Summary: Sixteen year old Dean finds himself in a terrible position, defending himself and his brother from an unexpected, horrifying threat. Traumatised by what he has to do to follow his dad's most important order and his own promise to himself, Dean struggles to keep it together, desperate to keep Sammy safe and be the soldier his father wants him to be. (Teen!chesters - Dean is 16, Sam is 12. Rated for violence, gore and some mild swearing.)

Warnings: Violence and gore. Some mild swearing.

Disclaimer: Writing belongs to me. Everything else belongs to Warner Brothers/CW/Kripke and co. For entertainment purposes only. Recognisable lines are from 'Dark Angel', which belongs to James Cameron and Fox.

AN: I've always admired Jensen as an actor and recently I was very lucky to be able to get my hands on his episode of S1 of 'Dark Angel'. He was incredible in the role of Ben, who was so very different to Dean in so many ways, but hearing a couple of lines spoken by that character, delivered so heart-breakingly and perfectly, all I could see and hear in my head was a young Dean. I got to thinking what might have happened to Dean during his teenage years which might have made him say something similar, and so this fic was born. This is the darkest thing I've ever written so it was quite hard at times. I hope you enjoy reading. Reviews are very much appreciated :)

A Good Soldier

By Lanthiriel25

Bobby easily picked the lock to the peeling and warped door, but when he tried to push it open he found he couldn't. Throwing his weight against the wood, muscles straining, he was able to shift it a couple of inches, enough to peer around the opening and see the barricade which had been stacked against the door from the other side: table, chairs, anything that could be found in the small, non-descript motel room.

"Dammit!" he swore, dreading to think what the occupants of the room might have been feeling to have erected such a rudimentary defence; it spoke of fear and desperation.

Easing his foot through the gap, Bobby kicked out at the surprisingly solid table, grunting with the effort. It took several kicks before the leg shattered and the barricade was weakened considerably, enough for him to push open the door far enough to slide his way into the room.

It was dingy, the air thick and musty. The heavy dust danced in the shaft of sickly yellow light which dimly shone round the edges of the closed curtains and through the rips in the ancient material.

Carefully stepping over the debris piled up against the door, Bobby armed his shot-gun, the sound echoing unsettlingly in the thick silence. Gun held high, ready to shoot at a moment's notice, Bobby peered through the gloom, trying to find his charges, hoping against hope that he would find them alive and unharmed. He shook his head ruefully to himself as he rounded the room divider; Bobby wasn't a man prone to hoping, but for all he'd seen in this world, there was nothing in him that could accept innocent children being hunted and torn apart, a family, already fractured, being broken beyond repair. They had to be alright, they just had to be.

"Stop!"

Bobby spun round, gun raised towards the voice, before he quickly pulled the barrel up and away from the perceived threat. He recognised the voice, but only barely; he'd never heard it sound that way, so lost, so scared, so thin and fragile, but there was no doubting the sincerity of the order as his eyes adjusted to the low light. The handgun aimed at him was held in a trembling grip, the expression of the speaker terrified but resolute.

"Easy," he soothed, softening his gruff voice so as to not startle anyone as he slowly bent down to place the gun on the floor, kicking it away from him. The scraping sound of metal over wood briefly masked the shallow, scared breathing which cut through the quiet of the room. Bobby straightened up just as cautiously, eyes never wavering, raising his hands to show he wasn't a threat, that he meant no harm.

Bobby took in the sight before him, feeling his heart break in his chest. It was like something from a nightmare; he didn't know how he was going to fix this, make it all okay. He didn't know how any of them would move on from this, but he knew the scene in front of him was going to haunt his dreams for days to come.

Sam and Dean were huddled up against the wall, clinging together so tightly Bobby wasn't sure where one boy ended and the other began. Sam wasn't looking his way, eyes glued to his brother's denim clad knee, gaze vacant and unseeing; Bobby wasn't sure the younger boy even knew he was there. Sam's hand fisted tightly in his brother's torn t-shirt, white-knuckled and quaking slightly, Dean's arm hooked protectively round his shoulders, holding him close and safe. Even in the dim light Bobby could see the angry purple bruise, yellowing around the edges, blossoming on Sam's cheek, two bloody scratches cutting through the rainbow of colour, and the fading finger prints decorating his neck.

