A/N: Written for the SPN100 challenge. Word of the week = fifty. Dean comes home to find his dad drunker than ever. Bit of violence.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Dean came home in the morning, weapons bag slung over one shoulder, to find John Winchester a sobbing, drunken mess, slumped on the motel's multicolored couch. He took one look at Dean and scowled, the frown lines on his forehead deepening. Taking another swig of the clear bottle beside him, he gritted his teeth and stared emptily at the television. The bottle had an orange label on it in a language Dean didn't know, but nonetheless, he knew what was inside.
"Dad," Dean complained, "we're still on the case. You can't be—"
"Shut up!" John launched an empty bottle at his son's head; with Dean's hunter reflexes, he swiftly ducked to avoid the blow. "You can't tell me—you're my kid. My kid. You can't tell me what to do, Dean. I'm your father. I'll do what I want." His voice was only partially slurred, which meant he wasn't completely gone...yet.
Dean, sick of his father's drunken attitude, snatched the bottle from him. "Hey!" growled his father. "Give - that - back!" He stood up, stumbling a little, and Dean shoved him back onto the couch.
"No!" Dean held the half-full bottle of clear liquid away from John's reach. "Why are you this drunk already? It's ten in the morning!"
John wiped his sleeve across his face. "Your mother" —his voice was low and gravelly— "would have been fifty today, did you know that?"
Dean stopped, frozen by the word "mother," and in his hesitation, John tore the bottle from his hands, collapsing onto the couch again. Dean shook his head, as though to rid his mind of Mary-laced thoughts. "You can't just get drunk every time you think about her," he snapped. "What if the victim's family got attacked tonight, but you were too drunk off your ass to go save them?" Dean leaned forward to take the bottle back from his father, but in his drunken fury, John whipped the bottle toward Dean's face to prevent him from taking it.
Dean's face exploded with pain, and he stumbled backwards, blood spurting from his nose. "Shit, Dad!"
John Winchester took another swig from his bottle, even though it had a smear of his son's blood on it now. "Next time you try to discipline me," John snarled, "I'll discipline you, boy."
Dean ignored his father's violent threat and rifled through his bag, pinching his nose shut with one hand. He slumped on the couch next to John, pressing a wad of diner napkins against his nose.
Dean thought little of John Winchester's lack of restraint, empathy, or remorse. It was, after all, just another day at the office for the Winchester family.
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