To Dean, his father had always been something of a contradiction. As a hunter and a teacher he was hard as granite, barking orders and showing little care that his soldiers were also his sons. This was the John Winchester that would argue with Sam, would utter that ultimate, ending phrase of 'never come back'. To many, this was the only John Winchester. But Dean remembered another John, one who would work double shifts everyday to provide for his young family, who would blow soap bubbles over Dean's bed when he was sick, despite Mary's scolding.
He still remembered with piercing clarity the time his father had allowed him to paint his face with food dye, ('in-jun, Daddy! You're an in-jun!') and then placed a cowboy hat on his head and played cowboys and Indians for hours. The colours had taken days to fade, and John had laughed with him each morning in the mirror.
He laughed at the memory, and couldn't help but cry out at a sudden pain in his ribs. Glancing down at his chest he lost his grip on the cheerful memories as the more recent memory of a painful fall hit him. Glancing around, he saw nothing but a dirty, damp cellar, and winced as the movement made the hurt flare up again. On reflex, he cried out, and heard in response a faint cry from above him. He recognised his father and brother's voices, and relaxed, slipping into unconsciousness.
When he woke, he was wrapped in warmth. Without bothering to open his eyes he knew his father's leather coat was covering him, and he breathed in its familiar and comforting smell. Keeping his eyes shut, he reached out with his other senses. Not far away, he could hear Sammy's chatter; listening closely he realised his brother was rambling on about dinosaurs again. He leaned back against a warm chest and knew his father was holding him close as he waited for him to wake up. Wanting to reassure his father, Dean opened his eyes and was rewarded with the soft smile that he so rarely saw after his mothers death. John gently stroked a few strands of hair from his forehead, and held him closer.
14 year old Dean Winchester closed his eyes again, and revelled in the feeling of safety his father's arms provided... a feeling he thought he had lost for good one cold night 10 years ago.
