John stalked through the empty hallways, worry twisting in his gut, and guilt pounding in his heart. Neither meshed well with the drum solo going on in his head. Fear, exhaustion, and too much whiskey made him more than a little irritable.
Sick, was what the waspish woman told him after he managed to rouse himself enough to answer the phone. When he questioned her about what sort of sick he was, she snapped at him to come pick his son up.
"Let his mother figure out what sort of sick he is," she snapped in a cold, crisp voice. "It's not my job. I'm not a pediatrician."
As if his boy had a mother to figure out that sort of shit. He didn't get a chance to tell the woman that, though. She hung up on him right after that final parting shot. She's gonna get a damn earful when I find her.
He stalked to the office door and yanked it open with enough force to suck papers off the front counter. The woman at the counter, a pretty blonde with warm brown eyes, glanced at the papers and then at him.
"Good morning." A smile played about her mouth. "Are you Dean's father?"
John swallowed his temper along with the litany of not nice things he planned to say to the shrew who called him long enough to confirm who he was.
"Yeah, I'm his father."
"I'm his teacher, Mrs. Courtney."
"Some lady on the phone said something about Dean being sick?"
"Yes." She came around the counter and bent to pick up the papers that littered the floor. "He wasn't acting right at recess. When I asked him what was wrong he said his tummy hurt and that he felt... well..." She lifted sparkling eyes to his. "Let's just say he didn't say crappy and leave it at that."
Guilt mixed with the nausea already rolling greasily through his belly. He shoved it down as he forced his alcohol-soaked, and sleep-deprived brain to work. Had Dean eaten breakfast that morning? A frown furrowed his brow. He couldn't remember. The last thing he recalled with any real clarity was dropping Dean off at school before driving over to check Sammy into the daycare center he got him into.
"I'll talk with him about not using foul language," he promised as he crouched to help collect the rest of the papers. "Where is he?"
"He's laying down in the nurses office." She set the papers on the counter and indicated for him to come with her. "Come on, I'll walk you over."
John trailed after her, feeling like a complete asshole, and a total failure as a father. Mary'd have known soon as she saw him this morning that something wasn't right with him.
Mary wasn't there, though.
She'd never be there. Not to kiss away another of Dean's fevers, put a Scooby-Doo band-aid on a scrapped knee or elbow or comfort him after he had a nightmare. She'd never again bring him applesauce and toast or make him tomato-rice soup.
All Dean had was him.
An emotionally wrecked, hungover, piss-poor excuse for a father.
His boy deserved better than that.
He needed more than that.
John just didn't know how to give it to him.
And he hated himself for it.
A/N: Hello, all! Hope this finds you well!
I want to send a special thank you again to Kathy, the guest, and umbrella0326 for their lovely reviews! Your support is greatly and deeply appreciated!