Despite the fact John was watching and waiting for Dean, his oldest son still managed to surprise him with his arrival. John was walking back to his motel room from a nearby diner, a bag of lunch in his hand, and stopped short when he saw the Impala in the parking lot and Dean leaning against the sleek black body.

"Son."

Dean looked up slowly at his father. He tried, and failed, to muster a smile. "Hey."

When he was closer, John took stock, his keen eyes swallowing every detail of his oldest boy.

Dean looked uninjured. There was no sign of bandages, casts, stitches, or tourniquets that made up so much of the Winchester life. He did look drawn, gaunt the way he'd get when he'd been sick and avoiding food for days. The kid also looked dead-tired. There were shadows beneath his usually bright green-hazel eyes, eyes that were now looking dully up at John.

It was the posture most of all, though. Dean swaggered. He strutted. John's oldest son was a god damn peacock, fully equipped with the head-turning looks to pull it off without coming off like a complete sleaze-monster (as Sam had always been so wont to put it).

That wasn't Dean now. Dean was smaller somehow, bowed, his shoulders hunched and hands buried in his jacket pockets. It seemed to ask a lot of him just to bring his head up to look at his father.

It was hard to believe at that moment that the kid was just barely twenty-four years old. He looked world-weary and heart-sick, two states John Winchester knew well from a much longer lifetime of sorrow.

Was it just Sam leaving that had done this to Dean?

"What's wrong, Dean?" he asked.

Dean started to take in a breath, changed his mind, and then just sort of sagged. "Nothing."

John gave Dean the 'bullshit' eye.

Dean shied. "You got a bed I can commandeer, or are we hitting the road?"

Dean looked like he could barely keep himself upright, to say nothing for getting behind the wheel and driving until dusk.

But John knew if he said so, Dean would do it. His oldest boy was just dependable like that.

"When I knew you were coming I had them switch me to a double; come on inside."

Dean shuffled silently behind John into the motel room.

John held out his sack of lunch to Dean. "Here."

Dean looked down at it blankly. "That's yours."

Might have been at one time, but one look at his son and John knew who really needed a meal. "I'm toting around enough of a spare tire already. You caught me overindulging myself. Eat."

Dean, who never had to be told twice to eat and dove into food like a ravenous wolf, held the bag a moment, as if unsure what to do, before taking it to the small room table and sitting down.

To distract himself from the fact that he really had been hungry and now he could smell the burrito but had to watch Dean eat it, John began to pick up a few errant objects around the room, clearing one bed for Dean while asking, "So… where you been?"

"Oregon."

Dean had checked in with him from Oregon over three weeks ago. "This whole time?"

Dean nodded.

"What were you hunting?"

There was no answer. John turned and looked at his son. Dean was staring down at the burrito.

"Dean?" John repeated.

Dean shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing."

John frowned and narrowed his eyes. This was very unlike Dean. Dean loved to talk about his hunts. Even the ones that went south they discussed. When the Winchester men could talk about absolutely nothing else, there was always the hunt.

Something had really rattled Dean to get him to clam up like this.

"Dean… are you all right?"

Dean hesitantly looked up at his father. For a second, he looked so lost. "Just tired."

And more than that, John knew, but Dean obviously wasn't up for sharing. There'd be time for that later.

"Finish your lunch and you can hit the sack," John ordered.

Without another word, Dean did as he was told.

After he ate, Dean went back out to the car and brought in his bag of personal things. John surreptitiously watched, like a hawk, while Dean stripped down to his boxer briefs.

When his son's shirt came off, John flinched. John knew Dean's every injury, from infancy onward, mostly because he was the one who dressed and patched most of them. He could have drawn a map of Dean and Sam's body scars from memory. Looking at Dean, John found there was a new scar, recent and noticeable from across the room, on Dean's shoulder.

"Your last hunt went wrong," John blurted the obvious observation.

Dean stopped, looked down at his latest battle trophy, then brought up a hand and lightly touched the healing scar tissue. "Yeah."

That was all Dean would say.

Dean crawled into bed, nuzzling down into the pillow. From the way Dean's body immediately went lax, John knew the boy would sleep hard and long. Good. Dean looked like he needed it.

Caught up in the relief of having Dean back, John sat on the opposite bed facing Dean and said gruffly, "Good to have you back, son."

Dean curled in on himself in the bed, eyes closed. "Didn't want to be alone," he mumbled.

John didn't get a chance to ask Dean what that meant before the young hunter was asleep.

To Be Continued…