This one you owe to masondixon; her thoughts triggered something in my brains, and after taking counsil with my pillow I wrote the following story down. To set something straight: I never thought or think that John didn't love his two boys. Perhaps he sometimes chose the wrong way to show them, but I'm sure his intentions were noble.

So – here you go! Hope you like it, and please review! Feeback is always welcome.

Oh – of course this one's for irshyva, too. My constant main muse. :-)

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling

From glen to glen, and down the mountain side

The summer's gone, and all the flowers are dying

'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.

But come ye back when summer's in the meadow

Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow

'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow

Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.

And if you come, when all the flowers are dying

And I am dead, as dead I well may be

You'll come and find the place where I am lying

And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me.

And I shall hear, tho' soft you tread above me

And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be

If you'll not fail to tell me that you love me

I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

I'll simply sleep in peace until you come to me

John Winchester was not a man of many words. His sharp features wore the expression of a calm yet determined man you better not picked an argument with. Dark eyes burned in a sun tanned face with an intensity that made weaker minds shiver and withdraw. His hair was of a dark brown, almost black, spotted with an occasional grey strand; John was a little past 40, warily eyeing the big '5'. His broad, sturdy chest was muscled, but not too heavy; it came from daily excerises outdoor and hard working, not from attending a fitness studio. Which never occurred to John, since he had been working physically since he was a teenager, and joined the Marines later, always taking the good physical shape as a nice side-effect. His moves were spare, efficient, always completely thought of before executed, as if he could not risk losing energy. His body was stout, with legs like barrels and strong, brawny arms. He had the Eagle, Globe & Anchor tattoo with the slogan "Semper fidelis!" beneath it on his right upper arm, and he wore it with pride, albeit it almost had cost him his arm, when it got infected after stitching in that shabby, filthy studio his comrades had dragged him into almost 20 years ago. There was something hidden in his eyes that made people nervous, a certain obsession one could not put the finger on, indicating that the man had seen much more than any person could and should bear. His mood was often sullen, and he could sit and stare into nowhere for hours, just to burst into action and alertness within a second. Hidden under his olive shirt his chest was criss-crossed with scars, old ones, new ones, some thin and almost completely faded, some still thick and red. But only the fewest of all came from his time in the Corps, which he had retired from after his first son was born by his beautiful wife.

John Winchester had not been like this all his life. He had laughed, joked, and his eyes had reflected the humming, buzzing life he so willingly embraced, knowing just how blessed he was with his beautiful wife, his cute little son and his own house – and being so proud of it all. He cried of joy when he held his second, newborn son in the arm, cradling the infant carefully, like precious chinaware in his hands.

And then came the night that ripped everything away from his hands, leaving him helpless, useless. His two young sons he could save, squeezing the baby into his brother's arms and yelling harshly at him as he had never done before: "Get your brother out here, Dean, as fast as you can. Now, Dean, go!" Not even reassuring himself that the four year old boy fled from the fire that leaked out of Baby Sammy's room, he threw himself back into the flaming, smoking, choking room, where he had seen something that still tore him out of sleep every night even now, almost twelve years later, leaving him disoriented, sweated and oh so weak in a stranger's bed.

His wife, his beautiful, beautiful Mary, his true love until the end was pinned against the ceiling, a bloody gash across her abdomen where her precious life-fluid still drippled into the crib where Baby Sammy had slept. Her face was distorted by pain and she opened her mouth, voice gone but John knew she was screaming for help. But it were the flames that burst out her, engulfing her, leaking towards the furniture that really scared him, and his logical former Marine mind told him in a cold voice that she would never survive third degree burnings all over her beautiful, lithe and lissom body.

He still didn't know how he had escaped the fire that hungrily consumed all of his house and his old life in no time. All he could remember after breaking away from the frantic plea in his wife's eyes was that he was sitting on his car, cradling the baby in his arms and feeling the small, shaking body of Dean next to him, desperatly trying to cling to sanity for the boys' sake.

After a few days of dispair and suicide thoughts he went to Missouri and learned the truth. Out there in the dark, there were monsters. Not the human kind, but the supernatural. Werewolves. Vampires. Witches. Ghosts. Demons. And John learned how to fight them, to hunt them down, moving from town to town all across the nation, always taking his sons with him, unwilling to leave Mary's legacy behind. His Marine-trained instincts came back, and, as he got used to hunt in the dark, he got used to live in the dark. Rarely he laughed, and rarely he joked. Never relax, always on the go.

***

It was early in the morning that John returned from the hunt. The sun wasn't even thinking yet of crawling out of the shadows when the man silently opened the door to the plain apartment he had taken. He dropped his duffle bag next to the couch and was about to sink down into the cushions when a shy voice from the adjoining room startled him.

"D-Daddy?"

He straightened and went to his boys' bedroom where Sammy, his twelve year old kid, was sitting upright on his bed, small fists clutching the sheets. "Hey, dude, what is it? Can't you sleep?"

"It's not me, Daddy – it's Dean! I think he's in pain, but doesn't tell me where it hurts." Sammy's hazel eyes were big and dark in the dim room. John hit the button next to the door and the room was bathed in light, shadows chased away.

With a smooth move John slid on the bed next to Sammy's where Dean was sleeping. Or pretending to be. John gently placed a big hand on his son's shoulder, turning him carefully to the back.

Dean's face was pale and sweaty, but his eyes were clear as he looked up at his father. He had wrapped both arms around his stomach and shivered slightly.

"Dean, where does it hurt?" John's voice was soft, calm, to soothe the tension in the kid's body. He touched the teenager's forehead and frowned. He felt hot, like he had a fever. But he had been okay when John had left in the afternoon.

"Guts." Dean pressed his lips together. "Probably ate something wrong tonight."

"Hm." John wasn't satisfied. "All right. I'll fetch you a relaxant. And if it isn't better tomorrow, we'll tend to it." He stood up, went to the kitchen and returned only a minute later. Dean sat up and took the drops, muttering something about burgers and his belly. John grimaced a half-smile and patted Dean's cheek, which the boy acknowledged with a jerk of his head. My little boy isn't so small anymore, John smiled inwardly and somewhat proud and then ran a hand through Sammy's tousled hair. "Now get back to sleep, you two. Sweet dreams!"