Log in

No account? Create an account
do i dare or do i dare? [userpic]

Fic: One of a Kind 3/8 (GG/SPN crossover)

A/N:  This one is more transitional in nature, but I promise, the action will pick up a bit more in the next chapter.  Continued thanks to Tyranusfan for the beta and sendintheclowns for helping motivate me and all of you who are reading and reviewing.  Other notes and disclaimers in chapter one.


Going east sucked.

Sure, going west probably wouldn’t have been much better.  Neither would north or south or any variation thereof.  But east--east just sucked.

The ground was uneven and the air was cold.  The trees all looked the same, barren and monotonous and the forest just never ended.  No matter how far he walked, how fast he walked, how slow he walked--it never ended.  Tree after tree after tree with an occasional log or shrub to vary it up.

It was all giving Sam a headache.

Well, okay, maybe the concussion was giving Sam a headache.  His head had been hurting, after all, since he’d woken up in the cabin and his memory was still hit and miss.  Of course, the headache had been the least of his concerns at the time.  He’d been so preoccupied with the fact that he was trussed up and thoroughly gagged to really worry about the head injury.  His mind had been focused on one thing: escape.

His father had pissed someone off, and now they were out to get him back.  What better way to get John Winchester’s attention than the pounce on the people he cared for most?

Apparently word hadn’t gotten out amongst John’s so-called friends that Sam wasn’t exactly on the best of terms with his father.

But it didn’t matter, that much was true.  John Winchester was stubborn in all ways, including his loyalty and his fierce protective qualities.  For all that Sam butted heads with his father, no one would fight harder to protect him than his dad.

Though Dean would always give him a run for the money.

The two idiots who had taken him had been smart enough to not engage him in pointless conversation, Sam had to give them that.  They also hadn’t fallen victim to the stupidest move in the book and hashed their entire master plan to Sam in some diabolical monologue.  At least not that Sam could remember at the moment, but he had to admit, he was missing more than a little time.

The beatings, however, Sam remembered with crystal clear detail, and they told Sam enough.  They’d kicked Sam around some, scowled at him and swore at him a little, then argued amongst themselves before tossing Sam in a room.

That had been their first mistake.

Well, their second, anyway.  Their first was to screw with the Winchesters at all.  Sam knew, without a doubt, his dad would come.  His dad would come and he almost felt sorry for these two knowing what would await them then.

It was not Sam’s intention, however, to play damsel in distress and wait around to like a nice little victim.  He wasn’t going to let them tie him up, beat him, and use him to try to trap anyone, much less his father or his brother.  More than that, he wasn’t going to let these two have a chance at killing him.  Nope, Sam had set his sights on escaping.

Those idiots probably thought he was a run of the mill sixteen-year-old.  Most days, Sam would have liked that.  But when push came to shove, he was as Winchester as his father wanted him to be.

At least he could pull it off when needed.  For an audience of idiots, he’d do what he could.  Out here was a different story.

Out here, there was nothing but trees and it was so damn cold.   The sunlight was falling now, sinking toward the horizon, and Sam knew it was only a matter of time until it got a whole lot worse.  He needed to find some place to hunker down, some semblance of civilization--he didn’t think he could do another night out here.

His foot caught on something and he stumbled, catching himself with his hands as he hit the ground.  Fresh shock waves of pain rippled through his injured arm, which collapsed under him.  His face hit the ground and he curled into himself.

So maybe his escape plan had been a little sloppy.  It wasn’t like he’d had much to work with.

They’d retied his wrists and feet, but foregone the chair when they left him in the room, presumably to sleep, Sam figured, and probably to actually allow them time to figure out what the heck they were doing.  The room had been empty save for a pillow and a sheet, neither of which were overly helpful, but Sam hadn’t needed help getting out of the ropes.

It was a sadistic little game he and Dean liked to play, but growing up in motel rooms and rundown apartments or abandoned farmhouses didn’t afford much in the way of entertainment.  So they’d made an art of getting out of things and they’d spent more summers tied up than Sam wanted to remember.  Dean was better at it, no doubt, because Sam was convinced his older brother was double jointed or something equally unfair.

