Graveyard Digger, Coffin Case Sinner

And the Blood On Your Hands Isn't Yours

Summary: John Winchester is an asshole who should never put his hands on Sam, ever.

[tags: abuse; violence; first kill; major character death]

He had just put on a pot of coffee (extra strong this morning) and was about to move away from the counter, when a pair of arms slipped around him. He wasn't expecting it and yelped in surprise. Sam elbowed his older brother as he heard Dean's amused chuckle in his ear.

"Happy birthday, baby boy," the older teen murmured, momentarily tightening his arms around the younger Winchester.
Sam grinned over his shoulder at him; he had no more replied with a "Thanks," when their father entered the kitchen.

"Where's my coffee?" John Winchester seated himself heavily in one of the kitchen chairs, eyes bloodshot and hair ..well, basically a disaster, if you asked Sam.

"Almost ready," the younger of the brothers tried to slip out of Dean's arms to reach for a coffee cup; he paused, glancing at the other, as Dean held tight. His older brother winked at him – Sam flushed slightly and ducked his head to hide his smile – before releasing him.

"What's with the hugfest?" John grumbled, rubbing a hand over his face. The man was hungover again (hell, he was still half-drunk) after a night of downing whiskey and passing out on the couch.

"It's Sam's birthday," Dean informed him as he took the coffee cup from Sam's hand and filled it with coffee. He crossed and set the cup down in front of their father, whom stared at him blankly for a minute.

"Huh," John shrugged a shoulder, "Old enough to get a job and bring in some fucking money, then."

"He's fourteen."
Sam saw the tension in his brother's shoulders, didn't miss the fist clenched at his side. He bit his lip, glanced to his father, and was somewhat relieved to see that the man hadn't noticed Dean's reaction.

"So?" John sipped the coffee, grimaced, "Old enough to sell his ass on a street corner if he can't get a real job."

Sam rushed forward to grab Dean's arm as his brother took a step toward John, tension and rage etched in every inch of his body. He tugged the older teen's arm and whispered, "Dean.." Dean shot him a glance – his green eyes were filled with fury – before looking back to their father.

John hadn't missed his reaction that time, and the man smirked. "You want another go at me, son? Getting your ass handed to you the other night wasn't enough?" The man pushed away from the table and stood, his balance unsteady, "Come on then."

Sam tightened his hold on Dean's arm, and his brother shot him another look. A muscle in Dean's jaw twitched, but he relented to Sam's unspoken request and stayed where he was. They looked to John as their father crossed the kitchen to open a cabinet. He pulled a pint of whiskey from it and opened it before turning to look at them. He took a long pull from the bottle, re-capped it, and ran his bloodshot, blue gaze over Sam. His eyes flicked to Dean, and he shook his head and half-stumbled out of the kitchen, presumably to get ready for work.

Sam raised his eyes to Dean as his brother turned to face him. "He's a piece of shit," the older teen growled, "You don't listen to him." "I know," Sam nodded; his eyes slipped closed as Dean raised a hand and brushed a knuckle down his cheek.

"If he does anything, says anything, you tell me, Sam. I'll fucking kill him."

"I will," he promised, fingers reaching out to snag Dean's shirt and tug it. His brother shot him a sudden, warm smile and covered Sam's hand with his own.

"Get dressed," the older teen instructed him, "I took off work today. Let's get out of here and celebrate your birthday."