I've started reading the fics about what if Sam & Dean had Max's childhood, and it got me to thinking. What was so different about Max's life? John certainly had the capacity for violence, it is amazing that he reserved it just for creatures that went bump in the night and it did not spill out onto his sons. But maybe it was because John had something else that Max's father didn't. (Thanks to hotshow for encouraging me to post this.)
Why Sam wasn't Max
John paced the length of the motel room. Dean was curled around Sammy on the far bed, a supply of pillows keeping both from rolling off onto the floor. He was alone. He had been alone since Mary's death. Something killed her, of that he was sure. Mike thought he was crazy, probably even called child services on him. That was why they left without even a word of thanks. Why thank the bastard who was trying to get your kids, the only reason you had for living, taken away? He was really alone now, more so than the night Mary died.
The bottle of amber liquid clutched in his hand arced beautifully through the air just before shattering against the far wall. The rich aroma of whiskey permeated the cheap motel room and shards of glass littered the floor. He just stared at it. It was a metaphor of his current state, his life.
"Daddy?" He started. It had been over a month since Dean had spoken, John had nearly forgotten what his son's voice sounded like. "Did you get it?"
He expected Dean to be frightened, scared – of him. Instead he saw set, determined eyes watching him. "What's that, buddy?" John whispered, although a nagging voice at the back of his head told him that Sammy should have woken to the sounds of a fifth being shattered before mere voices.
"What's after Sammy." Dean's eyes looked straight into his, perfect green eyes that had no business looking that damn old. In that moment John realized something, something very important. He was not alone.
John sat at the end of Dean and Sammy's bed, trying to give this new idea, this new perception, the opportunity to take hold. Because he wanted it, he needed it. He did not want to be alone. "Not yet," he admitted to his four year old, "but I will. Do you want to help me?"
Dean nodded, his face so solemn and aged. John ruffled his hair. "Okay, Dean. Then you work on protecting Sammy, and I'll find what's after him. Deal?"
Dean nodded again. John sighed. Apparently Dean had talked himself out already. He would have thought after saying next to nothing for a month the boy would have had a few more choice words to say.
"Get some sleep, Dean." John pressed his son gently under the covers. "That's an order," he said with a wink. Dean snuggled closer to Sammy and soon their breathing fell into a syncopated rhythm.
His eyes fell back on the shattered whiskey bottle. His boys were sleeping, now if he just had someone to help him clean up this mess.
John sat staring at the wall. It was not his wall, it never would be. It was just another cheap motel room where he could stash his sons while he went out hunting things that went bump in the night. Only this night…
He tried to shake off the images that flooded his mind, threatening to drown him. So much blood, and violence, and death. He reached for the bottle that should have been beside him. It was gone.
"Dean!" he roared, flinching at the severity of his own voice.
Dean rushed to his side. The ten year old boy looked half asleep, running straight from bed, his clothes still rumpled and the pillow crease red on his cheek. John felt a pang of guilt at the thought, but he wanted that damn bottle. Now.
"Yes, sir?" Dean stifled a yawn, doing his best to look alert.
"Where's my bottle?" John growled.
To his surprise his young son dropped to his knees beside him. Dean's hand, so strong and firm, grasped his shoulder. "It's going to be okay, Dad. It'll be alright."
The words slammed into his chest, squeezing the breath from him. He did not think he would ever hear such soothing words from anyone except his late wife. He looked into those green eyes, those ancient green eyes, and saw what he needed to see. He saw support and understanding where in others there was fear and recrimination. John wrapped his arms around his son. It had been too long since they shared a hug, and that was something he could still fix.
Mary's birthday was the worst. John had trouble just functioning that day. He walked around in a dazed stupor, snapping and barking at his sons. No one else understood what it meant, no one else could. Sam was trying to do his homework at the dining table, a motel room cast-off that wobbled unless a wedge of wood was positioned under one leg just so.
"Haven't you finished that yet?" He barked. "I need you to clean the guns."
