The town he finally pulled over in was called Paris, although it bore little resemblance to its famous European counterpart. It was tiny, dingy, and completely surrounded by corn and soybeans. He had planned to make it to Ohio tonight but it was closing in on midnight and Sammy was getting restless again in the back seat. A half an hour before he had spit out his pacifier and screamed for a solid ten minutes before Dean had calmed him enough that he'd subsided into quiet sobbing. John tugged the wheel to the right and let the car roll to a stop against the curb. This was far enough, right? Surely, they couldn't track him this far. Cutting the engine off and pushing the knob for the headlights, he was plunged into darkness and he could feel himself relaxing as the tension ran out of his shoulders. He leaned against the door and for a moment he was tempted to just close his eyes and go to sleep. But no, he had the boys to care for. Forcing his eyes back open, he glanced across the street at the motel. Welcome 7, the barely lit sign in front proclaimed. There was nothing welcoming about it. From it's flickering neon sign with faded yellow lettering, to the hue of the peeling brown paint on the doors, the entire place spoke of misuse and neglect. It would have to do. He let out a long sigh and then immediately wished that he hadn't, as Sammy began wailing again from the backseat. He was definitely hungry and no longer even remotely pacified by his pacifier. Dean sat next to him, wedged up against the window, eyes wide in the rearview mirror, apparently in no mood to try to settle his little brother again. He was probably hungry too. After what had felt like a hundred stops to empty tiny bladders and change diapers John hadn't wanted to stop for dinner, hoping to make up lost time. So much for that. He was still several hours from the Ohio border. He felt an old, familiar emotion rising up inside himself.
I can't do this without you Mary- I don't want to do this without you. I can't-
He sighed and rubbed a weary hand over an aching head, he opened the door and levered himself out of the Impala.
"Wait here and watch your brother. I'm going to get a room. Keep the doors locked."
He was about to swing the door closed when his five-year-old's voice piped up from the back seat.
"I'm hungry, Daddy."
Sam let out an assenting whine of agreement.
John suppressed another sigh. Miles to go before I sleep.
"I know, Bud. We'll eat once we get to our room, okay?"
Eat what? He didn't know. Even the McDonald's they'd passed on the way into town had been closed. It looked like this town rolled up the sidewalk by nine.
Maybe the motel would have a vending machine. He swung the door closed and walked into the office.
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John balanced Sam in the crook of his left arm with the heavier duffle and suitcase on his right, while Dean trailed in with Sam's diaper bag and the lighter satchel slung somewhat comically over his shoulders. The bags were much too large for the small boy, the straps long enough they were nearly dragging on the floor. "Close the door and lock it." John commanded automatically as he dropped the suitcases and the duffle in a heap near the door. "And hand me the diaper bag." Please. He added in his mind a moment later, although for some reason, the word failed to come out of his mouth. Dean complied by sullenly handing him the bag and then shuffling to the door, closing it with a half-hearted shove. John noted Dean's sullen attitude while settling Sammy on the bed. He would have to deal with it later, he decided as he set to work making a bottle of formula for the baby using the en-suite coffee maker to heat the water.
Big, fat tears rolled down Sammy's face when John didn't hand the bottle to him immediately on completion, instead closing it in the minifridge to cool it to a drinkable temperature.
"It's too hot, Sammy. It'll burn you," John tried explaining.
Sammy's tears continued uninterrupted by logic so John scooped him up and rocked him. Turning around from the bed he found Dean still standing by the door.
"Salt lines, Ace, then Pajamas. Brush your teeth."
Dean glared back at him, not moving.
"I'm hungry, Daddy."
Right. He had promised food. Sammy sobbed in his arms. Mary.
"Salt lines first."
Dean met his eyes and then crossed his arms.
"No."
If John had been less tired, less hungry himself, if his head hadn't been aching, spiking pain in time with his son's voice he would have given more grace for the small rebellion.
"Now Dean, or you'll go without. And you don't tell me no, son. When I tell you something I want to hear a yes sir. Do you understand me?"
Tears welled in his eldest's eyes but there was also a definite spark of "go drop dead" as he kicked the duffle next to his foot.
"What did I just say, Dean?"
There was no reply as the boy stared angrily back. The rebellion only lasted a moment however, as his resolve quickly dissipated in the face of his father's glare. Eyes dropping, Dean stooped and reluctantly opened the duffle and began rooting around in it.
"Dean!"
Dean's small hands closed around the salt canister and he drew it to his chest, glaring back at his father, tears still very close to the surface.
"What did I just say?"
"Salt first," he mumbled back, "Or no dinner."
"And when I tell you something, what do I want to hear?"
Dean's gaze held a hint of frustrated venom.
"Yes, sir."
John nodded, unsure whether to praise the obedience despite the attitude, or correct it.
