It's the quick jerk of the Impala as it's jammed into park that reconnects John's wandering mind back to his tired, tired, so fucking tired, body. He slumps further down into the seat and presses shaking hands against his face, hands with mud and blood and only god knows what the fuck else dried and caked under the nails, because he was in too much of a damn hurry to stop for five minutes and become human again.
Which only reminds him why he drove for five hours on nothing but starlight and air, and why he'll make sure later that the hole in his side isn't infected, and why he's praying and not knowing whether or not that goose egg on the back of his skull is the reason he's seeing double.
His Sam and Dean, who are hopefully asleep like they should be at two in the morning, and not waiting up with a bottle of whiskey and a back massage like he has no reason to expect. Or an armful of gauze and disinfectant because damnit if that sonofabitch didn't play a couple games of tic-tac-toe on his back, which now that he's come to think it over, would probably really protest to being massaged.
But he ignores the warning tingle of icy cold as he jerks the door open and slides out of the car until his boots make a shaky meeting with the cement of the motel parking lot. He almost takes a moment to catch his breath but, damnit if he isn't a fucking Winchester, and he stands up in one smooth motion like he's been able to do since he was in diapers. But the world shifts sideways and he must have a fucking guardian angel because instead of the ground he is caught by the cool metal of the Impala. Good looking out mister fucking angel, first time in ten goddamn years.
He takes a second to let the sky level out as up and he closes the car door gently and pats the rearview mirror apologetically. Then he begins to stumble across the parking lot toward room number of eleven of some cheap ass motel in the middle of absolutely nowhere, where the two most important things in the entire universe were waiting for him. Waiting alone for him because he couldn't trust anyone but himself to keep them safe.
Safe and alive, and breathing because that was the only thing that kept the breath in his lungs.
Loose stones shift under John's boots and he trips suddenly, almost drunkenly. He grunts as liquid fire shoots through his veins and something like a tiny explosion takes place behind his eyes, and could that be cement he's laying on? And why the hell is his chest so wet? But he knows where he needs to go, needs to be, and he gets up again and takes the last few steps, and he's leaning against the faded blue door with the number eleven on it.
He can hear movement behind the door because, hell if it isn't the thinnest cheapest door he's ever had the misfortune of leaning against, and after a few seconds the sounds turn into words. Words that seem to be asking for a password; and fuck he was sure it had something to do with some song they'd been listening to on the ride up here. To this little fucking town in the middle of fucking nowhere, a place that can't seem to keep it's up and down straight for more than five fucking minutes, and goddamnit wasn't he supposed to be remembering something?
He felt his lips moving; and hell if it must have been the password that came though them because a moment later he was falling as the door opens, and he catches a glimpse of wide terrified eyes before tiny, strong, so strong arms wrap themselves around him and pull him inside.