Author's note:

This was written in the space of three days, around work and play and TV and iPods. As I started writing the very first chapter it I knew exactly who it was for. Weenie Deanie Groupie – this is for you! Hope your mam can read it out for you (missing any scary bits, just like when you watch the show on TV) and most of all, I hope you like it!

ONE

"Mom, when's Grampa getting here?" John asked, trying not to whine.

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, John Winchester," Sarah grinned, reaching out and tousling her son's shaggy black hair. "He's on his way, and he's got a way to drive. He said eleven o'clock, and he's always on time, right?"

"Yeah," John sighed, letting himself be consoled by this fact. "You think he'll like it?" he asked nervously.

"I think he'll love it," she winked. "Have you done your homework?"

"Of course, Mom!"

"Have you done your chores?"

"Of course I have, Mom!"

"Then don't worry about anything. It's only ten thirty now, just wait. He's never late." She patted his shoulder once, getting up from the sofa and going into the kitchen.

John watched her go, putting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his palms. "It's not the same without Gud," he said miserably.

Sarah's hand stopped as it reached for the cupboard door handle. She turned and looked back at her seven year old son, taking in the disappointment on his wistful face.

"I know, honey. I'm sorry," she said. "I know you really want him to be here."

"It's not fair," he muttered. Then he sat back, folding his arms and huffing in a way that reminded her of her own father. "But I suppose that's just the way it is." He got up and looked around the room. "Is there something else I can do?"

"You can help me make some bread, if you like," she smiled gladly.

"That's girls' work," he teased. She pointed at him.

"Now, now! Don't you go repeating things you've heard your Gud say!" she grinned. But John's little face fell at the mention of his name, and she bit her lip. "Come on then, come and help your mom."

"Ok," he said, making an effort to be cheerful. After all, it's not her fault Gud's not here. And at least Grampa will see my prize.

He followed her into the kitchen and serious discussions about mixing bowls began.

John's ears perked at the sound of the doorbell and he turned to his mother.

"He's here!" he shouted joyfully, jumping down from the foot stool and racing off into the hallway.

"John! Don't you make a mess of your grandfather with your hands!" she called.

But John was already pulling back the door and taking a deep breath.

"Grampa!" he shouted gleefully, jumping out of the front door and onto the step. He bounced and his obscenely tall grandfather snatched him up with more strength than he should have had at his age.

"And how's my favourite Winchester?" he grinned, as John put his arms round him and buried his head in his neck.

"I've got so much to tell you and I've got a new picture frame and some new games and Mom helped me put my new prize on the shelf and Dad said you'd like it and I can show you some more drawings and I even finished writing my essay for English and then I got—"

"Ok, ok, slow down," the old man grinned, hefting his little grandson onto his right arm and looking in through the open door to see his daughter-in-law grinning at him.

"Hi Dad," she said gratefully. "Sorry about Tiger here, he's just been bursting to show you his new room all week."

"No worries," he said, looking back at his grandson. The little grandson who had eyes so like his grandfather, but hair so like his father. He smiled, bouncing him slightly on his arm. "Shall we get inside then?"

"Let's go!" John squealed in delight, and they walked in and through to the front room. He let the boy down to the carpet and he raced off toward the stairs. "Come on Gramps, come and look!"

"John Winchester, if you don't calm down and wait just one minute, your grandfather's going straight home again," Sarah said sternly. John bit his lip and stood stock-still. "That's better. Now you go on up to your room while I say hello to your Grandpa."

John grinned and turned back to the stairs, scrambling up them as fast as he could. Sarah watched until he was out of earshot, then looked at her father-in-law.

"I'm sorry, Dad. You know he just gets too excited when you get here," she said apologetically.

"Really, it's no trouble," he said warmly. "Just good to see him racing round like he owns the place, you know? Come here you, give your old man a hug," he added.

She put her arms round him and squeezed. She held onto him for a long moment, smelling the same after-shave, feeling the same urgency in his hug, as if he expected her to vanish before his eyes. She pulled herself away slowly, looking at him.

Underneath his shirt he had his favourite t-shirt on, she noticed – the light brown one with the picture of the greyhound. His jeans were clean at least, so someone had been to clean and press his house before he'd come down. His hair, once brown but now a handsome shade of streaky grey and fading chocolate, had been cut recently, and she knew why. His brown-green eyes, once alive with worry and anxiety, were now blessed with laughter lines and vitality, and she felt herself smile for a moment. Then it fell away.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get down for Mom's anniversary last week," she said guiltily. But he put a hand up, waving it off.

"Oh, go on. She ain't going to mind, she knows it's been ten years or more. You know she'd be nagging me to stop going to see her at the cemetery anyway," he smiled.

"That's not fair, Dad. I wish I'd got down. But Robert was busy with that thing in Connecticut, there would have been no-one here for John and I couldn't leave him with you," she said apologetically.

