Title: Broken shards

Summary: John had never been particularly easy on the boys, but things were worse around this time of the year. Hurt!Sam, Protective!Dean, Guilty!John

Warning: Rated-K for swearing.

Author's Notes: No Beta, mistakes are bound to happen xD This will be a two-shot but I might change it back into a one-shot once the story is complete ;)

Broken shards
Part 1

It was a day like any other.

Except that it was not.

John woke up on impulse, one hand wrapped around the handle of his old combat knife, the other reaching blindly for the alarm clock on the night stand before it even had the chance to go off.

It was 5:35.

The flashing numbers on the screen were bright enough to send a jolt of pain through his pounding head- courtesy of the bottle of Jack he had drowned the night before.

He sat up carefully- experience had taught him that moving around too much would only intensify the throbbing in his head - and risked a furtive glance towards his sons' bed.

They were both still asleep, shoulders touching, Sam's arm slung randomly across his brother's middle; their legs all tangled up.

On any other day the sight would have brought a smile to John's face, but today it did nothing to elevate the sinking feeling of despair in his gut. In fact, he even felt a little resentful towards his boys' unnatural closeness; just one more nail to be driven into the proverbial coffin of his parental failure.

Deep down John knew that his sons' bond was forged by his own absence in their lives, by his inability to be an appropriate caretaker and give them the love and attention they deserved.

He also knew that Dean had long ago taken his place as Sammy's parental figure in life, had easily taken over responsibility where John wasn't able to pay his dues and that Sam had already slipped out of his hands in more ways than one- that his youngest no longer respected him,- no longer needed him like he used to when he was younger.

So yeah, John was aware of the irreversible damage he had caused.

But truth be told, the days where he actually took the time to think about all the things that went wrong in their family, came few and far between.

So for him to jus sit there and watch his boys, - to really look at them and take in all the distinctive features of their relaxed faces, to watch how they sought each other out, even on a purely subconscious level, almost caused John physical pain.

Hell, it almost killed him.

But he did it anyways, took in the small mole above Sam's mouth, the slight curl of Dean's lips, the shaggy mop of Sammy's never-to-be-tamed hair and all the other things that reminded him so much of Mary, that it pushed his grief to a whole new level.

God, it hurt so much to look at them and see how much of her beauty, how much of her spirit they had inherited without even knowing it.

More than once in the past, John had ruffled his sons' hair only to withdraw his fingers the next second, when the silk strands gliding against his palm had been a painful reminder of what Mary's blond locks used to feel like.

Hell, most of the time John couldn't even bear to meet Sam's eyes because they were always brimming with emotion, just like his Mary's used to be when she was still alive.

Dean's cocky smirk? All her. Just like his well-hidden gentle side, his selflessness and his ability to forgive easily- a trait that John himself had never possessed.

His sons were so much like their mother that John sometimes had a hard time spending time with them outside of hunting jobs- because it was simply too painful to look at them and see the living reminder of what he had lost.

So waking up to find them tangled up and asleep, vulnerable and young, made John ache with a familiar pain that had nothing to do with his boys themselves and EVERYTHING with the loss of his beloved wife, who had died 14 years ago.

To the day.

With a heavy sigh John scuffled over to the old coffee machine in the motel room kitchen and hesitated- fingers hovering over the power switch, before he thought better of it and turned to one of the wooden cabinets instead.

He shot a fleeting glance over his shoulder, to check if the boys were still asleep before pulling an unopened bottle of Whiskey from the cupboard and cracking the foil cap open.

'And now what? What are you going to do with that?' The voice of reason raged silently in his head as he poured himself a glass with shaky fingers.
'Drink yourself to death? Become an alcoholic? Do you really think this will make things easier?'

"Yeah..." John murmured quietly to himself. "It always does."

Putting a lid on the voice was easy, something he had done countless times before.

Raising the glass of whiskey to his chapped lips was even easier.

A motion perfected by years of grief and sorrow.

But John made the mistake of glancing down into the glass, breath catching in his throat when he saw Mary's features in the twirls of amber liquid and he might have put it down- almost certainly would have done so, if it wasn't for the gaping hole in his chest where his heart once used to be.

There was a strangled noise in the back of John's throat and his mind started racing, going through all the memories that were carefully hidden away in the darkest corners of his head, picture after picture digged up and revealed until they were everywhere, Mary's laughter merging with her gurgled screams of pain, her blond her going up in scathing flames, face twisted in a tormented grimace that would forever haunt him in his dreams.

The alcohol stung his nose and burned down his throat in an all too familiar way. John closed his eyes, fingers tightening on the glass as he tried to erase the cruel assault of images from his mind.

It was harder to keep his emotions in check on a day like this. He was angrier, more desperate and the urge to kill something- to redeem himself and get revenge for what had been done to his wife- to his family- was overwhelming.

His body was thrumming with the need to release his pent-up energy and John knew if he didn't leave the motel room soon and spend the day somewhere else, chances were high that his sons would end up taking the brunt of his anger.

He had never been particularly easy on the boys, but things were worse around this time of the year. He was harder on them, dealing out punishments and spitting harsh words that he would undoubtedly regret once his mind was no longer clouded by alcohol and unreasonable bitterness.

So when he woke them up half an hour and three whiskey-shots later for their daily morning jog and Sam started his usual protesting, it took about all of John's constraint to stay calm.

Idly he wondered if Sam was even aware of the date- if his youngest even knew the dangerous ground he treaded on, because he sure as hell showed no sign of grief in remembrance of his own mother's death.

"But dad-" the fourteen-year-old started to protest, running a tired hand over his sleepy face. Dean was already half dressed and headed for the bathroom while his younger brother still tried to worm his way around training.

