He'd been sitting in this chair all morning, waiting for the familiar sight of the Impala to creep up the driveway. He could feel the pile of newspapers he'd finished earlier stacked together haphazardly near the edge of his foot and he kicked them underneath the chair. The warmth of the sun baking against him expanded like a fuzzy glow within his mind and made his eyelids feel heavy. He was tempted to move over the couch and take a nap. Those damn pain meds that Bobby had been giving him had been leaving him feeling tired all the time.

Dean took a deep breath, enjoying the moment of peace. He tried to keep his mind on the present, focusing on the feeling of his breath, as he struggled to keep from worrying about his dad stopping by. He scratched self-consciously at the bandages that still encased his torso, trying to let some much-needed air circulate into the scratchy, stiff fabric. Bobby had taken off his old bandages this morning, and despite Dean's protests to leave them off, had insisted that he wrap them up again.

"You know what's gonna' happen if you leave that mess unwrapped?" Bobby had said, pointing at the sickly splotches of green and fading purple that were left as remnants of his healing bruises. "Every twist…every time you raise your hands to take a piss, your gonna' feel like a little knife is jabbin' into your stomach. And if you don't keep it steady, you're riskin' it flaring up and injuring it more. Healing it right the first time is always the best way." He cocked his eyebrows at Dean. "So, sit down, shut your trap and let me get this over with."

A faint smile touched Dean's lips at the memory. For all the shit he gave them about being stubborn, Bobby could be a pushy son-of-a-bitch himself. Dean hadn't argued with Bobby after that – after all, he knew he was right. But as much as he hated to admit that he cared, he'd spent half the morning trying to look better than he felt and the bandages were not supporting that image. A feeling of self-loathing had crept over him that morning as he'd caught himself staring in the dusty mirror by his bedside, picking at his hair and straightening the neckline of his t-shirt in an attempt to make himself look as normal as possible. The rough fabric of the compression wrap around his stomach was visible underneath his white Hanes, t-shirt, showing through in a layered, flat white color. When Bobby hadn't let him forego the bandages, he'd switched to a dark gray t-shirt that hid the imprint of the bandages better. Why did he care so much?

Disgusted with himself – his neediness – he'd retreated downstairs to watch some television, but there was nothing on except for one of the many Spanish soap operas he'd now become familiar with. He watched for a moment before losing interest and moved to the window, where he'd been waiting ever since.

His head lulled from tiredness and he heard Bobby whistling from somewhere in the house, his tune happy and a little off-pitch. Dean wondered what time it was as he felt his attention snap to the window as the sleek, black image of the Impala crept over the gravel, lumbering into the view of the driveway.

...

Dean froze to the chair as he saw John swing out of the Impala and begin crossing the dull, March grass towards the front of Bobby's porch. Everything felt numb and disjointed except for the pounding of his heart as he rose out of the chair and moved downstairs. He passed by Bobby, who was washing dishes in the kitchen and approached the silhouetted frame of his father's shadow lurking through the screen door. Dean's mind jumped to a memory of John flinging open that same door after coming back from an extended hunt and sweeping him and Sam into a big hug. He had smelled vaguely of car oil and laundry detergent.

As he neared the door, he studied John. He was facing downwards, the crisscrossed shadows of the screen throwing dark shadows across his face. Bobby had been right about one thing – his father looked rough. Dean couldn't help but wonder if he had been sleeping.

John looked up. "Hey, Dean." He had his hands clasped in front of him and Dean could see him fiddling with the pale silver band of his wedding ring. He met Dean's gaze. "Mind if you let an old man in?"

Dean felt a weight appear behind him and realized that Bobby had moved from the kitchen and was watching their conversation.

"Yeah, uh, of course." He paused, adding awkwardly "…Sir."

He swung the door open to let his father in, John standing uncomfortably in the doorway for a moment. He looked as if he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Bobby." John nodded behind him.

"John." Bobby nodded back.

They stood a moment, the silence swollen around them. John broke the tension, gesturing at Dean. "You're looking good." A frown touched his eyes as his gaze swept over Dean, his stare lingering for a moment at the residual swelling of his eye and then sweeping up towards the top of his head. "Your hair is getting pretty long." His mouth quirked up half-way into a smile. "You better watch it or you're gonna start looking like your brother."

Dean felt himself relax, leaning into the light-heartedness with appreciation. "Not for me. I'll leave the chick-looks for Sam."

John smiled and Dean felt himself beam.

Stop it. He didn't deserve this.

Dean made the conscious effort to steady his expression and felt a shift in his tone. He was disgusted – so tired – of his neediness. "Did you want to sit down?" He asked coolly.

