3. In Case You Didn't Know

John trudged slowly into Hank's Travel Inn's idea of a motel room. His usual stoic face scrunched in dislike as the stale, tobacco scented air hit him dead on. Placing a hand on his aching side, he bent to pick up the duffle Dean had thrown in the room's general direction. He was starting to get the feeling he was going to have to find a way to make some targets if his boy's aim didn't get any better.

A pained wince clouded the father's features when he shouldered the pack, and a small groan escaped his lips as the weight rested heavily on his sore back. The night's hunt hadn't gone anywhere in the remote vicinity of good. In fact, it had been one of the roughest they had encountered in a long time.

John wasn't a fight or flight kind of guy but tonight's events had almost turned him into one. Considering the four times that son-of-a-bitch threw him against the wall, and the fact Dean couldn't get off a decent shot to save his life or his father's, John hated to admit it but they had been completely unprepared.

It wasn't a simple rock salt kind of job. All John could figure was they hadn't researched the events surrounding the Kreager deaths well enough, but no surprise there. That used to be Sam's job and neither he nor Dean were adequate replacements. Pretty sure they never would be.

All he wanted was a good long hot shower to ease his aching joints and a deep night's sleep. With a swift drop of his shoulder, the duffle thudded down onto the bed, and John began shifting through it for some relatively clean clothes. Laundry. Another task Sam had been assigned too, but only 'cause no one else wanted it and well he was the youngest. Not exactly fair, but fair enough.

Grabbing a shirt and sweatpants, John tossed them out onto the matted dark brown excuse for a comforter and continued his search for his toothbrush. The damn item refused to surface, however, and it became an elaborate mission to find it. John nearly jumped a foot in the air when Dean slammed the room door.

"Wh-what's the m-matter, D-dad?" Dean heaved, although still maintaining his usual cockiness "C-caught you off—off guard?"

"I'm never off guard." John protested, turning to give his son a stern look only to find his oldest gripping the small side table firmly, his face pale. "Dean, you okay, son?"

"Yeah," Dean breathed, "I'm good."

With calculating eyes, John watched as his son pushed himself off from the table to prove his point, and saunter over to the other bed, kicking off his shoes and flopping down onto the bed. John issued a disapproving look at his son's behavior.

It wasn't that he was one of those psychos who preached 'cleanliness next to godliness' but he wasn't a person inclined to smell the aesthetically displeasing combination of sweat, mud, and blood for the rest of the evening—a mixture that was seeping into the brown bed covering every second not to mention probably deteriorating the interior of his baby. No matter what the room reeked of, his senses would adjust and he probably wouldn't even notice it in the morning, but John had this nagging feeling that Dean's newly found 'I hunt therefore I am' scent would probably only get worse come sun up.

"I'll be out in 10. I expect you to be waiting, clean clothes in hand." John ordered to his son's sprawled out form. The father rolled his eyes, and smacked his eldest's feet, "Are you listening to me?"

"Yessir" Dean slurred, burying his sweaty, dirt-tainted head further into the stained pillow.

"I mean it." John emphasized firmly, receiving only an incoherent grunt in reply. Shaking his head, John grabbed his stuff off the bed and limped into the bathroom.

----------

For a crappy motel, they had good water pressure. The hot stream felt wonderful against John's tired skin and did wonders for the tight muscles and aching joints that he knew must be a sign of a hard hunt and in no way related to his age. Although Dean seemed always quick to point out he was old and pretty soon would have a cane. But if memory served, he'd been the one to off the ghost tonight so that made Papa the top dog. He'd like to see Dean joke about that.

Stepping out of the shower, John ran his fingers through his hair, ridding it of the excess waters, and pulled on his shirt and pants. He took a good look in the cracked mirror and noticed a nice size bruise coming in on the left side of his face slightly above the jaw line and sighed. Dean would be doing most of the talking for a bit. Scary thought, but guys that looked like they'd just been mugged didn't help the whole 'I'm with the F.B.I.' routine.

He twisted the copper handle covered lime green from rust, and grabbed his toothbrush from the sink's edge. John let out a deep breath, hanging his head in sheer irritation. He'd forgotten the toothpaste. With a short scoffing laugh, he shut the water off and decided this was one thing that would have to wait for morning. Any more time spent hogging the bathroom meant more time for Dean's smell to cling to every piece of material in the room.

