The diner looked sketchy from the start. The neon 'OPEN' sign was broken, flickering weakly in the gathering gloom, the windows smeared with hundreds of fingerprints. There were streamers of flypaper hanging from the ceiling, coated in dead and dying insects, the tables coated in a layer of grease that the waitresses simply continued to spread around with their grimy clothes. The laminated menus were sticky to the touch as though they had never been cleaned.
No, this diner was not one of those places you'd want to bring the whole famdamily. In fact, you'd want to stay as far away from this diner for fear that even looking at it for too long would give you a staph infection.
Normally John Winchester would have taken his sons to a McDonalds or Burger King instead of a dive like this one but it's late and he's tired and just wants to eat and find a motel. Dean and Sam sat in one side of the booth while John took the other to himself, facing his sons.
A teenaged waitress sauntered over to the small family and handed them menus, John and Dean- who was twelve- regular ones, and Sammy- only eight- a kid's menu. Starting off with drinks, John ordered a beer, Dean wanted a Pepsi and Sam asked for chocolate milk.
As the Winchesters perused their menus, the waitress returned with their drinks.
Sam carefully lifted the plastic glass and drank deeply.
"Save some for dinner, Sam," John told his youngest.
"Kids under ten get free refills," the waitress told them off-handed, "You know what you want to order?"
John ordered liver and onions, Dean wanted a bacon double cheeseburger and Sam asked for chicken fingers.
The food came promptly and the family scarfed it down, hungry. When the meal was finished, John, feeling generous, let his sons order dessert. Sam, still a pretty picky eater, had an ice cream sundae and Dean, a slice of pecan pie. Their father didn't order dessert for himself but had a couple of bites from each of his son's.
Full and sleepy, the boys curled in the backseat of the Impala as John drove to a motel not far from the diner and got a room for the night. The room was small but comfortable, clean but old; it furnishings years out of fashion.
"Right to bed, boys," John dropped his duffel bag at the end of his bed, the one closest to the door, "We're getting up early in the morning."
"C'mon Sammy," Dean took his little brother's hand and led him into the bathroom to get ready for the night.
W
"Daddy."
John woke from a sound sleep to hear his youngest whimpering and felt small hands tugging at the back of his shirt.
Rolling over, John peered at Sam staring back at him. The bathroom door was closed tightly and from inside came the sounds of retching.
"What's the matter? Wait your turn to use the bathroom," the father muttered, preparing to roll over and go back to sleep.
"I don't feel good," Sam whined, "My tummy hurts."
John sat up and reached out, picking his youngest son up and placing him on his knee. Even through the boy's t-shirt John could feel the heat radiating off his son's body. Frowning, he reached out and turned on the lamp on the nightstand between the two beds.
Sam's face was pale and drawn, his bangs plastered to his brow with sweat, the front and back of his hand-me-down t-shirt stuck to his skin with it.
There was also a smell, John couldn't put his finger on it at first, and then, he realized what it was.
"Couldn't you make it to the toilet?"
The little boy shook his head, tears welling in his eyes, "I'm sorry, Daddy."
Sam started to cry. John hugged his son to his chest for a moment before picking him up; ignoring the steaks of bowel movement on his jogging pants and crossed to the bathroom.
"Dean, open up," John knocked on the door, "Sam needs to get cleaned up."
"H- Hold on," came the gasped reply.
Frowning, John used his free hand to opened the door and saw his twelve-year old son leaning over the toilet bowl, sweat beaded on his face and the pervasive smell of vomit in the room.
"Dean!" John exclaimed and stepped into the bathroom, sitting Sam down on the counter by the sink.
"I d-don't know wh-what's wr-wrong," Dean stammered before heaving into the toilet bowl again.
John looked from one son to the other for a moment before he swore.
Dean lifted his head.
"Wha-what's the matter?"
"You two might have food poisoning," John told him.
As though to confirm this, little Sammy leaned forward and threw up onto the bathroom floor.
W
A half an hour later both Winchester boys were lying in bed, having been cleaned up by their father and given a healthy swig of Pepto Bismol to try and combat the symptoms. John himself sat at the edge of his bed, facing his boys, wide-awake.
"Daddy," Sam muttered and sat up.
"Go to sleep," John told him gently.
Instead of following his instructions, Sam shook his head, crawled over his brother and crossed to his father's bed. He climbed up beside John and leaned against him.
John sighed and wrapped an arm around his youngest son's thin shoulders.
Dean, woken by his brother clambering over him, watched his sibling and father for a moment before he too, sat down beside John and rested his head against his shoulder.
The hunter shook his head, wrapping his free arm around his eldest son and closed his eyes for a moment.
"Love you, Daddy," Sam mumbled, sticking his thumb into his mouth.
"Love you too," John whispered, "Both of you."
Author's Note:
Just a little fluff-filled oneshot I had waiting to be written.
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