Disclaimer: I own nothing, still.

Author's Note: A bit late for Father'd Day...sorry.

"I'm done. Done, done, done," he finishes before collapsing onto the bed.

Ava smiles, that mischievous child smile, as she makes her way over, flopping down beside him. "Wore you out, huh?" she asks, eyes alight with laughter.

Dean only sighs, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her close. "They're monsters, all of them. Even the little one."

"They're your children," she chides with a slap to the chest. "They're angels."

"Monsters."

"Angels."

"Monsters."

She lifts herself up, swings a leg over his trunk, straddling him with a coy little smirk before leaning down and kissing him, long and slow, a firm but gentle tug on his bottom lip. "Angels," she breathes into his mouth.

This time he doesn't argue.

He thrusts his fingers into her hair, tangling them in her dark curls as he pulls her closer. She giggle-moans into him, small hands moving down to the waistband of his jeans, popping the button, working the zipper, reaching down…

"Dad!"

She releases her grip and sits up atop him, all the while "No, no, no," eking out of him in an exasperated whine. Because Father's Day or not, the last person he wants to be right now is Dad.

"Your son's calling," she leans down and whispers in his ear, a low thing to do, a cheap and dirty trick. Because she's gotta know that there's no way he can stop, no way he can…

"Daddy!"

"What?!" he screams, Ava nearly falling off the bed as the bellow resounds in her ear. She tries to get some balance back but hits the floor with a heavy thud as soon as Dean moves to help her, his shoulder coming up too fast and knocking her in the face.

She sits on the floor, stunned, for a fraction of a second before Michael swings open the door, barreling through at full speed and tripping over his poor felled mother. Which, as soon as he recovers from the shock of being head over heels in his mom's lap, he realizes is the funniest thing, ever.

Dean falls back into the bed, shutting his eyes tight. "What?" he repeats defeated, softer but still loud enough to overcome his son's laughter.

Michael sputters, giggles never getting a chance to fade as Ava pulls him closer, mercilessly tickling his sides, his neck, just under his chin. "John," he screeches out, followed by, "'S crying," through uneven breaths.

"Great," Dean mumbles as he pulls himself off the bed, stepping exaggeratedly over his wife and son. "Just freakin' great."

This is getting ridiculous, he thinks to himself, his eldest son, now ten-years-old, still falling into tears at the drop of a hat. This is ridiculous.

He doesn't bother to ask why John's crying as he makes his way out of the room, Michael and Ava's laughter mingling together behind him. He decides he doesn't even care why as he descends the stairs, John's wails, soft and steady, mixing in with Samantha's more urgent, shrieking cry in the living room ahead.

He bends down to pick up his daughter, wrapping the two-year-old in his arms even as she pushes and pulls away. "What's wrong, pumpkin?" he asks, wiping hot tears from her red cheeks. She doesn't answer, only leans back in his grip, reaching out for John. He sighs, long and hard. "Fine," he mumbles, setting her down on the couch next to her brother.

John settles to a mere whine and whimper as Sammy scuttles near him, laying her head in his lap.

She's done this forever, it seems, burst into unruly tears alongside her brother, never letting him cry alone. From the time she could crawl she would unsteadily make her way over, flop down as close to him as possible and cry her little heart out alongside him. Maybe she was commiserating, misery loving company and all. Dean liked to think his daughter simply had a twisted sense of humor and was actually ridiculing the boy, imitating his pathetic wails. But, more likely than anything was the simple, she loves him explanation Ava offered. She loves him and it makes her sad when he's sad. Really, who knows?

"Okay," he says, absolutely no patience in his voice. "What? What happened?"

"She ruined it," John hiccups, pointing to a pile of paper and crayons on the coffee table.

Dean leans over and picks up the paper on top, a homemade Father's Day card, just like he gets every year. There's a picture of a tree with a car parked next to it – the Impala most likely, which would make sense since he had just allowed John to work on it with him for the first time last week – on the front. Inside, in careful block letters is, "Happy Father's Day!" Simple and to the point, just as he likes. John's name scrawled underneath in messy cursive, is evidence of another attempt at that new and unique signature he's been attempting for months.

But the problem is clearly evident, long and colorful scribbles blazing across the interior, both sides. Wild and heedless strokes that, he can see looking at the papers beneath, had spread far off the intended page. And, yup, that's his girl for sure. An artist in the making according to Sarah. A pain in the ass according to her mother, who had put way too much time and cleanser into scrubbing waxy marks off the furniture and walls.

"She ruined it!" John screams again, which is odd, because, though he seems to be angry with his little sister, his hand still absently pets her head, smoothing back her dark wavy hair as she lays in his lap.

"She didn't ruin it," he says, more terse than intended. Then, a bit softer, "It's great just the way it is. I love it."

"No you don't," he says unsteadily, tears springing back into motion. "Liar."

"It's even better now," he tries, though even the false enthusiasm can't cover his irritation. "Now it's from both of you."

