt like she’d been punched in the gut.

John may have had his little bar skanks, his flings when he was states away. He never hid them from Deanna, which made her feel like crap. But Deanna had been faithful. There hadn’t been anyone else since she was seventeen years old. It almost hurt her more that John would think otherwise, than the fact that he wasn’t faithful himself.

He didn’t apologize. He rubbed his hand across his forehead. It was shaking a little. “How did this happen?”

“I don’t know.” Deanna’s hands were shaking too.

“You’re on the pill.”

She nodded. “I-”

“And you take it every single day?” "

There were days when Deanna would forget. Days when it was impossible. She couldn’t just hold the rocksalt and ask a vengeful spirit to wait while she took her contraceptive. John should understand that. He had to understand that. 

She didn’t answer him. But John didn’t really seem to be listening anyway.

His hand was in his hair now. Running through it manically. “I don’t believe this.”

“You think I do?” 

She was in tears. It was the hormones. The hormones, that wanted so badly for her father to give her a hug. Hold her, reassure her. Make everything feel less horrifying, turn down the volume on it. 

“Dad, look at me.”

It was only when the words left her mouth that she realized John wasn’t. He was looking anywhere but. “Fuck,” he muttered.

“I know.”

“Fuck.”

He handed her back the test, still not looking at her. Thrust it at her, really. When he left, with this awful look on his face, Deanna knew better than to follow.

Sam went to bed soon after he got back. Deanna stayed up on the couch, the TV on with the volume down to nothing, picking at the fraying threads on her jeans and gritting her teeth so tight her skull vibrated. The longer she talked herself out of saying fuck it all and having a drink (just one wouldn’t hurt, right?), the longer she wondered how the hell some people go through life never drinking at all. She’d never felt hurt like this, alone like this, afraid like this. Afraid John wouldn’t come home, afraid of what would happen if and when he did.

There was a night, six weeks ago, a hot July night when John had come to her. They’d left Sam alone in the shitty apartment they were renting at the time to go take care of a quick salt and burn, nothing big, done in two days. And John hadn’t been coming to her much during that stretch of time, Deanna remembered that; so it must have been that night. They smelled of lighter fluid and corpse, and there was dirt on their clothes, under their fingernails, and Deanna’s shirt had been off and the night air through the Impala windows felt refreshing against her clammy skin, and John was gentle with her like he nearly always was; and whether it was the adrenaline of the hunt, or John was just feeling lonely, Deanna couldn’t know, but she sat in his lap in the backseat and he tangled his fingers up in her hair and told her he needed her, he needed her right by his side, always, sweet words like that, sweet words that Deanna loved, because John could be really sweet, when he was inside her and they were both flushed and breathless. He had his hands on her face when he came, inside her like always, and Deanna felt the rush of it, and thought nothing about it.

[mpregjohnwinchester]

johndeanna moodboard-ish // lana del rey - mermaid motel

[mpregjohnwinchester]

Dadfucker friday word prompt ask: write a little something using "wire(s)", "end", and "walk". 👀💘

The moon cut a sharp crescent, and there was blood around his daughter's mouth.

