I read Menthol Pixie’s synopsis for ‘Whiskey’ and, before even reading the story, this first scene popped into my head and wouldn’t let go.  I wrote it, then contacted her for permission to complete and post it.  I didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes if the ideas overlapped.  Now… I haven’t read anywhere near everything ever written for SPN, so if this is similar to something else, it’s purely coincidental.  

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The attack was sudden and ruthless and completely unexpected.  

The sturdy shoulder that plowed into John’s solar plexus brutally ripped the air from his lungs and toppled him to the ground.  His head bounced twice off the dirty linoleum floor causing stars to appear in his vision, while the following uppercut to his jaw encouraged those stars to dance.  A powerful blow to his left cheekbone whipped John’s head to the side and the next, a glancing blow to his nose from the opposite direction, brought it back to a neutral position.  

He curbed his natural instinct to fight back when a hand wrapped around his throat and pressure was applied.  Not enough to constrict, just gain attention.  No, John wasn’t concerned with strangulation, but the second hand, the one that was balled into a fist and looming above him…  That concerned him.  He fully expected it to make contact, to drive into his face causing a spectacular display of blood spatter, broken bones, and flying teeth.

He expected this and so much more from his attacker.

John watch as, as if in slow motion, the fist, rock steady in determination, was drawn back even further and obscured temporarily by the scowling visage of his assailant.  

His son.

The hand at his throat began to tremble, causing John’s blurry vision to snap into sharp focus and zero in on the ice blue flame of fury burning in Dean’s eyes.  John saw his son’s usually jovial features twisted by a fiery hatred that he wouldn’t normally associate with the seventeen-year-old, let alone having that look directed at John himself.  No, not from Dean, his perfect son.  So like John in so many ways.  An extension of himself, really.  Dean was his soldier, his partner in the constant battle to rid the world of supernatural evils and, hopefully, avenge the death of their beloved wife and mother.  And Dean fought those evils with a passion and fortitude that caused John’s heart to swell.

But now, pinned to the floor under the weight of his beloved son, watching his chest heave with ragged breaths and the scowl give way to a sneer while the rigid muscles in Dean’s body bunched and moved to swing that fist down for what would surely be a devastating blow, John’s mind had room for only one thought.

He had never been more proud.

EARLIER:

John Winchester was tired.  The mind-numbing fatigue weighed heavily on rounded shoulders and dug ruthlessly through muscles, delving downward until it carved deeply into the bone beneath and settled like lead.  He yawned hugely and ran the palm of one torn and scraped hand across gritty eyes.  At the rough shaking of his seat, his eyes popped open and he jerked the steering wheel of the large black truck to the left, bringing the vehicle fully back onto the road.  Shaking himself, John rolled down the window, letting the cool night air keep him awake.  He glanced into the rear view mirror to ensure the black Impala was still following, then squinted to peer myopically through the mud spattered front windshield at the road ahead.  With a sigh of relief, he realized he could finally make out the pinpricks of light that represented the small Texas town the Winchester men temporarily called home.

The family had been working hard, zigzagging across the country from one job to the next without reprieve when John had received information about a possible skin walker near the Texas/Mexico border.  He’d looked past the stoic acceptance of his oldest son and saw the strained lines of fatigue that surrounded Dean’s eyes and Sam’s slumped, defeated posture.  An idea began to form.  John quickly accepted the job.  

After disconnecting the call with Bobby, John hugged both of his sons close and told them of his plan.  After taking care of the skin walker, a task that should take no more than a week at most, John would treat his oldest to a belated birthday present: the seventeen year old was to be granted a vacation.  His days were to be filled with nothing more than sleeping in and as much time fishing in Lake Amistad as he desired for the length of their stay.  For Sam, whose own thirteenth birthday was coming up in May, some three months away, John agreed to stay in one place and not uproot his family until the school year had ended.

John smiled at the memory of the shocked expressions on his boys’ faces and the sparkle of life that returned to their eyes, which was only brightened by the sight of the house – an actual house – he’d been able to find where they planned to spend the next four months.  

