"Sam, have you found ... " John trailed off as he pushed opened the door of his sons' bedroom.
He had expected to find Sam reading a book.
He had not expected Sam to shove the book under the pillow when his father walked in.
"What are you reading, boy?" John growled, stomping across the room.
"Nothing!" Sam scampered backwards and put his hand on the pillow. "Just ... research."
John pushed Sam aside and yanked the pillow away.
He picked up the book and shook it in Sam's face.
"Lord of the Rings?" He shouted. "You're supposed to be researching what this thing is that Dean and I are about to hunt!"
"I ... I'm sorry." Sam stammered.
John hit Sam across the side of his face with the book before throwing the book across the room.
"Sorry?" He raged. "Are you going to be sorry if Dean and I get killed because if we don't know if we're dealing with a chullachaqui or a chupacabra?"
"I'll do the work, I swear!" Sam insisted. "I was just taking a break for a while!"
John hit his younger son in the mouth hard enough that Sam fell backwards off the bed. In the time it took the boy to sit up and touch a finger to his bleeding lip, John had rounded the footboard, and had Sam cornered between the bed and the wall.
"Dad, I'm sorry!" Sam pleaded.
The boy scrambled, trying to get his feet under him, although there was no place to run. John kicked Sam's legs, sending his son back to the floor. His knuckles connected with Sam's jaw.
Sam looked up and suddenly froze, looking over John's shoulder.
Over the sound of panting, the pounding of his own heart, and his younger son's whimpers, John heard the sound that every hunter trains his mind to pick out, no matter what else was going on around him.
The sound of a gun being cocked.
A second later, the barrel of that gun pressed against the base of John's skull.
"You hit him again, and it will be the last thing you ever do." Dean growled.
John straightened slowly, raising his hands, and turned to face his older son.
Dean didn't flinch. He held the chrome pistol pointed steadily at his father's face.
John's vague haze from the nine beers he'd drunk cleared instantly. He looked up slightly, as Dean was taller than his father.
His son's eyes were cold and his expression hard.
This was not the ten year old Dean who balked at pulling the trigger. Seventeen year old Dean was a hardened killer, who would not hesitate to take down the monster who threatened his Sammy.
Even if that monster was their own father.
"Dean," John said softly. "Put the gun down."
"Walk away from Sammy." Dean ordered, the gun never wavering.
John moved cautiously, skirting around the end of the bed, backing toward the door.
"You ever leave a mark on him again," Dean pronounced slowly and forcefully. "And I will gut you like a pig in your sleep."
John nodded. "It won't happen again."
Dean clicked the safety on, keeping his father in the edge of his vision, and pushed the pistol into the back of his waistband. He held out his hands to lift Sam off the floor and examined his younger brother's injuries.
"You wouldn't really shoot Dad, would you?" Sam asked softly.
"Of course not." Dean assured. "But I won't let him hurt you. I won't let anything or anyone hurt you." He clapped Sam on the shoulder. "It's gonna be okay, Sammy. Come on in the bathroom. I'll get you fixed up."
John stood in the hall as his two sons walked past him.
Sam didn't look at his father.
Dean did.
John felt a shiver as he met his older son's eyes. The look Dean gave him spoke more eloquently than words.
He knew without a doubt that Dean had lied to his brother. If the situation ever came about, Dean would kill his father in a heartbeat to protect Sam.
John wasn't sure if he was proud or terrified.
A/N - this story has a followup piece called Wednesday's Child, that tells the aftermath from Dean's point of view. You can find the link from my profile.