As heart-wrenching as Sam's appearance was it was Dean who really worried Bobby. The boy was visibly shaking, skin pale and clammy, making his freckles stand out in sharp relief. Blood was splattered across Dean's face, neck and arms, his clothes stained red. But apart from some cuts on his arms and a split lip Dean didn't seem to be hurt too badly from what Bobby could see. That meant the blood painting, branding, his skin wasn't his. Dean's wide green eyes kept flicking around the room, always coming back to rest on Bobby; he was blinking far more than natural, clearly having trouble keeping his focus. His expression was uncertain and scared, his arm holding the gun drooping slightly; his last reserves of energy were draining from him fast.

Dean's clothes were dirty and hanging off him, making Bobby wonder exactly how long the boys had been fending for themselves, not getting enough to eat, fear and worry for themselves and their father haunting their every moment. Bobby hadn't seen Dean for over a year and was surprised at how much he'd changed in that time; he had filled out, looking more of a man now than a young boy, but the fierce protection in his weary eyes was nothing new. Bobby knew he would do anything to keep his brother safe. Anything.

That much was undeniably clear as Bobby took in the third person in the room. John. Laying lifeless on the rough carpet, eyes glassy and unseeing, bullet holes puncturing his forehead and chest. The violence of the wounds and the blood splatter told Bobby that he had been shot at close range, even as he took in the blood-soaked carpet beneath him. Bobby closed his eyes against the gore, swallowing hard at seeing John so broken apart and mauled. He hadn't always seen eye to eye with John but seeing him like that was not easy. Taking in the state of the room, what he knew about John's latest hunt and the two boys, his mind quickly pieced together what must have happened, and it turned his stomach, his heart shattering for the boy in front of him. He should never have had to see this, never have been asked to do this. It would break the boy he was sure of it, if he hadn't broken already.

"Dean," he tried as he took a cautious step forward, halting as Dean tore his eyes away from his dead father, his gaze seeming to be uncontrollably drawn to the horrifying sight against his will.

"Stop! Don't come any closer!" Dean pleaded, a tear leaking from the corner of his eye unheeded as he gripped the gun harder, squinting slightly as he zeroed in on the perceived threat.

"Dean, it's me. It's Bobby," the older hunter reassured, taking another step closer.

Dean was shaking even harder now, biting his lip as he cocked the gun, tears shimmering in his eyes.

"No! No…You're not…I don't… P…prove it!"

Spying a blood-stained silver knife on the floor by Dean's feet, Bobby nodded towards it, silently asking permission from the spooked teenager. Dean hesitated a moment, before shifting slightly, picking up the metal and holding it out to Bobby.

"Don't even think…of trying anything," he ground out through gritted teeth.

Bobby guessed that he'd be able to disarm Dean with barely any effort, the state he was in, yet the determination and threat in his voice told him Dean meant every word he said, and taking away his only source of defence would most likely do more harm than good at that point in time. Reaching forward carefully, Bobby took knife, wiping it clean on his shirt, before slicing it neatly across his forearm.

Dean's eyes narrowed, taking in how Bobby's skin didn't burn or how the silver didn't seem to cause him any undue pain.

"Bo…Bobby?" Dean whispered, his lip quivering slightly as he gazed up at his surrogate uncle, seeming so much younger than his sixteen years.

"Yeah, Dean, it's me."

"I… I'm…sorry," Dean whispered brokenly, voice thick with unshed tears.

Dean seemed to sag where he sat, hugging his knees to his chest, making himself as small as possible; the effort of bracing himself for another possible attack, defending himself and Sam, had clearly cost him greatly. Bobby hurried over, reaching out to gently take the gun from Dean, but he couldn't prise it from him. Dean shook his head desperately, holding the gun close to his chest as if it were a lifeline, no doubt craving the small level of security it gave him, chasing away the suffocating sense of hopelessness. Sliding his finger along the sweat-slicked metal Bobby efficiently flicked the safety on before sitting himself down next to the shaking boy. Bobby paused before wrapping his arms around Dean, shielding him from the sight of John's mangled corpse. He wasn't usually a demonstrative man, far from it, but every inch of Dean was crying out for reassurance, for absolution for what he'd done, and Bobby knew he was the only one who could give it, desperate to make Dean's pain go away.

