Well, this is my first Supernatural fanfiction. I'm tired of all these people portraying John as a bad father. While he may not make the smartest decisions, he tries to do his best. So I tried to portray him in a better light. Here you go!

Dean Winchester was cold.

He was sitting in the dirty armchair of another beat-up motel in God-knows-where Virginia, watching the snow blanket the nearly empty parking lot in a layer of white. He was waiting for a sign – any sign – that his father was going to turn up after yet another hunt, but Dean had been waiting for almost two days already without a single word from his father. Needless to say, Dean was worried. But he was cold.

Freezing, actually.

Sammy had just gotten over a cold a little over a week ago, right before their dad had left to go hunt the wendigo who had been terrorizing hikers and campers on the mountain trails. Sammy, just six years old, wasn't very clean when he was sick. He sneezed loudly and openly, coughed into the open air, and wiped his nose with his fist and then touched everything. When Sammy had been given a clean bill of health by their father, John had decided it was time to start the hunt once and for all.

The sore throat crept up upon Dean the day after John left, and the stuffy nose followed close behind. To put it shortly, Dean felt miserable, and all he wanted to do was curl up in bed underneath the blankets and sleep but Dean never slept well when his dad was away on a hunt, not even when he felt this badly. There was too much worry, too much anticipation that kept him awake. And Sammy. He had to keep watch over Sammy.

"Dean, I'm hungry," Sam whined.

Dean turned away from the window to look at his brother. Sam was sprawled across his bed with his Hot Wheel cars in hand. He was making all the vroom-vroom noises and using his stomach as the racetrack. But he had been at it for hours and now he was bored, and a bored Sam meant a hungry Sam.

"Sam, you just had dinner a couple of hours ago," said Dean, his throat burning with every word he spoke.

"But I'm hungry."

"Sam."

"Dean!"

"Fine!" Dean snapped, standing shakily on his legs, "What do you want?"

Sammy smiled, the gap where his missing tooth had been showing clearly. "Cookies!"

Dean went into the kitchenette and opened up the cabinet. He looked at the small stock of soup cans and crackers and knew there were no cookies. Regretfully, he said, "All out of those."

"Animal crackers?"

"Sorry, Sam. All out of those, too."

Sammy frowned. "Ice cream?"

"Nope."

"You didn't even check!" Sam cried indignantly from his position on the bed, crossing his small arms across his chest.

Dean flushed. "I know it's not there, Sam!" he said, his voice cracking. He searched through their meager food supplies until he found an almost empty jar of peanut butter and the last of the bread. They would be living on Spaghettios until their dad returned. "Here, why don't I make you something special?"

Sam perked up. "Like what?"

"Like the best, most awesome sandwich you've ever had!"

"Really?"

"Uh-huh." Dean sneezed into his elbow. "Only the best for you, Sammy."

Dean's hands shook as he unscrewed the lid to the peanut butter. He took out a knife and began to spread it on the bread until it covered every inch from crust to crust. He did the same to the other slice. Then he put the two slices together and looked up at Sam, who had come to sit at the kitchen counter, his Hot Wheels cars abandoned on the bed.

"That's it?"

"I'm not finished. Close your eyes."

"Why?"

Did he have to question everything? "Just do it."

Huffing loudly, Sam closed his eyes. Dean sneezed once more and then began to cut into the sandwich carefully. Slowly, making sure everything was perfect, Dean made the best sandwich ever. Once finished he set down the knife and grabbed the mild from the tiny refrigerator. He sniffed it, but with his plugged up nose, he couldn't decide if it smelled fresh or not. With bleary eyes he searched for the expiration date. It was good. He poured Sam a glass of milk and set it down next to the sandwich. "Tada! Open your eyes."

Sam's eyes flew open and he smiled. "Wow, Dean! That's so cool!"

The sandwich was ordinary in everything except its shape, which Dean had cut into the shape of a star. There were no crusts, just the way Sammy liked it. "Thanks, Sammy. It's just how Mommy used to make them."

The nearly forgotten memory had surfaced unknowingly. There was tightness in Dean's chest that hadn't been there before as he thought of his mom. She always made his sandwiches into cool shapes. God, did Dean miss her.

"Really?" Same asked, his eyes wide and mouth open, half chewed sandwich plain for the world to see. "She made them like this? All the time?"

Dean's heart clenched. "Yeah, all the time."

"Can you make them like this all the time, too? Like when you make me lunch for school?"

Dean nodded. He would have said something, but a cough escaped his lips, which then turned into a coughing fit. Doubling over with a hand clutched to his chest, Dean coughed until his throat was raw. Sam stopped eating.

"Dean?"

Dean shook his head. "'M fine, Sammy," he choked out. "Finish your sandwich. It's almost time for bed."

Sam ate quickly and washed the peanut butter down with milk. He was already in his pajamas, so he went to brush his teeth while Dean cleaned the dishes. Sam walked out of the bathroom just as Dean was drying the plate.

"Ready for bed?"

Sammy nodded and climbed under the covers. Dean tucked him in and said "Goodnight, Sammy."

He was about to turn the light off when Sam whispered, "Dean? When's Daddy coming home?"

Dean paused. "Soon."

