A/N: I know this one is really short, but it hit me kinda hard, and I felt like we'd need to breathe after this one.
"Dad, look." Dean pointed to a single word at the bottom of the add: 'Hits'.
As they watched, the number following that lone syllable changed from a two to a three.
"What the hell?" John furrowed his brows.
Dean scrolled up and down the page. "All the ads have it. I guess it lets the escorts know how much competition they've got."
"So three - shit! Four civilians could be walking into a trap?"
A sickening dread for the fates of those unsuspecting young men rose painfully in Dean's chest.
"Shit, shit, shit!" John stood, rubbing his chin forcefully as he paced.
"I gotta call right now," Dean insisted. "Let 'em know I'm the hunter, the other guys are just civilians -"
"You really think that will help?" John rounded on him, head lowered like an angry bull. "All you'll be telling them is that the appetizers are on the way, but the main course is comin' up, red hot and rare!"
Dean swallowed audibly, willing himself not to retreat in the face of his father's growing rage.
A flush of shame softened John's features, and he turned away abruptly. "We have to use it. It's the only advantage we've got, and it's a damn slim one." His frenetic pacing had brought him to a wall. He leaned his forehead on it, shoulders hunching as he tucked his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.
"I don't like using you as bait."
The fear and pain that rode that admission hit Dean like a blast of cold water, stunning him into mental inertia.
"I know I've done it before, but I've always hated it. Hated myself for doing it." His voice was congested with the effluvium of regret.
A bitter-sweet agony twisted in Dean's gut, and he blinked back tears. "Dad…" His voice was strained, no more than a whisper. He wanted to go to his father, to say whatever it took to stop the blistering confession, but he couldn't.
The moment consumed them, encapsulating both men in a crushing weight that rendered them paralyzed and mute.
I love you, Dad. I would take on this entire nest with nothing but my bare hands for you.
"It's okay, Dad. It's my choice, not yours, and I can't let someone else die when I'm the one they're looking for." He took a step forward, wanting to offer everything: forgiveness, comfort, understanding, unquestioning devotion. Love. "I'm a Winchester, Dad. This is what we do."
Before Dean could do more than register the presence of tears on his father's face, John had crossed the room, folding his older son into a desperate embrace that barely left the young man room to breathe.
Dean brought his arms up, tentatively returning the unprecedented display of affection. "Dad?"
"I'm sorry, Dean. I'm so sorry."
What the hell? He rubbed the older man's back soothingly, feeling the heat of his father's pent-up emotion emanating from him. "It's okay, Dad. It's not your fault. It's okay."
"I love you, Dean, and I'm so fucking proud of you, and I never should have -" his voice caught, and Dean just wanted to beg him to stop talking " - never should have made you feel like...like it was okay to risk you like this, like you're just a soldier, a pawn. That's not how I see you, not how I've ever seen you. I made you grow up too fast, and I -"
"Shhhhh, shhhhh. Stop, Dad, please. You're killin' me." Dean buried his face in his father's neck, the stiff collar of the man's 'Fed suit' abrading his skin as he coated it with his tears. "Any good thing I am, any good that I do, it's because of you. There's nothing to apologize for." He tightened his embrace, willing the physical contact to draw his father's pain out, draining it into himself instead. "I love you, Dad. I love you."
Recovery is a long and broken road, but the two men were on it, and they were on it together.