He didn't think she realized it was there when she climbed into his lap and licked her lips, in that really practiced way that would have unsettled him once, but now just made those crossed-wrong wires in his head spark out loud; and with the snare drum adrenaline of a fresh kill there was no place for shame, John couldn't hear his moral compass over the thunder-thrum of his pulse anyways; so he sat back on the Impala's hood and he let his sweet little Deanna into his lap, let her come to him as she was, panting and wide eyed as she was, and his hands swallowed up her little hips as he hauled his girl closer, chest-to-chest, crotch-to-crotch, maybe a little rough about it, but Deanna was never bothered - and John could feel the primitive high of the hunt hot on her body under her clothes, and Deanna's mouth was open and her eyes flared in the moonlight and those uneven breaths led and tempted him, they had his mouth rough and seeking on hers, tasting that blood, copper-bitter, still-warm, still-wet, and fuck, that taste on his girl drove him wild; thinking of the witch corpse in the trunk with her intestines showing and her head half-severed drove him utterly fucking batshit insane, because Deanna had done that, John had watched her kneel on the old hag's chest and go to town with that knife she likes with the rose detail on the handle, and John hadn't even needed to help; and the memory illuminated John's pride all over again, or maybe just helped his cock fatten up even more, it was hard to know, hard to distinguish, because watching Deanna kill was terrifying and hot as hell; so John held those hips and he thrust up hard against his daughter, caught her frantic whine in his throat, hissed himself for the layers of cotton and denim and the friction that sparked all the way up to his guts, for the anticipation of it, how fucking wet Deanna was going to be for him, for this, for the blood and the blade and the chaos-enjoyment of it; and when she broke the kiss her plump lips were slack and wet with it, and she was gasping "Daddy," frayed porno timbre, and John tangled his fingers up in sticky-bloody hair and ran his tongue over those sticky-bloody lips and he said,  "mm, my little girl needs her Daddy bad, huh?" because it was so fucking dirty and it tasted rotten and good in John's mouth; and a sighed "fuck, yeah" in response, and for a moment everything was still; and he saw Deanna's eyes dial back a shade, midnight dark, watched her walk her bloody little bitten down fingers up his chest and bite her lip all slow and coy; and she was so pretty, she looked delicate and manic all at once under that sharp moonlight, and fuck, John made this wild thing, this creature -

but she was so close, and she was all John had left in the world; and those crossed-mixed-up wires in his head were short-circuiting as his girl took off that tiny blood-spattered top, when did she start hunting in crop tops and miniskirts and why did John never say anything about it, and her bare tits were the most perfect John had ever seen, and he nipped at her throat and told her so; and Deanna rolled her hips and whined loud and needy, "Daddy, cmon," and that flushed John's veins like an opiate; and his head was swimming and his body was so fiercely awake as he growled and rolled and shifted, clumsy until Deanna was on her back, laid out on that hood beneath him, spread and wanton and begging for it; and when John leaned over her she smelled like sweat and hot metal and death; and John shuddered, felt her ankles cross around him, her boots dig into the small of his back as he leaned down to kiss her again, grunted for the way she clamped her thighs around his waist and tugged on his hair, and he blindly fumbled with belt and zipper and fuck his cock felt like a rocket about to go off, those little hands in his hair, those hands that could kill just the way her Daddy taught her, his cock hot and iron hard in his own killer's hand, a few indulgent strokes, like satin over steel; and he bit down on her lower lip, and she retaliated by scratching the nape of his neck, as he fumbled more, between Deanna's legs, ungainly hike of skirt, push aside of panties, and Deanna was panting, panting, "c'mon," and John gritted his teeth, held her down at her hip and pushed the head of his cock against glorious slick plump folds and sucked in a breath of dewy night air and pressed his forehead against his daughter's, needy for him and panting like that, wild, insane -

And all the things that felt pushed back and quiet tapped at the edge of his consciousness for a moment. And John thought that, not so long ago, this bloody half-naked creature spread out and wet for him was his little princess; she was sweetness and innocence, and John was scared about that, he was scared for Deanna with her pigtails and her stuffed bears and her little girl laugh, how at odds her lightness was with the world he knew; but that was a whole different world. That straight, human world was a cakewalk compared to the one he'd had to bring Deanna up in, and her lightness had been gone a lot longer than John ever had it. And John could've - he could have tried to preserve it. It was his job, as her father, to try to keep some of it at least, because God, the look in her eyes when she stabbed that witch, the determined, hungry look in her eyes now - John was weak for it, and it ultimately didn't matter if he liked things this way or not. It was what it was, and having Deanna this way sure was better than being in this alone, not just the hunting in itself, but God, the way it made you feel too-big-too-much for yourself afterwards - and if he wished things were different, then well - Deanna was grown now and she had her hands twisted up in his shirt, and John was slack-jawed and inebriated for the heat of her soft wet cunt against his bare cock, and as she grit out "Daddy, now," husky, slutty, desperate, John didn't know what else he was supposed to do but give his little girl what she wanted - and that was pretty much the end of that.

