We humans always think it is our mission to protect the little and broken things.

-Unknown

They'd at last come home from a hunting trip. The fifth one in four weeks.

It had been exactly eight years and six days since Mary Winchester had been murdered by something lurking in the dark. Sam was eight, and Dean was thirteen. And John was drunk, for the thousandth time. Dean always knew what the brown bottles in the fridge meant, and what they turned Dad into.

Sammy never did. He was constantly confused at why his brother shooed him away, asked him to go into the bedroom and not come out. He didn't know that it was to protect him. All he knew was that the monsters under his bed were real. That, and how to kill them. Dean knew he was supposed to protect his little brother. He'd been taught since that night when the ceiling was burning, Look after Sam, don't let Sammy out of your sight, Sam, Sam, Sam. It was his first burden, and the first thing to begin weighing on his bones.

John was sitting in the living room, watching some late-night program, beer bottles scattered across the coffee table. Dean was sitting in the kitchen, watching silently while he cleaned a gun with a dirty rag. He heard small footsteps in the hallway, and froze, listening. He held his breath when he saw his little brother walk into the living room.

"Dad?"

John hummed in response, eyes on the TV. "Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot." The word was slurred.

"Why can't I go to school?"

"You do, kiddo."

"No, I mean…the same school. All the time." John shrugged.

"You don't need that crap. All you need to know is how to kill monsters." Sam, looking nervous, squirmed a little under his father's intense gaze.

"But…I don't wanna kill monsters, Dad." His father snorted.

"Well, you kinda have to. You don't want your brother dying, do you?"

"Uh…no sir. But…" Dean, who had been tensely watching the conversation, had had enough. He set the gun down and strolled into the living room.

"Hey, Sammy. You should get back to bed, we're heading out again tomorrow."

"Again?" Sam complained. Dean's eyes darted back and forth, his mind whirling. Sam was standing too close to Dad, Dean too far away. He moved to drag his brother back to bed when Sam spoke again. "We've been hunting for a month now! Can't we take a break?"

Dean was still too far away when John struck.

His fist cracked across Sam's face, and the sound was like a gunshot to Dean. The breath left his body in a whoosh as Sam made a sound of pain and crumpled to the carpet. All Dean could see was Sam, protect Sammy, keep Sam safe, and before he knew what he was doing he was hauling John to his feet and punching him harder than he'd punched anyone in a long time. He felt warm blood seep onto his knuckles with the first blow. He saw red for a few seconds, a few more hits passed. His father's nose was bleeding.

"Dean!" Sam's tearful voice broke Dean's rage and he turned, rushing towards his little brother, who was sitting on the ground, holding the right side of his face.

"Sammy," he said desperately, his voice cracking. "God, Sammy, what did he do to you-" Dean took Sam's small hand away from his face and swallowed his anger again. His brother's eye was red and swollen. A black eye, at best.

"D-Dean," Sam stuttered, "H-Holy water…we…" Dean felt his stomach drop. John wasn't possessed. He knew that, but how on Earth was he supposed to explain to Sammy?

"No, Sammy. That's…we're not gonna do that." Sam clutched his older brother's hand.

"But-but Dad-"

"Shh." Dean hugged Sam close to his body. "Shh. It's gonna be okay. C'mon." He helped Sam up and tugged him towards the bedroom. Dean sat them down on his bed and shushed Sam's sobs, whispering assurances to him. Shaking a little himself, he laid down and took Sam into his arms, his chin meeting the top of Sam's head.

"Shh, Sammy. It's gonna be okay. It'll be okay in the morning." Sam sniffled, looking up at Dean. His eyes were red-rimmed, the right one puffy from John's punch.

"R-Really?"

"Yeah, Sammy. I'll fix it for you, okay? You're gonna be just fine." Sam let out one last sob before he fell silent. Dean kept running his fingers through Sam's hair, and within ten minutes, his little brother was asleep. Dean lay awake, staring at the wall. For the hundredth time, he wondered what might have happened if he hadn't been there. He was the only thing standing between Sam and John, and he was glad for it. Sam was still too young to understand, and Dean couldn't explain it to him yet, but at least he could protect him. He'd probably be protecting Sam to his grave, and he was okay with that. Besides, if he didn't, who would? Dean's worst fear was that without him, John wouldn't have bothered with Sam at all. Would have thrown him out or something by now. The thought brought his anger back, and he glared at the wall, seething. The raw emotion kept him up all night.

Once the sun came up, Dean inched his way out of bed, trying not to wake up Sam. He tiptoed out and shut the door before storming into the kitchen. His father had his back turned as he fished another bottle from the fridge, wincing at the sunlight. As he turned, Dean smacked the bottle out of his hand, and it cracked against the tile, spilling all over.

"What is your problem?!" Dean barked, his eyes burning. John winced and wobbled a little bit.

"I don't have a problem."

"Like hell you don't!"

"Watch your language, Dean!"

"You don't get to talk to me like that," Dean fumed, "not after what you did! I let you get drunk! I let you deal! But I'm done!"

"No, you aren't," John lamented, like he was talking to a child. But Dean was not a child. Not anymore.

"You hit Sammy!" Dean screamed, too angry now to worry about Sam waking up. "He thought you were possessed, Dad! He thought you were a demon, because he didn't know better! How dare you do that to him-"

"How dare I?!" John shouted back. "I didn't choose this life!"

"Yeah, you did," Dean shot back, smirking with dangerous rage behind his eyes. "For both of us. This is your fault, Dad. It always will be. And I will never forgive you for bringing us into this. Never."

"Dean," came Sam's tiny voice, "Are you guys fighting again?" Sam's brother started towards him, patting him on the back.

"Nah, Sammy. C'mon, pack you stuff. We're leaving."

"What?" John slurred, looking back and forth at his sons.

"You heard me," Dean said, shooting John a scathing glare over his shoulder. "We're leaving."

"Where are you going to go? You've got no one!"

"Wrong," Dean gloated, "We've got Bobby, and you know he doesn't like you."

"You are not leaving!"

"Watch us." Sam went into the bedroom, and Dean helped him pack all the things they would need for a week or two. A weapon or two was slipped into the bag, just in case. Dean kept his word and called Bobby, who agreed to meet them at a gas station down the road. John hollered at them all the way out the door, but Dean just patted his little brother on the back and reassured him that Dad was okay.

Dean didn't think he'd ever want to go back.

The End.