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The shudder of the drier's almost the same rhythm and timbre as the chuckle of the Chevy's engine. The similarity lets John's mind drift as he braces his hands on the front corners of the machine, dropping his head between his shoulders, letting the weight of his skull pull the tension out of his neck. The heated air fills the small room rapidly, goosebumps replaced with the tickle of sweat in his underarms.
He steps back. The buttons on his jeans clank arrhythmically against the drum of the dryer, and he watches the off-white clothes spin for another minute before blinking away the hypnotic daze of it. Another eighty-five minutes before the cycle's done, and it's been half an hour since he left the boys in the motel room.
The air outside the cramped laundry is a cool shock, and John crosses his arms over his bare chest, huffing, feeling the scrape of his nipples against his forearms. A quick glance left-and-right before shuffling quickly across the parking lot, boots clomping a little louder than he'd like without his socks on.
The motel's deserted at this hour, at least the outside of it. Dingy fluorescent lighting makes the closed, moth-speckled doors look green, taking the edge off John's shadow when he gets to the room. He slides the key into the lock, holding the handle still to minimize the rattle, twists and pushes.
Frowns. Twists the handle the other way, pushes again. The door still doesn't budge.
John takes a step back, looks up to the number on the door. He twists the handle again, leans a little more weight against it. Hears something shift, feels the scrape through the metal of the handle.
"Go away!" comes a voice from inside, high and more commanding than frightened. "My dad's coming back any minute and he's gonna kill you!"
John lets go of the handle, steps back again. "Dean," he says in a hushed whisper, wary of waking their neighbors. The parking lot's more full than empty, and the last thing he needs is for people waking up and finding him standing outside his room in his underwear at this time of night. He cups his hands against the door, speaks into them. "Dean! Open the door!"
"Leave us alone," Dean calls out from inside, and John grits his teeth. Goddammit, Dean was meant to be asleep, not even notice that John was absent from the room, just waking up in the morning with pile of fresh goddamn laundry.
"Dean," he hisses again, giving up on the door and moving to the fly-spotted window a few steps away. He taps lightly on the glass. "It's me," he says. "It's Dad."
The curtain's drawn back and Dean steps back warily, standing a few feet away with a look of extreme consternation. His teeshirt's on backwards, John realizes when Dean scratches at where the tag's folded up against his throat, the backs of the ninja turtles adorning Dean's front. It sends a surge of frustration through John's chest.
"Let me in," John says.
"If you're Dad," Dean says. "Where're your clothes?"
John suppresses an eye-roll, and the urge to cross his arms over his chest. "In the wash," he says. "It's cold. Open the door, Dean."
Dean frowns. "What's the password?" he says in a stage whisper.
Goddammit. He'd made it a game for the first few states, after Mike's confession that he'd called the goddamn CPS and John had realized it was high time he and the boys left Lawrence. Dean had insisted they changed the password every few times, just in case anyone was listening, and gleefully followed John's instructions to stay with Sammy in the bathroom when he heard the door unlocking until John called out the password.
"Not now, Dean," John says, making his voice as no-nonsense as possible while still remaining a whisper. "Just let me in."
"You need the password," Dean whispers back, just as fiercely.
John turns away from the window for a moment, cussing silently at the parking lot before turning back. "Punky Brewster."
"Da-ad, no! That was last week's."
John grinds his teeth. It's getting really damn cold outside. "Cap'n Crunch."
Dean shakes his head sadly.
"Donatello?"
"Dad," Dean says, breaking out of his whisper to border on a whine, and then jerks his head around to look behind him abruptly. John cups his hands against the glass, peers inside. "Just a second," Dean says, and steps out of the patch of light cast by the window, turning back into the room.
"No," John says, then a little louder, "no, Dean, wait--" Then he can hear Sammy, unhappy burble of wakefulness. Dean returns to the window, upper body leaning backwards to counter-balance the weight of Sammy held against his chest, his arms locked around Sam's middle. Sammy squints in the dim light, looking entirely unimpressed.
Dean pulls a face. "He smells bad, Dad," he says. "Can you tell me how to change him through the window?"
"Dean," he doesn't bother with a whisper this time. "Open the door."
Sammy wriggles in Dean's grip, jerks his arms up. "Da," he says, sharp and loud. "Da-da! Da!" His face scrunches, and John sees the muscles on Dean's skinny arms flex as he tightens them, struggling to keep a hold on Sammy's suddenly-writhing body. Sam starts to cry.
Dean starts to look panicked, finally. "Dad," he says, looking from Sammy to back up at John, wide-eyed.
John hears movement from the adjoining room, presses a little closer to the glass. "Open the door," he says again.
"Okay." Dean crouches awkwardly to deposit Sammy on the floor and John sighs, knocking his forehead briefly against the glass as he watches his youngest's limbs kick and thump in the throes of his misery. John darts to the door when he hears the heavy, shuddering scrape of moving furniture, waiting impatiently until the handle twists and Dean pulls the door open.
Sammy quiets a little as soon as John picks him up, but not quick enough, apparently; they all startle when there's a sudden thudding on the wall that divides them from their neighbors.
"Yeah?" John shouts back. "Shut the hell up yourself!" There's one last thump, then John looks down into Dean's wide eyes. "You move that chair all by yourself, kiddo?" John asks.
Dean nods.
"Good work," John says, and Dean finally hazards a smile. "Hey." Dean tilts his head to the side a little, and John feels his mouth quirk. "Zeppelin rules."
Dean grins, and slaps John's held-out hand.