When he didn't say anything else Dean turned and poured the salt in a thick line in front of the door. He had to stand on a chair to reach the window, but soon that had a line of salt as well. And then Dean was in front of him again. Time to follow through with something to eat. He set Sammy back on the bed, who wailed at the abandonment and gripped his sleeve in a surprisingly strong baby fist.
"Up here on the bed, Ace. I need you to watch your brother."
Dean climbed up next to him and opened his arms to his wailing baby brother. Sam released his father's sleeve and buried his face in his brother's chest. Trading in the wailing for hiccuping sobs.
"Dee. No. Dee. Milk." Which was the extent of his tiny, baby vocabulary. The three most important words in his little world. John was torn between amusement and disappointment that daddy hadn't made the cut. Oh well, Daddy had been Dean's second word. Mama had been first. Mary. Mama would never be one of Sam's baby words.
He ruffled a hand through Dean's hair and then reached into his wallet. There were a few sparse dollar bills. Cash had been hard to come by since he had left the job at the garage in Lawrence. He had maxed out his old credit card, the hotel manager in Iowa calling him on it. Hence the sudden trip to Ohio. He had already opened a new one in a different name but that one was close to maxed out as well and, Mary help me, that was a bridge he'd burn when he got to it.
He left the boys together on the bed and went out to find the vending machine. Everything was either sugar or starch except the beef jerky. Protein. He fed two rumpled dollar bills into the machine and pressed the button twice. The machine hummed and rattled as it dropped the jerky from the slot. One for Dean, and one for himself.
He carried the offering back into the room, carefully stepping over the salt lines, and tossed one of the packages to Dean. Dean looked from the package, back to his father.
"Daddy," There was a distinct note of whining in the word.
"It's all there was, Dean. Just eat it."
Dean seemed no more appeased by logic than Sam had been. Tears welled in the older boy's eyes.
"I don't like it."
John closed his eyes. He should have bought the M&Ms. The peanut ones had to have some nutritional value, right? Too late now. He was out of cash.
"Hey. Don't whine. Babies whine." Who was he kidding? Dean was five years old, hadn't eaten in nearly ten hours and it was way past bedtime. He had a perfect right to whine. John felt like whining himself. Suck it up, soldier. "You can eat it or you can go to bed."
A mutinous gleam shone from teary hazel eyes.
"Not sleepy."
"Then eat."
"No."
"Dean," John growled, "what did I tell you I want to hear when I give an order?"
Dean pulled away from his baby brother, who had finally stopped crying, and grabbed the package of jerky, throwing it as hard as he could. It hit the lampshade on the bedside table, knocking it from its perch and sending it shattering to the argyle carpet. John took a moment to appreciate the strength of the throw, if not the aim, before he wondered how he would pay for the very broken lamp. That credit card bridge had just got a day closer to burning. He swiveled his gaze back to the boys on the bed. Two pairs of teary, hazel eyes met his.
"I'm sorry, Daddy." Dean whispered.
"You're too old to throw a tantrum, Dean. If you had listened to me this wouldn't have happened, and sorry isn't going to pay for that."
Dean nodded mutely, his face wet with tears.
"Come here."
John took a hold of Dean's arm and pulled him off the bed.
"No!" His son was suddenly breathless with sobs, tugging urgently to escape.
John folded him over one knee and administered four swats with his open palm on the seat of his son's pants. He had his hand up for a fifth and final swat when the sobbing suddenly cut out. Sammy took up where Dean left off though, frightened by the noises his brother had been making. Rolling forward, he grabbed the sleeve of John's raised hand.
"No, no! Dee!" The words were hysterical, coming between hiccups and sobs.
John lifted Dean up without dislodging Sam and set him on his lap.
"Okay, Ace. It's okay."
Dean's face was red from being upside down, soggy with a steady stream of tears and snot. He didn't look up at John, instead staring down at the broken lamp on the carpet. Sam pushed John's arm out of the way and crawled into his lap to cling to Dean.
"Dee," the baby wailed, again burying his face in his brother's shirt.
John wrapped both arms around the boys and rocked them. What am I doing, Mary? I'm doing this all wrong without you. Dean passively allowed the embrace but didn't return it and for a long minute Sam's sobbing was the only sound in the room. Dean's eyes still ran with tears, but he was quiet. John could feel him trembling, his soft blonde hair tickling against his chin.
Mary, I don't know how to do this. I think I just traumatized your son. Again. Please, Dean, Dad is sorry. I'm so sorry, son. But again, the words didn't pass his lips.
Dean didn't acknowledge him even as he kissed the top of his head and lifted them both, Sam sticking like a barnacle to his brother's shirt, onto the bedspread.
Sorry won't pay for this.
He stooped and began to clean up the broken glass.