But Sam knew his way out of a simple rope knot.  It just took some work.

He’d shifted and pulled and when all was said and done, he’d been rope burned but very free.

The rope burns were the least of his concerns now, and he could barely feel the chaffed skin at all in the cold, which he knew probably wasn’t the best of signs, but at this point, he couldn’t bring himself to care.  He couldn’t care about much of anything, not about the bleeding that had started up again or the wrist that was swelling despite the cold or the pounding of his head or how tired he was of going east, just tired....

He startled awake.

He hadn’t come this far to fall asleep and die now.

Hell, no.  He hadn’t begged to use the bathroom, jumped the first guy and knocked him clean out, hadn’t made a mad dash through a window, run two miles, fallen down a hill just to roll over and die now.

He had to think.  He just had to think.  To figure out what he was doing.  Because maybe going east wasn’t his best bet after all.

Given his current state, he wasn’t sure how much longer he would actually be able to keep moving.  His ability to push the pain aside was waning quickly, and the very act of lifting his feet was apparently getting much less of a given.

What would Dean do?  He had to think like Dean.  Dean could get out of just about anything.  Dean could con his way into any bar, fake ID or not, and he could even get bartenders to hand Sam a beer with a smile. 

He pushed onto his back, blinking up at the sun.  Dean wouldn’t be lying here like some kind of beaten down wuss.  Dean wouldn’t even be trying to get away.  He’d be trying to get these two idiots.  Not to hurt them, but to show them who’s boss.  To not let them get away with screwing with a Winchester.

His father would, too.  Tactically speaking, it was the only thing that made sense.  Because they were still out there.  For all Sam knew, they were still looking for him.  And they had to know these woods better than he did, which gave them the advantage.  Not to mention the fact that they weren’t hurt and freezing and just so very tired...

A bout of nausea hit him and he rolled to his side with a groan, unable to quell his rebelling stomach. 

When he was done, he rolled back to his back, heaving for air.

He had to do something.  This aimless flight wasn’t getting him anywhere but east, for all the good that was doing him.  And something was wrong about this, something he was supposed to remember.  He was forgetting...

His best bet was going back.  If he could get back to the cabin, he’d be able to see what was going on.  Better yet, he might be able to find some means of communication.  And it made sense: if his father and Dean were coming, their first stop would be the cabin, right?  Sam needed to be close if he was going to get found.  And he really wanted to be found.

Hell, if he was feeling better when he got there, he could even think about staging some kind of coup. 

First things first, getting back to the cabin.

Pushing to a sitting position, he tried to get his bearings.  So he’d been going east...that meant it was time to start heading west.

With a resolved breath, Sam worked his way to his feet.  West couldn’t be any worse than east.

Or so Sam could only hope.


This time it was a cough that woke him.

The tickle started innocently, right in the back of his dried out throat, but it rippled as it grew, reaching through his entire body with its intensity.

Desperate, Dean sucked in hard for air that never made it to his lungs, never even cleared his mouth,

The gag, he thought dimly.  He couldn’t get air past the gag fast enough to compensate for the oxygen-sucking hack.

As if that wasn’t enough, the movement jarred him, pulling at his numbed hands and feet, which protested in muted pain.

Then the pounding of his head kicked in with full force.

Worse than before, much worse, practically blinding.  The flashes of light and color he finally did make sense of turned his stomach violently, and Dean wondered briefly if he was going to throw up.

Better yet, maybe he would just pass out again.   Preferably without another head injury this time.

Dean liked to think of himself as a strong guy.  He really did.  Not super macho by any stretch of the imagination but he was a guy’s guy.  He may read Jane Austen for Rory, but he still liked to watch sports on the weekends and had an unhealthy attraction to all things mechanical.  He felt clean when he was drenched with grease from working under the hood of his latest project and there was nothing quite like sliding into home plate.

And he didn’t take crap from people, either.  Not from little rich boys who thought they could hit on his girl, not from smart-aleck punks who thought they knew everything.  Dean could even be a bit prone to fight, at least in theory, but there was also some kind of decorum that held him back.  Rory asking him not to, his mother’s innate sense of proper behavior, just things.

