John had made another fucking promise.

Dean could tell.

Sam kept looking up from his homework to stare at the front door.

The slam of every car door had the younger boy glancing out the window

He was waiting for someone.

Waiting for their father.

Dean frowned as he rested back against the headboard and watched the shaggy head pop up to look out the window before dropping back down to focus on the workbook open on the table. Dean had begged John to stop making promises, especially to Sam. Dean could take the disappointment of his father's broken vows – hell, it was practically the norm – but Sam was still a kid. A kid who had faith in his dad and put trust in his words, regardless of how many times the elder Winchester had let him down. He was a child who had not yet learned how little to expect from his father.

Dean didn't know what kind of declarations his dad had made, but based on the frequency of which Sam's eyes scoured the parking lot, the teen knew that John had at least promised to return today.

It was Father's Day.

Well, for another couple hours, anyways.

Dean had known his little brother was wanting their dad to come around at some point today, naturally, but he realized now that it was more than that, it was more than hope, it was expectation.

He had bee promised.

Dean clenched his teeth, aggravated by the hunter's carelessness.

Father's Day was one of the numerous dates on the calendar that John Winchester was not a fan of.

It was one of the few holidays Dean could recall never being favored even before his Mother's death – after which nearly every day of celebration had been altered into a day of grievance. Father's Day had never been a big deal, even when Mary had tried to make it one. Dean could remember this particular day causing friction between his parents, back when he had just been a toddler. Mary had prepared a small family celebration and John had elected to put in over-time hours at work rather than take part. Dean had been too young to really comprehend, but he knew enough now to understand that his dad was not a fan of Father's Day. The teen was aware that John's own father hadn't been around, which would explain the man's dislike for a day dedicated to celebrating dads. It was a sore spot, one of the many John now had.

Dean got that, really, he did.

Who would enjoy a day that revolved around an absentee parent? That reminded them that they hadn't been enough for that person to stick around? That habitually brought forth all their feelings of anger and abandonment?

No one would want that.

What Dean didn't understand, what he couldn't wrap his mind around, was how John could do this to Sam.

Dean couldn't begin to comprehend how his father could be so selfish. Father's Day was probably shit for John growing up, and Dean really didn't care if the man wanted to celebrate it or not, but Sam did.

And for that reason alone, John should have shown up today – not to mention that he fucking promised.

Dean had been fairly certain their dad wouldn't be around, he hadn't been all week and in the elder hunter's books, today wasn't any different – if not more of a reason to stay away. So the teen had done what big brothers are supposed to do, he had tried to make their grim reality okay for Sam and he had done that by distracting the hell out of the kid.

They had gone to the park and played soccer for most of the morning, and then gotten lunch at the hotdog vendor in town, followed by ice-cream at the shop down the street from the motel, after which the rain brought them inside and they played poker - betting Oreos while they viewed a Chuck Norris marathon on TV. It had been pizza for dinner, accompanied with more western classics until dark when Sam insisted on doing his homework. He had one last assignment to complete, his last week of school beginning tomorrow. The high school in town had already been out on Summer break for weeks, so Dean was left watching Chuck Norris kick ass, while Sam focused on his work, or tried to amidst the distraction of staring at the door and out the window, waiting for John to appear.

Dean didn't know what he was supposed to do, he didn't know how to solve this one. He couldn't make John come home, though he wished more than anything that was a viable option. And he couldn't make Sam stop wanting to celebrate things or stop wanting his father. Dean could make excuses for John, heaven knows he's done it a million times before, but he knew Sam was getting too old for that shit. As hopeful and wishful as the kid could be at times, he wasn't an idiot. He wouldn't buy into the excuses, he never really had, even when he was younger – even before he knew about the supernatural world.

Sam had always been far too smart for his own good.

No, lame excuses were no longer going to work, and Dean would simply be damaging his own relationship with Sam and the trust that the younger boy placed in him, by asking him to believe bullshit excuses. And that was something the older boy refused to do, even for the sake of his father.

Dean dropped his head back against the headboard, loathing the impossible position he was in.

He couldn't fix this. He couldn't transform John into the father that Sam needed, and he couldn't destroy his little brother by telling him to abandon all hope. He had to just sit there uselessly and watch their dad disappoint Sam once again. He'd have to keep waiting and watching until the final straw. Until John broke so many promises that he lost all of Sam's trust and faith. That wasn't what Dean wanted, not by a long shot, but he could see the writing on the wall.

The youngest Winchester was more forgiving and more gracious than either of the other two combined, or any human being Dean had ever come in contact with. But everyone has their limits. A soul can only be put through the same pain so many times before it learns how to protect itself. That's evolution, it's human nature, to learn to protect yourself from repeated agony – even if it means losing faith in your father and denying yourself permission to trust him.

