When Dean entered his house, he was welcomed with the sound of yelling.

He winced, setting his lips into a thin line. There it was again – the distinct noise of his younger brother Sam and his father John screaming their lungs out. Dean sighed briefly, and shrugged off his rusted leather jacket.

Damn.

He'd had a great night out with that Lisa chick from school – long legs, curved breasts, summery blonde hair. He could still hear her breathy moans in his ears and feel the nimble touch of her fingers on his chest. But any joy he'd felt from that escapade had evaporated the moment he got home

"It's just a club!" Sam cried out.

"Damn it, Sam! Do you really think we have time for your stupid club?"

"Any normal dad would have been happy!"

"So you're calling me abnormal?"

"No, I-"

"Show some respect!"

"Show me some respect," Sam snapped back.

There was a sudden shattering silence. Dean tentatively crept into the room, and found his brother and dad battling it out in the kitchen. There was Sam – hands shoved in his pockets, eyes bloodshot and teary, floppy hair wild. His lips were pressed together, his lanky body tense as a wire.

His dad was a couple metres away from him – stubble overgrown, eyes deep and tired, scowl worn to shreds.

"What did you just say?" John said, voice dangerously low.

Dean saw Sam's eyes flicker to the ground – a moment of regret and fear – before his head jerked back up. "I said you should show me some respect too," he said, voice dismissive. "Parents just can't go around demanding respect and not showing any. I mean, I'm fourteen. I have an opinion too."

"A stupid dolphin club is your opinion, Sam."

"I just want to help dolphins!"

"We help people with our hunting!"

"I don't care," Sam stubbornly grit out.

Oh, boy. This one was going to be a real hot one. Dean could already tell that it wouldn't be one of their mini, spiteful arguments. No, it looked like it was going to be full-blown, loud as a firecracker. He already knew his dad and Sammy were going to retreat to their bedrooms once this fight was done, seething quietly.

Dean tried to slink off to the living room. Maybe he'd dish out a few monsters in video games.

It always passed the time.

"I'm so tired," John suddenly said, voice eerily serious. "Do you know how much stress I go through? I've raised both of you boys on your own, Mary's dead, I hunt and kill fucking pyschopaths, I keep the social services off my ass, I have to keep your ungrateful ass safe and you- " He rubbed his cheeks. "I'm sick of you."

Dean stopped in his tracks, all thoughts of slipping away to play video games flying from his mind. The conversation was getting more intense than Dean liked – John's pain and grief streaking his voice powerfully.

Sam swallowed visibly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his pale neck. "Dad, I-"

"Don't say you're sorry," John said. "I'm so damn sick of you. This – this constant complaining, this constant bitching."

The fire came back in Sam's eyes like the rush of a matchstick on wood. His next words struck out with force, audible, and intended to hurt: "I bet mom wouldn't have wanted this for me."

And Dean wished, wished Sam hadn't said that. Not in this state. Not about Mary. His father's face shut down, going blank and distant.

"Dad," Dean started, feeling the need to cut in. But before he could get another word in, John took two large strides, and pushed Sam up against the wall – yanking him from the collar and pressing Sam's face flush to the white painted plaster. He leaned in, voice breathy, and fatigued: "Shut the fuck up. Just shut up."

Sam's eyes grew wide, his feet dangling just a centimetre off the hardwood ground. He suddenly seemed incapable of speaking.

Dean took a of couple strides, crossing the room. "Dad…" he warned gently. He didn't want this escalating – couldn't see it escalating. Or he'd have to intervene.

But escalate it did. The next few seconds were a blur for Dean.

"Dad, don't-" Dean panicked.

Too late. Sam's head snapped back as an audible crack thundered through the room. Dean shut his eyes on instinct – then opened them a second later to see John's open hand and Sam's pink, flushed cheek. His baby brother wasn't even on his feet, hair tousled, eyes wet with tears, hands clenched at his sides.

"Sammy!" Dean pushed his father aside, watching as John stumbled a few steps back. Sam slouched against the wall, head down, staring at the ground. Dean reached a hand out, wanting to console – wanting to hold his little brother close to him. But he found himself unable to move, torn between understanding the father who had raised him and the father who had just hit his brother.

They seemed like different people.

"Dad!" Dean said. "Why the fuck did you do that?"

"He deserved it," John said, eyes dark, distant. "He killed Mary."

"What-"

"The fire." John looked scarily faraway. "He blames me about what Mary would have wanted. Damn kid killed her in the fire."

If the silence had been audible before, it was now deafening. Dean stood frozen, staring at the man who had swiped him extra donuts during drive thrus and had given him secret winks when he'd been scared. Stared at Sam, whose eyes were filled with hurt, a twisting, painful look on his face – the kind of face that said, you're right, it was my fault. The tears in his eyes, the flush on his left cheek…

Dean sucked in a heavy breath. "Sam," he said quietly. "C'mon, let's go up to my room."

Sam didn't move.

John said, "Let him stay. I'll teach him some more manners."

"Dad," Dean said sharply. He inhaled deeply, trying to control the wrought nerves scissoring through his body. He didn't know how to handle this. Sure, Sam and his dad fought – they fought all the damn time. But never like this. John had never raised a hand on Sam, never said words this cruel.

"Sam," Dean said again, more of an order this time. "C'mon."