All of that was gone.  All of his reasons not to fight were replaced with the numbing fear that even if he did fight, it wouldn’t get him anywhere.  It was emasculating, sure, but that wasn’t even what bothered Dean the most.  No, what bothered Dean was the painful inevitability of it.

He kept trying to rationalize the situation, to cling to some kind of idiotic hope that the fact that this wasn’t personal meant that he might make it out of here alive, like Ryan seemed to want him to believe.

But Kenny was different.  Kenny didn’t couch the whole thing in misleading promises, no matter how optimistic Ryan liked to be.  Kenny was just about upfront with things, and Dean was pretty sure that those uppercuts weren’t beacons of hope.

They were nails in his coffin.

This wasn’t personal, so he was going to die here.

Took all the manliness right out of him and he felt like a little boy again.  Defenseless and scared and needing someone to make it all better.

Because he really, really, really did not want to die.  At all.  He wanted to go to school, see his friends.  He wanted to tease Clara and watch her ride horseback.  He wanted to talk cars with his dad and reach the sugar on the top shelf in the kitchen for his mom.  He wanted to lace up for hockey and take a swing at a softball.  He wanted to drink a cup of coffee and watch Rory’s face light up.

He missed all of it.  He even missed his homework and Taylor and getting groped by Miss Patty while he stocked fruit.

But none of that was here.  Not even Kirk and his insane antics.  Just Dean in a chair with his eyes so swollen that he could barely see.

When his eyes finally did focus, he almost wished they hadn’t.

Kenny was there, seated at the table.  It took a minute longer, but Dean realized the older man was grinning at him.

“You look pretty banged up, kid,” he said.

Dean figured that was an understatement.

“It’s almost over, if that’s any consolation,” Kenny continued.  “Ry-no’s off to the drop point.  I figure that’s where Winchester’ll be.  He’s a real ass, just so you know.  None of this is in vain or totally misplaced.”

There was no response to give to that, gag or no gag.

Kenny tipped back his chair, his grin widening.  “He’ll send the other boy of his here,” he explained.  “Which is why you’re still so important.  Those Winchesters are a funny lot.”

Like Kenny and his brother weren’t.

“Loyal to a fault.  And blindly confident in their own ability to think things through.  They think they’ve got us all figured out.  But they took advantage of our dad.  They’re not going to take advantage of us.  We already took care of the first one, and now we’ll get the second two.  We just need you long enough to make them realize just how much they screwed up.”

And that was supposed to be logical.  Kenny said it like it made so much sense, like there were no other options, like that was what anyone would have done.  Like anyone would plot revenge against a family and okay, maybe Dean could buy that.  Maybe.  In some warped view of the world, some kind of eye for an eye mentality that extremists like to adhere to.  But Dean was tied to a chair.  Tied to a chair and beaten and tired and sick and this guy wanted him to believe that it was all logical?

Kenny shrugged, apparently indifferent or oblivious to the incredulity on Dean’s weary face.  “Ryan’s soft.  He never had the same drive like me and Dad did.  That’s why he’s just got to bring Winchester here.  I don’t think he’d have it in him to do what’s necessary.”

The fact that Kenny apparently did was not a consolation.

“You should be glad for that, kid,” Kenny told him.  “I won’t prolong the inevitable any more than I have to.”

The man pulled out a gun from his waistband, and raised his eyebrows at Dean. 

“So you just rest easy, kiddo,” he said.  “And it’ll all be over soon.”

Dean couldn’t help it.  He didn’t care about the futility of it.  Hands numb, head aching, he thrashed against the bonds and screamed, inarticulate and desperate, against the gag.

Kenny just shook his head and waited for him to finish.  “That’s the first good fight you’ve given us since you woke up here,” he said.  “I was beginning to wonder about you.”

Dean hated to prove any kind of point to this guy, to give him any kind of satisfaction, but it was just too much.  He screamed again, curses and pleas and bargains and anything and everything his mind could think of.