Unfortunately, it was not meant to be.

The creature they hunted was, in fact, not a skin walker, but a wendigo.  John had tracked the creature on his own for two weeks before admitting his need for help and calling Dean.  Four days later, the wendigo was finally dead and the two hunters were battered and bruised, but alive.  

He could see the relief on Dean’s face at the creature’s death and could easily sense the young man’s anticipation of a couple months filled with rest and relaxation, but he couldn’t allow it.  One of the reasons he’d requested his son’s help after only two weeks was a call John had received about strange weather patterns over an Oregon town.  The same weather patterns he’d been secretly chasing for years.  He’d yet to tell his boys about them, let alone their significance, not wanting to raise false hopes that they would soon capture their mother’s murderer, but every time those weather patterns appeared, the Winchesters hit the road.

He’d informed Dean of the sudden change in plans before beginning the drive back to their temporary home.  His disappointment was obvious, but Dean quickly straightened his slumped posture and uttered a clipped ‘yessir’ before loading into the Impala.  

That was Dean.  Obedient and loyal to a fault.  Regardless of his own desires, Dean always pushed his feelings aside with a single word from his father.  He did as he was told and didn’t even bother to ask ‘how high’ to the proverbial order to jump.  He simply jumped with all his might, right into whatever John had in store for him.

John again dragged a hand across his weary eyes, looking back to the Impala’s reflection and silently wondered about Dean’s obedience and loyalty.  His son never asked, never questioned, never argued.  He always just did as John told him and damn the possible consequences.  Heaven knew, the mighty John Winchester was far from perfect, and had made any number of mistakes in his lifetime.  He was afraid of one day pointing Dean in the wrong direction, or failing to research enough, or choosing the wrong creature to hunt.  He feared eventually, one of his mistakes would cost Dean dearly.  But for now, as much as he hated himself for it, John relied on Dean’s blind obedience and unwavering trust.

The only chink in Dean’s armor was his little brother, Sam.  

So many years ago, John had thrust the six month old baby into Dean’s waiting arms, effectively placing the burden of keeping him safe firmly on the four-year-old’s tiny shoulders, and Dean had yet to let go.  

As he navigated the truck past the first buildings of the small town, John silently hoped Dean would be willing to inform his brother of the move.  And deal with the subsequent fallout.

His youngest son, Sam, like his maternal grandfather namesake, was a force to be reckoned with.  At 12 years old, Sam was notably small for his age, but with long, gangly limbs and enormous feet that bore the promise of a growth spurt sure to have the youngster towering over his older brother.  Perhaps even over John himself. 

Sam was caring, kind, charismatic, and intelligent.  He had a distinct idea of what he wanted his life to be, and it was a life that didn’t include hunting.  He could be as bullheaded as a mule when he set his mind to something.  

So much like his mother.

As much as Dean was John’s son, Sam was Mary’s.  That thought alone was enough to ignite a small spark of anger somewhere deep within John’s heart.  Sam had never truly met Mary, hadn’t even vague memories of the woman who rocked him to sleep every night for his first six months, yet he mourned her loss as much as the other two men she had left behind.  He was so much like her it was, at times, painful to look into those deep blue eyes for fear of catching a glimpse of his Mary staring back.  

Yet, given even the slightest opportunity, this boy, Mary’s son, the almost teenager who still cried at the thought of her brutal loss, the child for whom she had given her life trying to protect…  would walk away from it all and never look back. 

John gritted his teeth, then forced his jaw to relax and his hands to release the vice-like grip they held on the steering wheel so he could maneuver the truck into a turn down a side street of the sleepy little community.  Though he knew he was being unreasonable, he just didn’t understand it.  He didn’t understand his tumultuous, sometimes volatile relationship with his youngest.  He didn’t understand how the mere idea of a mother somehow afforded Sam the same rights to grieve as those who had once had something so tangible.  He didn’t understand how that grief wasn’t enough to fuel the boy’s need for vengeance.  And, most of all, he simply didn’t understand Sam, himself.  

