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“Where were you?!” Sam snarled, bleeding and furious he waved his functioning arm at his father, “you said you’d be waiting at the east door!”
“I got here as fast as I could; I got caught up.”
“Caught up?!”
“Yeah, son.” John snapped, “your friend back there had a mate. I caught her trail just in time to stop her from bleeding two little girls dry. She’d cornered ‘em in the basement.”
Sam deflated. His boots scuffed the asphalt as he rocked back on his heel and took a step back.
“Now, between the four of you, I figured you and your brother had a better chance of handling yourselves.” Stale cigarette smoke stung Sam’s eyes as John stepped toe to toe, “Or do you disagree?”
Sam’s voice went quiet, “No, sir.”
“Let’s get out of here, boys. Got a body to burn.” John was halfway to his truck when Sam’s questioning voice stopped him.
“Dean?”
His oldest was standing in the gravel at the roadside. Hadn’t budged. It wasn’t like Dean to ignore orders.
“You okay, son? You hurt?”
“Right as rain, sir.”
The words were Dean’s but the tone wasn’t; he sounded bitter. Sour like Sam. And he was shaking his head.
“What? You got a problem too or can we get out of here? I’m not explaining myself again.”
Dean kicked at the gravel like a kid who was trying to stall. Deceptively flippant.
“‘Where’s dad?’ ‘He said he’d be here, right?’” Dean started pacing, “Yeah…Sam, he. He used to ask me that all the time and I, uh—” a dry laugh, “—I’d put him off and I’d make excuses but you know what? Sam coulda died tonight because you were someplace else, dad! Taking care of someone else’s family. Exactly where you’ve always fucking been.”
Sam’s head swiveled toward Dean so fast his neck almost snapped. He was too shocked to do anything but blink owlishly at his brother. From the stiffness of his father’s back, John was just as dumbstruck.
“What did you say to me? If you can’t get the job done, son, that’s on you, not me.”
“Where were you, huh? Where the fuck were you?!” Dean yelled, his eyes burning. In seconds he closed the space between himself and John, shoving his chest so hard the man stumbled back. “This isn’t a sprained ankle or a broken leg—a quarter inch more and that knife woulda bled him out!”
“You think it’s my fault you can’t watch your brother’s back?!” John hurled back.
Sam’s heart was hammering against his ribs like he was being chased by something nasty. Oh fuck oh fuck.
“Can’t watch…I've been the one watching his back since he could walk. I was the one who got him up for school, I snuck us onto those shitty city buses and held his hand so he didn’t get scared. I packed his lunches, I—did you know I used to put frozen waffles in his lunchbox? You know, Eggos? And just hope they’d thaw by the time he was supposed to eat ‘em? We didn’t even have a toaster but the damn kid wouldn’t touch anything else I bought.” Dean ran a hand roughly over his face. His voice cracked but he was so angry he kept on going. “And you shoulda been there! I mean look at him—one of those—those goddamn bloodsuckers almost took his head off because you didn’t show up for your family. THAT’S ON YOU!”
Dean’s lip curled into an expression Sam knew meant violence. He reeled back like he was about to take a swing and Sam finally found his feet. He crashed forward, grabbed his brother by the arm, and wrenched him back, “Hey! Dean—hey, hey, hey, hey—stop. Stop it!”
“Sam, get outta my face,” Dean was shaking with rage under Sam’s hands, trying to push him away, “don’t try and stop—” his thumb brushed the cooling blood over Sam’s neck and he froze, “Sammy? Sammy, come here, let me look atcha. Let’s see that shoulder”
“It’s not that bad. I’ll clean it up later—”
“Pull the neck down or take it off. Now.”
Sam hissed when he pulled the cotton neck of his t-shirt away from his skin. Must be worse than he thought. Dean grimaced and dragged him over the Impala, instructed him to lean against the rear door while he dug the first aid kit (repurposed tackle box from 1979) out of the trunk.
“Winchesters don’t make excuses when they fuck up. I trained you better than that. Both of you.”
If either one heard him they made no indication. By the time Dean looked up from his task satisfied that Sam wouldn’t bleed out and his stitches would hold, their father was nothing but a set of tire tracks in the mud.
John Winchester would come calling sooner or later. He always did. But he’d better give it a week at least or Dean was liable to send him to voicemail for the first time in his life.