Kenny chuckled.  “And here I thought you’d be the boring one to watch,” he said.  “Looks like I was wrong.”

And Dean screamed again.


Dean knew the type.  The gray beard and ridiculous button-up sweater over that gut were stereotypical for a small town lifer with an over-inflated view of just about everything.  And that frantic look in his eyes and the excessive hand motions?  Control freak in the extreme, but one who probably knew his crap.  Guys like that always did.  Worse than the little old ladies with their gossip, that type.

Any other day, messing with guy might be funny.  Entertaining, even.  But today, Dean wasn’t sure his heart was in it.

But everyone in town said that the person to talk to about the people who owned the local property was Taylor Doose.  The person who knew the latest visitors who had set up residence was Taylor Doose.  The person who knew anything and everything about this piss poor small town: Taylor Doose.

Of Doose’s Market, no less.  Egotistical to boot.  Fan-freakin-tastic.

With a sigh, Dean collected himself and went inside.  Now that they had coordinates and a good idea who they were dealing with, they had to figure out where they were holed up, just how serious they were, and the best way to preempt their plans.  His dad had taken to city records to look for nearby properties Jeremiah’s kids could be squatting on.  Dean’s task was to rustle up any info he could from the locals about two visitors in town.

Which meant, unfortunately for Dean, talking to Taylor Doose: the anal Mr. Roger’s wannabe himself.

It was pretty nice for a small town market, he had to give it that.  Small but complete and Dean even eyed a decent selection of booze that might be appealing where he not on a mission.

The guy was at the back of the market, hands of his head as he yelled, “You can’t stock it like that!” he screeched.  “No, no, no!  You’re doing it all wrong.  The sugar goes on the top.  If you put it there, everyone will confuse it with the flour.  Don’t you see how similar the packaging is?  I tried to call and have them change it but they said it was ridiculous but I think it’s ridiculous that people might confuse the two.  Like little old Mrs. Carrington.  That woman’s almost blind as a bat, but so loyal and I can’t have her buying sugar when she wants flour, now, can I?”

The kid he was talking to looked perplexed, brow furrowed.  “I was trying--”

“Well, stop trying,” Taylor continued.  “I know it’s harder to reach the top, but Dean can do it just fine.”

The kid was rolling his eyes when Dean sauntered up, reaching purposefully between them.  “Hey, sugar,” he said.  “Just what I was looking for.”

Taylor straightened, offering the kid a knowing glare.  “Well then I’m glad you were able to find it in all this mess.”

“You sure are a guy who knows his stuff,” Dean offered.

Taylor straightened, preening a little.  “I do take pride in my work,” he said.  “Best organized market in all of Connecticut, maybe all of the east coast.”

“I believe it,” Dean said.  Then he paused, studying the man for full effect.  “Are you Taylor Doose?  The Taylor Doose?” 

Dean really knew this type, and he knew that a little ego-stroking could go a long, long way.

“Well,” the man said. clearly flattered.  “That is my name.”

“Great!” Dean said.  Then he deftly stepped closer, edging Taylor away from his employee and the customers in the market.  “I was hoping you could give me a little help.”

“It is a goal of mine to be helpful to everyone I meet,” Taylor said.  “Part of the charm of small towns is the way that people will bend over backwards for one another.  Even in this 21st century, I don’t want to lose sight of that.”

“Which is exactly why I love small towns like this--for people like you.”

“Well, it’s so refreshing to have someone recognize that,” Taylor exclaimed.  “There are too many in this town who take things like that for granted, or who overlook it altogether.  I keep telling them that actions matter, that good will toward one another is what makes towns like us stay alive and prosper!”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Dean said.  “Which is why I was looking for you.  I figure, if anyone was going to take the time and have the decency to help me, it’d be Taylor Doose.”

The man was positively glowing.  “Well, well, please tell me, young man,” Taylor said.  “What is it I can do for you?”

“I’ll tell you,” Dean began, “I’ve got these two buddies who have been vacationing in these parts.  Sort of taking a road trip, just the two of them.  Only they haven’t been great at keeping in touch with people.”