Sam was just… off… somehow.  He’d noticed it that very night, so long ago; the night of the fire.  

With the image of his dear wife hanging, burning and bleeding from the nursery ceiling, John had escaped the inferno, scooped his sons into his arms, and run.  When they were a safe distance away, John had fallen to his knees on the dew-moist grass, still crushing the children to his chest in a desperate hold, and sobbed.  Dean’s high-pitched wails echoed his own as his tears soaked through the shoulder of John’s shirt.  While the four-year-old hadn’t actually seen his mother’s demise, he somehow knew she was lost to them.  

It had taken several long minutes for John to recognize the eerie silence from the infant pressed tightly between them.  Sammy should have been screaming; upset, angry, perhaps even hurt by the disruption, the rough handling, and being squished between the two larger bodies, but there was nothing.  Fearing the worst, John had sat back on his heels, snatched the baby from his brother, and tossed the corner of the blanket from his face.  Relief washed through the father, making his muscles go weak, when he saw the contented smile on Sammy’s cherubic face, but that relief quickly morphed to horror when he saw the tiny pink tongue dart out to greedily lap at the streaks of blood still staining the tiny lips.  Unsure where the blood had originated, John had hastily spit on one dirty corner of his shirt sleeve and wiped it away, replacing the red smudges with oily black soot.

Since that awful day, John had been surreptitiously watching his young son.  All outward appearances showed a normal and well-adjusted (considering the circumstances) child.  Though he could never put his finger on anything precise, John knew – he *KNEW* - there was something wrong with Sammy, and it tore at him like salt in an open wound.

It was one more thing for which to blame the yellow-eyed demon.

At least John understood Dean.  Dean was his constant in this wretched existence.

John pulled the truck to a stop in front of their rented three-bedroom bungalow and glanced at the dashboard clock before cutting the ignition and exiting the vehicle.  It was only 10:30 p.m. and the house was as dark as the blanket of night cloaking the town.  Usually, when they were in a town long enough for Sam to attend school, the young man was awake, studying, doing homework, and, in general, catching up to his peers well into the night.  More often than not, John had to force Sam to put his studies aside in order to sleep, or Dean had to slip the pencil and paper from lax fingers and carry his slumbering brother to bed.  

All vestiges of fatigue vanished when Dean joined his father at the truck and the two men shared a concerned look at the unusual find.  Upon silent, mutual agreement, they inched their way to the side door, on the lookout for any hidden dangers, and were dismayed to find it unlocked.  Guns materialized in hands as the Winchester men entered through the kitchen then methodically searched the house room by room until they were convinced nothing was amiss.  Light switches were flipped on to illuminate the home.

Nothing was broken.  Nothing was out of place.  Nothing appeared to be missing.  But only the slightest traces of salt lined the windows and doors and there was absolutely no clue as to Sam’s whereabouts.  His backpack was there, sitting beside the kitchen table on which his school work was spread.  His jacket lay tossed over the back of the chair he’d obviously been sitting in.  

“Didn’t finish his homework,” Dean announced, noting the smudge and broken pencil lead at the bottom of the last complex math problem on the lined paper.  “Sammy!” he called, and John desperately hoped for an answer.

“Check outside,” John ordered, retrieving a couple of flashlights and handing one to Dean before both men exited the side door and headed to the yard.  

“Samuel Winchester!  Answer me!”

“Sammy?  Where are you, Kiddo?”  Dean’s pleas mingled with John’s stern commands, but neither saw any result.

They searched the front then back yard, the shed, under the house, even shining their lights up into the trees and into the neighboring properties.  Nothing. 

