Dean wakes to the best smell in the world. Better than his favorite brand of blended scotch whiskey – the infamous Johnnie Walker Blue. Better than that sweet and sweaty smell of a night of great sex. Better than that one memory he has of his mother dressing up for a date with John and spraying her best perfume in front of three-year-old Dean whose nose wrinkles and eyes widen. That's how he remembers his mom, how she smelled that one night out of so many. But this is better than that.

This is bacon.

His nose twitches before his eyes open and in an effort to keep this dream afloat – because it must be a dream – he rolls over and presses his face into the pillow. But not so much that he can't still smell. The second thought that filters through his sleep-fogged brain is he has no idea why he cannot only smell bacon but hear it. Hear it sizzling somewhere in the great beyond of whatever crapfest of a motel room they're occupying this week. The only other person here is Sam, who, despite his lean twenty-three year old figure, complains that eating bacon is not only unhealthy but cruel. Something about animal abuse that Dean honestly doesn't have time to even think about. He's a little busy trying to hunt down a demon and save people, if Sam hasn't noticed yet.

So there's no way that Sam is making bacon. Which means that either there is a very polite intruder currently in the tiny corner kitchenette or Dean brought home a girl last night. He thinks about that second possibility for a moment. Last night he and Sam had gone out to some local bar that was really more like a shed with a counter and some glasses. Sam had turned in early as usual, leaving Dean to walk home by himself. Because he was by himself, right? There had been no blonde giggling at his shoulder, clutching at his biceps with awe. No perky brunette sashaying a few steps in front of him, swaying in a pair of heels that look like pure evil to Dean. As much as he would have been absolutely okay with either of those situations repeating themselves, Dean walked home solo last night, he's sure of it. The thought that Sam might have brought a girl home never even crosses his mind. It's been months since Jess but the kid will probably die without ever having sex again.

Finally Dean has to crack an eye because now he's drooling a little bit on that pillow and if Sam sees, he's going to get shit for at least a week. So Dean rolls over onto his back and groans all the way into a sitting position, running a hand through his hair so that it sticks up even more than usual.

"Hey!" Then his brother is in front of Dean and, Christ, right there in Sam's hand is frying pan, spitting grease. "Morning!"

"Morning," Dean grunts.

"I made breakfast," Sam announces. He sounds like a little kid who has just tied his shoelaces for the first time. So proud, so gleeful. So not right.

"I see that," Dean says, heaving himself out from the lumpy mattress that sags in the middle and makes his young back twinge. He can't wait to get out of this place.

"Are you hungry?" That's a stupid question, Dean thinks as he makes his way to the bathroom.

"Of course I'm hungry," he grumbles. "I'm always hungry."

Which turns out not to be a problem this morning because there's not only bacon but scrambled eggs and toast with some kind of red jelly on it and oh god, there are those little sausages that Dean loves but never gets because again, animal cruelty.

"Here," Sam says, handing Dean a glass of orange juice. In a real glass. God knows where Sam got a real glass but there it is, clinging to Dean's hand. He experimentally moves it to the other hand but there doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it. Dean takes a step back from the buffet in front of him, bending down to survey the underneath of the table and then walking a full circle around it. Sam just stands there grinning.

"What are you doing?" he asks Dean because now Dean is inspecting the chair with great detail, testing the seat out with his hand to see if it will fall apart under weight.

"This is a joke, right?" Dean says suspiciously. "Some prank that I'm not getting." Sam snorts.

"It's not a prank. Just eat it, Dean. The eggs are getting cold."

Maybe he poisoned the food, Dean thinks. But if that's the case, joke's on Sam because he's the one who is gonna be cooped up with Dean if he ends up with food poisoning. So Dean sits. And eats.

And damn, it's good. The eggs are fluffy and he's pretty sure there's cheese in them and the bacon is crispy and it melts in his mouth and even the tartness of the orange juice is on key. Dean has to wonder when his baby brother became such a good cook because for the first eighteen years of his life, it was Dean making the breakfasts, not Sam.

By the time Dean has finished, his stomach is stretched so much that when he looks down, he's surprised to see it hasn't taken on a balloon-like shape.

Things get weirder when Sam swipes the polished plate from Dean and then starts doing the dishes as if he's auditioning for role as 1950's housewife. But Dean figures Sam is lonely after losing Jess and that he needs someone to baby every once in a while so he thanks his brother for the breakfast and moves on. Or at least tries to. He doesn't get very far.