“Seems to be a common problem these days,” Taylor muttered.  “Did you know my best stock boy just up and never showed up for work this morning?  No call, nothing!  You’d think he’d at least have the decency to call.”

“Exactly.  My friends, they’re the same way.  You know, not answering their phone, not telling people where they’re staying.  And, here’s the sad part, their grandmother, bless her soul, is very sick.  They want to get the entire family there, but no one can find these two.  So I was wondering if you’d seen them.  I mean, guy like you, with his fingers on the pulse of the town, I figured you’d know if there were some strangers in town.”

Taylor’s brow creased thoughtfully.  “We get quite the influx of tourists this time of year,” he said.  “Can you tell me a little more about your friends?”

“Yeah,” Dean readily agreed.  “They’re upper twenties, sort of scruffy looking.  I mean, this road trip they’re on isn’t fancy by any stretch of the imagination.  I imagine they’d be looking for simple fixes and even simpler accommodations.  They’re the rustic type, you know?  Camping, eating out of tins cans, that kind of thing.”

Taylor looked a bit concerned by the description, but his ego was so soothed that he didn’t even hesitate with the fact that Dean was essentially describing drifters, the sort Dean was certain this meticulous man wouldn’t want near his precious town.  “Well, now that you mention that, I did notice two gentlemen that fit that description,” he ventured.  “I try to take great notice in all our visitors, to sort gauge what kind of people choose our quaint little town for a vacation spot.  We pick up a lot of antiquers, which I think is fantastic, even some upscale ones which only help infuse the local economy, but these two that you’re talking about, not quite as common.  Sure we pick up some occasional rugged types on their way to Hartford or the coast, and we do have some great forest land around here, but very little hunting.  Most of the land is privately owned, which I think is the problem.  I’ve tried to talk in some local holders to give up their land to make it public property so we could use it for the greater good, but they’re just not interested!”

Dean had the sudden urge to punch the man, or at the very least, shove him into the shelves and see what kind of mess his pudgy body would make of the fastidiously stocked shelves, and it occurred to him faintly that anyone who actually lived in this sickeningly sweet little community surely had to just cringe every time they came near the guy.  It must have been the only market in town or it would surely be out of business due to him.  Hell, Dean had only been here five minutes and he was pretty sure he’d rather drive an extra thirty minutes rather than face a chance encounter.

But he still needed the guy.  Finding Sam might depend on it.

That was worth the headache.  But Sammy would so owe him.

Quelling the urge for violence, forced a smile, and asked, “People these days, just not focused on the big picture,” he said.  “But you said that you may have seen them? My friends?  I would hate to have to go back home and tell their grandmother that I couldn’t find them.  She’d just be heartbroken.”

“Oh, oh, yes,” Taylor said quickly.  “A few days ago two gentlemen of that nature came into the store.  Sort of twitchy types, which is why I remember.  Always have to watch the twitchy ones.  They were real quiet, sort of introverted, talked quietly amongst themselves.  Bought quite a load of food if I remember--in fact, I had to go have one of the boys break open a whole new box of canned peaches to make up for the amount these two took.  Wherever they were staying, they were clearly stocking up.”

Okay, now that was information Dean wanted.  Information that made all the other mind-numbing chatter worthwhile.

“Well, like I said, they like to do things themselves.  Which makes me wonder where they might stay.”

“We do have a fine selection of inns in town,” Taylor said, puffing his chest up.  “Some gorgeous properties, and may I recommend the Independence Inn--beautiful lot, fantastic rooms.  The service can be a little iffy from time to time, but the accommodations are well worth it.”

“I’m not sure these two would have the money for something like that,” Dean said.  “They like things out of the way, obscure.”

Taylor frowned.  “Well, there is a campsite outside of town, but beyond that, there’s not much.  Sure, you can find some homes in the woods from time to time, but they’re all owned by locals and probably only inhabited part of the year.”

Dean tried not to suppress his satisfaction.  It was clicking, falling into place.  The amount of food, the woods, homes in the woods only lived in part of the year.

