It wasn't supposed to end this way. Not with Sam holding on to John's hand as flames consumed his brother's body. Things were supposed to be different. Things were supposed to be better.
It was a routine hunt, nothing special. A werewolf had been terrorizing Lebanon, Kansas. It was so close to home that John took the job without a second thought. It was simple enough that John didn't bother booking a room for his two boys to stay in. He left eight year old Dean in charge of four year old Sam. Always protect Sammy, he'd say; that was Dean's job. They sat in the backseat of the Impala while their dad ventured into the woods with his silver bullets.
The last thing he saw before he started his Hunt was Dean holding a sleeping Sam. Dean had his knife nearby just in case. John felt a swell of pride and love for his sons bubbling up. He squashed them out quickly, though. He wouldn't carry those thoughts to the dark place he was about to enter.
He searched the forest, but there wasn't anything to even hint at werewolf activity. He scratched at his stubble-covered cheek. This was supposed to be easy. Supposed to… A scream pierced his thoughts, shrill and demanding. John ran back to the car as fast as his legs could carry him, but it wasn't fast enough.
Sam was propped against the car. His arm was slashed to ribbons and he was in shock. John scooped him from the ground and cast around frantically for Dean. All he saw was a dead werewolf with the tip of Dean's silver knife poking out of it's back.
"Dean!" John cried, his gravelly voice echoing in the night.
"Deeeeean!" Sam screeched. He'd started to sob and scream uncontrollably. The shock had worn off and he was pointing his tiny fingers at the monster's carcass. John set him down in the car and went over to the dead creature.
With every ounce of strength he owned, John threw the werewolf off of his boy. Dean's face was a mess of bloody pulp and John tried to ignore his ripped-open chest cavity. He tried to pretend that he couldn't see Dean's faintly beating heart.
"It's okay, son. I'm here," John whispered. He wanted nothing more than to hold Dean and comfort him, but was afraid it would put him in more pain.
"Dad?" His voice was barely above a breath.
"I'm here, Dean."
"Is-" He took a stuttering breath. "Is Sammy okay?"
"He's just fine," John said. He let the tears fall but kept his voice steady. He had to be strong for Dean. "He's going to be alright." Dean let out a single, blood-filled cough and took one shallow breath before his heart stopped.
"Dean?" John tried, but he knew it was over. Even though his face was mangled, John could have sworn Dean was smiling. He pulled his son to him and let out a wail. That was his boy…
John took Sammy's hand and led him from the smoldering ashes of the pyre. Before the door to the Impala closed, Sam looked up from his bandaged arm to the pile of smoking sticks and whispered, "Dean."