This is a little late, but is for Mad Server's birthday. (Please enjoy!) Word count wise it's a bit between 500 and 1000 (closer to 1000). I'm not exactly sure what Mad Server loves or hates but I am all for some brooding John and teenage boys... oh, and angst…
E/O Drabbles
Rating: T
Word/Phrase: Dean has a fever
A Fool's Wish
John closed the hotel door with a soft snick and maneuvered across the dark room. Outside the cool air was biting, the wind just strong enough that he could hear it whistling through the shoddily built building. The temperature had been steadily falling all day, the cold an unwelcome reminder that made him slightly ill. He hadn't wanted to go out at all, had wanted to close the blinds and wait for the sun, but the lack of leftovers and dwindling supply of medicine had left him no other choice.
Quietly placing the plastic shopping bags on his own bed, he ran a hand through his messy hair and shrugged out of his boots and coat. It was just after nine o'clock in the evening and both of his boys were down for the count. He could hear them breathing in the small space, his youngest son's lungs rattling and Dean's snores soft and muffled.
Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the sudden lack of light, he shuffled towards the small table and chair in the far corner. The motel was a bit nicer than he was used to, the patterns less faded and the towels clean. The furniture though was just as uncomfortable and the smell was only marginally better. His muscles protested as he bent, burning at the movement, and he bit back a groan. Rubbing a hand over his face he slouched low and wearily sighed.
The day had been long, the hours moving sluggishly, bleeding into each other until only the growling of his stomach had clued him in to the late hour. Outside the chilly air had cleared his head, had made the smooth leather of the impala softer, the gritty street lights brighter. Resting there he felt time distort again, felt it change and twist into something frozen and immovable.
Blinking, he could just make out the two forms of his sons in the far bed. John watched them for a moment, his entire body relaxing at the sight of them asleep and at peace. Sam had somehow managed to wiggle his way up close to his older brother's side, the two creating one shape beneath the cheap motel comforter. Dean's left arm was just visible; he'd tucked his younger brother so close that John could only see a few strands of dark hair.
They were quiet now, though if he searched his memory he could still hear the hitched sounds of his youngest fighting back tears, the soothing low tones of his oldest as he spoke in a voice to soft for John to understand.
The last few months had taken a lot out of John, had pushed him in ways he hadn't thought he could survive. But despite everything, he would have endured far more if it had spared his children. He hadn't been able to protect them and couldn't help the feelings of failure and helplessness.
John had wanted to shield his sons as long as possible from the weakness of vulnerability but both had been exposed to far too much. Even now he scrambled, tried to pick up the pieces to his already fractured family.
He watched his older son shift in his sleep, his hand clenching unconsciously at his brother's back. Dean had been worn down, all softness in his still growing frame leeched out of him over the past few months. He was a guarded adult, a son that now expected his father to treat him as an equal. He was sharp eyed, sharp tongued, and was hanging on by little more than a thread.
John was certain the fever wasn't helping. Dean had been ill off and on the last month, bleary eyed and barely coherent the last few days. He'd been fighting it tooth and nail though, popping pills, drinking fluids, and avoiding it through sheer denial.
He'd been pushing rest on his oldest, focusing on him while Dean had focused on his brother. Dean hadn't listened, had nodded when he was supposed to, voiced a few 'yes sirs', and then ignored everything John had told him. What had been a simple snivel had exploded into a full blown illness that was impossible to dismiss. John had been frustrated, was still frustrated, but couldn't bring himself to get angry at Dean.
Dean couldn't be bothered with something as insignificant as a cold.
There was an entire baggy full of prescription pills with 'Samuel Thompson' written on them and Dean didn't comprehend that it was okay to be ill when his brother was as well. Dean had been able to neglect his own health easily with his brother so uncertain and needy. And John couldn't hold those emotions against his youngest. What had happened to Dean was torture; what had happened to Sam was so damaging John still wasn't sure he'd ever recover.
So Sam wheezed, coughed, and slept like the dead while Dean watched him with an unshakable focus. He was glad that Dean had finally taken the unsaid support and gotten some rest of his own.
As a father John had never felt so miserable or uncertain.
Now he breathed in the stale air and watched them both, supported them both, he wished that he could undo the entire mess.
Closing his eyes he let out a shaky sigh.
John had learned a long time ago that wishing was for fools.