[mpregjohnwinchester]

happy dadfucker friday! when did john realize he was fucked and couldn't deny his attraction to dean/deanna any longer?

Happy dadfucker Wednesday friend!

I got really carried away and wrote out an extended headcanon but the answer is in there somewhere! Lol

It starts with John picking up on a few things here and there. Things like Deanna's voice really starting to sound like Mary's. Her sound of bliss when eating bacon - that has Mary written all over it.

The same eyes. Same wit. Same mouth.

Stuff like that at first. Stuff that rubs up against the wound of Mary's absence, but soothes it at the same time. Mary living on in her daughter; that old cliche. It's comforting. A good thing more often than a bad one. John likes being close to it.

But it's not just that. There are other things John is starting to notice. Things he - likes a lot less.

He doesn't like it when Deanna starts wearing midriff-baring tops and making eyes at boys. He doesn't like his suspicions that Sammy spends some nights fending for himself while Deanna goes out on dates, to bars, to movies; to backseats, to shady areas of parks, to sweaty teenage boy bedrooms while parents are at work. He hates that pink lipstick she keeps putting on, even when she's hunting. And John knows he can't keep his little girl close forever; she was always going to grow up at some point, get curious. But no father ever truly accepts that kind of thing, right? All fathers lose sleep worrying about stuff like that. Getting kind of angry about it; nursing this bitter anxiety about it, still awake at 4am another night. It's the circle of life.

Also, Deanna can't be getting distracted like that. She's got to focus on work. On hunting. On getting justice for her mother. On helping John.

And Deanna can't lose that focus; so John decides to deal with it. He tells Deanna no more lipstick. No more boys. And cover up, for Christ's sake, you look like a streetwalker. And Deanna eyes the floor with a quiet yes, sir; and John knows he's gotten through when he hears her crying later that night. Lights out, everyone in bed, where she thinks it's safe; but John still isn't sleeping well. Listening to her quiet sobs is heartbreaking; but it's for her own good. Cruel to be kind. Clichés, clichés.

They spend more time together after that.

John takes Deanna on more hunts. She's more proficient with a knife than he ever gave her credit for, she's sharp and quick on the uptake, she falls into any bait role like a professional actor; she's getting really good. John is proud of her. This, he thinks - this is a much better use of her time.

There are other things John's been noticing, too. Maybe it's the sleep deprivation. Maybe it's the way they haven't stopped for breath for months now, going from town to town, job to job; maybe it's their constant proximity, living out of one duffel, one room, the car when things are tight; but god, does John notice them.

Deanna is nineteen now. She's grown into her face, it's delicate and pretty, and her wild blonde hair is getting very long. She has this way of licking her lips between sips of beer, scotch, sugary soda, making them shiny, plumping them up. There's this sway to her hips when she walks, somewhere between cocky and oblivious; kind of thing that'd draw any man's eye, really. She covers up now, modest in denim and plaid; but John catches the odd glimpse of cleavage when she leans across a library desk to hand him something, or the swell of her little ass when she bends down to pack up their stuff. Her hair smells like coconut, her body spray like vanilla, and those scents get into everything; they rise like heat from concrete on those long summer drives, until John has to wind down every window to let it out, because its sweet and sensual, it's all he can focus on; and all he can think about is how Deanna's vanilla-spritzed throat would taste.

John's lonely. He must be very, very lonely.

He gets on with it. They take out a ghoul in Arizona, a wraith in Missouri, a wendigo in Iowa. John takes himself out here and there, gets wicked drunk, and fucks any young chick with a sailor's mouth and big boots who will let him. It doesn't help much.

He has a short fuse. The weather's too hot. He still can't fucking sleep properly.

No, he can't sleep a damn wink; and he's wide awake when Deanna climbs into bed with him one night. She had a nightmare. She won't admit it, but John heard her thrashing in her sheets while she whimpered and called for her mother.