"Your turn." John's voice boomed loudly as he flung open the bathroom door.

"Ok" Dean mumbled, rubbing a hand over his eyes before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.

He sat there for a while, tired eyes blinking heavily as he reached behind him for his duffle and slowly pulled it towards him. Struggling with the zipper, Dean finally grit his teeth and jerked it open, grabbing whatever items that resembled a shirt and pants closest to the top. John raised an eyebrow skeptically as he watched his son's actions. Maybe Dean had been hurt this time around, although he thought the ghost had only attacked him.

"Watcha looking at?" Dean mocked lightly, jumping up into a standing position only to sway moments later when he tried to move forward.

"Dean!" John covered the distance between them in all of two long strides, grabbing hold of his son's arms to steady him, his face etched with worry, "Are you hurt? What's wrong?"

"Just dizzy." Dean mumbled, eyes closed as he relied on his father's hold to keep him upright.

"Did something happen tonight? You sure you're not injured?" John pressed, his panicked eyes darting furiously over Dean's lax form for any sign of gash or abrasion better yet, head wound.

"I'm ok." Dean replied, opening his glazed eyes and regaining his balance enough to pull away from his dad.

"I don't think so, son. You should lie do-"

"Dad! I'm fine. Lay off." Dean snapped, colliding with John's sore shoulder as he brushed past him and headed towards the bathroom.

"Dean," John gripped his son's arm to stop his advance, and locked his eyes laced with fatherly concern with his stubborn son's, "You'd tell me if something was wrong, right? We can't afford to hide things like that, not in this line of work, ok?"

"I know." Dean replied shortly, "Can I have my arm back now?"

------------------

John's leg bounced nervously as he sat in the hard wooden side chair waiting for Dean's exit from the bathroom. It had been 15 minutes and 32 seconds since his son had ventured in there. 33. And only 5 minutes prior he'd nearly fallen flat on his face.

The thing that got him was that he really didn't see any visible injury which could only mean his son was hiding something from him. But he really didn't think that a possibility because for one, Dad always found out everything, just a fact of life, and two, he wasn't around all the time, but he felt he was active enough in his son's lives to know if something major had happened. Minus, Sam's Stanford thing. That had come out of left field. Okay, so maybe, he'd seen the application around. Alright, that didn't count.

This wasn't Sam. This was Dean. His oldest, who to his surprise got along with him quite well. Sure, they'd had their share of small disagreements over the past few months but most of them centered around food choice and music. Dean knew how to take orders, something Sam never could do, and that, John was convinced would save his life someday. No back talk, simply obedience. A good soldier.

The creaking door snapped John's attention back to reality, and he returned Dean's lopsided grin with a smirk. Right before he saw his son collapse.

-----------

John bolted out of the chair, knees slamming into the hard floor as he dropped down at his son's side. Frantically, he placed two fingers on the side of his son's throat willing them to find a pulse. John creased his forehead in worry and confusion. They did find one, but it seemed weak, steady, but almost unsure.

"Dean? You with me, son?" John nudged his eldest's shoulder hoping the movement would elicit a response. It didn't. "Christ, Dean."

Letting out a quivering breath, John positioned himself for better leverage and placed one arm under Dean's knees, and the other hand firmly at the base of his neck. With a pained groan due to his body's angry protests, John lifted his son's body, taking extreme care not to jostle Dean in the slightest.

With a tenderness John rarely showed, he slowly lowered Dean onto the bed. For a minute, the father did nothing but stare, prayers to a god he wasn't sure existed pouring from his mind.

"You wanna wake up for your old man?" John joked tightly, a small smile gracing his lips as his thumb stroked Dean's forehead. His son looked all of about twelve just laying there like that.

John let out a ragged sigh, pulling his hand away so he could indulge in his nervous habit of chewing on his thumbnail. A soft moan pierced the tense silence followed by a choking relieved laugh when John saw the hint of green peering out from beneath half-closed lids.

"Hey, buddy, you got me good that time." John rambled, settling down next to Dean on the bed.

