Yes, I know I'm already writing Dancing Solo, and I am working on the second chapter. The boys are being stubborn and trying to sabotage it. John's too quiet, Dean doesn't know what the hell to do, and Sam's just laying there doing nothing. I bet if they were girls, I could work with them better. Although I think Dean might just try to shoot me if I tried it.

Disclaimer: All my obsession are belong to Kripke.

Warnings: This chapter, nothing, future chapters, who knows.

Notes: Um, this is just a series of short oneshots delving into the Winchester life and psyche, or just my lame attempts at humor

John stared at the shower drain with an expression akin to horror, like he had just seen someone beating a puppy, with a kitten. Although not quiet that horrible, what he saw was pretty chilling.

A sizeable clump of hair sat in the shower drain, not strands, not even a lock, a clump. That he could pick up and feel as he clenched his fist. Good lord, he was going bald. He was old, out of date, over the hill. Sure he was only thirty three, but no virile young man would be going bald. First it would be hair falling out, then his joints would ache when it rained, then he'd forget where the violent spirit's body was buried, and boom! No more John Winchester. His sons would be orphans, alone and adrift in the world at the mercy of all manner of evil, supernatural and natural.

He was too young to be getting old, there was so much evil in the world left to hunt, his wife's killer included, his son's were only babies, Sammy had just started saying entire sentences, Dean wasn't even out of elementary school, they couldn't loose their dad to old age yet. He couldn't-

He was dragged out of his thoughts by a knock on the door and Dean's small plaintive call of 'Daaaad.'

"Yes Dean?" John asked, wrapping a towel around his waist and opening the bathroom door.

He saw a guilty and shame faced son. Dean clutched his hands behind him, scuffing his worn out sneaker and looking at the stained burgundy carpet. Dean glanced up at him with a small pout.

"Dad, I think Sammy got to my scissors..." The seven-year-old said quietly, just loud enough for John's sharp ears to catch. John's eldest brought both his hands to the front, one holding a pair of safety scissors, requested by Dean's teacher, the other holding more of John's hair.

John's hand reached to his head, groping around, feeling the uneven patches, and even bald spots on his scalp. His hand slowly fell to his side, stunned. An unexpected chuckle, honestly even he was surprised by it, escaped his throat until he was outright laughing. Thank God.