Dean tensed in his arms, causing Bobby to consider backing off; too much, too soon? But eventually Dean let out a thin, wobbling breath, relaxing incrementally into Bobby's hold, resting his head slightly on Bobby's shoulder. Transferring his gun to the hand around Sam, Dean freed his other hand to twist into the plaid of Bobby's sleeve, clinging on for dear life. His breath was coming in harsh pants by now, no longer able to hold back his tears.

"It's alright. It's alright, Dean. Can you tell me? What happened?"

Dean shook his head, just short of burying his face in Bobby's shirt; he couldn't do this, he couldn't. He couldn't tell Bobby what he'd done, what he might have done. He knew Bobby had seen his dad on the blood-soaked carpet but he couldn't tell him, couldn't say the words.

"Don' make…me…I can't…"

"Dean," Bobby encouraged, working hard to keep his voice calm and sure, not wanting Dean to feed off his emotions. "I know it's hard, but you need to tell me. Please. I can help."

Bobby heard Dean's breath hitch as the boy tensed in his arms once again; Bobby wasn't sure if Dean would shove him away, but then he'd have to dislodge Sam to do that so he was fairly certain that wouldn't happen. Dean took a deep, steadying breath, steeling himself before he started to talk.

"Dad c…came back from his hunt. Said we had…to pack up. We had to go. Sam and me, we were tired. He'd…been away so long… We had no money left. I tri...tried to get work, but no-one would hire me. I hadn't eaten for days…and Sammy hadn't had much either, only what I'd been able to st…steal from the take-out bins, which wasn't a lot. Jus' scraps. Wished we could stay…jus' one more night, get some decent food and proper sleep now Dad was…back. But he said…we had to leave. He…he was angry. I…I didn' know…why. Thought maybe the hunt had…gone badly, or somethin'. He was yelling and sh…shoutin'. Me an' Sam, we were rushing round to get everything together an' packed. Then…"

Dean glanced at Sam, tightening his grip on his brother, worry in his eyes as he brushed Sam's bangs from his face, with blood-stained fingers, away from the shallow cuts. Bobby thought the hold looked like it bordered on painful, but Sam didn't seem to mind; he didn't respond at all.

"What happened, son?" he prompted as kindly as he could. He was pretty certain he knew what had happened and he knew this was hard for Dean but he needed to know for sure, so he could help to fix this.

Bobby watched as Dean's eyes lost their focus, as if he was seeing everything happening again right in front of him, like he was there all over again.

"Sam… We were rushing, trying to be quick. Sam knocked the duffle with…the weapons in off the table by accident. Dad was furious. I could see…he was gonna try…somethin'. Couldn' get there quick enough. Dad… He…hit Sam…hard… Sammy fell, bashed himself on the table on the way down. Dad never hits us. He doesn' hurt us. He wasn'… It wasn'…

Dean broke off, not wanting to carry on but knowing he must. He ducked his head, closing his eyes against the horrible memories, so clear and so painful.

"I got to S…Sam, made sure he was alright. Made sure he couldn' see Dad. Didn't want him to be scared, y'know? Dad… He just grabbed the back of…of my shirt. I jus' wanted to make sure he would back off, not touch S…Sammy again. I was so angry. I grabbed the first thing I could reach from the mess on the floor. I didn't… I wasn' gonna attack him or nothin'. Jus' wanted to keep Sam safe, I swear… I caught him on the arm with the knife whe…when I turned."

Dean choked out a sob as he remembered the horror rushing through him at having injured his dad, even as part of him counted it a victory in keeping him away from Sam. He hadn't known why his dad had lashed out like that, why he was so furious, but no matter the reason Dean knew he couldn't let him touch Sam again; no-one hurt Sam, not when he could stop it. But then his world shifted again.

"Dean?"