"Where is Bobby anyway? Not like my wayward son to work on a Saturday morning," he joked.

"He's in Kansas for that business thing. He's trying to sell stuff to some new factory," she said, with a slight frown. He raised his eyebrows at her.

"You don't like it?"

"I don't like that he's so far away."

"Aw, the road trip will do him good. I've had more than my fair share, never did me any harm. Well… mostly," he added.

"Oh you and your stories," she grinned. "I'll get some coffee on, how's that? You'd better see to John before he pulls the room apart in sheer nervous excitement."

"Gotcha," he chuckled, patting her shoulder before turning and walking across the room. He pulled himself up the stairs, slightly proud he was still making the entire flight without apparent effort at sixty-eight years old.

He turned left at the top, walking down slowly and stopping outside his grandson's room. He knocked smartly.

"Hey there. Mind if I come in?" he asked with a grin.

The door flew open and John rushed out, grabbing his grandfather's hand and pulling him excitedly.

"Look! I did the walls, Mom and Dad helped me with the pictures!" he said breathlessly.

The old man let himself be pulled inside and he stopped to look around.

The bedroom had been painted top to toe in light blue, with a star field and map of the solar system on the ceiling. The bed and table were of matching darker blue, and the two computers embedded in the desk reverberated with the slight hum of power and light.

"Wow," was all he could say. "Wish I'd had a place like this when I was growing up!"

John grinned. "And I got a new terminal too – look," he said quickly, pointing to the desk. "You like it?"

He walked over and peered down at the two screens, pulling half-moon glasses out of the breast pocket of his plaid shirt and slipping them on. He looked them both over slowly.

"Are these new GST mark IVs?" he asked, impressed.

"Yeah! Dad said you'd know what they were!" he laughed. "He said you'd always liked computers – like from when you used to have to carry them around instead of just controlling them from your iPlay," he added.

"Oh yeah. There was a time… there was a time I never went anywhere without a laptop," he sighed, turning to look at his grandson.

"Is that what they were called? Laptops?" he asked, fascinated.

"Yeah. Cos you used to have to sit them on your lap," he grinned.

"No!"

"Yeah, really!" he chuckled. He looked over at the new bookshelf against the far wall. "Is that a new soccer trophy?"

"Yeah, look!" John grinned. His soft little hands pulled at his grandfather's rough and used limb, leading him over to stand in front of the shelf.

The old man put his hand out for it, picking it up and chuckling.

"Top goal scorer, junior division, 2051? The year's not done yet, how can they give you that?" he teased.

"Grampa!" he chuckled. "The 2050 – 2051 season's finished – it's June already!"

"Oh yeah, my mistake," he grinned, putting the trophy down and ruffling the boy's hair.

"So… are you going to tell me another story?" he asked eagerly.

"A story?" he prompted, surprised. "I thought I'd come to look at your new room here."

"Yeah, but… Well… I wanted another story – another creepy one. And… well…"

"What is it?" he asked, noticing the young boy's face turn sad. "What?"

"I wanted Gud to be here. Why's he not here?" he asked, his eyes turning down at the corners in abject sadness.

"Oh John," he sighed, turning and walking to the bed. He sat slowly, and the boy wandered over and climbed up next to him, leaning on his thin grandfather and watching him. "You know… I've had a long and strange life. You can save for something and work hard for it, just to have it taken away at the very last moment." He paused, his old, tired eyes seeing other things – memories, perhaps. "You can hope and do your best to look out for someone, but sometimes it's the ones you love the most that are kept from you."

"Gramps?" he asked quietly. He didn't hear him, and the little boy reached over and picked up his right hand, studying the back of it slowly. "Gramps, I'm sorry he's not here. I love his stories. But I love your stories too. So… if he can't be here… and you can… and it makes you happy to tell your old stories when he was still here… Can you tell me one thing?"

The old man was brought out of his reverie by the familiar tone of voice, so like his own had used to be, pleading for someone to listen to him, a long, long time ago. He looked down.

"Sure, John," he said gently. "What story do you want?"

"One about Gud and you fighting monsters," he said bravely. "And… how you got this," he said, lifting his hand slowly.

His grandfather looked down at the back of his old, worn hand, and the tiny one holding it delicately. And the faded scar, about three inches long, criss-crossed with tiny white lines like railroad tracks.

"What, this old thing?" he grinned.

"Yeah," John said softly.

"Alright then. But you have to promise me that you won't get nightmares like the last time."

"That was vampires!" John said defensively. "Tell me you never dreamt of vampires after you fought them!"

"Never," he said seriously. "Just lollipops and candy-canes." Then he let himself grin.

John nudged him. "Come on Grampa Sam, a story! A good one! And it has to have Gud in it. I miss him."

"Alright," Grandpa Sam Winchester said with amusement, turning to look at his grandson. "The one about how I got this scar. It happened like this – and it just so happens it does include your Great Uncle Dean."