He lays with her back to her and keeps still, pretending to be out cold. Spares Deanna the embarrassment of acknowledging that she's scared and needs her Daddy; he focuses on his breaths. His heartbeat. On anything but that coconut smell; the delicate weight of Deanna's body on the mattress. Picturing her under the sheets in the blue cami and shorts she wears to bed, showing John her smooth creamy shoulders, her pretty legs, lily white from being covered up all the time. He's hard. He keeps getting hard.

Deanna fidgets in her sleep. She spreads out, takes up a lot of space. By the time the sun comes up, her legs are tangled up in John's. John doesn't know how that happens, but he doesn't wake her.

The next few nights, Deanna doesn't have any more bad dreams. But she does keep getting into John's bed.

And John keeps playing dead. Focuses on his heartbeat, his breathing. Deanna's foot is soft on the back of his calve. Her hair creeps onto his pillow. Sometimes he's not entirely sure if she's asleep, either.

They finish the job; vengeful spirit. The coffin stinks when they wrench it open. Smell worsens when the bones go up in flames; bjt the job is done, for all intents and purposes, and they're both in need a drink after that. They sit on the hood of John's truck outside the cemetery, passing a bottle of scotch back and forth. Deanna leaves the seal wet.

John notices that. He notices the way her fingers linger-brush over his as they pass that bottle; how pretty her hair, her eyelashes, look in the moonlight.

John notices the way she holds his gaze and smiles. Sits real close to him, her thigh pressed against his. Again, John doesn't move away.

He gets behind the wheel a little drunk, and they go back to the motel.

John finally sleeps that night. Aging body tired from the hunt, the scotch acting as a nice sedative. He sleeps pretty deeply, for a while. Headache coming to life in his temples when he opens his eyes; it's still dark. Someone's touching him.

His shot, half-asleep reflexes send his hand creeping towards the pistol beneath his pillow. It freezes in front of his face.

There's that leg tangled up in his; the soft material of that blue cami pressed against John's bare back. There are slick sounds, erratic rhythms; Deanna's breaths shuddering loud and hot on the nape of John's neck. He can feel the whisper of her hand moving between her legs. She sounds very, very close.

And, whether Deanna thinks John is sleeping or not - it feels like an invitation. Here, in the dark, in the quiet - well. John is getting damn sick of playing dead.

Maybe he knew he'd snap eventually. But he didn't expect it to happen quite like this. He wonders if he's surprised. It should be worrying, that he can't tell.

Those slick sounds get more frantic. John waits, until Deanna is rigid, gasping. She sounds like her mother when she comes.

It's that thought that has him rolling over. And when Deanna startles, he hushes her by tangling a hand in that coconut-scented hair; kisses those plump wet lips like he's starved, catches whatever she says, if it's shock, or even protest, he doesn't want, need to know; he pins her head to the pillow with that kiss as he tugs her hand out of her panties. Her cunt is young and snug, tight, real, real, tight, to the point of resistance- and relax, John whispers, like a chant, you need to relax, fuck, she's so, so wet; John comes before he's even fully inside, and Deanna digs her thighs into his hips, hard, until it hurts. She lets out a quivering sob against his mouth. Her hands tremble against his chest; she huffs out a whimper of Daddy, as John collapses against her. He catches his breath. It's like - it's heaven. Nirvana. Clichés, more cliches. Just, there have never been suitable words for Deanna, and the things she makes John feel.

And when John flicks on the light on the nightstand - he notices Deanna's wide eyes. The gathering of tears on her lashes, the quiver in her lips. The blood between on the sheets between her legs.

John almost panics. Until he realizes.

There was a reason her cunt had felt so tight. A reason that had nothing to do with tension.

I-I waited for you, Deanna whispers, her gaze following John's. It seemed - I thought it was what you wanted.

And John can't argue with that, because his little girl knows him better than he knows himself sometimes; and he pulls her up until she's sitting in his lap and he kisses her with his heart and his soul and his teeth, until Deanna's clawing at his chest and he can taste that same blood on his tongue; his head spins. He feels exhilarated. He feels at peace.

