Hey Jude

The Tequila Mockingbird was dark, quiet, like some sort of shadow was cast across the building like an impending doom. The bar was waxed and shining, dark nicks and dents like scars on a smooth surface. Light fixtures glowed orange and fuzzy on the walls, spilling over vacated tables and the sticky, peanut-shell littered floors. Besides the click of glass on buffed wood surfaces and the occasional murmur of the town drunk as he told himself the story of the Three Little Pigs for the fourteenth time that night, sound in the bar was still as the stagnant air. The bartender was just as dark as his workspace; he only stepped out of the shadows to refill John's beer and grab cash from other patrons. John titled back the glass, staring into its depths like it held all the answers to the world.

A thin layer of amber liquid coated the bottom of his mug, swishing miserable against the fogged glass as he tipped the glass from side to side. It was his second drink of the night— or of the morning, really, as the clock behind the bar read half past midnight. He wasn't planning on consuming any more, besides this last dreg swirling in his hands; he was driving the last two hours back to Bobby's house first thing in the morning, and the last thing he needed was a sun rise paired with a nasty hangover. John swallowed down the last of his drink, stamped the empty glass and ten dollars for the beer onto the counter, and grabbed his leather coat, heading for… some semblance of home.

Before he hopped into the Impala, John crossed the empty road and exchanged a five dollar bill for a dollar in change and a keychain that had Dean's name on it. He pocketed both, left the spare dime and penny on the counter, and walked outside without exchanging a single word with the cashier. John eyed his beloved car, sitting in the parking lot with a grocery cart full of garbage and a stealthy cat, and headed towards the street corner, pockets jingling with every step.

Under the pale glow of a flickering streetlamp, a stalwart payphone waited for the Hunter. The box was rusted, dented, with graffiti sprayed across its chipped paintjob. Exposed to years of nasty weather and even nastier drunkards, the payphone was a rugged survivor of the impossible. John figured that's why he was drawn to it in the first place. Once standing in front of the phone, John slipped two quarters from his pocket and into the hungry slot. He had four minutes for fifty cents, and he was planning to put those four minutes to good use. His last half-dollar would be used to call Bobby just before he got into the man's Minnesota abode.

John let the chilly wind slap his face, sobering up what little edge the man had gotten from his two drinks. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, collar now popped against the frigid breeze. He shifted impatiently, waiting for the phone to be answered.

Three minutes and fifty-eight seconds. Three minutes and fifty-seven seconds.

"Hey, Bobby? How're the boys?" John asked the moment he heard the ringing stop. He wasn't one to beat around the bush while on the phone, especially when it came to his boys. And especially when his four minutes were ticking.

"Dean's all right, John, but Sam's drivin' me right up the wall," Bobby sighed wearily.

John winced as he heard his one and a half year old wailing in the background. "What's the matter with him, Bobby?" he asked, alertness elevated to threatening heights.

"Don't know. I tried feedin' him and changin' him, but he ain't bitin' on anything," Bobby told his friend.

"Well, it's past midnight," John pointed out. "He's probably just tired. Have you tried putting him to sleep?"

"Sleep. Why didn't I think of that?" Bobby asked sarcastically. "Of course I tried puttin' him to sleep, John. He just cried the whole time."

"Did you put him in Dean's bed?" John asked. Every time Sam had trouble sleeping in his makeshift cribs, John moved him to his toddler's bed. The moment Dean's larger arms wrapped around Sam's tiny body, the baby would instantly relax, popping a thumb in his mouth and eventually drifting into sleep.

"Yeah, Dean and I tried that," Bobby said. "I can't tell if he's got a fever, or he's just warm, either. How much longer that Hunt of yours gonna last?"

"I'm done now. I was going to drive in tomorrow morning, but if Sam needs me now—," John started.

"Don't be stupid," Bobby interrupted. "You sound like you're an inch away from death. Get some rest. Dean and I will deal with Sam for tonight."

"Did you try singing to him?" John asked, not paying attention to his friend's words and instead thinking of a solution to the issue.