And while there was nothing unordinary with the way Dean followed his orders, there was no way John could have missed the miserable expression on his oldest's face as he passed him by.

Dean knew what day it was. He always did. And even it was childish and unfair, John couldn't help but think that Dean was the only one to truly understand his grief, while Sam never really grasped the full extent of Mary's loss.

And how could he?

After all, Sammy had been a baby when his mother died, barely old enough to be aware of his surroundings.

He had no memories connected to his deceased mother, didn't even know what her voice sounded like whenever she had sung him a lullaby, or how the soft skin around her eyes had crinkled with joy every time she held little Sammy in her arms.

But John remembered. And Dean did- even if he had still been so young himself at that time.

"Sam." John glowered warningly. "If you don't gear up and get out there in the next two minutes, you'll do 8 miles instead of 4. Are we clear?"

For a second, it looked like Sam was gonna say something else, hazel eyes flashing with suicidal stubbornness as John clenched his hands to fists, but that was when Dean rushed back into the room. "C'mon squirt. I'm even gonna give you a head start, so that you have a small chance of beating me."

His oldest's attempt to get his little brother moving was less heartfelt than usual, but it got the job done just the same; when Sam sat up in bed albeit grudgingly to dress himself and get ready.

Somewhere along the road his sons had made a habit out of turning all of their training sessions into games and contests to make them more enjoyable.

At first John hadn't really liked the idea, too afraid that the banter would distract them too much from the actual task at hand, but with time John had come to understand that the games were Dean's subtle tactic of getting Sam back on program whenever he started to revolt against their hunting life yet again.

The 4 mile morning run turned into a chase of who could run faster, the martial arts training was spiced up by inventing a point system much similar to the one applied in a box ring and gun training became a contest of who could hit the bull's-eye more precisely and who could take a gun apart and put it back together in the shortest amount of time...

Needless to say the simple changes had been incredibly effective and John had found himself enjoying their playfulness and the ease with which his eldest manipulated Sam into training.

Dean just knew all the right buttons to push, knew exactly what made the kid tick and how to get through to his brother.

It was incredible how well Dean could read Sam, while John himself was helplessly incompetent at understanding his youngest.

'You brought this on yourself' the voice inside of him piped up once more and John clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to get himself another glass of Whiskey. 'If you'd been there for these boys like you were supposed to, they wouldn't depend on each other so much. They would come to you for advice, look at you for direction instead of turning towards each other.'

John squelched the irrational thought and turned to the kitchen in search of the opened bottle of Whiskey. He needed a drink.

He let out a relieved breath upon finding his glass half-full, but just as he was to take a sip from it, a hand wrapped around his wrist, holding him in place.

John looked up to meet a pair of startling green eyes.

Dean.

"It's just after 6 in the morning, dad." his tone was gentle when he talked, no accusation there, just... pleading. "Why don't you tone it down a little, huh?"

"I don't need you to patronize me, Dean." John snarled, ripping his own hand free from Dean's grasp before gulping the rest of the Whiskey down in one go.

He could feel Dean's sad eyes burn into him as he swallowed, but that didn't stop him from doing it. "I can read the fucking time and I can drink whenever the mood strikes me. Now get the hell out of here and start running, boy."

Sam appeared next to Dean, watching his father with wide and unblinking eyes. There was no doubt in John's mind that Sam had listened in on their conversation.

He was dressed in a pair of grey trunks and a battered band T-shirt that had probably belonged to Dean at some point in the past and the kid was so damn scrawny he was practically swimming in his clothes.

After a second of tense silence between them, Dean finally relented with a heavy sigh. "Just... don't overdo it, okay? I know it's hard, but-"

"But, what?"

Dean flinched a little at the tone of his voice and John felt a grim satisfaction at the flicker of worry and fear in his boy's eyes. "Nothing, Sir... we'll be back in an hour."

"Make it 40 minutes."

A mile in 10 minutes was what they were trained to accomplish in the Marines. It was managable but exhausting. And considering that the boys had to go to school later on today, John knew he shouldn't be pushing them too hard. But then again, school wasn't gonna save his boys' life on a hunt, running fast on the other hand...

Just as the two of them turned to leave, Dean's hand gently cupping Sam's neck as he led the kid forward, his oldest threw John another lingering gaze from the doorway. "Just in case you won't be here when we get home... Fuller called me in for a job, I'll head over to the garage right after school and I don't know how long it will take."

John merely nodded his head, knowing he would probably be long gone by that time, drowning his sorrow in alcohol in some no-name bar far away from his boys.

He didn't really care what his eldest was up to; didn't even want to think about whether Dean was really working or just using that excuse to distract himself from his own grief. "What about Sam?"

"It's alright, I'm gonna take the bus home" Sam answered for himself, never really having liked if other people spoke for him. Then much quieter, he added "It's not like you could come get me in the condition you're gonna be in."

John smashed the glass back down on the table with more force than necessary. "8 fucking miles, Samuel. You can thank yourself for that and I don't even care if you are late for school. One more word from your mouth and you'll be running 10, got me?"

To be fair, Dean looked more worried by the punishment than Sam, probably suffering vicariously, while Sam just glared at John with enough hate to make him shiver.

The little smartass was two seconds away from mouthing off at him, probably would have said something along the lines of 'How am I supposed to answer you if you don't want to hear another word from my mouth', but before it could come to that, Dean ushered him out of the door with a gentle nod of his head.

"C'mon, let's get going."

TBC...

So I watched the clip for the upcoming episode and got inspired for another pre-series fic about the aniversary of Mary's death. Let's just say things between John and Sam get a little out of hand in the next chapter. Who's up for more? :D Let me know if you liked it so far and want me to continue ;) Your support is very much appreciated!