I don't know what this thing is where I say I'm going to sleep and end up writing this shit. Anyway. Here you go.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any characters, Eric Kripke is a god and owns all domain, credit to opening quote from episode 7.03 "The Girl Next Door."

Warnings: Includes graphic child abuse and swearing. Not really Wincest or Weecest, not really a just-brothers relationship. Somewhere in between, so take it as you will.


"Yeah, well, she has a temper. Sometimes. It's... no big deal."

"My dad does, too... You don't want to see him when he's drinking."

John loved his boys. That was what he said, what he told himself when he kept moving them around. This is for the best. Their best, he told himself. He loved his boys. He left them alone for weeks, even the occasional month or two at a time, he was at a bar or too buried in research when he was there and he'd missed about ninety percent of their lives, not to mention written off anything they saw as important and trained them as soldiers, not raised them as children.

He loved his boys. But he had loved his wife more.

He told Dean to save Sam that night. Save Sammy! Save your little brother, boy! Take Sammy and don't look back! Sam was the one he almost lost that night. Dean was the protector. Sam was the one to keep safe. Sam came first, he almost loved Sam more.

He almost hated Sam more.

It really depended on his mood. How his current hunt had been going or had gone, if he has struck out on hunting the demon, or whatever he had been hunting. There was no justice. There was definitely no bringing Mary back.

This particular time, he'd taken down a small vampire nest. He'd been hunting the demon, but found vampires instead. Tonight was one of those nights he hated Sam. He'd made it back to the fleabag motel he's dropped the boys off at in a day's drive. Letting the Impala idle in the parking lot, he worked his jaw furiously. A second more hesitation, he peeled out and turned tail for the nearest dive bar, and hoped Dean wasn't there hustling pool, as he tended to do for extra cash after school.

Or during school. Dean, sixteen and a sophomore going on junior, tended to drop school when it suited him, after he'd made sure Sam- who was twelve and in seventh grade, much to Dean's frustration, was in a different school down the road and Dean couldn't check in on him as regularly as he liked.

John spent a few hours at the bar, until it turned dark, or even sometime past then. He'd had time to sit and reflect, and drink, god he drank. He'd lost the demon's trail on his hunt, another strike out. The lives he saved didn't matter to him nearly as much as the one he was hoping to avenge.

By the time he got back to the motel room, nearly stumbling in, it was ten that night. Dean was watching TV and Sam was asleep on the bed next to him. When he heard the door open, Dean jumped up, one hand behind his back ready to pull out the gun he usually kept on him in the motel room, because after an incident of almost losing it at school, he didn't take it anymore. When he saw that it was John he relaxed, nodding in acknowledgement to his father, then to Sam's sleeping form as if to say, "Don't wake him up." without having to verbalize. He didn't dare tell John what to do. He just implied it.

John slammed the door shut and growled, hazy eyes falling on his youngest son. "You." he snarled.

Dean didn't like that tone. He didn't like the look he was giving a still-sleeping Sammy, "How'd the hunt go?" he asked silently, almost afraid to ask anything for fear of repercussions.

"Lost the thing's trail." John snapped, speech relaying a slight slur. That one was what woke up the younger boy. Sam's head lifted groggily, rubbing his eyes as he tried to quickly focus on the new person in the room, obviously someone Dean had acknowledged or he would have been more alarmed. "Dad...?"

Sam. This was his son. This was Sam. This was because of Sam. "You!" John snarled again, this time lunging for Sam. Grabbing him by the shoulders he easily picked up the smaller boy and rammed him back against the wall, "This is your fault!" he growled. Sam could smell the whiskey on his breath; it hit him like a brick wall.

Dean was first and quick on reaction, grabbing John's arms and trying to pull him off, but John only knocked him back to the floor. "This is his fault!" he shouted, shoving Sam to the floor across from Dean, glaring at him with a look of pure resentment, "She went to check on you that night! She would still be alive if she hadn't! She never would have left the bedroom if you hadn't made any fucking noise!" he snapped, fists balled up at his side.

Sam looked hurt to a point it was almost painful to look at. Tears streaming down flushed cheeks he inched back away, whimpering- they may have been trained as warriors, but faced with John... It was another type of fear.

Dean was already standing himself and helping Sam up with him, the younger clinging to his brother. John went to move again and Dean put himself between the two. "Don't touch him." he said, tone controlled, but low and dangerous.

"Stand aside, Dean." John snapped

"I won't let you touch him." Dean said, fire in his eyes

John took one fluid motion and shoved Dean aside, into the small television in the room, knocking it off the dresser upon which it had been precariously placed. He took one swing at Sam and clocked his jaw, knocking him back on the floor, "She would be alive if you weren't." he said, voice dead

That was enough for Dean. He bounced back to his feet, ignoring what was probably a bruised rib or two from where he'd tumbled over the tv and the dresser, and helped Sam up. Before John could move again, Dean quickly grabbed his duffel (with everything essential for him and Sam in it and ready to go; a product of too many "Get your shit, we've gotta move" situations John had put them in was knowing better than to get comfortable and unpack) from beside his bed- the one closest to the door- and with Sammy under one arm, ran him out the door. John may have been strong, but Dean was fast.

Bag in one hand he lead Sam down the stairs and the first floor landing, through the parking-lot. Unfortunately, a common escape plan. John would steam for a while and then cool down, come back sober and drop them off somewhere else while he picked up a job several states over. Some times were just worse than others. John reprimanded Dean for running off with his brother. Dean snapped back about him being the reason he had to.

Dean had some cash on him, half of it honestly obtained from John, the other half... not so honestly obtained. It would buy them a night or two in another motel in town until John inevitably found them because he paid the motel clerk more to talk than Dean did for him to shut the fuck up.

But it was safe for Sam, if not just for a little while. Dean would find one way or another to get them to a motel, even if he had to hot-wire a car- which he wasn't above- or if they were just stuck walking, which he tried to avoid.

About five minutes down the road he stopped in at the first gas station and lead his brother around back, sitting him down on the curb. He wasn't particularly worried about thugs or any other asshole that might walk up- he could drop them easily. He was concerned with Sam and Sam only. In the faint light from the flickering bulb above the back door- employees only, he assumed- he took a good look at Sam's face. Had a nice bruise forming already. The elder brother swore under his breath and shook his head. "You alright, Sammy?" he asked. His brother hadn't said a word.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry this is my fault." Sam said, obviously trying to keep from choking on his words. He failed. A sob broke out which was just the doorway for more, his small body shaking as he rocked back against the curb.

Dean shook his head, instantly pulling Sam into his arms, "Shh... It's alright, baby boy. It's not your fault. He's just... he says things you know he doesn't mean. Let him cool off." he said. Dean didn't know why he was defending John. Old habits die hard.

Right now, he just wanted to get somewhere else. Right now, he wanted to get his baby brother somewhere safe. Right now, he wanted to make sure he was okay. Right now, he wanted to kill John with all he had. Right now, he wished for anything he could make it all better for his brother.

Dean placed two fingers under Sam's chin and tilted his head upwards, still holding onto him securely, "This life is a lot of things. Fucked up, difficult, bloody, but I promise you something; it's not your fault. Do you hear me, Sammy? It's not your fault."

Right now, he wanted to leave town with Sam and never look back.