It was well past midnight by the time a black 1967 Chevrolet Impala rumbled into the seedy motel parking lot in some "Nobody-Gives-A-Shit" town in Oklahoma. John Winchester was dog gone tired. The hunt was only supposed to take a week, but John's leads kept drying out. Turns out it wasn't just one vampire, but a nest. How that eluded his hunting partners, John didn't know. Needless to say John was almost three weeks late. It took all of his strength to not just sleep in the Impala, but the idea of a bed was much too tempting. When he finally mustered up the strength to unlock the motel room, the sight that greeted him pulled on his heartstrings.

There, slumped over the table, head resting on a textbook was his 16-year-old son, Dean. John was suddenly consumed by a wave of guilt. Who leaves their two sons in a shitty town and tells the oldest to make sure his 12 year old brother is taken care of, in addition to school work and training? Yeah, well, John isn't getting the Father of the Year award, that's for sure. Suddenly, the father noticed something was amiss. What was concerning was his notoriously light-sleeper did not stir. Not even when John's heavy army boots thudded against the wooden floor as he approached. He loomed over his son, noting his features. Dean's cheekbones were sharper than when John had left, and he had a slight gray taint on his skin. Not to mention the dark circles under his eyes that made him look like a raccoon. It was clear that Dean had not eaten in a while. The father leant down and placed his left hand under Dean's chest and his right on his back. John guided him up, Dean releasing a moan as he was moved. He leaned into his dad for support.

"D'd?" Dean questioned, sound muffled by John's leather jacket.

"Yeah, Dean-o, it's me," John reassured, slowly rubbing Dean's temple with his thumb. "What's got you up so late kiddo, huh?" John asked picking up the papers his son was working on, and holy shit-. When the hell did Dean start taking AP Calculus? Before John could interrogate his son on the matter, said child let out a violent shiver. John reached down with the hand on Dean's head to rub at his sides, feeling the ribs sticking out. Okay it was official John was the worst fucking father on the planet. Who the fuck lets their kids starve?

"Dean, Dean, look at me," John said shaking his son slightly. Dean could barely get his eyes to half-mast.

"D'd? When'd you g't h're?" Dean mumbled, barely understandable.

"Dean-o, look at me. Look at dad. When did you last eat, son?" John asked. This was bad. Dean didn't even remember him coming in.

"Can't 'member. S'mmy ate dinner though," Dean said, and of course Sam would eat and Dean would starve. Dean shivered again. "M'cold, Dad. M'cold," Dean said leaning forward trying to go back to his father's warmth. John gathered him up in his arms carrying him down the hall, almost crying at how easy it was.

"I know, Dean. I know you are. I'm so sorry I'm late, son, so, so, sorry. Just let Dad get you changed and some soup in you, yeah? Think you can handle some broth?" John asked, not expecting an answer. He quickly began to undress Dean, having to close his eyes to swallow the bile rising in his throat at the sight of his son's skeletal torso, and when John went to unbuckle his pants, he wasn't even shocked to see a new notch about six inches away from the other ones. He quickly got Dean dressed with little help from the latter. Once Dean was bundled up in thick socks, sweatpants, and an old Marines sweatshirt of John's, the middle-aged father carried him back to the kitchen.

"Stay awake, son. Stay awake for Dad. That's it. Thank you," John coached, opening the last can of soup in the house, with Dean on his hip, something that hadn't occurred since before he was six and certainly not sixteen.

At some point between his dad coming home and the commotion in the kitchen, Sam Winchester woke up. Nothing, however, could have prepared him for the sight he encountered in the kitchen. There was his cold distant father who acted more like a drill-Sargent than a dad, with his tough-as-nails, touch-me-or-my-family-and-I'll-kill-you brother seated in his lap. The calculus homework had been carelessly swiped to the floor, a bowl of soup was resting in its place, and John was feeding Dean. Sam thought he was going to cry. He had never seen Dean this weak before. He had known that money was extremely tight and Dad was extremely late (which royally pissed him off), but he hadn't thought it was this bad. He had noticed his brother skipping meals and felt even more like a dick when he had dropped the subject because his brother looked tired. He should have kept pressing dammit.

Not having any knowledge of how long he stood there, Sam finally came out of his daze just in time to see Dean turn his head away from the spoonful of broth, whining like a fussy toddler.

"C'mon Dean-o, one more. C'mon you can do it." John coaxed. Dean only whined again and buried his face in the crook of his father's neck. John sighed, and Sam thought he was about to snap.

"Okay. Okay, don't upset yourself, buddy. You'll just make your stomach queasy," John relented rubbing Dean's back and looking up at Sam.

"You should be in bed, Sammy. It's late."

"You should be on time, Dad. It's late." John sighed. He seriously did not want have to have this argument with his youngest right now. Picking Dean up and setting him on his hip as he did earlier, he walked over to Sam.

"I know, Sammy. You have no idea how sorry I am, but I need to get Dean to bed," he replied before walking past the still slightly fuming twelve year old. "Come to bed, Sammy," he ordered gently. Sam made his way back to the room he was sharing with his brother. John had already tucked Dean in and was brushing hair out of his eyes, murmuring "Go to sleep, Dean-o. It's okay. I'm here now. Dad's here." Sam crawled into bed, but found he couldn't sleep despite his exhaustion. Dean wasn't the only one stressed out. After about an hour and a half, Sam gave up and trudged into the kitchen. John was putting away some groceries that he had gone out and bought, the calculus homework picked up, and the dishes cleaned.

"Sammy, you need your sleep, bud," John said keeping his back to his son. When there was no snarky reply he sighed, walked over to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and sat down in it.

"Okay, go ahead. Yell, scream, and bitch at me if you want, but do not wake your brother," John said. But Sam did none of the above. He simply walked over so he was standing directly in front of his father. Then, he sat in his father's lap and wrapped his arms around the man's neck, resting his head on the strong shoulder. Well tonight was just full of surprises for John Winchester who sat stock still for about a second before pulling Sam as close as physically possible to his chest. Carding his fingers through his baby's soft hair, he repeated the same phrases he said to his eldest, "Go to sleep, Sammy. It's okay now. I'm here. Dad's here"

And Samuel Winchester slept.

It wasn't until nearly dawn when John moved, tucking his baby into bed and checking on his good little soldier.