"Yeah, just proves to you how good of a person I am," Bobby said gruffly.

"Even that didn't work?" John asked. Lullabies always lulled the kid to sleep, at least in John's experience it did.

"Kid's still wailin', isn't he?"

"I told him he sang all the wrong songs!"

"Dean?" John asked, pressing his ear closer to the receiver. "Bobby, why is Dean still awake?"

"Same reason I'm still awake, you idjit. Your other kid is screamin' at the top of his lungs, that's why," Bobby snapped. "No one can get a wink of sleep if he's yellin' like this."

"I'm telling you, Bobby," Dean whined in the background. From the way Dean was shouting, it seemed to John like his oldest was holding Sam, or at least he was very close to the crying child, and was trying hard to get his voice heard over the wails. "You just aren't singing the right songs!"

"Yeah, well, I'm not a damn radio, Dean!" Bobby barked at the five and a half year old. If it wasn't for the fact that John had said much worse words in front of his child, he probably would have gotten angry at his fellow Hunter for swearing at Dean.

"Did you try 'Hey, Jude'?" John asked.

"'Hey Jude'?" Bobby asked incredulously. "What kind of kid song is that?"

"'Hey Jude'! That's it!" Dean exclaimed.

"You mean, this entire time the 'Jew' song was 'Hey, Jude'?" Bobby exclaimed. John almost chuckled at what he assumed to be Dean's mispronunciation when he realized how it would sound to an outsider. He would have to talk to Dean about not sounding racist when he was around other people. That was just screaming for attention that John neither wanted nor needed.

"Well, sor-ry I didn't remember the name!" Dean retorted hotly. "It's hard to think with Sammy yelling like this!"

"Now don't you get smart with me, boy!" Bobby demanded. "I ain't your daddy. I don't know how to do this!"

"Bobby, why don't you stop fighting with my five year old and just sing to Sam? It will probably stop the crying for a bit, at least calm him a bit until he falls asleep," John said. Sam's wails reach an all time high and the decibel leaves John's ears ringing. He doesn't know what clenches harder: his fists or his heart. "I'll get home as soon as I can, all right?"

"Yeah, whatever, John." Click.

A woman's recorded voice filled the earpiece, and John slammed down the phone, turning on his heel and striding back to the Impala. Once in the Tequila Mockingbird's parking lot, he swatted the yowling cat off his trunk, got inside his moaning beast of a car, and wheels squealing, turned towards Minnesota.

He made it into Bobby's front lawn by two o' clock in the morning. Hinges on his car door squeaking, he slammed his shut and thudded onto the porch in his heavy workbooks, mud from his recent Hunt still clinging to his soles. Bobby was collapsed on the couch, a blanket placed awkwardly over his chest. Neither of his sons were in sight. John stripped off his leather jacket and tossed it onto the coffee table. He took no care in being silent as he rushed up the staircase and into the room where he had last left his boys.

This time, managing silent footsteps, he pushed open the bedroom door and peeked inside, eyes adjusting quickly to the dark. They zeroed in on the twin bed. The lump under the old white blanket was slowly rising and falling with Dean's breathing. A whimper came from the folds of the cloth.

John strode the warped wooden boards underfoot and knelt at the side of the bed. Sam was tucked under his brother's arm, face wet and shining, eyes bright in the dark of the room. At the sight of his father, the little boy started to sniffle. He reached his arms out, pushing away the heavy blanket as fast as his little fists could. John scooped the child out of bed and held him close. Sammy hiccupped, popping a thumb in his mouth. His face was warm, even through the thickness of John's shirt.

John walked to the window seat and sat himself comfortably on the stained cushion, leaning up against the wall with his baby resting against chest. The boy was so small that he rose and fell with his father's breathing, and John had to wonder—not for the first time— if he had ever been this small. Sam let out another whimper, and John shushed him, planting a kiss on top of the boy's curly hair. "Hey, Jude, don't make it bad. Take a sad song, and make it better…"

It wasn't really the song that Sam had needed. It was just John's voice.