Icy fingers of dread wrapped around John’s heart and squeezed, his breathing coming in short, sharp gasps.  This couldn’t be happening!  His mind whirled with possibilities.  What should they do next?  Who should they call?  Clues!  They needed to search for clues, but it was too dark to see anything until morning.  But by then… By then Sammy could be…  Oh God!  John’s knees wanted to buckle, no longer able to support his weight, but he somehow managed to prevent it.  Tears pricked at the back of his eyes, blurring his vision while he tried desperately to see just that much further.  Perhaps just look a little closer…

“Dad!”  Dean’s urgent call focused John’s shattered thoughts.  “Do you hear that?”  

Eventually, the frantic father was able to concentrate enough to listen beyond the thrumming beat of his own heart and hear it.  It sounded like… a basketball bouncing, dribbling slowly farther down the street.  The men raced to the front yard, tension rolling off them in waves, and listened as the sound came closer and closer.  They peered into the dark night, eyes straining until, finally, the easily recognizable unruly mop of brown hair attached to the slim form of Samuel Winchester approached and was eventually illuminated by the corner street light. 

John and Dean both exhaled a quick breathless sigh of relief before jogging to the edge of the street to meet Sam.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dean chastised, stealing the basketball mid-bounce.  

Wordlessly, without giving Sam a chance to explain, John reached around to clasp the back of Sam’s t-shirt and frog-marched him into the house.  Sam stumbled to a halt in the center of the kitchen when John released him with a none-too-gentle shove.  

“Hey!  What’s the big idea?” Sam whined indignantly, but he cut himself off when he saw the twin piercing glares aimed his way.

“Your brother asked you a question.”  John’s deceptively calm tone belied the fear-fueled anger boiling just beneath the surface.

“What?”  Puzzlement twisted Sam’s features.  “I was just at the park down the street, playing basketball with a couple guys from school.”  He shrugged.  “What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal,” John roared, “is that you weren’t here when we got home.”

“But Dad!  I was just…”  Seeing something in John’s expression, Sam turned his back on his father and searched out his brother who had walked to the refrigerator to pull out a soda.  “Dean, come on.  Tell Dad I was just…”

“Oh, no, dude!”  Dean raised both hands, warding off the rest of the plea.  “You scared the crap out of us.  I’m not getting in the middle of this.”

The corner of John’s lip curled in pleasure at, once again, receiving Dean’s unwavering support, but it quickly dropped when Sam turned to face him.

“I didn’t know you were coming home tonight.  I was only a couple blocks away!”

“That’s not the point!”  John slashed a hand through the air and stepped into his son’s personal space.  “It’s well after dark, we had no clue where you were, there are no salt lines at the doors or windows…  Sam, you, of all people, know the dangers that are out there.  You *knew* there was a wendigo in the area!”

“*Now* you’re worried about my safety?” Sam fired back, his own temper ignited.  “I’ve been on my own for the last four days!  Where was your worry then?”

“Enough!” John barked.  He was nearing his breaking point.  Between the fatigue, the worry, and the news of the demon, John’s nerves were frayed and he knew he needed to end this argument before it got out of hand.  Besides, they still had to inform Sam of the move.  “You know the rules and you chose to beak them.  There will be a punishment.”  

Sam rolled his eyes, causing John to grind his teeth before continuing.  “But for now, we need to start gathering our things.  We’re heading to Oregon in the morning.”  He nodded to Dean, who wordlessly set his soda on the counter and disappeared into the next room to begin gathering the family’s meager possessions.  

“What?” Sam exclaimed, shocked.  “But, Dad, you promised!  Why do we have to go now?”

“This isn’t open for debate, Sammy.  Now, get your things ready.”

“No!” Sam shouted, anger flaring.  “I’m not going!  You promised we’d stay until school was out.  I’m going to join the baseball team next week.”

“No, Sammy.”  John’s jaw clenched.

“You don’t love us!  You always break your promises!”

“Samuel…”  Large, worn hands balled into tight fists, nails digging deeply into palms, drawing blood.

“I hate you!  I wish Mom was still alive.  At least she loved us and would keep her promises.  I wish *you* had died instead of *her*!”

