Five miles. Five goddamn miles.
His palm stung with the cold as he smacked it across the steering wheel, frustrated.
He shouldn't have let the time slip away from him again. As much as he refused to believe it, this was becoming a habit. A harmless afternoon or so of research in the next city over turned into a day, turned into two whole days and then some. Jesus Christ, had he even left Dean any money? He couldn't remember.
To top it all off, the one main highway that led to the small duplex where they were shacking up for the time being was barricaded, due to icy roads and apparent "hazardous driving conditions."
Fucking Clarksville, Tennessee. Wouldn't know hazardous driving conditions if it bit the townsfolk in the ass.
So here John was, stuck an approximate five miles from where his sons were hopefully staving off the January cold while they waited for their old man to finally make an appearance and maybe stay for more than six hours at a stretch. He rubbed a hand over his bleary eyes and bit back a groan.
From the looks of things it would be a while before the roadway would be open again, so he let out a heavy sigh and maneuvered the car out of the lane, turning southward towards the nearest generic grocers. He was antsy to see them, touch them, make sure they were all right despite his unexcused loss of time, but nothing short of parking the car in a ditch and walking would do him much good right now. Time to kill or not, his boys were growing (and growing and growing), and a warm meal or three would do them all nicely.
He kept that thought at the forefront of his mind as he drove.
He wasn't really surprised when he rumbled onto their drive and found the tiny, cracked driveway in front of their side of the duplex devoid of any snow. Even Dean had seen worse in all his short years, but the three inches that all the news stations were yammering on about was piled on either side, leaving the driveway free for the Impala to sit. John had to grin.
He pulled the three bulging plastic bags from the back and damn near tip-toed up the icy, crumbling path (also cleared of snow) to the front door, clamping down on the anticipation of what he would find when he opened it.
"Daddeeeee!" A blur of motion and the pattering of tiny feet was all the warning he got before Sam latched himself onto John's knees, looking up at him with large eyes and a toothy grin. "Daddy, you been gone a real long time!" He gave a few attempts at jumping up and down, though he was hindered by the fact that he was still clinging on to John's pants leg. John knew the universal sign for "up!" when he saw it, and crouched to do so.
"You been good, kiddo?" he asked, brows furrowing at the fact that his youngest was still in pajamas even though it was nearly three in the afternoon. Sam nodded emphatically, his brown curls bouncing.
"I been real good, Dean said." Sammy's eyes were large again. "Daddy! Know what? There's snow out!"
"There is?" John said, showing surprise. He walked over to the window and Sammy pulled back the flimsy curtain. "Would ya' look at that. Bet that was cool to watch, huh."
"Yeah!" Sam exclaimed, and John noticed a faint flush on his cheeks. "Daddy! Know what? Dean um, Dean, we went outside and made i angels /i !" John felt his eyebrows rise.
"You and Dean made snow angels?"
"Yeah!"
John sighed. As much as he didn't want to, he was going to have to talk to Dean about that.
"Where is your brother anyway?" he asked as he walked towards the kitchen. Sam gave a huge shrug.
"Dunno. Know what though, Daddy, know what? We did Indians and Cowboys like in Dean's books and Dean was an Indian and I was a cowboy but then I wanted to be an Indian too but Dean said I only could if I was a different i tribe /i ." Sam said the last word sacredly, like he had been let in on some secret and was now sharing it with John.
"Yeah?" John said, peering past the open door of the room the boys shared and not seeing Dean. "Which tribe were you?" But Sam was squirming in his arms, wanting to be put down. The second his feet touched the ground he ran straight for their little living room, yelling, "Dean!"
John followed.
His eldest was fast asleep on the couch, the same blush coloring his cheeks that John had seen on Sam. Sammy was standing over him, talking enthusiastically, not even aware that his brother wasn't listening.
"Dean, Daddy's home! See? See over there, Dean? Can we do horsey again?" He looked up at John, who was crouching down next to Sam. "Daddy, do horsey with me?"
"Maybe later," John murmured, putting a hand on Sammy's curls and then placed a rough palm on his cheek. "Why don't you go play with your cars for a little bit, okay?"
