Everything's going to be alright.*

[bending_sickle]

Places I've been today:
- bed
- kitchen
- bathroom

Things I've done today:
- lain down
- sat up
- lunch
- showered
- watched Whose Line Is It Anyway? until it stops being funny
- folded (most of) last week's laundry and put away (most of) that
- stuck on wall 12 print outs (reduced size) of Digger
- Skype-chatted with mom in which she told me things I had to do
- cried

I've written something. I have no idea what it is, whether fic or self-insert or hurt/comfort or pep-talk. It is, though, the first thing I may've written all year. What it also is, is the Winchesters' various flavours of comfort.

There was a crumpled figure on the bed. John set a chair by it and, with a sigh, sank down heavily, all grace gone with his joints after a lifetime of falls and punches.

"Hey," he said softly. The woman unfurled slightly, lifting her head from the pillow, face lined with creases. Her eyes drifted lazily upwards to settle on his face, but they were far from focused. John shifted uncomfortably. The movement seemed to attract her attention, at least enough for her to blink a few times and center on his eyes. John felt he'd graduated from vacant space to mildly interesting television screen, although still the disinterest in her gaze left him in the lower rankings of entertainment. "Hello," he said again.

"Hello," she replied, an automatic civility that left her expression unchanged. She rose up on an elbow, although how she made the movement seem like she was folding up on herself even more, John couldn't explain.

Right, thought John. If anyone was going to get the ball rolling... "How are you?" he asked, feeling it was quite a stupid question, all things considered.

The woman's gaze on him focused sharply, knife-like, for a split second, then she seemed to deflate back down onto the bed. She'd started crying again.

Oh Christ. John rested his elbows on his knees and scrubbed at his stubble. With no monster to blame and hunt down, with no reason for the look on her face he could cut down, salt or burn, he was at a loss. He had no weapons against inner demons.

He knew better than to ask what was wrong, at least.

"You're going to be okay." He used his warmest version of "Father knows best", the one that'd dried up to a trickle over the years. Especially after - Well, after.

That didn't seem like the right thing to say, either. Damnit.

"Hey, Dad?" A hand settled on his shoulder: Sammy. John wordlessly pushed the chair back, giving his son room to crouch down by the bed.

"Hi," Sam whispered, beaming his widest smile once the woman looked at him. "He's right, you know," he continued. "You are. I know it might not seem like it now, but everything's going to be alright. You've got it covered, you just got to believe that. One step at a time, one thing at a time, that's all."

Well, thought John, his son was doing only slightly better. The smile had helped a lot, he saw, and no one could do heart-to-heart like his Sammy.

Someone kicked the door open, cursing when the door swung back onto him. The rustle of leather and denim followed as heavy steps made it to the center of the room. John glanced up, a question on his lips, and Sam broke out in a chuckle. Even the woman on the bed looked up, her own expression a mixture of John and Sam's.

"Alright. I got me here some apple pie," said Dean, raising a box, "and I hear they're just the thing."

That, thought John, was the way to do it. Nothing comforts like pie and the person who thought to bring it.

Links of the Day:
riverbells's Harry Potter Fanmix (with drabbles): Through All Peace and Hate - Draco/Harry
Nirvana vs. Rick Astley - A rockin' rollin' version mish-mash.
Bunny Comic Thingies For Sale


* "All Mixed Up", The Red House Painters