Disclaimer: Dean, John and Sam Winchester are sadly not mine.

Warnings: None.

Prompt: The day after Sam leaves for Stanford, an upset (drunk?) John forces Dean into a training session since now it's only going to be the two of them hunting, but gets carried away and accidentally knocks Dean out while they're sparring.

"…You want to hit me?"

Dean didn't even look at him. Defeated green eyes stayed firmly planted on the dirty green carpet. As if grass were suddenly going to sprout up at his feet.

Anger flashed in John's chest as hot and real as that last gulp of whiskey.

"Dean. Answer me."

It was that low and dangerous tone, the one he usually reserved for corpse-eaters, for night-walkers, for evil things. Not usually on his boys. Not until very recently.

If you walk out that door, Sam…

A flash of anger. Not dulled by alcohol at all. But clear and polished as a pistol and just aching to aim at something or someone.

The tone worked on Dean. He jerked out his misery, blinked at his father.

"Sorry, Dad. You say something?"

John knew it wasn't insolence. He knew Dean's attitude was partly brought on by the rows of empty long-necks standing like a fortress on the coffee table. But mostly it was heart break. He knew it was Dean replaying that door slam over and over again, wondering what had gone wrong. What he could've done to change it, to keep his brother here. John could do without seeing that door slam every time he looked in Dean's eyes.

"You wanna take a swing at me, son?"

Dean's forehead crinkled in confusion.

"No. No, sir."

"On your feet, Dean." John was shrugging out of his plaid over-shirt. "Sparring. Now."

Dean looked around the cramped space, littered with empty bottles and cans, then up at his father. Analyzed John's face, the flush, the glassy eyes. John felt himself bristle under that searching gaze.

Dean slowly shook his head.

"No, Dad. I don't want to. Don't feel like it right now."

John's mouth became a firm line.

"Don't believe that I asked how you felt about it. I gave you a direct order."

"Dad, I don't think it's a good idea…"

John's patient for rebellion had worn too thin too quickly. Enough.

"On. Your. Damn. Feet."

Dean sighed.

"Yes, sir."

He hesitated only a second, then pulled himself up off the couch. John took up his stance.

"Swing at me."

Dean took a deep breath, then landed a weak right to John's shoulder. John brought his fore-arm up, knocked Dean's fist aside and punched the kid in the jaw.

Dean's head snapped side-ways and he froze. His nostrils flared. His muscles tensed.

He exploded.

John felt an elbow land in the region of his kidneys and a left hook pounded into his eye. He blocked the incoming right fist, tasted the left one again. Felt blood burst on his bruised lip. He jabbed and Dean blocked it, cracked him again and again.

"You didn't have to tell him he couldn't come back!"

Dean blurted, fists wild now, breath erupting in and out.

"You could have the same deal if you want to, Dean," John growled, taking another punch to the jaw. "You can leave right now and not come back."

Dean's eyes flashed to his father's in shock. His last blow glanced off of John's face and before he knew what he was doing, the ex-marine grasped that wrist and swung. Caught off balance, Dean went flying.

Came down head-first into the coffee table. The cheap wood snapped in two, bottles shattering and skittering across the floor. It had happened so fast. And now, Dean wasn't moving. His son wasn't moving.

John dropped to his knees, shards of glass cutting into his pant-legs, and pulled Dean out the nest of broken wood and bottles. Nothing was broken, and John felt his fingers find Dean's carotid artery, felt the throbbing of his son's healthy pulse.

"Dean?"

Dean didn't stir. John felt hot moisture streaking down his face. Kid hit me too hard, he though half-heartedly, I'm bleeding from my damn eyes.

Dean came to just a few minutes later, unaware that he'd been gently moved from the floor to the couch. He tentatively sat up, reached to touch the swollen spot on the back of his head and hissed at the pain. He looked up, and realized with a sudden drop of his stomach that the motel room was empty. Dad was gone.

"Son of a bitch," Dean murmured, eye-brows knitting together. He shakily stood, boots crunching over bits of glass as he made his way to the window. When he got there, he swayed, staring out at the empty parking lot.

"Son of a bitch, Dad. Where'd you go?"

Staggering back to the sofa, Dean sat and put his face in his hands.

He was still sitting like that when he heard the familiar grumble of the Impala. He looked up in surprise as the front door opened and John stepped in. The older man paused, confused, in the doorway, caught in delighted beam of Dean's gaze. Why did Dean look so damn happy to see him? He'd have thought the boy would be seething, speechless.

"Dad, I thought you…I thought you'd left…"

John cleared his throat. Oh.

"Uh, yeah, I left. To get you this."

John tossed the bag of peas he was holding and Dean caught it, looked at it in amazement then back at his father again. John shuffled, uncomfortable. He knew he had to say something. I wasn't going to abandon you, Dean. I hate that I took all of this out on you. That you had to be in the middle when the shit hit the fan. That Sammy left us. I'm fucking sorry, kid. I'm sorry.

But Dean was suddenly grinning at him. No trace of that scared kid from a few moments ago.

"…Dad…did you steal these fucking peas?"

John's lips twitched up. Then he stood barking out laughter, and Dean joined him. When he settled, Dean sighed and leaned back.

"It's going to be okay, Dad," Dean said, pressing the bag of frozen peas to the lump beneath his hair and closing his eyes.

It wasn't. It wasn't okay at all. Sam was gone. John had laid Dean out on the floor, hurt him with his own hands. John knew he didn't deserve forgiveness. Not for any of it.

But Dean offered it up like always. And John took it greedily, with both hands, the way a dying man took a prayer.

It's going to be okay, Dad.

Amen, kid.