John really should have known better. He'd trained the girl himself. Yet somehow he forgot to use the special knock on the motel door and nearly got himself shot for it.

He'd slouched through the door, guard down, and turned around to check on Dean's progress in following him. When he'd faced into the room again, he was looking down the barrel of a .22 rifle. "Stand down, Kimmy," he ordered the ten year old blonde girl behind the gun.

"Damn, Dad, I almost shot you," she sighed, lowering her favored weapon. Her eyes raked over him, lightening when she found no apparent wounds. He didn't know if her relief was for his well-being or the fact that she didn't have to stitch him up this time. Then her expression darkened and she demanded in a low voice, "Where's Dean?"

She glanced at the bed as she asked, and John noted that Sammy was sprawled across the mattress, sound asleep. "I'm here," Dean mumbled from behind John. Their father stepped aside and closed the door, revealing a worn out and dust covered big brother. "I'm fine, Kimmy," he assured her as she assessed his disheveled state.

"Jacket off, let me see your arm, and then you shower," she ordered, disregarding her older brother. She knew he played down his injuries and she was not having it. Just like Dean knew better than to argue with her when she was like this. As she crossed her arms, she glanced at her father and added, "You, shower. You smell like the inside of a vacuum."

Once in the safety of the shower, John let his head fall against the wall. Now that it was over, he could allow himself the emotional rollercoaster that had been Dean's first hunt. The boy had done well, though there was always room for improvement. And Kim had fallen right into her medical role, even at two in the morning and being only ten years old. He huffed a laugh that wasn't humorous at his life and went back to business. Dean was waiting for the bathroom and Kim was sitting on the end of John's bed when he emerged. Dressed, he sat beside his only daughter and let his arms rest on his thighs. "You did good, Kimmy."

"Even though I almost shot you?" she checked, glancing at him from green eyes that matched Dean's perfectly.

"Especially because you almost shot me," he replied, patting her heavily on the shoulder. Then he leaned backwards, eyes closing before he landed.

His daughter got to her feet, cleaning up the first aid kit as she waited for Dean to reappear. When he finally did, she was leaning back against the headboard, combing her fingers through their little brother's hair. "Feel better?" she murmured as he sat on Sammy's other side.

"Could probably sleep for a week," he whispered, letting his head fall into the crappy pillow. They were quiet for a minute before Dean spilled. "It was terrible, Kimmy."

"I thought it was just a salt and burn," she murmured, turning on her side so she could reach over the eight year old. Gentle fingers brushed wet hair off his forehead, and he turned tired eyes to her. "What happened?"

"It was an old man. His son offed him for the family fortune and then some genius city slicker built an apartment complex on the land. Old man upgraded from farmhouse to penthouse," the oldest of the three siblings sighed.

His little sister watched his eyelids droop, and she smiled sadly. "How many people did he kill?"

"Dad thinks it was somewhere around two dozen over three decades. Son-of-a-bitch started a fire in the ceiling."

"You didn't tell Dad," she realized, and John watched through slits as her small hand came around to the back of her brother's neck. She pulled him upwards enough so she could bend over Sammy and lean their foreheads together. "Breathe, Dean, you're okay."

"All I could see was the house all over again," he admitted, and John's stomach sank. He'd never even considered what Dean had been thinking about as he'd torched the skeleton. It didn't matter to Kim though, even though she'd thought if it before they'd left the motel room three days ago. Now, she held her brother close, judgment free as his game face fell away.