"I…. I cut him and…he screamed and his skin…his skin burned. It wasn' Dad. It wasn'… He kinda… He snarled at me…like…like an animal or somethin', lashed out. Sam was on his feet by then. We both fought…tried to fight it off. It was all over us. Threw me across the room. Everywhere we looked… He got Sam by the hair. I grabbed the silver bullets…an' gun. He told me…told me…"

Dean's voice faded away again, his chest heaving as he relived one of the worst moments of his life. He could see Sam in his mind, eyes wide and frightened as John gripped his throat painfully tight; he'd tried to fight his way out of his dad's chokehold, kicking and hitting, clawing at the vice-like arm around his neck, struggling to get away. Dean was terrified. He'd never felt so much fear, like lead coursing through his veins, heart pounding in his ears, nausea rolling through him in waves.

"Told you what, Dean?"

"Said Dad…was a crappy hunter. Got himself…c…caught. Said he'd h…hurt him…and tha' Dad had t…told him all 'bout me an' Sam. Said he read all…D…Dad's thoughts. And now he was our dad. That…he really was Dad…really Dad… Said he didn'…didn'…didn' want us… Wished me an' Sam had died…not…not Mom. Said we were a…b…burden, wished we'd jus'…dis'ppear. He… He said he was gonna k…kill Sammy right in fron' of me an' it would be my…my fault. Then he was gonna kill me. G…get rid of…us, me, jus' like…he always wanted."

Bobby closed his eyes at the words, knowing how much they would've hurt the boys, Dean especially. He wanted to tear all the words down, make sure Dean knew John never thought that about his boys, never. But Bobby was scared that if he stopped Dean now he'd never get through the whole horrific tale, and he suspected Dean needed to tell it as much as he needed to hear it, agonising though it was.

"Sam couldn't breathe. He was practically…p…passed out. He was nearly dead and I…I didn't want to…but Dad… He always says 'Take care of Sammy'. Tha's my…job. Always, my job. No matter what it takes, keep S…Sam safe. H…he was hurting Sammy an' I could….could stop him. So I… I shot him…"

Sam whimpered at this, the first noise Bobby had heard from the younger boy since he arrived, turning his head away further from the body on the floor mere inches from them. Dean didn't react to this, so lost in the story. God, how Bobby wished it was just a story.

"Was s…so s…scared I was gonna hit Sam but…I…I didn't. Firs' shot didn't stop him, he jus' laughed an' squeezed Sam harder. I dunno wha' happened then… I kinda lunged at him, pulled Sam away. He jumped on me, banged my head off the floor coupla…times. Can't remember. He got the knife, started slashing at me. I was tryin'…to keep him 'way from Sam. He was un…conscious. I managed to g…get ahold of the gun…again. All happened so…fast… So much screamin', snarlin'. He was right there. I kept shooting til he…he stopped. Til he was… was…"

Dean whimpered, unconsciously pressing himself further into Bobby's embrace. He couldn't say, he couldn't; it was too horrible. He swallowed heavily, his emotions swirling, feeling strangely detached, once again alone in the room which reeked of damp and blood.

"I…barri…barricaded the d…door, jus' like Dad always says. Pro…protocol, y'know? Then I dunno…dunno how long… Then, you came…

"I was right, wasn't I? Bobby? D…Dad told us… Before he left, he said… Silver. Gh…ghosts don' like salt or iron an' some cr…creatures don' like…silver. So he was…a shif…a shifter…or something, wasn't he? I didn'…kill…? Dad's not…? Was jus' protectin' Sammy. Did…did my job, right? It's my job, tha's my orders. B…Bobby?"

Bobby knew he should reassure him, comfort him, tell him that everything was going to be okay, but what Dean had gone through, Bobby just couldn't force the words out as his mind short-circuited on all the dizzying emotions.

Dean stared numbly at John's broken body, his handiwork, through tear-blurred vision.

"I'm a good soldier…I try so hard…"

The whispered words, breathed from torn, chapped, blood-stained lips, shattered Bobby's resolve; the pain and grief and fear lacing every syllable was so difficult to hear, an anguish that ran soul-deep, the need for John's approval, the need to be the best soldier he could be for his father. Bobby wondered whether the traumatised boy was trying to convince him or himself that he was indeed a good soldier, that he'd done his best, always tries his best. Bobby didn't know and it made him wonder how many times Dean had repeated the words to himself in the countless hours since he'd shot his father, protecting his brother, trying to reassure himself that he'd done the right thing, trying to wrap his young mind around the horror of what he'd had to do.

