Chapter 3

John Winchester knew that it was his job to be the bad guy sometimes. That’s how it was for parents. There were scenes in which you were the valiant hero of the story but more times than not, you were cast to play the villain. It sucked to be the villain.

For instance, at this moment, he was ranked right up there with the likes of the wicked puppy stealing Cruella De’ville and Gaston from Beauty and the Beast. Not to mention Scar from the Lion King and the giant squid lady that had stolen Ariel’s voice, and any other monster from Sammy’s favorite video collection.

The little boy had told him as much as he stood there in the middle of their kitchen screaming at him to stop hurting his brother- with fists clenched and tears streaming down his face. Besides the verbal assault, he’d also looked like he was ready to launch a physical attack-every muscle in his tiny frame quivering. But he was apparently afraid that any more infractions might bring more wrath from the horrible creature torturing his hero. The hero being Dean, of course, and the creature being John-the father who had always been their protector.

John had never been abusive to his children. He had sworn to himself that he would never give his boys reason to fear him-as he had feared his own father. That kind of terror was different than a healthy respect for authority.

However, the seasoned warrior in him had no problem with establishing authority. Years in the military had taught him the importance of it, and a career as a hunter had demanded it. And perhaps if their lives hadn’t required it for their very survival, he might have handled things differently.

But as it were, Dean needed to understand that Sam was not to be left unguarded-ever. One little innocent trip to the bathroom could have lost the boy to them forever.

And Sam needed to understand that Dean wasn’t a windup toy soldier that his dad had given to him as a plaything.

There were consequences-serious, deadly consequences for every irresponsible action that they took.

The sooner both his sons learned that lesson the better.

So John had punished Dean while Sam stood witness and he had told himself that it was the right thing to do.

But now, as he leaned against the wall nursing a stout drink while eavesdropping at his sons’ bedroom door, he suddenly felt a whole lot like that bastard hunter who had shot Bambi’s mom.

Sam was still crying, his choking sobs easily heard through the thin wood frame, and as John laid his hand on the cold metal doorknob, he wanted nothing more than to storm in and make all the hurting stop. To be the hero. For both his sons.

But that wasn’t what leaders did.

Thankfully, it was what big brothers were good at. John understood that completely-he’d had one of his own many years ago.

As his oldest son’s voice rose over the sobbing, John let his hand slide from the door, and he killed the rest of the whiskey before closing his eyes and letting his own silent tears come.

“Sammy-please stop crying.” Dean was beginning to get annoyed. After all, it wasn’t Sam who had been punished. “Hush. It’s all right. It’s over.” You would have thought that Dean had been beaten within an inch of his life.

Sam lifted his head from the pillow that he had kept it buried in since they both had been sent to their room. His face was red and his eyes were swollen and puffy. “I’m sorry, Dean. I’m…so sorry,” he hiccupped.

Sammy wasn’t really sure who his dad had been punishing, because even though his big brother was the one being spanked, Sam had felt every lick as if it had been him. Dean hadn’t even cried-Dean never cried-so his little brother had felt the need to do it for him. And now he couldn’t seem to stop.

“Hey,” Dean tossed the car magazine he’d been pretending to read onto his bed and made his way over to Sam’s. “It’s okay. I’m fine. You’re fine. No harm done. It didn’t even hurt.” That was a lie. It had hurt like hell. But Dean wouldn’t ever admit that to anyone-especially Sam.

Sam pushed himself up to a sitting position when his brother sat down beside him, and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his Scooby Doo pajamas. His breath was still coming in hitches and he had to force the words out. “But, it’s…all my…fault.”

Dean sighed and slid his arm around the small shaking shoulders, pulling Sam close to him. He leaned them both back against the headboard. “No it’s not. Dad was right. I left you alone. I knew better.”

Sam looked up at his brother. “Maybe Dad doesn’t know everything.”

Having his own words from before tossed back at him had a lump springing to his throat and he simply shrugged, feeling Sam’s arm come around his chest and tighten. The stinging in his posterior was making it a little hard to jump to his usual defense of their father’s actions. But he was grateful to the man. Grateful he hadn’t laid a hand on Sam.

Somehow, Dean knew that if his father had truly wanted to punish him, that’s exactly what he’d done. This was apparently some twisted Marine ploy to teach Sam a very important lesson-a lesson that Dean wasn’t sure was even necessary.

He hated the fact that he’d been used to make Sam feel bad, but if it kept him safe, then it wasn’t anything that couldn’t be fixed.

“Do you hate me?” Sam whispered, shaking Dean from his reverie.

Dean looked down at the little boy. “What?”

Sam glanced up, his eyes still teary. “I got you in trouble, all because I was mad at you.”

“Sammy, I could never hate you. We’re brothers.”

“Don’t you want a new brother now?”

Dean shook his head at the strange ideas that his idiot brother could latch onto. “No way.” He flashed Sam one of his patented lop-sided grins. “Besides, I don’t think they sell those anywhere around here.”

Sam frowned. “But I’m a brat.”

“Yeah-but you’re my brat.” Dean couldn’t take the tears anymore and opted for the tickle maneuver that was sure to erase even the most sullen of Sam moods.

Finally after a few minutes of much needed giggling, Sam was allowed to catch his breath. “Dean?”

“Yeah.” Dean rested against the headboard once more, and watched his brother, absently pick at the bedspread.

Finally, solemn brown eyes lifted to meet Dean’s green ones. “I don’t like Daddy anymore.”

Dean smiled. “That’s okay, Sammy. I don’t really like him right now either.” Sometimes, it was okay not to like the people you loved. Tomorrow things would be different.

Sam nodded, finding his place next to his brother again. “Thanks for taking care of me.”

“Hey, it’s …”

“I know,” Sam cut him off, burrowing closer to Dean, and closing his eyes with a contented sigh. “It’s what you do.”

“Yep,” Dean absently ran his fingers through the little boy’s hair, secure in the thought that once again he’d manage to chase away the monsters and Sam was safe and sound in his arms. “It’s my job, kiddo.” It will always be my job.

“But Dean,” Sam lifted his head once more, and smiled the first real smile Dean had seen in a week-missing front teeth, dimples and all. “Daddy was right about one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m still going to be taller than you.”

Dean snorted. “As long as I stay the handsome one, I can live with that.”

Sam smiled. “Dean?”

“What?” Dean growled, pretending to be annoyed.

“Will you read me a story?”

The older boy rolled his eyes. “What else must I do for you tonight? Take another beating?”

Sam giggled, and grabbed one of his favorite books from the nightstand. “Do the voices, too. I really like it when you do the voices.”

Dean took the book and swallowed hard, a slight pang of longing leaching some of the happiness away as his fingers brushed against his old storybook. One look at Sam though and he pushed aside the ache and opened it to the first page of Did I Ever Tell You How Lucky You Are?

Clearing his throat, and pulling his little brother closer he prepared for his best rendition of Dr. Suess.

“When I was quite young

and quite small for my size,

I met an old man in the Desert of Drize.

And he sang me a song I will never forget.

At least, well, I haven’t forgotten it yet.

He sat in a terribly prickly place.

But he sang with a sunny sweet smile on his face:

When you think things are bad,

When you feel sour and blue,

When you start to get mad…

You should do what I do!

Just tell yourself, Duckie,

You’re really quite lucky!

Some people are much more…

Oh, ever so much more….

Oh, muchly much-much more

Unlucky than you!”

And as Sam Winchester listened to his big brother recant the enchanted tale, he was pretty sure that there was no one quite so lucky as him.

THE END