That was the very fucking reason why Dean had begged John to stop making promises.

Not because it made him a liar (there were worse things in life), or even because Dean was sick of having to standby and play witness to Sam's perpetual disappointment, but because the middle Winchester could see the approaching disaster.

Sam had never seen John in the same light that Dean did.

Dean had known his father before evil had consumed his life. He had known the man's heart before it had hardened. He understood and even felt the rage and injustice that had sent John out into the darkness.

Dean knew what the supernatural world had taken from the Winchesters.

It took more than Mary, as if that wouldn't have been enough of a reason to seek vengeance. It took John's light. It dismantled Dean's childhood. And it snatched Sam's home. The supernatural evil needed to pay for all it stole from the Winchesters.

It deserved to be hunted and burned to ash.

Dean understood that.

Sam did not.

How could he? You can't grieve what you never had. Sam didn't know the love that could be felt through a mother's touch. Or the joy that could be found in the care-free ways of a father. He didn't know the peace and security that filled a stable home.

Sam had no idea what he had truly lost that night evil stormed into their lives.

Dean understood their father's rage and his savage pursuit for revenge, because he understood his motivations and knew that deep down his dad was still a good man, despite how much of himself he was losing each day.

He understood the end game and the necessity for it.

He comprehended John's intentions and therefor felt little need to question his actions.

It was different for Sam.

He didn't have any frame of reference to the man John Winchester once was, the person he had been before, all Sam could see was a man who had been broken by loss and who grew bitter and more distant with each passing day. Sam didn't carry the same anger that consumed their father, the same anger that would have become Dean if he hadn't had a sensitive kid to look out for, to raise.

John wanted Sam to understand. He had tried to explain it before, get the youngest Winchester to comprehend the mission, the importance and necessity of hunting down every supernatural fugly and making all those sonsuvbitches pay. Their dad wanted Sam to get it so that he would embrace the hunting life and stop questioning everything. And sure, Dean could see where his father was coming from, and he knew that it would certainly save John's relationship with the youngest Winchester if Sam were to truly understand the totality and agony of their family trauma.

But that was the last fucking thing Dean wanted.

Sam was soft, kind, gentle, and just so goddamn good. Dean would never do anything to taint that and he wouldn't allow John to either. He didn't want Sam to have any part in the anger, bitterness, or darkness that accompanied the depth of grief and vengeance.

No, Dean didn't want Sam to take on any of that. He didn't want him to be like the two older hunters. Sam was different. He was better. And John was going to having to find a way to deal with that. It wasn't Sam's job to understand their father and his confusing as fuck motivations and mood shifts, it was John's job as the bloody parent to understand his youngest child; to get it through his thick head that Sam wasn't hardened by tragedy, that he was intelligent and inquisitive, sensitive and caring. He needed to be treated with a gentle touch, and not be simply brushed aside. He required patience and explanation and sometimes sensitivity – which wasn't always easy when it didn't come naturally.

But it was so fucking worth it.

For Sam, it was always worth it. To be granted his trust and faith and his unconditional love, it was worth everything.

And for the life of him, Dean couldn't comprehend why John didn't get that.

"Dean? You okay?"

They were the first words Sam had spoken in quite sometime. They were soft and concerned because even through his own disappoint, Sam was worried for his big brother.

Because that's who he was.

Dean forced his jaw to unclench, hearing it crack as he opened it and attempted to appear a little less perturbed.

"Yeah, Sammy, I'm good." He assured.

Sam's smile was only slightly more forced than the one Dean had given him.

The small frame hunched back over the table, as the teen shook his head, hoping to physically dislodge the thoughts dominating his mind.

"You nearly finished there, kiddo? It's late." Dean commented, glancing at the alarm clock on the side-table, the glowing red lights showing that it was nearly eleven. He watched as the younger boy glanced up at the motel room door, out the window, and then over at the digital clock before returning his gaze to the tabletop.

"Not yet." He mumbled.

Dean pursed his lips. The kid was already tired, and he was going to be straight-up exhausted in school tomorrow. But he let it slide, because he knew that even if he sent Sam to bed, he would just fight sleep from the mattress while he waited for John. With a frown, Dean turned his gaze back to the television, though most of his attention remained on the motel room door and the shaggy-headed child waiting for it to open.

Dean didn't bother hoping for much anymore, he never saw the point, but he found himself wishing for all he was worth that John Winchester would march his stupid-ass right through that damn door.