"'Kay."
John looked down at Dean, the flush of his cheeks and his bangs sticking to his forehead. He was breathing deep through his mouth, something he only did when he was sick and couldn't breathe through his nose properly. He was curled in on himself, his body unconsciously trying to stave off cold the only way it knew how without the help of blankets.
"Dean," John said, shaking him gently. "Dean. Time to wake up, son."
It took a little longer than usual; John had been training Dean to snap to alertness at a moment's notice for a few months as of late, but it was obvious that he would have to grant an exception for right now. Finally John saw movement beneath Dean's lids, and then his eyes were fluttering open, looking glassy and confused.
"Dad?" He blinked, looking around muzzily before his eyes started to close again.
"Stay awake," John said, brushing Dean's damp hair off his face. He was burning up, but sweating at least, so the fever must have already broken. Dean's eyes popped open again but stayed at half-mast.
"You go out in the snow?" John prodded quietly. Dean nodded and squeezed his eyes shut, turning away from John in remorse.
"Shoveled the snow so you could park," Dean croaked. "And then… and Sammy wanted to come out too and I said no, but he came anyway." Dean sniffed and then muttered, "He wanted to make snow angels."
"Did Sammy get sick?" Dean nodded again miserably.
"Just a little bit, but I took care of him, he's okay, I'm promise—"
The utter guilt and misery was radiating off his son like his fever. Sammy's experience with snow no where near rivaled Dean's, and it was hard enough trying to keep a short leash four-year-old when it came to the excitement of seeing the powdery stuff falling from the sky, much less a four-year-old like i Sam. /i
He should have been here.
"It's okay," John said gruffly, moving to gather his son in his arms. "Let's get you in to bed."
"Daddy," Dean moaned, trying to stifle his tears in his father's arm. John felt his breath stutter. It had been a long time since he'd heard that word from Dean.
He lightly kissed the top of Dean's head as he pushed open the boys' bedroom door with his toe. "You're gonna be fine," he soothed, laying him down. "You want some soup? With the little meatballs in it?" Dean shrugged and then nodded, rubbing a fist over his eyes, looking so young that John didn't even want to leave him alone in his room, let alone leave them i both /i for that long of a time ever again.
He would do better. He swore to himself from this point on that he would do better.
He tucked Dean in and closed the blinds, watching the rise and fall of his son's chest for just a moment before leaving the door open just a crack.
He figured Dean would sleep a few hours more at least, but he'd leave the canned soup on a low simmer just in case. John watched Sammy on the floor, fiddling with the little plastic cars, gibbering away to himself and making car noises with his mouth. He glanced at the calendar that was hung with a thumbtack on the outer wall of the kitchen and chewed on his lip.
"Sammy," he said suddenly, grabbing the bags that he had left near the front door when the boy had wanted to be picked up. "You wanna help me with something?"
"Yeah!" Sam chirped, immediately dropping his toys and following John into the kitchen. John dug through the bags until he found what he wanted. He pulled out a cardboard box and a round can.
"All right kiddo," he said, holding the two items in front of Sammy. "Here's our mission for today. Think you can handle it?" Sam's eyes went large, and he nearly started hopping from foot to foot.
"Cake, Daddy!"
"Yep. Your mom was much better at cooking than I could ever pretend to be, but I think we can have this done pretty well for tomorrow, right?"
Sam nodded earnestly, his eyes never leaving the picture of the luscious swirl of icing on the can. "Dean!" he started calling. "Dean! There's—"
"Shh, Sam, i Sam /i !" John grabbed at Sam's shoulder. "We're gonna keep it a surprise, okay? Plus, we want Dean feeling all better for his birthday, right?"
"Yeah!" Sam whispered loudly.
Later, John wondered if the mess of dry cake mix, egg shells, spilled milk, and batter was more his fault or his four-year-old's, but as he glanced out the window and saw the snow start to pick up again, as well as Sam running around the kitchen in excitement, smears of yellow batter on his cheek, he decided, with a grin, that it really didn't matter.