"What happened?" Dean rasped, blinking away the realm of unconsciousness.

"You fainted, I think." John stated quickly, not wanting to relive that experience ever again. He'd been lucky considering his chosen lifestyle, aside from hunting 'accidents' and a few battles with fierce colds, his boys had remained healthy. Disease didn't ravage his family and random fainting spells never happened. Well, at least, until now.

"Oh." Dean mumbled, as if the entire ordeal was to be expected.

"Oh? That's all you got to say?" John pressed, his tone signaling an impending interrogation.

"My head hurts." Dean offered with a shrug, pressing his fingers to his temples and scrunching his face against the throbbing.

"I'll get you some Tylenol, ok?" John patted Dean's leg when his son nodded slowly, and then set off to find their stash of assorted pills.

Try as he might, he couldn't remember whether the Ziploc bag was in the car or in one of their packs, which was wonderful because if he didn't feel old before, he sure as hell did now. He did know it wasn't in his bag, cause he'd seen Dean with it last. Or was pretty sure he had. It didn't matter. It was a place to start.

John unzipped and zipped every compartment in his son's bag before finding their stash. Without even checking to see if the bag was open or not, John yanked it out of the duffle's side pocket. It, of course, was open.

The rattling of pill boxes followed by a stream of curses cut through the air. Dean fought to see what was going on, but John snapped for him to lie back down and started grabbing the escaped boxes from the bottom of the pocket and setting them on the floor. His hand contacted something resembling a cylinder and John bit down hard on his lip to silence a reaction when he pulled the object from its hiding place.

A transparent tan container met his eye bearing a white script wrapped around it. His son's name typed onto it, along with some doctor whose office resided in New Mexico. The prescription had been filled recently as far as he could tell.

John mind raced with possible scenarios. They hadn't been in that state for almost three years. The hunt they'd had been on had left Dean injured, and John had taken him to the hospital, but his injuries weren't life threatening and definitely hadn't required long term treatment. Or so he'd thought.

John studied the container for a bit more before clenching it tightly in his fist and continuing to locate the lost Tylenol. With both medicines in his possession, John wandered into the bathroom and filled one of the glasses with a small amount of cool water before heading back in to face his son--his son who apparently had been lying to him for 3 years.

"Here." John tossed Dean the box of Tylenol and waited until his son had popped two pills from the holding pack before handing him the water and resting on the side of his bed.

"Thanks."

"No problem." John replied, his voice near trembling as he tried to remain calm, "Now, would you mind explaining this?"

"Uh...w-well," Dean stammered, his eyes fixated on the pill bottle in his father's outstretched hand, "Kind of."

"Kind of? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" John asked angrily, his eyes wild, "I want to know what this is, and I want to know right now, you hear me?"

"Yes sir." The ingrained response flew quickly from Dean's mouth as his mind raced for the best way to tell his father the truth, or if he should actually tell the truth.

"It's no big deal." Dean began off-handedly.

"No big deal? My son faints right in front of me and has been taking some prescription behind my back for almost 3 years and it's no big deal?" John ranted, his body shaking with rage.

"Can you calm down a bit? You're scaring me here." Dean confessed, looking damn near terrified. John shook his head, and took a deep breath, a calmer look appearing on his face.

"Better?" John asked tersely, watching as Dean's eyes absorbed his change in appearance.

"Yeah." Dean muttered, "Okay. So, it's called atrial fibrillation. Basically, it's just an irregular heartbeat. And like I said, it's no big deal. A lot of people have it. The doctor in New Mexico figured it out, I guess."

"Then why do you have to take these?" John pressed, not entirely sure he was getting the whole truth.

"They're supposed to help it beat normal I guess. The doctor said that they would help the symptoms too." Dean continued, finding the knots in the comforter a whole lot friendlier than the look he was getting from his dad.

"Symptoms?"

"Yeah, 'cause my heart beats slower than it should I can get dizzy, tired, short of breath or faint. Doesn't happen all that much though. Hardly ever really."

"I never would've known." John resigned, trying to locate a memory where he should've, "How the hell did I miss that? And why didn't you tell me? What if this would've happened out on a hunt or something, Dean?"

