Just some musings, when I should be writing my papers.
Warnings: Some mild gore, I guess. Children killing things.
Dean's had been that werewolf in Indiana. Quick, smooth, efficient, and eminently professional, for a boy of thirteen. Not a battle kill. An execution. John had decided it was time for Dean to deal with the cold, hard necessities in the life of a hunter.
He'd handed his eldest a gun loaded with one silver bullet. Just one, because the monster had been unconscious on the floor of the cabin, out cold from the violent scrap of a few minutes before.
Dean didn't even blink. No pain, but no pleasure. John wondered for a brief moment if he'd done something wrong as a father. But Sam tried to leave, and then the thought was gone.
Sammy needed to face this, too, but as Dean planted the bullet deep in the werewolf's heart, John was sure he saw his youngest hide his face. Too soft for this gig, John wondered, not for the first time.
"You did the right thing, son." That was all there was to say.
Nobody spoke on the way home. The case was closed.
John had burst into the motel room to find his eldest son out cold on the floor, blood seeping from a wound under the dark blonde hair, and from a gash on his throat. But John stopped at the door; he didn't go in to help his son. Not right away, anyway.
Between his two sons lay the headless body, and Sam – little Sam – standing on its other side, t-shirt drenched in blood John already knew wasn't his own, and still holding the dripping red blade. A few seconds later he sees the head, half-way across the room, under the coffee table.
One more glance at the severed neck was enough to confirm what John already knew. No eleven-year-old cuts through a man's neck in one clean blow.
It must have taken minutes.
Sam was shaking like a leaf, but when he looks up to meet his father's gaze, John saw none of the fear or the sorrow he'd expected. The hazel eyes, usually so soft, so gentle, burning with molten fire and rage. Not human.
John had to stop himself from running for the door, but he manages to slowly approach, too warily for any father. Sam looks up, an odd plea in his eyes.
"Please don't tell Dean." Then he collapses into his father's arms.
Sam couldn't remember when he woke up. Dean never knew what had happened, anyway. Sam considers his first kill to be that ghoul in Oregon.
But John knew, and was afraid.