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It’s the lesser of two evils, really; outside the car there’s no shelter from the sun but they’re not in a steel oven either. At least there was air movement with the windows down in the car; outside it's just still, oppressive heat, not even a breeze to shift the drooping leaves of the trees growing up in the river bed, encased in a fine fuzz of road dust.
John starts unbuttoning his shirt as he gets to the trees and Dean follows his lead, yanking his teeshirt up over his head. Sammy gets stuck in his, stumbles, and John stops to free him while Dean bounces impatiently. The boys are already barefoot, had hopped across the wavering tarmac hooting and yipping, and now they move through the scant undergrowth like little fawn-footed creatures, long legs and youth-thin limbs, stepping carefully and keeping their eye on him.
Dean follows him into the water straight away, immediately behind and Sam behind him like a queue of ducklings but then John turns around and Sammy's still standing on the bank. Sam’s not even close enough to dig his toes into the muddied edge, shoulders hunched and knees pressed together. He's brown all over but his chest is paler than the tan sleeves up to his biceps, and there's a splash of burn-red over his shoulders. His grey, over-washed underpants sag a little, the elastic stretched out and the fabric non-coloured from too many mixed washes.
"Sammy," John says, holds out his hand. He's thigh-deep in the murky water, and the muscles along his back automatically tense up when Dean crows and dives behind him, splashing up shocks of cold. So damn good, refreshing and startling. "Come on, son."
Sammy presses his lips together, shakes his head. Dean’s head pops up ahead of John, otter-slick; panting and chattering. "Cmon, Sammy," he says, huffing laughter. "It's cold, cmon!" He duck-dives back under, ass briefly bobbing up above the surface, denim of his faded cut-offs already soaked a deep blue.
John lets himself sink back into the water, cold tightening over his chest and cording the tendons in his neck before he makes himself breathe, relax. He bends his knees, lets his feet lift off the mucky bed of the river and scoops his cupped hands through the water at either side, keeping himself afloat. Sammy edges forward a little, reluctantly, looking more terrified the more John disappears under the water.
The slope of the river bed from shore into deeper, cooler pool is gradual, Sammy should be able to find his swimming legs easy enough if he ventures in on his own. Hell, John still remembers his own father teaching him how to swim �" just tossing him in head-first into the deep end. It'd worked with Dean. "Sam," John says, tone firming, and he rises from the water.
"I can't," Sammy says, sounding miserable, and he fixes huge eyes on John's face as John approaches, no longer flickering around to watch Dean's gleeful cavorting. "I'll get drownded."
He sounds so desperately convinced that John's resolve crumbles a little, softening his tone. "You get drownded in the bath all the time," he reasons.
Sam's eyes dart to the silk-brown of the deeper water behind John then back again. "I can't."
"C'mere," John says, close enough now to extend a hand that Sam will have to take a couple steps into the water to reach.
Frowning, Sammy leans forward then takes a tiny step. Mud squelches up through his toes, and they wriggle as if completely independent of Sammy's fear. He takes another step and the wiry muscles around his kneecap and his thigh shift and tense at the less firm footing in the shallow of the water. Another step, and then he's got John's hand in a fierce grip, pulling as if he's trying to yank John closer.
"Atta boy," John murmurs, grips Sammy's other hand as well, lifts arms up to give Sammy the impression of being moments from pulled free of the water, if need's be. Dean's ceased his mindless splashing, instead dog-paddling nearby, watching.
"Daddy," Sam blurts in panic as John shuffles his feet back, urging Sam further into the water.
"It's okay, kid," John soothes. "Just hold on to me, you'll be floating in no time."
"Don't wanna float."
John smiles briefly. "What, you'd rather sink?"
"No."
Sam's brow is crumpled in concentration, lips almost bloodless. The water gets to John's waist and his arms are still almost fully extended. He tugs a little.
"Don't," Sam says, sudden urgent panic, and John stills.
"Here," he says at length. Sammy's clutching at his hands and wrists in a tourniquet grip, gnawed fingernails pressing little points of sharpness. "Let's try something different, huh?"
Sam's chest is shaking, rib cage shell vibrating against John's hands as he grips under Sammy's armpits, pulls him forward through the water. Sammy startles and mewls as the water washes over his chest, and wraps arms and legs around John the instant he's close enough.
"Try on your back, Sammy," Dean says, suddenly close enough to rest fingertips against John's forearm, his toes brushing against John's shin as he treads water. "That's how they taught us at school. On your back."
It's worth a try. John pries Sam's limbs from around him, and at Dean's instruction holds his own arms out straight just below the surface of the water. The backs of Sammy's knees rest against one forearm, Sammy's shoulders against the other, and Dean's hands cup just behind Sammy's head, barely touching.
"Don't," Sammy says, eyes wide with panic and hand flailing to grip John's elbow when John tries to lower his arms too far down, get Sammy floating.
"You're not gonna drown, dumb-dumb," Dean says, and tugs Sammy's ears briefly. Sam scowls, mouth twisted but still tense in the forehead from nervousness. "You should stick your head under."
"Don't wanna."
"You do in the bath all the time!"
"That's different," Sam bites out vehemently. "'s not cold."
John laughs softly and Sammy's gaze darts back to him, expression desperately trusting. The water makes him almost weightless, bare limbs tumbled together guilelessly in John's arms and John feels a sudden, helpless surge of affection.
"Don't let go of me," Sammy says, Dean's hands cupping under his shoulders now and the muscles of his neck tight with holding his own head up.
"It's ok, baby," John says. "Just hold your breath and close your eyes."
Sammy screws his face shut, and they dip him under.