Listen. I'm a sucker for shmoop. I need more of this in my life, and I don't think I've written nearly enough fluff in my life. Therefor, this particular one-shot is practically plotless; it just contains a bunch of sleepy Winchesters who happens to be very shmoopy. Also, this is a safe place for John. He's far from perfect, yes, but I'm immensely fond of his character - I'm always up for discussions, though, as long as there's no blatant character bashing or hate thrown around. :)

(And honestly, the rating T is only here for swearwords. Whoops. Also for potential future one-shots, since I'm currently a sucker for the theme "sleep"?)

Summary: "John's tired. Tired as in seconds-away-from-seriously-considering-making-his-kids-sleep-in-the-car tired. Shmoop all around."

John wonders how the rest of the parents in this world do it.

Or, more specifically, how the rest of the world's single parents manage to deal with their kids.

Perhaps, he muses, it would be easier as two – scratch that, of course it'd be easier as two instead of just one, the hell kind of statement was that anyway? His chest burns with the familiar stab of pain at the thought; of course he's not supposed to raise his sons alone. Of course not, since he was supposed to raise them with Mary, and he can feel his eyes start burning in response to his chest.

However.

Sleep is one of the many things he took for granted, back in his bachelor days.

Dear god, did he take that for granted.

Sure, there's the food issues and the screaming and the diaper-changes and the numerous heart-stopping moments as one of their offsprings decide to off themselves in every corner of the room (why on earth are sockets so interesting, anyway?), but the sleeping schedule? That is, hands down, the worst part about being a parent (or at least, he concedes, that is the obvious answer during nighttime).

There are nights when both his sons have acted as though they've chugged a life stock of sugar (no matter if John's been hyper-aware of their diet that day or not), and jumped on everything between the floor and the ceiling and looked like animated monkeys instead of two harmless little human boys. Those nights always end in hysterical giggle-fests, that resurface every time John thinks they've settled down. Other times they're angry, and scream at each other and at him and at just about everything they can think of – he can't stand their physical fights because Jesus Christ, don't hit your brother with a lamp what's wrong with you, are all children really this violent or are his kids just alarmingly aggressive –

Then, there are nights like this night.

John rubs a hand over his face and stifles a… what? A scream? A groan? Pleas for mercy?

Dean's reading. He's reading a bedtime story to Sam, and what kind of monstrous father would he be if he snapped at his son for reading?

Honestly, he's at a loss.

It's late – a quick glance at the bedside clock shows it's 22:47 – perhaps early back in his golden days (wouldn't his twenty-something year old self laugh at him), but it's more than late enough for an eleven-year-old and a seven-year-old to shut their cakeholes and go to the fuck to sleep. Also, John's tired. Exhausted. Tired as in seconds away from seriously considering making his kids sleep in the car tired. He needs to sleep.

Does this count as a moral dilemma? Gray area? Is he discouraging his oldest from pursuing a higher education by asking him to stop reading? Seriously, can that have consequences for Dean in the future? If they were watching TV, John would have put his foot down and threatened with TV-ban for a month if they didn't turn that off right this instance, and that certainly hasn't scared them into avoiding the TV. He wishes Mary was here (and isn't that his life in a nutshell).

He rolls his head towards his boys and forces his heavy eyelids to stay in place, squinting blearily towards the other bed in the motel room.

They look like they belong on a freaking Hallmark card.

If Mary was here, she'd be groping for a camera and trying to take a sneaky picture of the boys (got to be sneaky, you never know when your kids decide to play nice and when they decide that the camera is their worst enemy on planet earth). Dean has, with the look of a martyr, allowed his younger brother to lean against him (tiny octopus that he is, Sam's wrapped his limps around Dean with no intention of letting go), and both of them look like they're minutes away from sleeping.

For some reason, this does not dampen Dean's voice. At all.

He continues reading about the nineteenth century's America and bears and what not, and John stifles another sigh.

And suddenly the room falls silent.

John freezes.

Shit.

