His lungs burned. How was it that when you were running out of air, your chest felt like it was going to explode? He opened his eyes; the cold water knifed in, but blinking a few times he adjusted a enough to make out blurry images in the shifting patchwork of blue and white light reflected. There was Sam, eyes screwed shut, a few silver bubbles breaking loose from his clenched lips every few seconds, hair fanning out without the effect of gravity and lighting up with the beams of sunlight piercing the water.

Suddenly the muted sounds of the waterscape were shattered deafeningly as a shock wave and furious cloud of bubbles as something heavy plunged through the surface just behind Dean. He jerked his head up out of the water to suck in a startled breath, at the same time he felt arms around him from behind and the next second he was lying on the sun-warmed concrete by the motel pool. He sat up just in time to see John breaching the surface again and tossing Sammy up beside Dean on the edge. Sam voiced a little startled yelp as he landed hard on his hip, the concrete scraping a raw spot just above the waistline of his trunks.

They stared at the burly hunter, thick black hair hanging low over his forehead and streaming water down into his eyes, as he stood waist-deep in a motel pool fully clothed from his boots to his work-jacket, chest heaving…

"...Dad?" Dean asked.

"Are you hurt?" John asked, sharply, pulling himself up out of the water and squatting beside Sam, looking both boys over quickly but thoroughly. Sam was shivering a little.

"No sir, we were just messing around," Dean said, confused.

"Then do you wanna explain to me why you both were floating face-down for a solid minute and a half without moving?" The way his dark eyes drilled suddenly into Dean's bright green ones and his voice dropped an octave, the way his words became slower and more deliberate...Dean felt they were definitely in dangerous territory.

"We've been trying to train to hold our breath for a long time. You know, might come in handy sometime right? So we've been going longer and longer. It's just practice."

"Yeah, we made it a game, Dad," Sam supplied, "I beat Dean twice. It's easier to hold it if you're not moving around a lot."

John stared at the two of them for a beat and then suddenly rose to his feet, dragging them with him by their arms. Dean stumbled a little, but managed to snatch his and Sam's towels from the back of the pool chairs as his Dad hauled them out of the fenced enclosure and toward their room.

"That's smart, Sam, yeah," he was growling. "Do you know why? Because you're depriving your body of oxygen. You know you can pass out from that, right?" His grip was bruising. Sam's eyes were wide and frightened.

"We didn't stay under, Dad, we came up to breathe…"

"Yeah, but if you passed out you wouldn't have had that choice, would you? You'd have looked exactly the same, your brother wouldn't have known anything was wrong until it was too late, and you'd have drowned for real. You understand me? Are you listening, Dean?"

"Yes sir," he answered immediately, taking the moment John released them to unlock their room and let them in to wrap his arm around Sammy, who was looking a little white and echoed a shaky little "Y-yes sir, we're listening."

John tore some dry clothes out of their duffel and threw them at his sons, beginning to strip off his own coat and shirts, heavy and dripping with water.

"Get some clothes on and then you park your butts front and center. You better not make me wait, boys. Not in the mood."

There was an immediate, unison "Yessir," and less than two minutes later they were dutifully standing side by side in the middle of the room in tee-shirts and jeans, their skin still wet and leaving damp patches in their dry clothes. John came out of the bathroom toweling his hair with quick, violent motions. Dean glanced over at his brother and noticed Sam's jeans weren't buttoned. He wondered if he'd only forgot or if he'd left it on purpose. He swallowed.

"Eyes front," John barked, and both boys obeyed at once. "What possessed you to think that was a good idea?"

"It was me, Dad," Dean said, head held high, meeting his Dad's stony gaze. "I told Sam we should try it. It was my idea."

Sam looked over at him, wide-eyed. It was absolutely not Dean's idea. He stayed quiet though; interrupting Dad was the definition of stupid, and John was already tearing into his eldest son.

"What is wrong with you, Dean? You're supposed to be looking out for your brother when I'm busy, not getting him to nearly commit accidental suicide! That would have been on your head; do you think you could handle living with that? You think you couldda dragged his limp body out of the water, kid? But no, you're the one letting him hold his face under water and look dead for minutes at a time, for some kind of stupid game? Daring him to go longer, egging him on...Dean, you could have killed Sammy."