Unsurprisingly, Dean had no luck, the door never opened.

Sam gave up waiting at half past midnight, closing his workbook with a soft sigh that sounded both mournful and resigned – it damn near broke Dean's heart. The young boy disappeared into the cramped bathroom to get on with his nightly routine of brushing his teeth and changing into his sleep clothes. Dean sat, sliding the remote rhythmically through his hands, staring blankly at the television – trying to think of something he could say to make this better.

Turns out that not even Chuck Norris could help him with that.

Dean still hadn't come up with a single fucking useful thing to say when Sam exited the bathroom. His eyes tracked the sleepy child as he took the school work he had tossed on the bed and slid it cautiously into his backpack, zipping up the large compartment before opening the smaller one and pulling out a folded piece of paper and something small and shiny. The two items were placed gently on the center of the kitchen table, angled towards the door, strategically positioned to be seen upon entry.

Father's Day gifts, Dean surmised after a moment of thought, his heart aching. Dean had given up on those things years ago, but not Sam. He loved celebrating the little things, he adored traditions, craved normalcy, and he just cared so fucking much.

Dean looked back at the TV, pretending to be distracted when Sam began to shuffle across the shag carpet towards the bed the brothers had been sharing since they arrived in town. The older boy felt the mattress dip only slightly as the small frame slid beneath the sheet and Sam situated himself on his right side – where he still had a vantage point of the door, a fact which was not lost on Dean. The teen turned the volume down on the western movie, before pulling the chain on the bedside lamp and plunging the room into relative darkness.

"You don't have to turn it down. It wasn't that loud." Sam stated softly.

"It's fine, not like I don't have this shit memorised anyways." Dean couldn't count the number of times he had seen that particular flick. It would seem no matter how shitty their living arrangements were, every television had at least two channels and one of those was always playing old western movies or TV shows.

"You could leave the light on, I don't mind." Sam added, never wanting to be an inconvenience or a bother, because he still didn't seem to understand how fucking impossible that was.

"Nah, I'm going to grab some shuteye." Dean declared, as he climbed swiftly out of bed and changed into his own set of sleep clothes – a grey t-shirt and a ratty set of thin pajama pants. Slipping back into bed – the side closest to the door – Dean was careful not to block his brother's view of the door as he shimmied under the sheet and stretched out on his back.

"Night, Sammy." He said, wishing he had something better to say. Wishing that he had more to give.

"Night, De." Sam whispered, his tired gaze still trained on the door, even as his blinks became slower and longer by the minute.

Dean tried to swallow the lump in his throat, praying to a God he didn't believe in that tomorrow would be a better day, as he observed the silent horse chase playing out on the screen, drifting off to sleep soon after the Sheriff caught his man.

John made his grand entrance at four-thirty-five in the morning, according to the neon numbers displayed on the alarm clock. Dean's hand was grasping the knife beneath his pillow at the same time he recognized the figure in the doorframe. He watched through slit eyes as John lumbered into the room, his gate lacking the lethal grace it normally possessed. Dean's first thought was injury and he was about to leverage himself up off the mattress, when the unmistakable stench of alcohol filled his sinuses.

The loud clumsy movements of the experienced hunter were not a side-effect of pain, but rather an over consumption of liquor. The teen swallowed a sigh as he pressed his face back into the pillow, his eyes tracking his father's noisy journey into the small space. He felt himself tense as John appeared to notice the objects on the table, which was surprising due to his inebriated state. Dean glanced to his left, spotting his brother's hazel gaze trained across the room, the teen's anxiety instantly sky-rocketed.

Please don't fuck this up, Dad. Dean thought, willing John not to do anything stupid or careless – though his drunken state made the chance of that slim to none.

The large man stopped by the rickety kitchenette table, swaying slightly as he picked up the card, not even flipping it open, before discarding it back on the marked-up surface. He then reached down, toying with the remaining object for a moment, before pulling his hand away as though he'd been burned and stumbling to the bed closest to the door, where he collapsed onto his front, the mattress and frame squeaking in complaint with the harsh drop.

Dean felt frozen, his jaw cracking from the force of which it was being clenched. Sam's eyes were closed, but the older boy knew the child wasn't asleep. The brothers both remained still and silent, until loud, steady, snoring began to sound from John's bed, which prompted Sam to slide out from beneath the shared sheet and step silently onto the floor. Dean watched as the slender frame made its way to the table, removing both the folded paper and the smaller item, placing them promptly in the trash before returning to bed. Sam laid down on his left side this time, facing the wall, his body curling up – making him appear impossibly smaller.