Dean clutched his gun harder, his knuckles shining white with the force of his grip as the images which were branded into the inside of his eyelids flashed in his mind. Tears were streaming silently down Dean's pale cheeks, the caked blood dissolving in the salty water, tracking stained red rivulets down his face. Bobby wanted nothing more than to clean the poor boy of the crusted blood and gore decorating his skin but he knew he couldn't leave the boy. He was barely holding it together; he'd been shouldering so much weight for far too long, he needed someone with him, to lift it for him, or at least share the load.

"I know, Dean. And you did good. It's okay. It's all gonna be okay. You did good. "

Dean's mouth twitched into a barely-there, tear-stained smile, not even a ghost of his usual self-assured grin, before Bobby felt the last dregs of fight leave him. Dean's eyes drooped as he slipped into unconsciousness, his gun still cradled to his chest, Sam clutched tightly in his arms.

"I tried…"

Dean was wrung-out and exhausted, adrenaline long having left him as he leaned heavily into Bobby. Bobby knew the cocky, sometimes brash, kid would never open himself up like this, let himself be this exposed and vulnerable, if he could help it. It told him just how bad things had gotten, how much Dean was struggling with all of this. Sure, Bobby knew Dean had killed before, seen more than his fair share of blood and gore, but this was so much more than that. Fighting off and shooting a creature that looked like your father, spoke like your father, knew things that only your father would know about you, it would be traumatising for even the most seasoned and experienced professional, let alone a young hunter such as Dean. The doubt and grief which had plagued Dean ever since that moment was soul-destroying. He'd been sure it wasn't his dad, and anything that hurt Sam was simply not allowed to survive, but Dean had harboured that sliver of doubt that he'd just killed his father, cut him down where he'd stood, covered himself in John's blood, which felt like it was burning his skin, condemning him, damning him, because he'd dared to lay a hand on his baby brother, and it was breaking him just as much as the thought that his dad truly hated him and wished he was dead.

Bobby knows Dean will deny any of this exchange ever happened, ignoring it, burying it deep. After all, he knew John and how the Winchester men seemed to operate. But Bobby knew it needed to happen and he was glad he was there for Dean and give him permission to let go.

It took some doing, but eventually he managed to extract Sam, who'd slipped into unconsciousness along with his brother, from Dean's grip. He quickly got Sam safely into his truck before going back for Dean. Due to his size and growing bulk Dean was somewhat harder to carry, but Bobby was determined; Dean didn't need to be in that room any longer than absolutely necessary. Once he'd gotten the pair of them settled in the backseat of his vehicle, Bobby grabbed his arsonist kit, dragged the shifter's body out the back of the motel and torched the corpse.

"Wha…where're we goin'?" Dean asked, voice cracked and hoarse from sleep.

Bobby glanced back in the rearview mirror, seeing that Dean was busy rearranging himself in such a way that Sam was almost in his lap, hand over his heart, his eyes scanning his surroundings, piecing together what was going on. Bobby smiled.

"Back to mine. Your dad'll be climbing the walls by now, I don't doubt. Might not even have a house a go home to; John's probably torn it apart by now," he grumbled to himself, knowing full well how impatient and compulsive John was about his sons.

"B…but…I mean… Dad? He's…" Dean met Bobby's eyes in the mirror, scrubbing his hand across his cheek, brushing away the stubbornly congealed blood, John's blood, sort of. "What if he…?"

"Your dad's fine, Dean, and he won't…" Bobby interjected, wanting to stop that train of thought before it even got started. "He was going crazy before I left, I mean, even more whacko than normal! He was dead set on coming for you two, even all banged up like he was, stubborn son-of-a-bitch. He's gonna be happy to see ya, trust me."

