Neither Dean nor Sam were among my recent birthday presents… so they're still not mine…

o0o

They were once again in the schoolyard playground, only this time there were no other kids about and Dean was putting Sammy through running and climbing drills, although he disguised them as races and playing tag. Dean, a week after Morse's attempted molestation, seemed the same to Sam's watchful eye, didn't seem changed or affected by his near brush with a human monster.

The older, supposedly wiser, Sam who was watching, couldn't believe that Dean was training him just as hard as his father ever did, but whereas Sammy whined and complained about their father's methods, Dean's sneakier means only brought smiles and shouts of joy from his younger counterpart. Sam couldn't believe how well indoctrinated into their father's mini soldier routine Dean was.

And Sam couldn't believe how pissed off he was that their Dad's agenda had even coloured their play time. But what really burned was how he'd never noticed it before, how he'd never thought about all the subtle, less tangible things Dean had taught him. Yes, Dean had taught him the obvious things such as tying his shoelaces, how to read, and the gamut from knife throwing to how to hotwire a car. And he'd also taught Sam basic 'how-to-be-a-Winchester' survival skills: how to hide their crazy lifestyle; how to deal with well meaning teachers and nosey neighbours who only wanted to help, but who would never understand; how to blend in, cover up and lie. But Dean had both deliberately and just by example reinforced their dad's training of stoic compliance, and had made Sam's eventual introduction to hunting seem heroic and vital as Sammy had still wanted to do everything Dean did. Dean had been Sammy's primary role model – for better or for worse – thank god mullet rock wasn't contagious or hereditary – and as a result could adapt and adjust to some of the most bizarre and constantly changing circumstances.

And Dean had taught him about family. Many of the friends he'd had over the years had commented on how cool a big brother he'd had, and how they'd wish their brother or sister would take such good care of him or her. And while during his teen years he'd mostly been resentful of Dean's hovering and their dad's rules, he still knew many of his fellow teens who'd gotten themselves into trouble because they'd had no one to turn to when they needed advice or just someone to listen, or no one to run to when the going got tough. But he'd had Dean. And he'd always known it.

Because, outside of university, almost all of his own happy memories had Dean at their core. And while Sam knew that their father loved them, he'd also come to realize during those four years away that Dean was the glue in their family; Dean was the link that Sam and John needed to make their family work. John and Sam were too much alike: they were both takers; Dean was a giver. Dean was definitely no angel: he could be as irritating and as short-tempered and closed off as anyone else; and while Dean thought Sammy had the market cornered on being stubborn, Sam knew that Dean had made tenacious bull-headedness an absolute art form. But Dean was a caregiver at heart and he had instinctively given everything he had to being what both his father and brother needed: their family had functioned as long as he could be both the much-vaunted 'good little soldier' and the often taken-for-granted big brother/protector. It was when John and Sam started to want different things, when they each wanted Dean to support their views and only their views, that it had all fallen apart.

Sam glanced at Chris standing beside him, for once not smirking or smug, just simply observing the two young Winchesters with a faint smile gracing his translucent features, and suddenly and indelibly Sam believed that Dean had taught Chris the true meaning of family. Because Dean understood family, even if and especially when it came in such an unusual package. He badly wanted to meet Chris' siblings, and not for what they could show him – he was getting heartily sick of Chris' teaching methods – as undeniably valuable as they were – but he wanted to see the ghostly family interact, wanted to see Dean's influence on someone else, even if it was on non-corporeal works of literature given substance.

But first things first. Where was their father? If Sam was remembering correctly he should be… ah there he was.

John Winchester looked haggard and tired, and much older than his age. He had several butterfly band-aids on a cut on his forehead and his partially closed jean jacket covered the bandages under his torn and tattered t-shirt. He had stopped at the entrance to the schoolyard and just watched as Sammy laughingly taunted Dean from the top of the climbing structure that Dean had chased him up. Sam watched as their father's perpetually guarded eyes momentarily softened as he watched his sons train. John's gaze was full of love and pride and it staggered Sam with its intensity. It was certainly a more open and honest look than Sam could ever remember his father sporting. And as he watched the look vanished to be replaced by the soldier's mask that Sam knew and loathed. His father's previously loving gaze hardened as he assessed his sons' abilities.

Across the playground Dean had seen his father and had instinctively stiffened his posture and had stopped teasing Sammy. He didn't immediately come over to John as Sammy was still at the top of the climbing structure, or give any visible clue that he'd seen him, but little Sammy knew that there was only one person who could make Dean 'go G.I. Joe' and he eagerly scanned the playground, squealing with delight when his eyes lit upon his long absent father.

He clambered down off the structure and calling to his brother ran towards their father.

"Dean, Dean! Dad's back, Dean! You said he'd come back soon and he's here!' At almost eight young Sam already knew that Winchesters didn't do public displays of affections, so he skidded to a halt right in front of his dad, but there's only so much restraint an excited boy could muster. He bounced on the balls of his feet, trying desperately to 'go G.I. Joe' himself, but failing utterly in his sheer delight to see his dad again. When his father put his hand on Sammy's shoulder to calm him down, Sammy gave into temptation and threw his arms around his dad. His father never flinched or winced just allowed the hug for a moment before he gently pried Sammy off of him.

Dean had followed more sedately and while he had to have been as delighted and even more so utterly relieved to finally be free of parental responsibility, he was in full soldier mode and greeted his father with a nod and waited for his father's current needs to become evident. His young but highly trained eyes did not miss his father's bandages or the exhaustion in his father's proud posture.