"Good," said Sam, closing his eyes and snuggling under the blankets. "Daddy will know what to do about your throat."

"'Night Sam."

Sam sighed and closed his eyes. He was out within minutes.

Dean smiled and resumed his post by the window. He pulled the blanket around his shoulders and shivered. Looking out the window, he noticed that the snow was falling heavier now. He hoped that his father wasn't outside in this. It must be freezing. Dean yawned and stifled a sneeze. He could stay awake a little longer; watch over Sammy just a little longer. His dad would be home soon.

He could stay awake forever if it meant he would come home.

***SPN***

The snow was almost a foot high when John opened the door to the dingy motel room. It was well after midnight and the room was dark, save for the light coming from the bathroom. John automatically looked to his left and saw Sammy sprawled across the bed, the covers kicked down to his legs. Sighing, John crossed the tiny room and pulled the covers up to his chin. After kissing him on the forehead, John looked to the other bed and found it empty.

Panicking, John looked wildly around the room. Dammit, it was too dark! He wasn't in the kitchenette; there were no sounds from the bathroom. Where was he? Where was Dean?

"Dad?" came the soft, scratchy voice from behind him. John spun around in relief and rested his eyes on his oldest son.

Dean.

The kid was dressed in a large pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt that John immediately recognized as his own. He was curled up on the armchair by the solitary window in the room. He was shivering and even from the distance, John could spot the dark circles under his eyes. John remembered that Sam had had a cold before he had left. Dean must have caught it from him, John thought guiltily.

"Hey, kiddo. You all right?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Sure you are, bud. Have you been up this whole night?"

"Mmm-hmm. I was waiting for you. You were late."

John's chest tightened at his son's words. The hunt had taken longer than expected, that much was true. Turns out, it wasn't a wendigo, but a werewolf. How that had managed to allude Caleb, who had sent John on the hunt, was a mystery, but John thought quick on his feet and killed it. Not soon enough, though. John was about three days overdue.

"I know, Dean, and I'm sorry. It took a little longer than I thought it was going to."

Dean nodded and then his eyes widened. "You're bleeding!" he whispered brokenly, pointing a shaking finger.

John looked down to the spot where Dean was pointing on his arm. Sure enough, there was a long gash near the crook of his elbow. Frowning, John tried to recall where he had gotten it. It must have been from falling on the rocks. Yeah, that was probably it.

"I guess I am, buddy." John sighed. It was deep, still trickling blood, and on his right arm. He wouldn't be able to stitch it up alone. "Think you're up to helping out your old man?"

Dean nodded and stood up. He swayed slightly but recovered. John frowned and put his hand on the small of Dean's back, guiding him into the bathroom. Sitting down on the closed toilet seat, John asked, "Do you know where the medical kit is?"

Dean nodded again and reached up on his tip-toes to grab the kit out of the medicine cabinet. He opened it up and took out the suture kit and the gauze. Dean meticulously cleaned the wound, which didn't turn out to be that bad, and began to thread the needle.

"How was Sammy? Was he good?"

"He was fine. He played with his cars a lot." Dean started the stitching, making John wince. "Sorry."

"It's all right, Dean. When did you get that cold? Did Sammy give it to you?"

Dean sniffled, then shrugged and said, "I dunno. Did you get it?" He wasn't talking about the cold.

John smiled. "I got it, son."

Dean smiled and finished the suturing. John looked down as Dean cut the thread. There were six stitches in all, perfect and neat and all too well done. No ten year old should know how to stitch up a wound. John closed his eyes for a moment and breathed through his nose. Dean was far too old for his age, but there was nothing to be done about it, nothing he could do. Opening his eyes, he said, "Now let me take a look at you."

Dean's skin was pale, save for the purple smudges below his eyes and the smattering of freckles across his nose and cheeks. His nose and lips were red and chapped from sneezing. His breathing was loud and John could hear the rumble in his chest. John frowned and checked his temperature. He was too warm.

John stood up and searched through the medicine cabinet. "Where's the cough syrup?"

Dean sneezed and coughed pitifully. "Sammy had the last of it."

"Sorry, bud, I'll pick some up in the morning."

Dean raised his eyes to meet John's. "Daddy, I don't feel good."

His green eyes were swimming with tears as he swallowed and winced. John felt his forehead again and cupped his face with a large, calloused hand. "I know, Dean, but you'll feel better in the morning."

Dean nodded. He started to cough which turned into a coughing fit. John pulled him close and rubbed his back until it passed. When Dean stopped, he pulled away and held his son at arm's length. The red eyes and dark circles told John all he needed to know.

"Time for bed."

John scooped Dean up in his arms and shut off the bathroom light. John's eyes adjusted to the darkness of the room as he made his way to his bed. Sammy's soft snores filled the room as John pulled the covers back and lay Dean down. He changed quickly into his pajamas and then climbed in next to his son and Dean snuggled closer to him, resting his head on John's chest. Dean struggled to keep his eyes open as John pulled the blankets up and covered the both of them in warmth.

"Don't worry, buddy," John said, smoothing Dean's short hair back from his hot little forehead, "I'll take this watch."

There you have it, folks! Reviews are awesome!