MAY

Dean knew it was Sam just by the sound of his socks scuffing the carpet. He feigned sleep, tracking his brother's movements as Sam crept closer. Dean lay face down, his left cheek pressing awkwardly against the over-stuffed hotel pillow, one arm under his pillow, one knee bent and sticking out from under the blankets. He lay in wait, his breathing shallow as Sam stopped next to the bed.

"Dean?"

Just as Dean was well aware of Sam's presence, Sam had been able to recognize Dean's 'playing possum' routine for years.

"What?" Dean asked, unmoving.

"Dad's gone."

Dean jerked upright, knocking into Sam in his haste to stand up. "What? Where is he? How long has he been gone?"

"I don't know! He was gone when I woke up."

Dean snatched his jeans off the back of the chair and hobbled from foot to foot as he shoved his feet in the legs. "Did you ask around?"

"No, I-"

"Christ, Sam- he could be anywhere! Come on, we gotta find him." Dean pulled on a t-shirt and headed for the door.

"All the weapons are still here," Sam said as he hurried to catch up. "But-"

Dean reached for his keys but only knocked his knuckles against the wooden table. Startled, he looked harder, tossing aside last night's fast food bags. "Where the hell are my keys?"

Sam pivoted so that he was in Dean's line of vision. "The Impala's gone."

"What?" Dean's blood turned to ice and the tiny shards ripped at his veins. "Sam, Dad doesn't even know what day it is, how are we gonna-"

He forced himself to stop and take a breath, looking at Sam. Sam's eyebrows pinched together and his forehead wrinkled in an expression of worry and anxiousness. Expectation.

"Okay, think," Dean started, forcing his shoulders to relax. "If we were Dad, where would we go?"

Sam's eyes widened. "Out to hunt something."

Dean searched the room. "We need a newspaper. Maybe he left a clue."

"He could have got a phone call," Sam said, moving to the nightstand. He picked up the pad of scratch paper and tilted it towards the light.

"Let's hope not." Dean ran a hand through his hair and tried to ignore the way his fingers trembled against his scalp. John no longer knew their phone numbers, what city or state he was in, or even his own age. The complexity of the task at hand hit Dean full-force and it stole his breath. How do you find someone who wasn't all there to begin with?

Sam threw down the stationary. "There's nothing here."

"All right," Dean replied a lot more confidently than he felt. "We'll split up. I'll head to the diner, you check out the gas station. We'll keep in contact with the cell phones." His hand was on the doorknob when it ripped from his hand.

John stood in the doorway, a look of surprise on his face and his hands full of take-out bags. "You're up," he said cautiously.

A surge of relief crashed into Dean so hard his knees almost buckled. "Dad," he said breathlessly, "Where'd you go?"

He looked past Dean to Sam. "It's Sammy's birthday," he stated. "I got pancakes." He rustled the bags, emphasizing.

John sidled past Dean and set the bags on the foot of one of the beds. "Hope you're hungry, I got eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns- the works. It is a special occasion, after all. Sammy's a teenager now."

Dean watched as his father grabbed an open-jawed Sam and pulled him into a quick hug, ending with a firm pat on the back.

"Happy birthday, son."

Dean's chest tightened as John began unpacking the breakfast. It had been years since a birthday was celebrated, and even longer since the once-traditional pancake breakfast. Sam was frozen to his spot, his jaw clenched. They stared at each other, each barely breathing. Emotions flashed through Dean; first numbness, then pride, then happiness and even a little jealousy. January 24th had been spent in Dr. Steven's office, waiting for test results and an updated prognosis.

"Sam? You look like you've seen a ghost. What's wrong with you two? Get over here and eat!"

Dean moved forward. "Yes sir," he squeaked.

Sam blinked and looked away, scrubbing his hand over his face. "I'm-" his voice broke and he started for the door. "I gotta…I left something in the car."

"Sam-"

He paused just long enough to look over his shoulder. "Sorry."