A growl rose from deep in John’s throat as a red haze blurred his vision and the blood rushing through his ears obliterated all sound.  Time stood still and he was lost to his surroundings.  A painful sting bit into the back of his hand followed quickly by a strangled, pained yelp he somehow recognized.  As quickly as the haze appeared, it vanished, just in time for John to register the image of his twelve year old son making impact then sliding down the wall to sit in a tangled heap on the kitchen floor.  Sam’s hands cupped his own face as blood began to seep from a badly split lower lip.

John looked from the wide-eyed terror written clearly on his son’s face back to his own hand, still held slightly away from his body in the direction Sam had just been standing.

Oh, God.  Sammy!  What had he done?  John took a step forward.

The attack was sudden and ruthless and completely unexpected.  

The sturdy shoulder that plowed into John’s solar plexus brutally ripped the air from his lungs and toppled him to the ground.  His head bounced twice off the dirty linoleum floor causing stars to appear in his vision, while the following uppercut to his jaw encouraged those stars to dance.  A powerful blow to his left cheekbone whipped John’s head to the side and the next, a glancing blow to his nose from the opposite direction, brought it back to a neutral position.  

He curbed his natural instinct to fight back when a hand wrapped around his throat and pressure was applied.  Not enough to constrict, just gain attention.  No, John wasn’t concerned with strangulation, but the second hand, the one that was balled into a fist and looming above him…  That concerned him.  He fully expected it to make contact, to drive into his face causing a spectacular display of blood spatter, broken bones, and flying teeth.

He expected this and so much more from his attacker.

John watch as, as if in slow motion, the fist, rock steady in determination, was drawn back even further and obscured temporarily by the scowling visage of his assailant.  

His son.

The hand at his throat began to tremble, causing John’s blurry vision to snap into sharp focus and zero in on the ice blue flame of fury burning in Dean’s eyes.  John saw his son’s usually jovial features twisted by a fiery hatred that he wouldn’t normally associate with the seventeen-year-old, let alone having that look directed at John himself.  No, not from Dean, his perfect son.  So like John in so many ways.  An extension of himself, really.  Dean was his soldier, his partner in the constant battle to rid the world of supernatural evils and, hopefully, avenge the death of their beloved wife and mother.  And Dean fought those evils with a passion and fortitude that caused John’s heart to swell.

But now, pinned to the floor under the weight of his beloved son, watching his chest heave with ragged breaths and the scowl give way to a sneer while the rigid muscles in Dean’s body bunched and moved to swing that fist down for what would surely be a devastating blow, John’s mind had room for only one thought.

He had never been more proud.

Without hesitation, without question, and probably even without conscious thought, Dean had jumped forward to defend his brother from the worst foe imaginable: John Winchester.

The looming fist did not swing down and make contact, but both were balled into the front of John’s jacket to lift him slightly, then slam him back to the floor before the weight scrambled from his chest.

John lay there for a few moments, panting and coughing lightly to dispel the phantom grip encircling his neck.  He rolled gingerly onto his stomach then levered himself to his knees, facing his sons.  

Dean had gathered his younger brother into his lap and was rocking the trembling form back and forth while using the hem of his button-up shirt to try to stem the flow of blood from Sam’s lip.  He spoke to his charge, the murmured words causing a stab of pain to pierce John’s heart.

“It’s okay, Sammy.  I’m here.  You just relax and let your big brother take care of you.  No one’s going to hurt you anymore.  I promise.  It’s okay.”

The litany droned on and on, slamming home the absolute atrocity of John’s action.  He rose slowly to his feet, easily noting Sam’s flinch and the way Dean’s arm curled that much tighter around the slim shoulders.  Keeping his movements to a minimum and absolutely silent, John reached into a drawer for a clean dish towel which he tossed to Dean to replace the now blood-soaked shirt tail, then retrieved another to fill with ice.  

Dean accepted the cold compress wordlessly, then tilted Sam’s head back just enough to peek under the towel to see if the bleeding had stopped.  Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he used a clean corner of the towel to blot the blood and tears from his brother’s cheeks, then pressed the ice to the bruise and swelling John could already see forming.