Of course, Dean had no way of being certain, but he could be pretty damn sure.  His instincts were good under most circumstances and with this kind of thing, he had an advantage.  These two were hunters, maybe stupid hunters, messing with Winchesters after all, but he knew how hunters thought.  He knew that stocking up meant staying put.  He knew that the best place to stay was a free place to stay.  And he knew that if you wanted to get away with something, you didn’t leave a paper trail.  That meant no registration, no motels, no credits cards.  Even stolen accounts could be pretty easy to trace.

Nope, these two freaks had swiped Sam and holed him up in the woods and would probably try to lay low there until the entire situation was clear.  That was where they had to strike.

“You know,” Dean said, clapping Taylor on the shoulder.  “That’s very helpful.”

Taylor looked perplexed.  “But you still don’t know where they are.”

“You’ve been very helpful,” Dean said, ignoring the man’s question.  “I can’t thank you enough.  And great town you got here.  I’ll be sure to tell all my friends.  Antiques--can’t go wrong with those antiques.”

He was out the door before Taylor Doose had a chance to respond.

Being on the street was a momentary relief.  The act of being happy, of working Taylor over for information, it could be fun on some days, but today the entire thing was just wearing.  Because each second he wasted chatting up the old dude, was another minute that Sam was missing.

What kind of big brother was he, talking up the locals when Sam had been kidnapped?  It was necessary perhaps, but it felt like crap doing it.

Everything felt like crap with Sam missing.  Life was crap, breathing was crap, it was just plain crap.  Sure, Sam could be a petulant bitch sometimes, but damn it all, Sam was his petulant bitch.  Life wasn’t the same without the kid.  Things didn’t mean as much, Dean didn’t mean as much.

“You look tense,” his father said, breaking his thoughts.

Dean blinked, looking to the side where his father was leaned against a storefront.  With a sigh, Dean continued.  “They’ve stocked up,” he said, ignoring his father’s comment.  “Sounds like they’ve got enough to last them awhile.”

“Found a place about five miles from the coordinates,” his father said.

“In the woods, I bet,” Dean said.  “Someplace rural, owned by a local but only lived in part of the year.”

“A cabin,” his father confirmed.  “Well off the beaten path.  Hard to find, would be exactly their MO.”

“Not overly clever.”

“But easy enough to set up base there,” his father continued.  “These two are hunters, not trained kidnappers.  Hunters do what they do.  They find an out of the way location, a place to avoid identification or suspicion.  Besides, it was Jeremiah’s way.  The man wasn’t big into credit card scams.  Much more likely to squat than rent if he could help it.”

“And what better place to hide a kidnapped teenager?”


“So, what are we waiting for?  Let’s load up, stock up on ammo, and bust in there with guns blazing.”

His father’s face barely registered the plan.  “We have to think, Dean,” his father said instead.  “We need to be careful how we go about this and make sure we get Sam out without giving them any chance at getting away.  If we try to barge in early, chances are they’ll be ready for us.”

“So, what then?  The drop site’s going to be just as much of an ambush.”

“Of course it is,” his father agreed, burrowing his hands into his pockets.  “This is about leverage, trying to gain the advantage.  They don’t care about Sam and they sure as hell don’t care about negotiating his freedom.  They just don’t want to let me go.”

“So we need to find Sam and get rid of their leverage.”

His father gave an approving nod.  “That’s why I don’t think they’ll bring Sam.  If they have Sam, then nothing’s going to stop me from kicking both their asses and killing them on the spot to get my boy back.”

His father said it so matter of fact, so clear and to the point, that it was almost easy to forget that they were talking about people.  That they were talking about humans, two brothers.

Dean had always know his father was one tough son of a bitch, but the solidarity and cold focus of the man right then was almost chilling.

But Dean knew why.  Because of Sam.  Because despite all the flak between his dad and his kid brother, this was family and nothing touched family.

“So we split up?”

“You take the cabin, spring Sam.  I’ll go to the exchange.  Once you have Sam and the cabin secure, you call me and all negotiations stop.”

