This is just a little oneshot I did--a pastfic. It takes place the night Sam almost died from the Shritja, and what else happened that night. Please review. I don't own Supernatural.

i"Dad never spoke about it again. I didn't ask. But he looked at me different. /i

John Winchester knew he would have to talk to his oldest son at some point. But sitting on the bed, Sam's head pressed to him, all he could think about was how close he had come to losing Sammy.

Glancing up at Dean, he saw the boy was close to tears. What had he been thinking, leaving a five tear alone with a shritja on the loose?

Averting his eyes when Dean stared at him, John said in a stony voice, "Go to bed, Dean. Now." Dean scurried away, the gun falling to the floor with a clatter.

"Daddy, what's wrong?" Sam questioned in a muffled voice. John kissed the top of his head and pulled away.

"Nothing, Sammy." He picked the small boy up. "How 'bout sleeping with your old man today?

"Okay!" replied Sam happily. John carried him into his room and they lay down together. But John didn't fall alseep, no, not for a long time. He found himself checking Sam's pulse every few minutes. He wanted a beer bad. Checking the clock, John decided it was late now. The shritja wouldn't come back.

John left the room, keeping the door open all the way just in case. He peaked in Dean's room--Dean wasn't asleep either. He was sitting on his bed staring at the wall. John knew that this was the time to talk to his son.

Instead, he quietly slipped past the room and grabbed a beer before sinking into an armchair. Once more, the question came to mind: What was Dean thinking, leaving a five year old boy alone with a shritja on the loose?

Unlike last time, a small voice in the back of his head answered. iWhat were you thinking, leaving a nine year old boy alone with his brother with a shritja on the loose/i

Very slowly, John put down the bottle. Dean was just a kid. And in a way, John was slowly taking away his childhood by placing this responsibility on him. Too much trust in the boy. But Dean couldn't afford to have a childhood, not with the life John had chosen.

He would have to remember Dean's childish mistake that nearly took Sam's life. It couldn't--no, wouldn't--happen again. Taking another gulp, John banished the guilt from his heart. This was the road he had chosen. There's no going back.

When John passed Dean's room, Dean was still sitting there. "Dad?" he called out in a hoarse voice. John reluctantly poked his head in.

"What?" he asked in a voice harsher than he meant it to be. Dean cringed.

"I'm sorry." Dean really looked sorry that he had frozen, holding that gun. John could forgive Dean, easy. He was nine years old. But the mistake had been far too grave.

"Go to sleep, Dean," John ordered. Dean stared for a moment, needed John to say more, but John didn't. Dean crawled into his covers, waiting for John to say goodnight, come into the room, maybe. But John couldn't. He walked back into his bedroom.

Sam was fine.

John lay down, slumber tugging at his eyes as he slipped away into a dream, a dream he wouldn't remember in the morning . . .