"Where we headed?" Dean says, throwing stuff in his duffel with no rhyme or reason; everything's already wrinkled so why bother to fold it?

"I thought we could hang out here for another day," Sam says, shrugging.

"Why? We finished the job yesterday afternoon." Sam shrugs again because he doesn't have the words to explain but Dean is the big brother and he picks up on the hesitation and sets the duffel down.

"You okay?" he asks slowly. Sam ducks his head to avoid meeting Dean's eyes.

"Yeah. I just – I just don't feel like sitting in the car today."

Dean doesn't understand that at all because there's nowhere he'd rather be than seated behind the wheel of his baby but Sam hasn't asked for anything in a long time and Dean knows that.

"Okaaaay," he drawls and Sam has lost the tentativeness from the moment before and is holding back a grin but Dean just flops down on his spine-cracking mattress and turns on the TV. He expects Sam to set up shop at the table with his laptop now that it's clear of any mess because research seems to turn Sam on in ways that girls don't anymore but instead, the kid grabs the car keys off the table next to Dean's bed. Dean bolts upright.

"What do you think you're going?"

"Running to the store."

"I thought you didn't want to be in the car." Sam chuckles as if Dean just made a joke but the elder Winchester is confused at best. What is going on? Sam never drives the Impala. Ever.

"Yeah, not for hours, Dean. But I'm just running downtown. I'll be back in thirty minutes."

"I don't think you should take the Impala," Dean says. He expects an outburst, some form of protest at the obvious insult. Sam's been driving the Impala since he was sixteen, the same age as when John taught Dean. Except it had been Dean in the passenger seat the first time Sam started the ignition. And it had been Dean in the passenger seat when Sam ran the Impala into a concrete barrier. And guess who had taken the fall for the broken headlight and scraped paint job? Yeah, Dean.

But he doesn't even get so much of an eye roll from his little brother, who fingers the keys and lowers his voice.

"I'm sorry," Sam says. "Can I please take the car real quick?"

Ten seconds ago the answer to that question would have never gotten past a certain two letters of the alphabet but Dean's head is still stuck on the I'm sorry and when it gets past that, it's get snagged again on please, so all he does is nod and watch as Sam disappears out the door before his brother can change his mind. He decides to make a point to really ask Sam later if he's okay because this day is weird and even though Dean's usually pretty good at weird, it's a different story when it comes in the form of gourmet breakfast and good manners.

Dean's full stomach gurgles happily as he stretches on the bed, wedging a pillow under his back. It's been a while since he's had the chance to relax.

His brother is dozing when Sam steps back in the room, careful not to jostle the plastic bag in his hands and also making sure to prevent the door from slamming as it tends to do. It doesn't matter though, Dean wakes anyway.

"What'd ya get?"

"Stuff," Sam says enigmatically, tucking the bags in his own bag but pulling something out first. "But I got you a present."

"Pie?" Sam looks crestfallen for a moment.

"No, I forgot the pie." He looks so pathetic that Dean has to say,

"Dude, it's okay. Just give me the present." He's rewarded when something thick slaps his chest and then Dean is staring down at the beautiful face and even more beautiful upper body of Kim Ho.

"You got me Busty Asian Beauties?"

He got me Busty Asian Beauties?

"That's your favorite, right?" Sam says, opening his laptop and swiping his fingers across the keyboard.

"Well, yeah," Dean says. He's busy doing math but it doesn't take him long to realize it's not his birthday. Even if it was…

"Just don't enjoy it in front of me," Sam says, still focusing on the screen in front of him but his gaze flicks to Dean and one corner of his mouth quirks up.

"Uh, thanks," Dean says, looking down but somehow Kim Ho isn't quite as enticing as she seemed yesterday when he saw her on the stands. He tosses the magazine aside, facedown.

"What are you doing?" he asks Sam.

"Research."

"Want some help?"

"No, you can just relax or whatever." But Dean is antsy because he's not used to sitting still and it turns out daytime TV is pretty boring and he knows there's nothing to do in the lobby of the motel because he's walked over there three times by the time afternoon approaches. He cleans his gun and then his knives and then he cleans Sam's gun, which Sam tries to prevent and Dean has to practically beg his brother to let him do it 'cause he's so goddamn bored. He even tries to call his father again but of course he reaches the same voicemail he's listened to a thousand times already. No matter how many times he asks Sam if they can hit the road, Sam insists on sticking around until tomorrow morning.

