Trails To Happiness

The Winchester Boys

Sometimes John made it really difficult for Dean to not hate him.

Especially on nights like the one he was experiencing.

You see, this was normal for when John was around. Dean would still take care of himself and Sam all the same, and John would go out drinking at the nearest bar before coming home hours after Sam was in bed, still drunk as a skunk.

Then, majority of the time, he would beat the crap out of Dean.

No real reason behind it most of the time, either. Of course, no reason would be good enough to justify hitting him, but still. John would just come back from the bar or the pool hall and decide that he wanted to hit his oldest son. Dean suspected that it had something to do with the fact that Dean looked more like Mary than Sam did, and John was an angry drunk.

Sam was never touched by John. Dean made sure of it the very first time his dad swung at him.

He had told his father in a hardened tone at the wee age of six, "hit me all ya want, but if you lay one hand on Sammy, you'll be dead before you hit the ground."

John had, shockingly, believed him.

Which was good, because Dean wasn't bluffing either.

The cleaning boy was interrupted in his folding by the sound of the door opening and his father entering. Dean didn't look up or acknowledge his dad, just kept separating his clothes from Sam's while simultaneously packing both their bags.

"Ya boys finish packin' yet?" John asked with a slight drunken slur added onto his normal drawl.

"I'm almost done, sir." Dean answered simply and shoved his pants into a bag.

"Why ain't Sammy helpin'?" Was the next question as John shut the door and made sure the salt line wasn't broken.

"I put him to bed two hours ago." Was the reply.

"He should be helpin'." John stated as he made his way to the fridge to look for a beer he had finished yesterday.

"It was his bedtime, Dad. He needs to stick to a routine." Dean replied again and tried to keep the annoyance from his voice. Sam needed to go to bed on time, because he was still young and when he missed his bedtime he either became grumpy or sick.

Both of which would be something for Dean to deal with, not John.

Not that he would ever trust John to handle either situation with even an ounce of success.

"Where's my beer?" John growled out.

Dean froze in his folding, fear immediately entering his veins like ice. "You finished the last one yesterday, Dad."

"Bull, there was still another in there. Ya drink it, boy?" The enraged growl continued and Dean tried hard not to flinch.

Flinching meant guilt.

"No, sir."

John marched over to Dean and grabbed him by the arm to turn him around harshly. The boy staggered slightly from the rough handling and swallowed audibly as he was spun.