Dean watched him go, his anger flaring. What the hell just happened? He looked at his father.

John wore an expression of confusion and hurt. He shuttered it quickly and turned his attention back to the food with a shrug. "He'll be back," he said calmly. "Probably went snooping for his present."

"Dad," Dean started, feeling the need to fill the silence. He stood next to his father, watching as the food was laid out on the bedspread. It looked appetizing- but he doubted he could swallow anything with his throat being so tight. "This was really nice of you."

John flashed him a smile, his dark stubble standing out against his pale skin. "Hey, it's my boy's birthday. It's not much, but it's something."

When all the food was laid out, John threw the bags in the too-small trash can and moved to his duffle bag. "Wanna help me clean these?" he asked, hefting the weapons on the other bed.

Wordlessly, Dean moved forward and sat on the foot of the bed as his father unpacked the weapons.

"You know, son, I've actually been needing to talk to you for a while now."

Dean looked up. "You have?"

John unzipped the cleaning kit. "You're growing up, Dean. You've gotten so tall- it's like you grew a foot overnight."

Dean's stomach twisted.

"It's time we talked, man to man."

Dean raised an eyebrow. A sneaking suspicion began to unfold within him…

The can of Prolix hissed as John sprayed the cleaner down the gun's barrel and in the cylinder chambers. Some of the chemical dribbled down John's trembling fingers, unnoticed. "You're at the age where your hormones control everything you do. I've seen you oogling women and it's perfectly natural for you to be curious-"

"Whoa- whoa, hold on a minute," Dean exclaimed, his spine stiffening. "Dad, I don't need the 'birds and the bees' talk-"

"I know it's embarrassing," John continued, setting the gun aside and picking up another. "I had a father too. But you have to be prepared. If you're going to tom-cat around, you gotta be safe about it. I don't need a grandson right now, understand?"

Heat spread up Dean's neck and into his cheeks. He snatched the whet stone and unsheathed a hunting knife. "Yes sir."

"I want you to come to me if you ever need anything. Don't be embarrassed. I may be your old man, but I was young once too, before your mother."

At the mention of Mary, Dean slowed his movements and looked across the bed. John held the bore in one hand and the gun in the other, trying to push the cleaning patch down the barrel. His hands shook, though, and jab after jab, he missed.

"Damnit," he cursed after stabbing himself in the hand.

Dean set the knife and stone on the bed next to his knee and reached out. "Let me do it," he urged, meeting his father's gaze.

"I haven't had my coffee yet."

The excuse was shallow and pathetic and the gun felt extremely heavy as it dropped into Dean's palm. He closed his hand around the cold metal and John stood up, the bed bouncing slightly. He grabbed one of the to-go cups and moved towards the window, his back towards Dean.

"You boys are growing up so fast," he said softly, his voice distant. "It seems like only yesterday I was carrying Sammy around on my hip."

Dean set the gun down and watched his father's reflection in the glass.

John stood with his arms crossed over his stomach, wisps of steam rising from the cup just under his chin. Sunlight poured in where the curtains were parted and John seemed to relax in its warmth. He took a deep breath, then said, "I know I don't say it enough, but I'm proud of you boys." He turned around, facing Dean. "You're a good kid, Dean. Ever since your mom… You really handle a lot of responsibility, probably more than any kid should have to. I want you to know…" John shifted a little. "I really appreciate it. Sam appreciates it. You matter to me, Dean. You matter a lot."

Tears stung Dean's eyes and he blinked, masking his emotions with a curt nod. "Sure. No problem."

Their voices echoed in the silence until John cleared his throat and approached the food. "Where the hell is that brother of yours? The food's getting cold."

Dean stood up, his mind still struggling to digest what had just happened between them. "I'll go find him," he volunteered, eager to escape the small room, and his own thoughts.

He paused at the doorway, watching as his father began to pick at the bacon. His heart swelled, pushing painfully against his ribs, and Dean swallowed the lump in his throat.

Then he turned and left.