[lovetransaction]

it’s impossible to put into words but deanna says it with everything else in her. she lets john see all of it, her pain and her joy and her rage, hoping he’ll write it in his fucking journal or something one night and everything will click into place like any of the cases he works. she’s his case. she deserves just as much red string and cross-referencing and intense scrutiny. she didn’t leave with sam. she’ll be one of those dead things in those pages one day, and she chose this.

[amiwritesthings]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Supernatural (TV 2005) Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Dean Winchester/John Winchester Additional Tags: Always Female Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe, Child Abandonment, Prostitution, Grief/Mourning, Emotional Sex, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Unsafe Sex, Cock Warming, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Catharsis Summary:

It’s cold and windy, the bite of first snow in the air, a strange yellow glow in the sky that tells Deanna winter is coming and it’s coming soon. Her breath billows in a cloud of white, and she pulls the thin leather jacket tighter around herself, rocks on her heels to keep the blood flowing.

It’s a little past midnight, and the streets are quiet—too quiet—for all of them to get to the other end of the night with some cash in their pockets. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last, but she needs the money tonight, for a hot meal and a fix and maybe a new jacket that isn’t more holes than fabric.

[amiwritesthings]

it's a sudden cold snap that freezes everything outside till it would shatter from being breathed on. everything is blanketed and silent and loud at the same time.

The snow is drifting down in fat flakes, blanketing the world in peace and quiet. There's a strange yellow glow in the sky and the grimy glass of the small window is starting to frost over and she can barely make out the shapes of their cars parked side by side through the flurry of white anymore.

Deanna rubs her palms together, letting the sounds inside offset the unusual quiet from outside: the crackling of the fire, the static from the radio, the creak of the floorboards when Dad comes up behind her.

Something inside of her settles. They are not going anywhere, not for a few days, no hunts, no emergencies. For the foreseeable future, it is just them, here, together.

Dad's hands come to rest on her shoulders, then rub down the top of her arms, the sensation dulled by the thick knit sweater she's practically swimming in. It's Dad's and it's a little scratchy and has a snag on the sleeve that she's trying her hardest not to unravel any further because it's the only one they have. She takes a breath, lets it fill her lungs and heart and soul before she exhales.

Everything is amplified in the quiet of winter. The rasp of Dad's palms over the wool, the warmth of his breath on her neck, her own heartbeat loud in her ears.

It's the first time they are standing still, since Sam left. The first time it is just the two of them, no distractions, no separate hunts, and it should feel different, she thinks, but it doesn't. It's comfortable and familiar and the realization that they are still them, that despite the fight and the disagreements Dad still loves her and wants her, warms her body in a way the fire never could.

"C'mon, let's go to bed, sweetheart," Dad murmurs against her ear and she shivers but it's not from the cold this time.

She crawls onto the bed, watches Dad throw another log into the fire before he joins her. She snuggles up to him without hesitation, throws her leg over his and her arm over his chest. He's colder than usual and she burrows even closer to share some of her own body heat and sighs for the fingers playing softly with her hair.

"I've missed this," she says quietly, and Dad hums, places a kiss to the top of her head.

"Yeah," he agrees, and his fingertips never stop moving, running through her hair, drawing silly little patterns against the nape of her neck, and he's humming a song she can't quite make out and Deanna's feelings have never been louder than right now in the soft silence of first snow.

"I love you, Dad," she says softly and for a moment she thinks he might not have heard but then his arm tightens around her shoulder and he kisses her forehead and says just as softly, "I love you, too, sweetie," and Deanna smiles and watches the last of the window freeze over in snowflake crystals, completely hiding them away from the world.

[mpregjohnwinchester]

happy dff!!! i’ve been meaning to ask this question for a few weeks but i always lose track of the days :/

anyway the question is: do you think john would have a madonna whore complex about deanna? or hell even dean? 👀

Haiii happy DFF and sorry it's taken me so long to respond to this! And oh my gosh this question is gorgeous.

