Force of habit made Sam check the peephole before opening the door, though he knew damned well who it was.
Briefly considering ignoring their visitor, he looked over at Dean who lay asleep on his bed, arm encased in white plaster.
John knocked again.
With a resigned sigh, Sam let their father in.
Nodding awkwardly to his youngest, John crossed the room and stood over Dean's bed. "Bad break?" He ran gentle fingers over the cast.
"Could've been worse," Sam answered grudgingly. "Doc said to keep it on for six weeks."
John gave Sam a half-smile. "Bet you he's got it off in four." He nodded at the colorful bruise decorating Dean's forehead. "Concussion?"
"Yeah."
John pulled a chair over next to the bed and sat down.
Sam forced back the over-the-top rage he felt at the casual way John was making himself at home. Gritting his teeth, he went to the window and looked out into the parking lot. John's big truck was parked beside the Impala.
His father, noting the piles of folded clothing and the half-full duffel on the other bed, said inquiringly. "Getting ready to pull out?"
Sam didn't answer. Or turn around. "Why are you here?"
"Looking for you, Sam," John said steadily.
"Why?" Sam's voice was almost a growl.
John looked down at his big hands, then at Dean, as if searching for an answer. When he finally looked back up at Sam's stiff back, he said simply, "I want you boys to come home, to the States." Taking a deep breath, he clarified: "I want you to hunt with me again."
Sam turned, staring disbelievingly at his father. It took him a moment to find his voice. "Are you kidding me?"
"Sam –"
"Are you kidding me?"
"Sam, we need to talk about this." John stayed calm. "Things have changed, things you don't know about – "
"I can't believe you." Sam's laugh was exquisitely bitter. "Shit, the balls on you!"