See, the point about being frustrated and stifling sighs isn't always about not-so-subtly wanting to be noticed – in this instance, he didn't actually want to be noticed, alright. Turns out his last long-suffering sigh was a bit more long-suffering than intended.

"Dad?" Dean asks carefully, one hand ready to turn the page and the other ready to close the book.

Alright, he can fix this. He can just pretend to be put out by something else, like… "She just slapped a bear," John hears himself saying, "You… shouldn't slap bears."

Sam immediately jumps up, all the sleepiness as though magically blown away, ready to defend the poor woman in the book who slapped said bear.

"She didn't know it was a bear!" Sam shrieks, delighted at his father's stupid input. Dean pulls his brother back from jumping on the bed with a deep sigh, sending their father a nasty look that clearly says what he thinks about John energizing his previously sleepy brother. "She thought it was their cow!"

"Well maybe you shouldn't slap cows either," John sniffs, mentally congratulating himself on his smooth diversion.

"It wasn't a mean slap," Sam protests, and absently slaps at Dean's hand, which, apparently is the only thing keeping him from jumping up again.

John makes a noncommittal noise. "If you say so, kiddo."

Sam, in response, makes an angry, undignified noise. "It wasn't! Dean, tell him!"

"Cool it, Sammy," Dean grunts, and then, with a sudden smarmy smirk continues; "Dad probably wasn't paying attention, that's all. He's too old and cranky to hear us properly, you see."

"Bah!" John scoffs, "I'll show you old and cranky, young man – I can still take you over my knee. If anything, my ears are still working better than yours."

"Well perhaps you should read it yourself then," Dean shoots back, snarky brat that he is. "That way you might be able to keep up with the plot."

His tone may be snarky, and John's emotional depth may not be particularly deep, but he's clever enough to see it for the actual question it is. And god help him, his oldest is eleven – this could very well be the last time Dean ever asks him to read (puberty is already approaching, like dark clouds on the horizon, and John's going to take what he can still get). Sleep can wait for a bit, and so can the hunt that's still calling for him in the dark.

"Perhaps I should," he agrees after a brief pause, scooting closer to the bed's headboard and holding out a hand for the book.

Sam lets out a whoop and catapults himself over to John's bed, narrowly avoiding John's lower parts, and settles himself in John's arms and nestles his head in the crook of his neck. His son's hair tickles his neck, and his older son approaches the bed in a far more controlled way, eventually settling down next to their father.

John accepts the book, takes note of the old but well cared for cover, and pointedly turns a blind eye to the telling barcode on the back of the book. He knows very well that neither of his sons have a library card in this particular town. Out of sight, out of mind; if he doesn't notice it, he doesn't have to scold his son for stealing. Hell, maybe he'll help them sneak it back to the library.

(Change of plans. The stamp says the book is from a library in Michigan. They're not in Michigan anymore.)

"I bet dad would slap a bear too, if he wanted to," Sam huffs, squirming in order to get comfortable.

"Don't be ridiculous, squirt," Dean replies loftily, "Dad wouldn't slap a bear. He'd shoot it."

"Only if it was a bad bear," John acknowledges. Like, for instance, if it was a possessed bear. Or just generally a bear out to get his boys.

He clears his throat and, without glancing at the clock glaring at them, starts to read.

...

"He didn't hurt us," Ma said. "You were a good girl, Laura, to do exactly as I told you, and to do it quickly, without asking why."

Ma was trembling, and she began to laugh a little. "To think," she said, "I've slapped a bear!"

Then she put supper on the table for Laura and Mary.

...

I'm alarmingly sappy and I'm very well aware of it, okay, bear with me.

Also, some disclaimers! Supernatural is obviously not mine, and the book they're reading (as well as the last lines) is from the lovely book Little House in the Big Woods, written by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I didn't know what I wanted them to be reading - Grimm would have been fitting, but perhaps a bit too fitting. Mom used to read these books for me and my sister when we were younger, so I'm bringing more feels with me.

Thanks a bunch for reading - if you have the time, please leave me a review!