I don't know if what I feel about johndeanna quite falls into the madonna/whore complex box, although maybe it's adjacent. In my iterations of johndeanna, I tend to lean in towards John being pretty gross about her. Kinda controlling. That 8 Simple Rules, creepy, overly possessive father of a teenage girl. Every man, at least every man that's not John, naturally has nefarious intentions towards Deanna. John will break noses and quite possibly legs. Get your fuckin' eyes off my daughter. Deanna, boys your age are all the same; no, I can't let you go out with that guy, even if you're home by 10. Sorry, sweetheart, but you know as well as I do that it's not safe out there.

I see John wanting to keep Deanna pretty sheltered from that side of things. He's got no problem teaching her how to behead a ghoul, but god forbid she should so much as kiss a boy. John wants to protect her from all that; keep her his sweet and innocent daughter, because he loves her that way, and god knows she's not innocent about much else. What father wouldn't want to protect his little girl, huh? Especially a single father who lost said little girl's mother so horrifically.

But... Christ, John can see why Deanna has so many boys chasing after her. Her mother did too; and from the back, out of the corner of his eye, sometimes she just... and John's been the best father, the best protector, that he possibly can. He's always done what he's needed to do to make sure some zitty horndog doesn't sully her with his dirty hands. But - John's hands aren't dirty. And he may be a good father; but he's not a saint. His girl is more beautiful every day. And if Deanna wants to get up close and personal with the birds and bees so badly - well, John can show her some things. She's safer with John; her body is safer with John. And if he can sate that curiosity of hers, make her feel good... maybe she'll stop trying to stray from him. He's already lost one of his girls. He can't lose another.

Dean, though? No madonna here... that boy's down to fuck pretty much whenever. Happy days for John.

[mpregjohnwinchester]

Thoughts on Sam/Deanna first time❓👀

Hehe. Thanks for the ask mate ❤

I think sometimes about an obnoxious, entitled teenage Sam. A Sam who's bitter about his big brother (or indeed, sister) fucking her nasty old dad when Sam is like, RIGHT THERE. I think about Sam being a complete dick to Deanna about the short shorts and bikinis she wears in the summer, while ogling her himself in the same breath, I think about Deanna calling him out for staring while Sam puts on the puppy eyes because he can't *help* it, and "come on, Deanna, you wouldn't mind if *Dad* was the one staring." Because Deanna lets *Dad* look her up and down. She does all sorts of things with Dad that she won't do with Sam, even though "dad's such a dick to you, I'd never treat you like that, Dee" - and Deanna's throwing her eyes skyward because she hears this shit from Sam at least twice a week - and she feels a little bit sorry for him, because there's clearly no chance of his nerdy little ass getting laid if he's pining over his big sister, which is so weird, right, almost as weird as him being an 18-year-old virgin, but maybe she's a little flattered - and between that pity, flattery, and knowing it's gonna be a while until Dad gets home, maybe she'll let Sam sit a little closer than usual while they pick at dinner and watch crappy prime time TV; and maybe afterwards, she'll stretch her long bare legs out across the couch and rest her feet in his lap, without glancing his way, hide a smile when she hears him gulp; and maybe, just this once, just to satisfy the kid's fucking curiosity and so he'll hopefully feel like a man and move on to, like, girls who aren't *relatives*, she'll let Sammy get in between her legs, she'll let Sammy dry-hump the worn denim of those shorts he's always complaining about, she'll let him kiss sloppy over her neck and maybe her mouth and tell her "fuckin' love you, Dee" with this look of utter euphoria on his face as he comes within like 5 seconds; and yikes that's intense, makes Deanna pretty uncomfortable, but she'll still smile all proud and ruffle his hair, and she'll let Sam cuddle up to her afterwards despite a lot of complaining because Jesus fucking christ Sammy you're *such* a girl, who actually *snuggles* - because for all the things Dad does want to do with her, he never really seems to want to do much of that, lying close, being close - and Deanna has to admit that the squish of Sam pressed up so close to her on that tiny couch is kinda nice.