When John Winchester got back to the motel, he wasn't surprised to see Dean waiting up for him, cleaning the guns in the kitchenette. He could see Sam sleeping on the bed, arms thrown out, sheets twisted around his waist.
He put his bag on the counter and asked unnecessarily, 'Sammy asleep?' He didn't expect the look on Dean's face when he finally looked at John. 'Dean. What's wrong, son?', he asked reaching out to put his hand on his shoulder.
'Don't touch me! Don't!' Dean hissed, slapping his hand away furiously. John watched as his oldest son struggled for composure. 'I..today..Sammy..' His voice wavered and he tried again, jaw clenched against the tears, 'I took care of it this time. OK? I took care of it'.
John gathered his son into a hug, Dean's body stiff and unyielding. He whispered 'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Dean.' He heard Dean take in a shuddering breath and collapse into the hug. He screamed silently into John's jacket.
By the time Dean had got the whole sordid story out, John was shaking with fury and relief. He could help asking over and over again, 'Is Sammy all right? Are you sure Sammy is all right?'
He should have asked Dean 'and you? are you all right?' but looking at Dean's pale face over a table of dissembled guns, he found he couldn't get the words past his lips.
Instead he said, 'You did good, Dean. You did good protecting your brother'. He ruffled his hair. 'Let's see what we can do to get you a gun small enough for you wear concealed'
Dean gave him a wan smile. 'I'm still keeping the khukri though.'