Disclaimer: not mine. Title is from "Muddy Hymnal" by Iron & Wine, which in my mind is the John Winchester song to end all others. Seriously. Go listen to it.

Summary: two Teenchester ficlets that popped into my head today, with the uniting theme of John being inattentive to his sons' medical care. I don't know where that theme came from. I have an excellent relationship with my father! First, Dean needs his wisdom teeth out. John needs this to happen on a tight time schedule and tells Dean to tell the surgeon he's in terrible pain; Dean is happy to oblige. Second, Sam's not feeling well, and John doesn't want to stop.

AN: I've come to realize recently that I hadn't really been using the term "h/c" properly. In the past I've used it to mean an angsty story that has char A angsting to char B and being comforted, rather than angsting alone, but I'm coming to find this is sort of an incorrect usage. I don't know if these ficlets fit the category any better, but anyway, my point is that I must give props to all the h/c authors I've been reading recently- too many to list- hope you don't mind a common angster playing around in your sandbox.

Found Your Children by the Tavern Door

Dean

Dad doesn't really care when Dean starts rubbing his cheeks, occasionally, frequently, constantly. Doesn't really care as foods drop rapidly off the acceptable list until Dean's living off mashed potatoes and protein shakes.

He does seem to care when Dean, sleep-deprived from the pain, nearly botches a hunt. Then it's a whirlwind of called-in favors and fake insurance forms, and two days later their asses are planted in a dentist's waiting room.

Sam pages blindly through crinkled magazines, Dad frowning at his side, until Dean ambles back from the examination room, the portrait of misery. They're directed two floors up with a referral to an oral surgeon, and Dad pulls Dean aside before they enter the second office.

"Listen, son, Jim said wisdom tooth surgeries are wait-listed a lot of the time. They only put you through right away if it's real bad. We need to be in Florida by next Tuesday, so play it up, okay?"

Dean nods, ever obedient.

Sam's gripped by a morbid fascination of this concept, of Dad actually telling Dean to say he's in pain. He yanks Dean's sleeve. "I wanna come back with you 'n' see the surgery stuff," he blurts, knowing that his brother will indulge him.

Dean does, with a smile that makes him shiver in pain, though he hides it well.

Sam trails behind as the nurse shepherds Dean to the consulting room; the surgeon seems to think it's cute. Score one for still being baby-faced at fourteen. But Sam knows what he's come here to see.

She pokes around in Dean's mouth, rubber gloves squeaking on saliva, then pulls back and frowns.

"So Dean, be honest with me. On a scale of one-to-ten, how bad's the average pain?"

Dean's hand twitches on his knee; Sam watches with rapt attention. His brother manages a stoic shrug that casually belies his obvious distress. "Maybe like a nine," he admits, and the raw honesty that bleeds through behind the mask of nonchalance- so very deliberately playacting himself- startles Sam even though he was expecting it. Dean favors the surgeon with a weak, apologetic smile- sorry to bother you.

Sorry my dad's such an asshole that the only time I ever get to say I'm in pain is when I'm pretending.

"I'd say this definitely warrants immediate attention. We have an emergency opening tomorrow at nine." The surgeon smiles.

And Sam doesn't miss the way Dean's hands begin to shake with sheer relief.

Sam

Sam's kind of shivering, even though it's plenty warm in the car, and Dean's trying not to stare- but damn it, he's getting a little worried. Kid'd seemed more annoyed then usual when Dad announced they were driving through the night. And for the past half hour or so his stomach's been grumbling in a way that's making Dean put two and two together.

Sam winces as they hit a bump, teeth gritting hard, and Dean slides across the seat and whispers in his brother's ear.

"You okay?"

Sam grumps.

"Sick?"

"Yeah," Sam hisses, then pauses before adding, "I really wanted to get a room tonight."

"You gonna puke?"

Sam shakes his head tightly.

Dean waits a minute, weighing two different embarrassing scenarios, before muttering calmly, "other end?"

Sam nods miserably.

"Pull over, Dad," Dean says, raising his voice so his father can hear above the roar of the blacktop.

"We stopped an hour ago, Dean," Dad replies tonelessly.

"Sammy needs to pull over."

"Sammy stopped an hour ago too."

"I'm fucking sick, Dad, pull over!" Sam wails, surprising Dean with his sudden, bitter outcry. And damn it, Dean knows he shouldn't have had to say that for himself.

Sam is shaking hard now as Dad sighs and pulls the car to a bumpy stop on the side of the road. It's dark but Dean can still see his cheeks flaming with embarrassment and anger as he grabs the handful of napkins Dean's shoving at him and tumbles out the door.

Sam disappears behind a cluster of trees and Dean manages to hold his temper in check for about six seconds before it bursts out of him. "He told you he wanted to get a room tonight," Dean growls, because the times he actually gets pissy with Dad are so few and far between that he still can't bring himself to actually yell.

"Your brother's nervous stomach doesn't compare to a spirit that's killed two people already," Dad says smoothly, and Dean knows that's (logically) true, but he doesn't care.

"He's really feeling bad, Dad. If we just stopped for a few hours..."

"We wouldn't make it to Fairview by sunrise, and another girl would probably die."

Dean knows when he's shut down. Inwardly seething, he hangs his head and waits for Sam to return. It takes a few minutes; he doesn't meet his brother's eyes as he slides into the car and shuts the door quietly. His forehead's damp and so are his cheeks.

Dean snakes an arm around Sam's shoulders, knowing he doesn't want to be touched right now but honestly not caring. "We need to keep driving, Sammy, but try to get some sleep, okay? If you need to stop again, you speak up, yeah?"

Sam nods wearily, giving in to Dean's half-hold and letting his shaggy head rest heavily in the curve of Dean's armpit. "I just wanna lie down," he whimpers.

"I'll climb up shotgun," Dean offers. "You can stretch out back here."

But Sam shakes his head, clutching one hand to his aching stomach as he curls up tighter against Dean's chest.