"Out playing games, I see." The senior Winchester could make even the blandest statements into a judgment.

Dean didn't flinch or otherwise react to this potential slight on his chosen methods of instructing Sammy. He simply answered his father with a crisp "yes, sir" and waited for whatever other judgment his father might pass. Dean knew his father would expect a full report later and was fervently hoping it would meet with his father's approval although none of his hopes or needs showed on his young face.

Dean might have taken the implied criticism in stride, but both Sam and Sammy bristled on their brother's behalf. Young Sammy was not going to see his hero impugned. He stridently started to sing Dean's praises and was enumerating all the things Dean had taught him or done while their father was away. John didn't try to stop Sammy's enthusiastic defense of his brother, or try to get him to calm down: he knew only time would calm Sammy down and that nothing would sway the youngest Winchester from his impassioned defense of his hero.

The trio headed back to their apartment.

"See? Even then, after months of surviving on our own, all he can say is 'you're not doing enough!' How can you possibly think that there is anything to learn from this fuc…"

Sam was frozen again.

"That trick just never gets old."

Chris had transformed into a stereotypical university professor, complete with baggy corduroy pants, and a shapeless cardigan sweater. Chris' brief grin of ghostly superiority faded and he slipped into lecture node. There was still some serious educating to be done..

"Did it ever occur to you what your father didn't say? He didn't say: "you didn't do enough", he didn't say "I'm disappointed in you," and true, he didn't say he was proud of Dean. But by then he was incapable of saying anything that in his own eyes would make him appear weak in front of his boys. By then he was well into his mission to mold you into self-sufficient soldiers that could take care of anything that might try to attack you. Yes, he was obsessed with finding what killed your mother, but he was also obsessed with keeping you and your brother safe! And yes, he had a bloody strange way of showing he cared, but he truly believed that his way was the best way and that the best chance for you to survive was to be ready for anything. And since what he was trying to defend you against was things that he couldn't predict, things he couldn't control and things that he sometimes couldn't imagine, he had to control what he could as best he could. And that meant controlling you and Dean, the only way he knew how."

Chris paused briefly as if expecting a rebuttal, and then smirked at his silent captive audience.

God he hoped Sam was actually listening.

"Did it also never occur to you that Dean understands your father and understand what he can and can't say and what he does and doesn't need? Don't you think that Dean could already translate John-speak? That he could understand that John didn't criticize him, John didn't say he was doing a bad job, just that he should have been more strict with you? And you might want to consider that Dean, who knew your dad's criticisms but who had already decided that he would preserve as much of your childhood as he could, could process the slight and dismiss it as meaningless as he had no intention of ever changing his dealings with you? So that what you perceive as a deadly insult was something that might not even have registered with Dean?

"Believe me, there were enough times that your father held Dean up to an impossible standard and many times that Dean was made to feel guilty or inadequate about times and situations that were often beyond his control. Most people define themselves by their accomplishments; Dean's resumé glosses over his achievements and catalogues a perceived list of failures. There's a lot he feels guilty about or wishes he could have done differently, but I suspect that he regrets very few of the decisions he made to keep his family together, to keep his family safe.

"And while it is admirable that you consistently take your brother's side and are ready to defend him at a moment's notice, he needs you and your father as much as you need him. Maybe more as he needs to be needed and your father and you validate his role."

"Alright, enough philosophizing, but I honestly think you're selling your brother and father short."

Chris released Sammy as he finally paused for … well not breath, exactly… but he paused, ending his impromptu lecture and giving Sam a chance to absorb some of the thoughts Chris was trying to drive home.

Chris shook his head at how tenaciously Sam was clinging to his rather black and white view of his family and hoped that this next bit would have some impact. Like a sledge hammer… or a Mack truck…

"Let's skip ahead, shall we?"

And suddenly it was dark outside, and it was just John and Dean in the living room of their apartment. Dean was just finishing both his report on everything that had happened and his scarily expert medical stitching job. John was listening with a grim tight-lipped expression, whether from pain or anger, Sam couldn't tell.

"Did you put the Beretta back safely and take out the bullets?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what did you do with the camcorder tape and the VHS tape?"

Dean straightened where he stood and wouldn't look at his dad. "I still have the camcorder tape." He paused to gather his courage: this was the part of his plan that his father might not approve of. "I gave Spenser's tape to his dad. Anonymously."

John just regarded his older son thoughtfully. If he remembered correctly… "Spenser's dad is a construction worker." A burly six-foot-three small-town redneck construction worker. Which meant…

"Steel-toed boots."

Father and son said it together and shared both a grim laugh and a rare but perfect moment of equanimity. Nothing was said for a while as father and son basked briefly in the knowledge that a very fitting justice had likely been served. Morse had been conspicuously absent for the past week, likely it now seemed in a nearby hospital.

Finally John spoke again. "Remind me Champ, to get more lighter fluid."

And Dean, who knew perfectly well that they had a goodly supply, flashed a cocky grin at his father, knowing that Morse's perfect apartment was about to become barbeque fodder. Message understood: tactics and results: approved.

"Now get to bed, Ace, we've got to keep moving in the morning."

"Yes, sir!"

And as Sam and Chris watched a genuinely content Dean headed for their bedroom, their father started to rifle through their supply bag.

The memory gently faded away.

o0o

TBC

Next update likely on Monday.