"Sammy." Dean called softly, almost relieved when he received not response, because what the fuck was he going to say next? Nothing. There was no excuse he could make, no bullshit story he could spin, there was nothing he could do to make anything better.

He was fucking useless.

But as the teen watched his little brother's slim form begin to tremble ever-so-slightly and heard the nearly-silent sniffles, thinking became unnecessary and instinct took control. With no hesitation, Dean shifted closer to the center of the bed, and reached out, curling his arm around his brother's thin waist and gently pulling the child over to him, not stopping until Sam was positioned right against this chest. In less than a minute, the young boy had turned to face his brother, burrowing into him, pressing his face against Dean's collarbone as he cried softly.

Dean wrapped both arms around his kid, holding him tight, feeling the shaggy hair tickle his chin as he placed a chaste kiss atop the younger boy's head.

"I'm sorry, Sammy. I'm so sorry, kiddo." He whispered, feeling the child's silent tears begin to soak through his shirt.

Sam's only reply was to wrap his small arms around the older boy, his distress causing his frame to tremble just a little harder.

Dean returned the pressure, hugging Sam with more force and pulling him impossibly closer.

"M'here, Sammy. M'here." He assured, not sure the promise of his presence would make a difference, but desperately wanting to provide some level of comfort. "I'm right here." He vowed. "Right here, Sammy." He repeated, wishing he could hug the hurt right out of his kid.

Soft hair brushed against his face as his little brother nodded, his harsh breaths beginning to ease and level out.

Dean held his kid until his boney shoulders ceased shaking and his tears stopped dampening the fabric of the teen's shirt. He held on until the young boy finally submitted to his body's need for sleep, after which Dean proceeded to hold Sammy tight in his arms.

John didn't deserve Sam.

Neither did Dean. But at least he knew that, he understood that Sam was different and better, and just so fucking good. He knew that the youngest Winchester was kind and inquisitive and sensitive, and that not one of those was a fucking weakness. Dean got that his kid brother needed patience and a softer touch, and accommodating that was not coddling or babying, Sam was simply different than Dean or John and he needed to be treated as such. Dean was well aware that understanding and raising Sam could be work, but was the most worthwhile thing he had ever done. It was a gift. It made him more. It made him a better person. And maybe it even made him a little good.

Dean comprehended that celebrating the little things wasn't frivolous or juvenile, it was an expression of love – at least that was how Sam saw it. And Dean knew that when you care about someone, you learn to speak the language that they best understand.

John didn't get that.

He loved his sons, that was a fact that Dean had never once questioned – not for a moment.

John and Dean spoke the same language, which made it easy for the eldest Winchester son to see the love that was there.

But Sam was different.

He had different experiences, a different outlook, a different understanding, and a different language. He was showing his love for John in his language, and he needed that love to be accepted and returned in that same language. Because he was a fucking child and it wasn't his job to have to decipher actions or read between the lines to try and piece his parent's intentions together, it was his father's goddamn job to understand his son and how he communicated and be able to reciprocate that.

It was John's job to put in the fucking effort of being a parent and learning to understand his youngest child. And if he didn't, if he couldn't manage to learn Sam's language, then he was going to lose him. He was going to lose any resemblance of a relationship with his smallest son, just as he was destroying Sam's trust and faith in him by never keeping his word.

Sam just needed his love accepted and returned in a way he could understand it; and if John didn't hurry the fuck up and figure out how to do that, eventually, Dean's family would be split in two.

His family was all he had, he couldn't imagine having it fractured – again.

Dean swallowed his anxiety, feeling Sam's warm breath against his collarbone and his heartbeat against his chest, as he held his kid close – allowing the contact to ease his fears.

Because no matter what happened, no matter what went down between his father and brother, now and in the distant future – no matter what – Dean would always have Sam.

He would always try his hardest to understand his complex little brother.

He would always be sure to take time to hear Sam and speak his language.

He would always make certain that Sam knew how loved he was.

He would always take care of his little brother and put him first.

He would always protect the youngest Winchester.

He would always be there for his kid.

No matter what.

The next morning while Sam and John were still fast asleep, Dean would dig the handmade Father's Day card from the trash and place it neatly and safely in the bottom of his duffel, he would then dig the second object from the garbage bin – which he would discover to be a money-clip.

And weeks later when Sam would notice that simple silver clasp around Dean's meager stack of bills, a brilliantly bright dimpled smile would light up his young face, and the child would know just how very loved he was.

Because that was all the kid wanted.

To know that someone on this fucked-up planet gave a shit about him.

To know that he was understood.

To know that he mattered.

To know that he was loved.

And loving Sam was the easiest fucking thing Dean had ever done.