John blinked, adjusting to the change in Dean's voice. "Yeah. Yeah, that sounds good." He looked down at his hands and then strode forward, moving past Bobby at a respectful difference and letting himself into the living room.

Dean met Bobby's eyes, giving him a small smile to let him know everything was okay and then followed John into the living room. He straightened up, doing his best impression to walk as if he wasn't in pain as he attempted to mimic his usual gait. Fiery pain tore across the bottom left of his ribs as he sat across from John on the sagging couch, concealing the pain in a carefully painted, vacant expression. He drummed his fingers across his knees as John looked around the room.

"Sure doesn't throw anything away, does he?" John said as his eyes scanned the yellowing stacks of books and newspapers stacked across the room. "Guess I can't complain though. Not with how many times these old books have saved our asses." He paused as they both heard the clatter of dishes, marking Bobby's return to the kitchen. Dean could see John relax knowing that their conversation wasn't being watched over.

"So…" John stared down at his hands, still twisting his wedding ring. "How are ya feeling?"

Dean could feel the color rise to his checks and felt painfully aware of the bandages scratching against his skin. This was new territory for them – the closest thing they'd ever gotten to talking about this was Flagstaff when he'd woken up to a note tucked underneath a six-pack. That had not been a good night for him.

"Erm.." He grunted, clearing his throat. "Good." Dean looked down. "I mean…better. A couple of days at Bobby's house never hurts anything."

John's eyes flicked toward the kitchen where Bobby was noisily loading the dishwasher. "Yeah, you boys always liked it here." They both felt a pressure in the air as they sat in silence a moment. Dean fought the urge to scratch at his bandages.

John scanned the contents of the room slowly. "I always figured we'd end up in a place like this. Set up a home base out in the middle of nowhere and give you boys a place to run around." He leaned forward, threading his hands together over his knees. "That was the plan anyway. But…how old are you now? 22? 23? Jesus." He clapped his hands together lightly and looked at the floor. "Guess hindsight's 2020."

Dean was silent, unsure of what to say.

John continued, softer than he had been before. His gaze remained trained on the floor, carefully avoiding Dean's eyes. "I've been doing a little thinking, and uh, I think that Bobby may have made some good points. You know, better than anyone that I've tried after your mother died." He swallowed "…I tried the best I could to raise you both up right. But it hasn't been easy." At this, he gave a sad smile. "And I've got this fucking temper. I always thought I'd grow out of it, but that just never happened. I guess I just want you to know that I think it's somethin' I need to work on. And that's it's not your fault when I…" He paused, his gaze lifting to Dean's broken ribs. "…when I, uh, get upset like that. I just get so worried about you and your brother because I know what's out there. I know what can grab you and tear you both to pieces in the middle of the night. So, I guess I've just always been a bit harder on you than you needed - than you deserved. And I just want you to know that I'm sorry and that I'm real proud of the way you turned out." He cleared his throat and continued. "I know you're probably pissed at me, and probably sick of this whole fucking thing, but I just want to let you know that I'm going to try, and I mean really try to be a better dad." He turned his gaze upwards, finally meeting his son's eyes. "Sound fair?"

Dean stared at him, bewildered at his father's apology. He still wasn't sure what to say, but luckily he didn't have to think of anything as they were interrupted by the whoosh of the dining room door opening as Bobby entered the room. A warm hand was placed on his shoulder as he was handed a cold beer. "You boy's doin' alright?" Bobby asked.

Dean was startled out of his silence. "Yeah, uh, yeah Bobby. Thanks." He gave an appreciative smile and took a swig of his beer.

John spoke up, sounding tired. "We're doing fine, Bobby. We're gettin' everything sorted out. Probably something we should've done a long time ago." He gave Bobby a half-smile and Bobby returned with a nod of approval. "Damn straight." Bobby replied. "You want anything to drink then?" He gestured with his beer, his gaze intent on John.

"Just a water…" John said, his gaze drifting to the window with curiosity. "I'm tryin' to cut back…" He said distractedly, rising slightly out of his chair to get a better view of the front-drive. "You expecting any visitors, Bobby?"

"No" Bobby's brow furrowed as he turned to look out the window. "Not unless it's Jared, here to pick up his car. But he's not supposed to be comin' by til tomorrow."

"Does he drive a 2000's Prius?"

Bobby snorted. "Nope. Did he look like the kinda guy that drives a Prius?"

Dean didn't turn around to look out at the car, because he knew.

He knew from the sinking feeling settling like a rock in his stomach who would be at the door. He knew before the tall, lanky figure whisked past the window and he knew before the loud banging at the door had begun.

Sam was here to join the party.