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Dean didn't speak again for the rest of the evening. He changed into his Scooby-Doo Pajamas and brushed his teeth in the same kind of shattered silence that had filled the months after the fire. Sam refused his bottle as something was wrong with his brother, who was the primary axis of his small universe. He cried big, fat tears, refusing to be comforted until John placed him next to his brother on the bed. Dean again held out his arms for the wailing baby and John gently pushed Sam into them. He went to the fridge and got the bottle handing it to Dean. He found himself unconsciously wishing for his own bottle. His flask. There was silence then, as Sam sucked at the bottle and Dean finally drifted off to sleep. John got up and pulled the covers over the boys. As he did, Dean shifted a little calling out for Mary in his sleep and the dam broke and John began to weep.
In the morning John woke to Sam's voice. He was giggling as Dean poked and teased him. This continued for a few moments. And then, "Dee, dee, milk?" Little Sam inquired. John lay still until he heard Dean rummaging through the diaper bag for more formula. He couldn't have anyone getting burnt. He rolled over to face the other bed coming face to face with a pair of hazel eyes. Dean blinked at him.
"G'morning," John said.
He received a hesitant, gap-tooth smile in return.
"Feeding Sammy?"
There was a quick nod, bangs bouncing over green eyes. The boys needed haircuts.
"Let me have the bottle, okay? I don't want you to do the hot water."
"Yes, sir."
Dean's voice was whisper-quiet but John felt something deep inside him unknot at the sound. Thank you. Thank you, Mary. He reached out and Dean tried to place the bottle into his hand but instead John caught up the child in his arm and pulled him to the side of the bed, planting a kiss on his forehead. Dean seemed surprised but leaned into the affection, running a small hand over his father's stubble. John held him there a moment, before ruffling the hair back out of Dean's eyes and sitting up.
"You already changed Sam?"
Dean's voice was more sure this time.
"Yes, sir."
John couldn't help but smile.
"That's good, Ace. I'll get him more formula, okay? You get dressed and we'll get pancakes for breakfast." To heck with strained credit cards.
Dean's returning smile had no hesitation and he quickly handed over the bottle and hurried to grab his discarded jeans from the floor.
"Don't forget to brush your teeth."
Dean, about to slam the bathroom door, poked his head back around with a grin.
"Yes, sir."
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It was several weeks later, in another hotel room, in another state. John was sitting with his journal at the table when he felt a tug at his pants.
"Essir," Sam said.
He looked down. Sam was standing beside his chair gripping his pant leg firmly in his chubby fist.
"Up, up." he said, raising his other hand toward his father. Up was a recent addition to his vocabulary.
John frowned slightly, glancing around to see Dean sitting on the bed watching something on the TV.
"Go to Dean, Sam. Daddy's working."
Sam mulled it over before deciding.
"'Essir." He gave John's pant leg another insistent tug to emphasize his decision.
John sighed, closing his journal. He'd gotten about half an hour of time with his books and considering he had a semi-mobile toddler he decided he should be grateful Dean had kept him occupied that long.
"You wet, bud? You need a change?"
He glanced over again at Dean who was still absorbed in what sounded like a cartoon version of Batman. At his feet Sammy shook his head.
"Hungry?" John tried.
Sam calculated that for a moment before shaking his head again.
"Essir." he insisted.
"Essir? I don't know that one, Sammy. What do you need?"
Sam frowned up at him as though John were being stupid and shook his fist against the pant leg.
"Point to it, Sammy," Dean's voice came from across the room.
If he had had the coordination John was sure that Sam would be rolling his eyes. He looked from Dean back to his father and then raised a finger, stabbing it insistently at John's nose.
"Essir." He enunciated as carefully as his twelve months allowed. To be sure he was understood he pointed back at Dean.
"Dee," he pronounced and then the finger came back to John. "Essir."
John couldn't help the laugh that escaped him.
"No buddy. I'm Dad. Daddy."
Sam cast a confused glance back at his brother and then back up at John. He looked unconvinced. John hooked his hands beneath Sam's arms and lifted him onto his lap.
"Can you say Daddy?"
Sam rested his head against John's chest and looked at him uncertainly. John kissed the top of his head.
"That's okay, bud. You just wanted up? You sure you're not hungry?"
"Milk." Sam said agreeably.
"How about apple sauce?" John offered, sure of Sam's affinity for the pulped fruit.
Sam nodded against his chest.
John heard the Batman theme song playing from the TV. The episode was over. If he started winding up the evening now he might be able to fit in a few more hours of work after the boys were asleep.
"Dean, shut off the TV. It's time for dinner."
Dean sighed, but clicked off the set.
"Yes, sir."
"Essir," Sammy echoed beneath his chin, poking him again with his little, baby finger. "Essir."