This time, Sam nodded briefly – eyes flitting to John before returning to the ground – and he followed Dean up the long case of stairwell. As they walked up, Dean was painfully aware of the soft padding of Sam's socked feet behind him, the bent head of floppy hair. He felt a lurch of fondness in his heart.

"It's okay," Dean said softly.

Sam didn't respond.

They finally reached Dean's bedroom. They moved around a lot, and most of the time, Dean and Sam had to share. But on rare, lucky occasions, the two of them got their own separate rooms. Dean sat down on the edge of the bed, and waited for Sam to follow. However, Sam just stood at the entrance, twisting his hands around the cuff of his sweater.

Dean beckoned him to sit. "C'mon, the bed's not going to eat you."

"Dean," Sam said, and it broke Dean's heart to hear the utter exhaustion in his voice. The tears were more prominent now – glistening wetly under his lashes. "I didn't – I didn't mean to – " He took a shaky breath, unable to get his words out clearly. It was unnerving, since Sam was usually very articulate and intellectual.

Dean, it's called a hyperbole. It's when you over exaggerate things. And saying pie is the most important thing in the world is definitely a hyperbole.

Dean, guess what? We read John Steinbeck's "Of Mice and Men!" in school today. It was a great piece of literature, you know. And the main character, Lennie? He really reminded me of you – big and dumb. Oh, aside from the whole choking people thing.

Hey, Dean? I think I should be a lawyer, don't you?

Dean's heart throbbed. "Come here," he said, sweeping his arms out.

Sam shifted uncomfortably at the door. But then – in a flash- he ran over to Dean, colliding against his chest, arms going around his neck. Dean's grip tightened as he held his younger brother protectively in his arms, his stomach rolling when he felt Sam's hands clenching onto the back of his jacket.

"He was way out of line," Dean mumbled. "I'm on your side this time, Sammy. Don't you worry."

The words were soothing, but Sam didn't respond to them. He just held onto Dean, head buried in his older brother's shoulder. Dean let out an uneven breath. Sam's hair tickled his ears, and the boy's long legs tried to fit crookedly into Dean. It was like he was trying to shrink into a ball bundled of Sammy Winchester.

After a moment, Sam pushed away from Dean, and made himself comfortable on the bed next to him. They sat like that, both brothers spread out on the bed, listening to the quiet hum of electricity lines. Faintly, Dean heard the click of the liquor cabinet's lock – and knew his dad was bringing out the alcohol.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. His skull was going to pop out of his head.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered.

"Don't," Dean said. "Just don't. It's not your fault."

"It's not like I meant it." Sam fiddled with the end of his blanket, hand resting on his cheek. "I didn't – I mean, I didn't even know mom."

"He wasn't supposed to hit you," Dean said. The shock had settled in, and a layer of anger was rapidly thickening. Dean could feel ire simmering in his blood – a pumping sensation of nobody hurts my Sammy curling around in his brain like smoky fire. He wanted to go downstairs and give his father a piece of his mind – maybe even swing a punch.

But Sam was staring at him expectantly, arms wrapped around his knees. As if Dean would have all the answers.

"He shouldn't have hit you," Dean said again. "Lemme see your cheek. Did it bruise?"

Sam lifted his hand away, and Dean observed his face. The flush of pink was already fading, and Dean knew his brother would be left unmarked. But so what? What about the next time dad got pissed? Would he punch Sam in the face? Spank him? Grab him by the hair? Dean didn't know, and it was the kind of uncertainty that made his head throb between his eyes.

"Did it hurt?" Dean asked.

Sam tightened, curling into himself. "I guess. Just for a second though."

Man, he couldn't stand when the kid was this tense. Shifting over, Dean wrapped his arms around Sam again, his heart crumpling when he saw Sam's shoulders relaxing at the simple touch. Sam was too sweet to deserve any of their dad's words. No matter how stubborn or smart-aleck he was, he was still too sweet.

He was too nice. Too good.

His little brother was on par with an angel.

"It's not true," Dean told him. "Mom – I mean, we know the shithead who killed her was a big son of a bitch. And you're not a son of a bitch-" Dean paused awkwardly. "Well, I mean, you are a bitch, but not the son of one."

Sam's eyes watered. "You're such a jerk."

"And you're my geeky baby brother."

Sam lifted his chin, and smiled softly. It was the kind of smile that drove Dean mad; made him want to do everything to protect this kid from the dangers of the world. Sam had had that sweet smile when was 5, and he still had it at 14. Dean had a feeling Sam would be able to make him melt no matter how old they got.

Downstairs, there was a bang as glass shattered on the wall, and Dean cringed. He knew he would have to deal with that later – deal with his father, the ghost of the man he'd once been. Deal with the splattering of sharp glass on the ground. Maybe tomorrow he'd deal with them. But right now, he was content with having Sam pressed against his side, the soft breathing of his younger brother lulling him to a gentle peace.

"Hey, Sam?"

The crashing got louder.

Sam snuggled close. "Yeah?"

"You're one hell of a bitch."

Dean could feel Sam's smile in his shoulder. "Shut up, Dean."

And, hey. Maybe they wouldn't have their father anymore. Maybe they'd be orphans, roaming the street without parents.

But as long as he had Sammy?

Dean held Sam tighter, closer.

He had a feeling he would be just fine.