Dean didn't look convinced but Bobby knew what John had been like before he'd left. Bobby had caught wind of a shifter couple of hours from him and had gone to investigate, only to find John beaten, bloody, tied up in a basement. He had several broken bones, more bruised skin than not, and a knot on the back of his head the size of a football. He'd managed to get John back to his salvage yard, patch him up; he hadn't been prepared to face the wrath of John Winchester when he realised his sons were in danger. He'd explained, as aggressively and angrily as only John could, to Bobby that the shifter had been targeting families, impersonating parents to gain access to the children. He'd been ready to walk out the door, steal a car and go blazing in to rescue his precious boys, but Bobby had knocked him out. He knew that bottle of chloroform would come in useful one day. After dragging John's heavy ass to the makeshift cot in his study-come-living-room, Bobby had cuffed him to the frame, not taking any chances; John was only gonna get himself killed if he tried to save his boys in the state he was. Some brief phone calls and a glance at John's journal had given Bobby all he needed to know and had jumped in his truck, speeding down the highway to get to Sam and Dean as quickly as he could, hoping he wasn't too late.

Not wanting Dean to worry and stew for longer than necessary Bobby put his foot down, knowing how desperately every Winchester wanted to the see the others.

"Dammit John, you pig-headed, ass-brained son-of-a-bitch!"

Bobby entered the house to be met with the sight of John wavering on his feet, ransacking his weapon cache, cuffs hanging off one wrist. Hearing Bobby's voice John spun on his heels, quick as lightening, gun aimed threateningly at him. Bobby couldn't help but note it was the second time a Winchester had pointed a barrel at him in less than 12 hours, but he couldn't find the humour in that, not with the way things were.

"John…"

"Don't try an' stop me, Bobby. Get outta my way. Right now. I'm going to get my boys. I'll shoot you if I have to. You know I'll do it. Move!"

"Dad?"

The soft voice pulled the two hunters from their stand-off. Bobby moved aside, revealing an exhausted looking Sam and Dean on the doorstep, and it was the most incredible sight John had ever seen, his boys, whole and alive.

"Dad?" Sam repeated, taking a tentative step forward, only to be stopped by Dean's grip on his shoulder. Sam glanced up at his brother questioningly; Bobby had told them their dad was here, they knew it was John, really John, so what was the problem?

Dean was staring suspiciously at his dad, bottom lip caught in his teeth, eyes narrowed, expression cold.

Clear relief marked every inch of John's face at seeing his boys alive and safe, more or less. But he immediately knew what Dean wanted from him. Pulling a wicked-looking silver blade from Bobby's stash he quickly and efficiently sliced through his palm without even a wince. Spilling blood for his boys was something he had never hesitated to do; they were his life.

John had expected the tension to leave Dean's face at proof that he wasn't a shifter, so he was surprised when it seemed to ratchet up even higher, his eldest glancing at Bobby, searching for something. Before he could ask, he nearly stumbled as Sam barrelled into him, wrapping his arms around him in a way he hadn't done for years, not since he'd reached double figures and the not-so-subtle pull and push against John's authority had begun. John looked at Bobby for an explanation, even as he hugged his youngest back, knowing that something had clearly happened to the boys before Bobby had gotten to them. He scowled as Bobby shook his head, indicating he'd explain later. Bobby could see the apprehension rolling off Dean; he needed to give the boy some time with his father, and he just hoped that John was feeling in a demonstrative mood.

"Come on Sam. Got some new books I wanted to show ya. Let's give ya' Dad some space, yeah?"

Sam hesitated, before catching Bobby's meaningful glance.

"Glad you're okay, Dad," Sam smiled up at his father, before allowing Bobby to steer him out of the room.

John was then able to focus more on his eldest, who was standing, defeat and weariness painting every line of his body, head down, eyes focused on the floor. He was a mess, and, not for the first time, John hated that his boy had to look like that, hated what their lives had become, but he knew there was no other way. Dean looked like he was about to collapse where he stood so John took a step towards him, wanting to get him sat down before he fell down.

"Dean?"

John watched, horrified, as Dean snapped to attention at him saying his name, forcing his weary body upright, fatigued muscles primed, aching shoulders back, tired head high and glazed eyes forward. He felt his treacherous eyes water at Dean's response to his less-than-gruff question; how had it come to this?

"Yessir?"

John limped over until he was directly in front of his son, marvelling at how he'd grown and how had he not noticed that? He placed a hand on his boy's shoulder, stooping slightly to try to meet his gaze.

"Dean, look at me."

With a seemingly huge amount of effort Dean dragged his focus from the far wall to his dad, fear and uncertainty dancing in their depths as he fought to remain impassive, strong, for his dad, his commanding officer. It broke John's battle-hardened, grieving heart to see.

