This is John's 'first impression' of Dean after the nine-year-old has made his first kill on a hunt.
MEETING DEAN ONCE MORE
Once again, John heard before he saw.
The warrior's cry that punctured the air seemed familiar yet foreign. The male voice's shout was loud and steady, a sound of surprise-induced action and the triumph of success coupled with hard-fought victory.
His oldest son.
The forest floor swam before his vision, and John foggily processed the fact that he was face down on the ground, having been struck down. He groaned lightly as he pushed his sore self to his feet, turning to see a scene that he could never have prepared himself for.
Nine-year-old Dean, standing with his back to his now standing father, ash-dipped blade in hand. Blood, coating the floor of the damp, leafy earth and shining in the moonlight that filtered through the trees. A body, the slain form of a supernatural creature, lying in the puddle of his life's liquid, not moving or attacking or even threatening to strike - but dead. Killed. Destroyed.
John's weary eyes widened as the realization came. Some place inside of him that he vaguely told himself should be filled with pride was instead pierced with sorrow, and flooded with dread as he registered the thought:
Dean was a murderer.
No, he corrected himself, Not murder. It's not murder to kill something evil, he reminded himself. It wasn't wrong to kill, to hunt if you were defending yourself, saving someone, making things right in the world. Then why do I feel like I've murdered my son's innocence, John sadly asked himself as he slowly approached Dean the hunter for the first time.
"Dean?"
"Yes, sir."
John wasn't sure what to ask. Are you alright? You've just killed for the first time in your life at nine years old; are you okay? What have I done to you? Are you still the boy I brought home from the hospital so long ago? Have I changed you? Are you still the same? Are you still Dean? Are you still my son? What have I...?
"Good Job, son."
John watched Dean, not sure how to feel as they dug a ditch, burned the corpse's remains, blessed the surrounding earth, and walked back to the car. He appraised his uncharacteristically quiet son before they entered the vehicle.
"Dean-"
"I'm fine, Dad."
John moved to get into the car, satisfied with his son's assertion, but his motion to open the car door was halted by Dean voice yet again.
"Dad?"
"Yeah, Dean?"
"I did it. I killed the monster. I'm a real hunter, huh?"
John was surprised by how much he hated to admit it, and by how much it hurt to respond.
"Yes, son you are."
There was a moment of silence. Dean looked up into his father's eyes, and John was awed to see the determination, the drive and the fire that was there in what used to be the gaze of a little boy who laughed and played and thought girls were gross. He saw the eyes of fighter, a warrior, a man...a hunter.
John barely breathed when he heard his son speak again.
"It feels good, Dad. It feels really good."
"I know, son. Let's go."
"Yes, sir."
They got into the car, driving back to Pastor Jim's, knowing that Sammy would be waiting.
John stole a glance at his eldest son again. He realized he was looking at his child for the first time again. He was seeing his son as a hunter for the first time. He was meeting Dean for the first time once more.
And what a painful first impression it was.