Getting Sam out was exactly what he’d been wanting all along.  And the thought of anyone, even some lame ass kid of a hunter, standing in his way--well, it wasn’t a thought at all.  Dean would do what he had to do.  Always had.  Always would.  Dean didn’t kill people, but the highest level of Winchester morality was to protect their own.

“You sure we shouldn’t go together?” Dean asked.  “We already know where the cabin is, so we can find Sam after the fact, and you might need the back up.  With two of them there, the odds aren’t in your favor.”

His father didn’t even look at him, didn’t even flinch.  “Unless Sam’s not at the cabin, then we’d need a new game plan altogether.  Besides, we have to plan for the possibility that one of them stays back at the cabin.  We can’t risk Sam that way,” he said.  Then he licked his lips.  “And I won’t need the back up.”  

Dean knew he should push, should try to force for a more substantive reason why splitting up would be the best course of action, but he couldn’t.  His father had always protected them--always.  That wouldn’t stop now.  His father didn’t know how not to.

That was what Sammy never quite got.  That their father, gruff bastard that he could be, was the toughest, scariest hunter around.  No one could track like him.  No one had his focus, his resolve, his damn near inhuman ability to separate himself from things when deep down, it was so much more than personal.

That was what made his dad a friggin’ superhero.  Because John Winchester didn’t fail.

And neither would Dean.

“So where is this cabin I’m supposed to find Sam?”

At that, a smile spread slowly over his father’s face.  There was something of pride, something of certainty and trust that reaffirmed Dean more than anything else could.  “I’ll show you in the car.”



Posted by: Dani (pinkphoenix1985)
Posted at: April 11th, 2009 09:12 pm (UTC)

*Sniff* cute!Dean and Sam aren't doing so well! :( but I LOVE it!!

omg! you so totally got Taylor's voice down! ;D! I'm with Dean- I so wanted someone to punch Taylor!

Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: April 14th, 2009 08:04 pm (UTC)
dean rory loved

Aw, you have to love Taylor for his sheer Taylor-ness. Annoying but so very Stars Hollow :)

Posted by: Dani (pinkphoenix1985)
Posted at: April 15th, 2009 01:28 pm (UTC)

I know! :D *nods*

Posted by: sendintheclowns (sendintheklowns)
Posted at: April 15th, 2009 01:17 am (UTC)
moved by you

'What would Dean do? He had to think like Dean.' Why is it that I hear Elmer Fudd saying 'what would the wascally wabbit do, he had to think like the wabbit!'? I love how Sam refuses to play damsel in distress.

Cute!Dean is having a time of it. He wasn't raised Winchester and should be back home, talking to Rory on the phone or stocking shelves.

Taylor is hilarious!

Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: July 9th, 2009 08:43 pm (UTC)
cute dean is annoyed

Wow, I'm so late at replying. I'm looking at the date here and it says April. I am pathetic! But, since it is YOU, I figured responding late is better than never, right? After all, you know my oddities and weirdness, so you will hardly be surprised.

I liked this fic. It was a fun romp. Thanks for helping make it happen.

Posted by: ChristianGateFan (cgf_kat)
Posted at: July 4th, 2009 04:19 am (UTC)

Whoops, sorry to have not commented till chapter three, but I was so into it. :) This is awesome! I'm hoping to see more of the Gilmores later, but I'm still loving it so far. You've got Luke and Loerelai and Kirk and Taylor all down perfectly, and nothing ruins a story faster than bad characterization. I like your John, too. I really dislike how the show has been bashing his character since he died, because I liked John despite his shortcomings, because I know he really cared about his boys, and that was what 'made' him act like a bitch sometimes. He just wanted them safe. I like how you're showing that side of him here.

Anyway, alas I must hand the computer over to my brother now, but I'll be back tomorrow!

Posted by: do i dare or do i dare? (faye_dartmouth)
Posted at: July 9th, 2009 08:44 pm (UTC)
scarred for life

S4 was sort of hard on John's character--they sacrificed him for the plot and to make Dean a bigger woobie. Which, I shouldn't start ranting on that because I won't stop.

Anyway, I'm glad you had a good time reading this fic! Thanks :)

7 Read Comments