"Dean, are you hurt?"

"Huh?"

Dean looked genuinely confused at the question, crease forming in between his eyebrows. John gestured to his bloodied skin and clothes to emphasise his question as he repeated it.

"Oh. No, sir."

John sighed, feeling himself getting frustrated at having to drag everything out of his son.

"Then what's this?" John reached out to pull his fingers across Dean's cheek, ignoring his son's almost imperceptible flinch, holding up the red stain his fingertips had gained from the action.

"It's…it's not my blood," Dean explained quietly, even as he hoped his dad wouldn't pry any further than that. Obviously, he did.

"Then, whose blood is it?" John pushed, trying valiantly to keep his voice calm and level, fighting down the urge to simply order Dean to tell him everything in the clipped tones he responded so instinctively and obediently to. John wasn't so sure he'd succeeded.

Dean's wide, green eyes darted fearfully back to his. John simply raised an eyebrow, indicating that he was waiting. Dean sighed, seeming to deflate, before beginning the tale again. He'd thought it had been hard telling Bobby, but however difficult that was, telling his dad was a hundred times worse. Dean could feel himself trembling from the inside out, and he wished he could sit down, have some cool water to drink, but John wanted an explanation so his wishes would have to wait. To his surprise though, as he started talking, explaining what had happened in fits and starts, cursing his stammering and hesitation, John guided him to the kitchen table, sitting him down and placing some water and a sandwich in front of him before sitting down himself. Pausing in his telling Dean gulped down the water gratefully, but he didn't think he could stomach the food, not until this was all over.

John listened, horrified, at what his boys had gone through, the choices Dean had had to make, the actions he had had to take. He knew Dean hadn't told him everything. John had been tortured and tied up by that son-of-a-bitch shifter and he knew the lies and twisted truths they told to get inside your head; he dreaded to think what ideas the shifter had planted into Dean's mind, using his mouth if not his words. But Dean looked ready to pass out again so John told him to get some rest, not to worry about getting up in the morning, to sleep as long as he needed.

Dean looked surprised at that, but he nodded. John could see something elusive lurking in the back of Dean's eyes, something more than tiredness and stress, but he couldn't identify it. He knew he should probably say something to help his boy through this; his son was so brave, so strong, and he was so proud of him. He called Dean back before he reached the foot of the stairs, clearing his throat, ruthlessly forcing himself to tell Dean what he felt, what his son desperately needed to hear.

"Dean, son, you… You did good today, son."

Dean's grin was small, his exhaustion making him halfway to sleep as it was, but John could see the harsh tension bleed out of his son's body at his words.

"Thanks, Dad," Dean replied softly, before turning to climb the stairs, nearly stumbling on the first in his tiredness.

John watched his son slowly make his way to bed, gripping the bannister tightly as he went, steps dragging. He wondered how much of their conversation Dean would remember in the morning, whether Dean would remember his words to him at all. He hoped he did but the way Dean was listing, he doubted it. John sighed, eyes catching on Bobby's half empty bottle of whisky on the sideboard. Swearing under his breath, John heaved himself out of the chair to pour himself a generous portion before waiting for Bobby to return, probably to tear him a new one about aggravating his injuries. He didn't care about his injuries; all he could think about was his boys upstairs, and how he could have lost them.

Dean didn't remember his dad's words when he woke; he barely even remembered arriving back at Bobby's. But he did remember the dream which kept him company as he slept. He was four years old again, back home in their living room in Lawrence, playing with some little plastic army men; his dad had joined the games and they worked together to defeat the evil Legoman. In his dream, his dad had celebrated their joint-victory by trapping him in a headlock, tousling his hair as he laughed. When Dean had managed to wriggle out of his grip, his dad had hugged him tight.

"My good little soldier!"

Dean knew it was just a dream, but he couldn't help the warm glow he felt because of it, and he held on to those words, real or imagined, with all he could, for weeks and months to come. They caused him as much pain as they did comfort, but, in either case, they helped him get out of bed in the morning, wanting, needing, to hear those words again, for real; working to be the man, the soldier, the son John needed him to be. And maybe, one day, he really would be.

The End

Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed! Reviews are very much appreciated :)