Dean's mouth was dry but he stared dutifully straight ahead.

"Yes sir," he croaked.

"Sam, eyes front! Son, you can't let Dean's stupid ideas cancel out your own brains. You're smart, kid, if your report cards mean anything; act like it! Do you understand me?"

Sam's face was crumpled up as he tried to keep his chin from quivering and his tears from escaping down his chlorinated cheeks. He nodded, sucking in a quick breath.

"Y-yessir. I didn't think it was dangerous…"

"What if it was Dean that passed out, Sam? Forget that; what if it was both of you? I am not losing anyone else in this family, especially over some stupid immature dare. It's not happening, I'm not having it! DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

Sam was actually crying now. He nodded frantically, the wet strands of his longer hair falling forward into his streaming eyes.

"Yes sir, I'm sorry. I'm sorry we scared you, Dad, I'm sorry."

John stood there, arms crossed, staring down his sons for another long minute. Then he put a hand on Sam's head.

"Alright, enough with the water-works, Sam. Hit the showers and then get in bed. I don't wanna hear anything from you until after dinner. Go."

Sam threw his arms around John for a quick, desperate hug and then darted off into the little motel room bath, scrubbing the tear-tracks from his face with the heel of his hand and gulping air to get his composure back. When the door closed behind him, John turned to Dean and pointed toward the room door.

"Outside, son. Move."

Dean nodded, opening the door and stepping out into the July afternoon heat, the sun making waves in the air over the asphalt of the parking-lot where Dad's beautiful car was parked just outside their room. Dad's hand was heavy on the back of his neck, steering him toward the hood. Dean felt his heart sink down into his stomach, but didn't fight it. Sammy could have died. You think you couldda dragged his limp body out of the water? He fought to swallow around the painful stone lodged in his throat.

The sun-baked black finish of the Impala seared his hands and his stomach through his tee-shirt as he leaned forward over it. He hissed and lifted his hands so they hovered just over the surface, only his fingertips touching. Dad didn't lecture anymore, and a second later the stinging pain of the heated metal burning his hands was only another facet to the pain he was experiencing. He squeezed his eyes closed, biting his lip until he realized it was bleeding and quickly let it go, turning his head to bite a mouthful of his Metallica tee-shirt sleeve instead.

John paused; Dean was totally silent.

"Are you holding your breath?"

Dean paused, and then let out a lungful of air in a gasping, wet whoosh, sucking in another shaky gasp, realizing he hadn't been breathing. There'd been no room in his mind for anything but the punishment he was just trying to hang on through. He heard John curse quietly, and the next vicious blow drove a grunt from him and nearly had him standing up. He crossed his arms on the sizzling hood and buried his face, trying to stay down. Breathe...just remember to breathe. The last coherent thought he had before the pain again became too much to function through was that it would have been real nice if he'd passed out before Dad noticed.

The room was cool and dark after the blazing agony outside. The curtains were drawn, the blinds closed, the rattling old AC unit under the window whirring away. Sammy was just a quiet lump in bed. Dad didn't speak a word, he just went right for the flask he kept in his bag, sitting down at the little table and opening his journal and a book from the stack he'd picked up at the local library last night. Dean stiffly crawled into bed beside his little brother, exhaustion pulling at every part of him. He grimaced and sucked in a breath as he tried to slide under the sheet beside Sam, blinking back the annoying tears springing back unbidden to his eyes.

Sam rolled over, almost asleep.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, golden. I just burned my hands on the car a minute ago. Hurts like a mother." John didn't let the boys say the full expression, but Dean always liked to get as close as he could. It made him feel bigger and stronger...more like Dad.

"Don't hold your breath," Sam whispered, groggily.

"Yeah, I got that, Sammy," Dean murmured, "Thanks."

"No, I mean...oxygen helps pain. Breathe slow. It'll help."

"Nerd."

"Jerk."

Dean opened his mouth for the customary retort but John's eyes met his from across the room, a warning look in them. Dean immediately lay down, one arm resting protectively over his little brother. And if John heard the last whispered word of the conversation, he didn't comment.