2

"Dad, NO!!"

Dean reacted a split second sooner than Sam, taking off like he was spring loaded. Gun held forgotten in his hand, he ran straight for John Winchester who was closing in fast on the puppy like the trained hunter that he was, a Remington semi-automatic rifle cradled in his arms.

"Don't you shoot him!" Sam cried out, fury and pleading taking equal share in his hoarse voice as he overcame his initial burst of frozen panic and shot past Dean, long legs eating up the ground. Terror was pulsing through him, pushing him to greater speed, terror for Spike and terror for the knowledge that he wasn't sure he'd forgive his father if he shot the puppy down.

The elder Winchester had slowed at his sons' frantic shouts, giving Spike enough time to reach the sanctuary of his packmates. Sam was scooping the puppy up even as he skidded to a halt, cradling Spike protectively against his chest as he ran gentle hands over the puppy's head and body, soothing the trembling hell hound with his touch and the rumble of his voice. His own heart was racing and he concentrated on stilling it as he watched his father approach, an all too familiar expression of anger on the older man's stern features.

Seeing Spike safe in Sam's arms, Dean slowed as well, coming up to stand shoulder to shoulder with his brother, green eyes wary as the joy of seeing his father again warred with the uncertainty of the circumstances.

"Dad," Dean greeted his father, equal portions of welcome, caution and respect in his voice.

John barely spared Dean a glance before turning his glare on Sam. "What the fuck do you think you're doing? That's a God damned hell hound Sammy. Put it down."

The order sounded angry and incredulous. Just like old times.

"No," Sam responded, chin stubborn, eyes defiant.

Shit, Dean thought ruefully. Just like old times. "Dad…" he interjected, trying to explain. "We know Spike's a hell hound but…"

"Spike?" John turned his scowling attention to his oldest son. "You named a creature from hell Spike? Son, this thing is not a fucking pet, it's a demon." The incredulity in his father's voice made Dean wince.

"He's not a creature from…well, okay, yeah he is but…he's not evil," Dean had automatically fallen into his soothing 'let's all get along' voice, honed from years of standing between his father and Sam as he stepped forward to put himself once again literally between the two men.

"He's a hell hound Dean. As in…from hell," John responded impatiently and gestured at Sam again. "Son, put the dog down now."

Sam just shook his head, chin jutting out stubbornly. "I'm not putting him down until you promise not to hurt him."

"Fine," John said immediately. "I won't hurt it. Just put it down."

"Jesus, you're fucking lying to me," Sam said in disbelief, tightening his hold on Spike instinctively.

"Dammit Sam, you put that dog…"

"You never listen! You just…"

"Enough!!" Dean roared causing both men to turn their disgruntled stares on him and Spike to whimper.

Sighing Dean focused on his father. "Dad you need to trust us. We've had Spike for almost two months. We wiped out his mother and litter mates because, hell yeah, they were evil. But Spike was different. He is different. He doesn't have a mean bone in him." His tone was almost apologetic but there was no give either and Sam was reminded that the only times Dean ever went against Dad was when he was trying to protect someone from the other man's anger; usually Sam.

Startled, John studied his oldest son's face, the sincerity that shone through. He switched his gaze to his youngest son's face, seeing the too familiar stubborn anger. Finally he let his gaze fall to the thing shivering in Sam's arms.

"Let me see it," he finally said, placing the rifle on the ground and holding out his arms to Sam who didn't move, eyeing his father suspiciously.

John gave him a gruff frown. "Sam, I promise, I won't hurt it. At least not right now," he added and Sam must have seen something in his face, or maybe it was the softly admonishing "Sam," from Dean because his youngest son finally, with a comforting hush to the hound, put the puppy in his arms with the warning "don't scare him."

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the order, John held the warm wriggling body in his capable hands and studied it dispassionately. He'd been lying on his bed roll at the far edge of the meadow when the noise had warned him of its initial approach, the snuffling, panting and soft swish of moving grass, indicating that some sort of small animal was approaching. He'd figured a fox or a rabbit or maybe a skunk. He hadn't been worried. Not with what he knew about the meadow. So when the hell hound had stumbled into view his first, instinctive reaction had been to smile and think 'puppy' because even John Winchester was susceptible to cuteness.

He'd started to hold out his hand for the dog because--despite Sammy currently looking at him like he was a serial murderer--he did like dogs. But then his hunter's eyes had seen the red irises and the pattern of its fur and identified it as a hell hound; a baby one maybe, but a hell hound nonetheless and therefore evil and therefore in need of a one way trip back to hell. John had reached for his knife before, cursing silently, he'd remembered just why this location was such a good meeting site for his boys. Weapons useless, he'd grabbed his rifle and started the chase, herding it out of the clearing where he could take the shot.

As he'd followed its panicked yelps, he'd scanned the area for other predators, knowing it was unlikely an immature hell hound had made its way here on its own, which is why he'd been unsurprised to see two figures heading towards him. The shock had come with the realization that the figures were his sons.

Upon recognizing Sam and Dean, John's first reaction had been fear. Whatever had brought this hell hound with it could be targeting the boys; they were sure as hell running as though the hounds of hell were chasing them. His second emotion was startlement when he realized his boys weren't running from something they were running to something. And then Sam had scooped up the damned hound and tried to protect it from him which was when John's third emotion had kicked in--anger.

Now, with his sons watching him like he was the damn bad guy, John cautiously held the hound, looking for signs of evil. It didn't look very dangerous, John silently admitted to himself, forcing his temper down and examining it objectively. It was whimpering and wriggling, obviously not wanting to be held any more than John wanted to hold it. He held it higher, up to eye view. He'd run into hell hounds before and they were aggressive killing machines made up of raw, snarling power. They were evil and no matter how cute this puppy was it was eventually going to turn into a killing…slurp. Startled, John jerked the dog back. It had just licked him. It had just licked him and now was hanging limp in his grip giving him a pitiful look out of big somehow soulful red eyes.

"Yip!"

Well shit.

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A/N - Thanks for the lovely reviews guys! It's really cool that people still seem to remember this!