John turns on him with angry eyes and yells, "It's supposed to be from me!" causing Sammy to shriek even louder.

Dean scrubs at his eyes with the heels of his hands, trying to will the fatigue and annoyance and just plain bitterness away.

He should have known this was coming. He should have seen it, slowly building all morning. First, when Ava let Michael pick out Sammy's clothes this morning instead of John. Then when the special recipe, Daddy's Day pancakes burned on the stove while Ava was hurriedly chatting on the phone. And then, when the kids dragged him to the zoo – because that's really where he wanted to go, not them, no sir, Dean just loved the freakin' zoo – and he didn't have enough money to buy everyone a funnel cake so they had to share.

And through it all, John barely held on, resolve steadily cracking and chipping away with each little thing that went wrong.

Dean sat down on the couch next to his wailing children and thought, for the first time that day, about his own father. There were too many possible remarks he could picture his dad sharing, too many possible gems of wisdom. Boy needs to be taught some respect. You go too easy on him, spoil him. You know what happens when fruit begins to spoil, son? It rots away, taking all the other fruit with it.

What did he know anyway? What the hell kind of bang up job did he do with his kids?

Of course, he and Sam did know the meaning of respect. They learned to mind their elders while still never wholly bending to authority. They survived, time and time again, no matter what came their way.

Because they were strong. Because John had taught them to be strong, and sturdy, and self-sufficient. Say what you will about his methods, but John Winchester had a way of instilling the most necessary and sought after traits in his children.

And Dean was steadfastly failing at that.

He leans back into the couch, eyes closed as he reaches out a hand, pats and soothes his little girl's baby soft butt. But she continues to cry. John continues to cry. And Dean continues to hear his father's voice echo in his head.

He's too soft. He needs discipline. He needs a good pop upside the head.

Then another voice interferes, worms its way in through the fray. Sam. From ten years back, when Maya was newly born, and Dean was just coming to grips with the fact that, in some short months, he too would be a father.

"You'll be great," Sam had said, simply, assuredly.

"I don't know what to do," he'd answered, lost in Maya's dark baby eyes, imagining they were those of his own child, staring back at him helplessly.

Sam had laughed, short and sincere. "Sure you do. You've been doing it for years." But Dean knew that how he'd been with Rachel was nothing compared to how he would be with his own kid, that being an uncle was not at all akin to being a parent. And Sam must have sensed what he was thinking, because he shook his head sternly and said, "With me, Dean. You've been doing it for years with me."

He rolls his head to the side and looks at his children, curled into a loose teary ball together. "John," he says, not moving, still gazing in his direction. His son looks up, meets his eyes in that way only John does, with absolute trust. "Why are you crying?" he asks, as he's never asked it before, with interest.

John sniffles, but doesn't respond, his eyes remaining locked with his father.

Dean moves his hand up from Samantha and into his son's sandy hair, tussling, then smoothing it back down. "Do I take care of you?" he asks in an almost absent way.

John, not even entirely sure that the question is meant for him, gives only a slight nod.

"I took care of him," he says, looking at John, but thinking of Sam. "There was a lot I didn't do, didn't know how to do. But I always took care of him. Always kept him safe. Always tried, anyway." He lets his hand drop, fall back beneath the boy's head, resting between the cushion and his neck.

"Who?" John asks timidly, voice raw from tears.

He sits upright, looks his son straight in the eye and says, "I'm not gonna tell you not to cry. I'm not gonna tell you it makes you weak or a pussy or anything else." He shifts a bit, turning so that he faces him head on. "But it has to be for a good reason. This," he says, picking up the card, "is not a good reason."

John nods, taking in what he's been told a million times before. But as soon as he begins to look away, assuming the talk is over, Dean's hand reaches out and takes hold of his chin, turning him back to lock eyes once more. "You know why it's not a good reason?"

He shrugs, sniffles again.

"Because I don't care about some card that's been scribbled on. Or some plate that's been broken. I don't care if you said something to make your cousin mad, or if you drove your mother crazy bouncing off the walls, or if you didn't get a star on some homework assignment. I don't care. It doesn't matter."

"But," John starts, ready to weep again at hearing how little his dad cares.

But he's interrupted with, "I will always take care of you. I will always keep you safe. No matter what you do, or how mad I get, or…" He stops, looks away briefly as though searching for words in the air of the room. "Always," he breathes out, realizing there really are no other words.

Samantha sniffles and coughs, heavy, tired head still laying in her brother's lap, and they both glance down at her. "You took care of Uncle Sam," he almost whispers.

Dean doesn't answer, doesn't have to. He looks down at John's hand as it traces smooth circles on Sammy's back, quieting her down, urging her to sleep. "She cries when you cry," he says softly.

He continues his gentle caress, other hand resting lightly on her head as he says, in a voice more adult than it's ever been, "That's not a reason to cry."