"I didn't want you to know. I just…I didn't want you or Sammy more worried about me than the hunt. I didn't want you to get hurt cause of me."

And that was it, all John needed to hear. His good soldier had compromised his own health and well being to simply finish a job, and it literally sickened him. Was this what he'd instilled in his son? Nothing else matters but the job and the job alone. We do what we do, without any regard for possible inconvenience. And was it actually possible Dean didn't know exactly how much he worried on a daily basis for his son's safety? He sincerely hoped not.

"Dean, son, I'm always worried about you. Every time we get ready for another hunt, or get in the car, or simply eat in a restaurant, I'm thinking about what could happen." John's heart sank when he saw how wide Dean's eyes got at his revelation.

"Do we need to fill these?" John asked, shifting gears quickly to avoid delving deeper into just how badly his parenting was screwed up.

"Up to you." Dean responded lightly.

"How so?" John laughed disbelievingly, not able to stop himself.

"Well, 'cause, um…the doctor said that if I—how'd he put it? 'Changed some lifestyle habits' then the problem won't be a problem. But I don't agree with the terms." Dean stated defiantly.

"And what terms would those be?" John grinned. This was going to be good.

"Some quack had idea that cutting down on caffeine and alcohol helped. I personally think he's crazy, but that's me. I'd much rather pay for the refill"

"I'm sure you would, however, we don't have thirty dollars to waste every two months." John chastised, his tone light with obvious enjoyment at the new predicament his son was now in.

"45."

"What?"

"It's forty-five dollars."

"Then hell no." John shrieked, raising a hand to silence Dean's protest, "You are in for some serious lifestyle changing, young man."

"Ah, c'mon, dad, you can't be serious." Dean whined, his face the picture of desperation. John had to laugh, the kid was good.

"Oh, I'm serious alright, from tonight on, no caffeine or alcohol unless I give the go ahead." John ordered, trying to put on his most serious face, but failing miserably.

"Are you trying to kill me?" Dean asked seriously and placed his hand over his heart for added measure, his eyes searching his father's for a sure sign the older man was joking.

"If I did that, who would I have to torment?" John teased, rubbing the top of his son's head as he went to hit the lights. "Now, time for bed, sleepyhead."

"Oh, good one, Dad. Think of that one all by yourself." Dean shot back sarcastically, all though knowing full well where the phrase came from. He'd heard it plenty of times before the fire, and only a handful after.

-------------

"Dad?" Dean's voice pierced the sleep welcoming silence and the darkness that surrounded it.

"What, Dean?" John growled groggily. It was already way past his preferred bedtime.

"How about a deal?"

"What?"

"A deal. I'll do that whole no caffeine/alcohol thing, but only if you do." Dean proposed, and John could hear the smug grin on his face from across the room.

"No."

"Why not?"

"I'm your father." John reasoned, "Now go to bed."

"C'mon, dad. It'll be like 'I drink, you drink.'" Dean pushed, his desperation more than evident and if John wasn't already concerned about what that crap was doing to his son he would be now. Dean had to be an addict.

"No, Dean. I'm not the one whose health is on the line." Yep, he did it. He pulled the health card and didn't even feel bad about it.

"Maybe not, but you are the one whose sleep pattern is." Dean offered the challenge and John eyes widened at how screwed he really was.

"You won't go there if you know what's good for you." John threatened, although knowing full good and well it was utterly futile.

"Oh, I'm going there all right. Which of my renditions of AC/DC would you like to hear first? I'm in the Evil Walks mood myself." And if John thought it couldn't get worse, Dean actually started belting out the song.

"Fine. If that's the way you want it, but don't you dare come bitching to me when you haven't had coffee in over four months, you got me?"

"Yes sir." Dean replied loudly, and John could almost swear he saw a shadow of arm complete a salute.

"Sleep. Now." John commanded, and shut his eyes gratefully when silence entered the room once again.

"Hey Dad?"

"What?" John whined, grabbing the extra pillow just in case his oh-so-persistent son decided to initiate another long and pointless conversation and he would need a way to drown it out.

"Thanks."

---------------

Alright a little more on the drama/angst side this time around. Lemme know what you thougt about this one. And here's a hint for the next shot: Stanford. haha! Thanx for reading and reviewing