Title: From Concentrate
Summary: John thinks about his family's situation.
John whistles under his breath trying to not to focus too much. He rubs his hands over his face and clutches the bottle in his hands convulsively. Because if he focuses he knows that he is not going to like what he focuses on.
Like the foggy window and the horrible pastel curtains that are so thin that all forms of light flow in uninhibited. The old bed that creaks at the lightest of weight. Like his two sons sleeping unnaturally deep, their breathing ragged and uneven... because they're sick. His two boys are fighting fevers and he can't do a damn thing about it because he doesn't have the money or the insurance to do it with.
He bundles them up, though Dean insists he is fine. John ignores the feeble protest and swaddles him and Sammy up like babes fresh from the hospital. He hovers, something he almost never does. He doesn't have any nails to chew, has no wish to pull out his hair, and hasn't paced since...ever. So he hovers.
Every now and again his oldest, seven-year-old Dean will groan and he will hover once again, armed with a dripping cloth and the bottle- Advil. The water sinks into the skin of his palms, mixing with the damp sweat produced by his overworked nerves.
It wasn't long ago that every little sniffle was fretted over. Dean would sneeze and Mary would urge him to blow his nose and press a cool hand to his little forehead. Sam would cough, little baby coughs that ended in unhappy little gurgles and John would pick him up and cradle him close, checking his baby for sickness. Now John only checks his sons for gashes and claw marks and large bruises. But now his boys have fevers, they groan and squirm helplessly and Dean doesn't even try to be strong anymore, like he has since Mary died. They depend on him.
It scares the shit out of him.
He used to dote on them as anyone would say. Now he just does the best he can. They want things he can't give and most of the time Dean understands and tries to make Sammy understand too: 'No, Sammy, we can't buy toys right now.' 'Why, Dean?' 'Because we have to get lighter fluid and matches, it's the only way to stop the ghost, Sammy.' 'For Daddy?' 'Yeah, for Dad.' Things can't be the way they once were.
With a suffering sigh John stiffly stands. He grabs another cup of coffee and a glass of water in case one of them wakes and needs it. He anticipates scratchy throats and complaints. But he doesn't care. He has a family to take care of.