Dean Winchester loved his father- no matter what. He knew that his father had stripped him of his childhood. He knew that his father had taken advantage of his son's desperate need for approval and made him a soldier in his father's war. He knew he had been unfair. He knew he had been negligent.

But he also knew that his dad loved him. Maybe not as much as little Sammy, but he couldn't blame him for that. Dean loved Sammy more, too.

Dean Winchester rarely thought about these things. But as he watched his father's body burn, suddenly he couldn't stop.

John Winchester had never been the best father; no one could deny that. But Dean had always truly believed that he had done the best he could.

His father had hit him eight times in his life, and he remembered every single one. The first six had been driven by an violent anger and way too much liquor and not, as Dean had thought, by Dean's actions. The seventh time, however, John did not stop with a single, backhanded slap to his face. He did not stop at a punch to the gut, or the pulling of hair. In fact, he did not stop for what seemed like forever. That had been Flagstaff. Afterwards, his dad promised never to do it again. He swore up and down that he would quit drinking so much, and he would watch his anger. While he did neither of those two things, he also never raised a hand to his son again. Until the eighth time.

Sam was long gone. Away and happy at Stanford. John was more irritable, and more drunk than ever. And worse, he had just come back from checking on Sam. It seemed that anything Dean did was met by screaming from his father, now-a-days, but that night, his father threw a punch instead.

He apologized immediately, of course. And Dean forgave him immediately, of course. Even so, the next morning his father was gone. He didn't see him again until he was already with Sam.

Dean had almost learned to hate his father before he left. He realized how unbearable his dad was without Sam around. With just the two of them, life had been Hell. It wasn't until he took off that Dean decided that he didn't, in fact, hate him. Or, at the very least, he hated being alone, more.

But no matter what his dad did, Dean knew that he had also given him something irreplaceable. Something he would never be able to repay him for. He had given him Sam.

The night of the fire- the night that Dean though for a long time was the worst night of his life- his father put Sammy in his arms, and Dean never really let go.

Every time he left them alone, saying, "Watch out for Sammy," his father put Sam in his care and under his protection- somewhere that, no matter how hard he tried, he would never leave.

When he died to bring Dean back, he put Dean back on the Earth, back into the land of the living, so that he could save Sam.

His father spent his last few moments on Dean. He tried to right the wrong that was his twisted and broken relationship with his son, and Dean knew it.

Standing beside his baby brother, staring at the flames consuming his father, just like the ones that had taken his mother, Dean realized that he may have hated his father, but he loved him too. He didn't know why. Maybe it was his undying devotion to his family, or maybe it was because his father had given him his purpose in life: Sam.

Whatever the reason, Dean wasn't sure what he would do without him.

"Are you gonna be alright, Dean?" Sam practically whispered. He looked down at his older brother. He looked so scared and sad. It wasn't until Dean looked back up at him that his expression changed Sam couldn't recognize. 22 years of growing up with his brother, and he still didn't know everything.

"I'll be okay," Dean answered hoarsely. He cleared his throat and said, "I am okay." And he hoped he was right.