“Sammy, I…”  The words wouldn’t come, but then, what could John possibly say?  There was absolutely no excuse for his actions.  No apology would ever be enough.  Forgiveness?  No, that was something John definitely didn’t deserve.  Drowning in his guilt, He turned desperately to the one person he knew would always be there for him.  “Dean, I…”

“No, Dad.  Not this time.”  Dean shifted Sam within his grasp, pulling him impossibly closer and tucking his head into the junction of Dean’s neck and shoulder.  Shielding him.  He started to stand, his burden making the move awkward and difficult, but the glare he sent John’s way let it be known in no uncertain terms that his help was unwelcome. 

Sam was limp in Dean’s arms, eyes heavily hooded as shock and pain gave way to fatigue and the heavy panting breaths eased to an occasional hiccupping gasp.  

Dean turned his back on his father and took two large strides toward Sam’s bedroom before pausing to speak over his shoulder.  “Most of our hunting gear is still in the vehicles.  Take what you need from the Impala and go, but I’m staying right here with Sammy.  Rent is paid up through June and I’m sure I can find at least a part time job for food and utilities.”

“But, Dean, I need your help to…”

“No, you don’t.”  Dean turned to face him.  None of the previous anger was showing, but John could easily see the steel resolve that his son wore when his mind was made up.  With a weary sigh, Dean continued, “I understand your need to get out there, Dad, I really do.  At times, the only thing I want out of life is to hunt down every single creature out there and…”  He stumbled to a stop and hitched his now sleeping brother up higher to rest his head against the shaggy brown mop of hair.  “But Sammy here…  He’s just a kid.  We’ve been running non-stop for so long now.  He needs a break, a chance to attend school and make friends and play sports and… and just be *normal* for a while.”

John hesitated, torn.  Perhaps if he told Dean how important this hunt was, explained about the weather patterns and their significance, their tie to the fire…  He took a breath and opened his mouth.

“Go, Dad.  I’ll take pictures at all of his games and cheer so loud he’ll be totally embarrassed.  I’ll even tack that complicated math crap to the refrigerator when he gets a perfect score on the test.”  Dean’s eyes widened, pleading.  “Please.  Sammy needs this.  Hell, *I* need this right now.  Go.”

John’s shoulders slumped in defeat.  Sam would be okay.  Dean had more than proven he’d do whatever it took to keep his little brother safe.  

John nodded once.  Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out what cash he had.  He peeled two twenties off the fold and dropped the rest to the table before retrieving one of the duffels from the living room and exiting the front door.  Keys in hand, he made it to the Impala, but glanced back to the house before placing the key in the lock.

Through the sheer curtains of the large picture window, he saw his sons.  Dean still cradled Sam in his arms, his head hunched low, talking to the young man who was now awake.  Dean’s chest heaved as he took in a long, deep breath, then he pressed his lips to his brother’s forehead before looking out the window.  Toward John.

Even though he knew there was no way his sons could see him through the dark Texas night, John felt those matching blue eyes bore into him.

The report of those strange weather patterns called to him like a siren’s song, but for once, he found himself torn.  He’d been chasing the yellow-eyed demon for so long and every fiber of his being burned with the desire to track him to the ends of the earth and send him back to Hell...  

He looked back to the window and his sons still standing within his sight.

Those were his sons.  His children.  Mary’s babies.  Images of what could have been swirled through John’s mind, causing tears to well in his eyes and roll down his cheek unnoticed.  He thought of baseball games and math tests, of fishing and burning ribs on the barbeque.  He thought of laughter: a concept so seemingly foreign to him now.

He needed to find Mary’s killer.

Pocketing his keys, John hoisted his duffel over his shoulder and made his way back to the house.

Maybe, just this once, he needed this more.

THE END

AN:  I never saw John as a particularly ‘bad’ person, just a tortured and determined man who long ago lost sight of what was really important.

Thank you, Menthol Pixie for the inspiration.  Thank you, Diana and Anna for your undying encouragement!