"Dad! I have a test tomorrow," Sam shot back.
"So? Algebra won't help when you're facing a pissed off spirit," John growled back.
"Yeah, yeah," Sam waved him off.
John could feel his blood start to boil when the front door to the apartment opened. Dean came in under a load of grocery bags. John frowned; he did not remember telling Dean to go to the store. He and Sam watched Dean struggle under his load, knowing any offers of help would be refused.
"Where have you been?" John asked in the same voice he had demanded to know when Sam would be able to do chores.
"Store," Dean said with a grin. "Got something for you."
John started. "What's that?"
Dean took out a box and placed it gently on the table. Then he went back to unpacking the rest of his groceries. "Tonight, we will be having Pasta a la Dean, Salad al la Dean, and cake."
"Not Cake al la Dean?" Sam laughed.
John reached out a shaking hand for the box on the table. He could not believe this, it could not be true. He opened the box, freezing at the sight. It was a birthday cake and the icing said 'Happy Birthday Mom.' John felt the tears washing down his face, something that happened only rarely in the past twelve years. Sam was looking at him, his mouth open. But then Sam looked down too. His young mouth formed an 'O' and he closed his textbook.
"Guns need cleaning?" Sam asked quietly, moving to put his textbooks away.
"Sammy! You have a test tomorrow!" Dean barked from the small kitchen. "Get back to studying. Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes."
Sam looked at John for permission, an act that was becoming rare. John took one more look at the cake before he nodded, closing the box. John had to clear his throat a few times before he could speak again.
"No problem, Dean. If you need any help, just holler." He had forgotten. Dean knew. Dean understood.
"Why can't you be more like your brother?" John raged at Sam. Dean had not been perfect, Lord knew, but he could follow orders! He did not even realize that his hands had balled into fists.
Sam's face flushed red. "Go ahead!" he taunted. "I know you want to!" He opened his arms. "I won't even try to stop it!"
For a moment, a split second, John wanted to. He really wanted to loose his anger and frustration, and here was a willing target.
Dean stepped between them. "Sammy, go to your room," his voice was quiet, but authoritative.
"It's Sam!" Sam shouted at his brother. John felt his blood boil at Sam for lashing out at Dean. How dare he!
"Now," Dean's voice was soft as he pushed Sam away, out of John's reach. Sam stomped away to the boys' room. John watched him go, hearing the rush of his anger and blood in his ears like the surf pounding the beach.
Dean turned his attention on John. "He's not like me, Dad. He never will be." His voice was just as gentle and patient with his father as it had been with his brother. "Sam is Sam, you know that. What's really wrong?"
John gasped. How could this boy be so perceptive? And so old, so very old? Now that he thought about it, Dean was an adult now, at least legally. His son had been acting like one for years, though, which is probably why the realization took so long to come to him.
He shook his head. "It was bad, son. I…we…" He heard his voice break. If anything could have gone wrong, it did. He was worthless. He just might throw in the towel now. Guilt overwhelmed him from the hunt gone wrong to his latest shouting match with Sam. Sam had not deserved that. John did not want another Dean, another child too old for his age, too locked inside himself.
"Okay, Dad. Sam and I will go back with you this weekend. We'll get it." Dean rubbed John's shoulder in a fatherly way, which John found both reassuring and disconcerting. His oldest son was aged beyond his years yet so juvenile, supportive and caustic, the parent as well as the child. How the hell had he not noticed this duality sooner? How had he allowed it to happen?
"Not Sammy," John struggled to say. "He won't follow orders. Probably get himself…" he could not force the word from his mouth.
"Don't worry about Sam, Dad. I'll watch out for him." Yes, Dean would. He always did. He looked into those deep eyes, filled with concern, and realized it was one of the rare moments his oldest son allowed you to really see him. Then Dean straightened up, eyes flashing that typical cool green before he went in to deal with his brother.
John watched him go, grateful not to have lost everything that terrible night. As he listened to the raised voices from the back bedroom, John knew Dean would set their family to rights. He always had.