"Stop asking," Sam finally says, as close to snapping as he's been all day. It must be a record because Sam usually makes it a point to snap at Dean no less than fifteen times – and that's just before noon. About stupid things too: like burping too often and watching TV too loudly and laughing at things that aren't all that funny. But Sam hasn't done any of that all day and Dean starts to wonder if his brother has gone off the deep end.

"You're not possessed or anything, are you?" he asks during a commercial. Sam looks startled, startled enough to turn away from the computer.

"What?"

"You're acting really weird today," Dean says partly because it's true and partly just to get a rise out of his brother because at least if they start fighting then they'll be doing something.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are." Sam wants to retort, there's an insult right on his lips, Dean can see it and he wants Sam to let if fly, wants Sam to loose the first arrow. Instead, Sam sighs and says nothing, turning away. Dean is mystified.

He's back on the bed, literally counting ceiling tiles when Sam gets up and comes to stand beside the bed, looming over Dean like the giant beanstalk of Winchester.

"Don't get mad," Sam says and Dean blinks. "Promise?"

"Did you crash my car?" Dean says, springing off the bed to rip the curtain from the window. The Impala is sitting there guarding the motel room like a watchdog and looking just as she was last night. Whole and unscathed.

"No," Sam says and it's an effort to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Dean loves that stupid car so much. "I want you to tell me about Mom."

It's the last thing Dean expects and Sam can tell his brother is thrown off guard by the way he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks from his heels to the balls of his feet and back again.

"Come on, Sam," Dean says.

"I know, I know," the younger Winchester says quickly. "You don't like talking about her. But just this once, Dean. You knew her for so much longer than me. I don't remember anything." A beat of silence then, "Please."

Another fucking please.

"What do you want to know?" Sam sits on the end of Dean's bed but Dean keeps his distance, preferring to stay close to the window, an escape if need be. He doesn't talk about Mary; it's a rule, one he put in place when Sam was five years old and too curious for his own good. There's something about today though that makes Dean reconsider. Sam just looks so…desperate.

"Anything," Sam says. "Just something." Dean digs through those first, hazy memories. Truth is, Sam thinks that Dean remembers more than he really does. They're not full memories, not the kind Sam wants. Just how Dean remembers that Mary's hair looked like spun gold when the sun hit it and once in a while when John was at work, she let Dean wear one of Daddy's shirts around the house even though the toddler swam in them. He thinks back to the soft rise and fall of her voice and how her hands smelled like the lotion she kept on the windowsill over the kitchen sink. But this is not what Sam wants.

"Halloween," Dean says and has to clear his voice before continuing. "Your first Halloween." Only a few days before she died. "I was Batman. I had these little black boots and this cape that Mom made and safety pinned it to a black pajama top that had the bat signal painted in yellow on the front. We all went trick-or-treating together."

"Did I dress up?" The smile tugs unwillingly on Dean's clenched muscles as he recalls the infant cooing up at Dean from his mother's arms.

"Yeah. You were Robin. Mom wanted to dress you up as some animal – a rabbit or something – but I insisted that you had to be my sidekick." Sam looks fascinated; he's never heard this story before and Dean thinks that he looks like a little kid again.

"Dad went too?"

"Yeah, we all went. I was so excited that I kept trying to help push your stroller to get Mom to move faster. She just laughed, of course. Nothing bothered her. Not when you cried. Not when you were colicky and sick. Not even when she had to stay up all night long and all the next day." And then he lets himself say the thing Sam really wants to hear, what's he's really asking Dean to tell him, "She really loved you, Sam."

Sam's not exactly crying but he's close to it and Dean pretends not to notice as he flips the curtains open again as if to make sure no one is watching them. When he turns around, Sam is standing, more composed.

"Thanks, Dean." Dean shrugs it off, he's just sorry that he doesn't tell Sam more about those six months of oblivious happiness but Dean can't, he just can't. Maybe one day it will be easier but right now, stories from back then burn his heart like a branding iron.

"Is it too early to grab dinner?" Dean says a minute later. "I'm starving." He'd skipped lunch on account of his overindulgence that morning but now his stomach is demanding to be fed again. Sam looks kind of embarrassed at the question.

"I – uh – kind of made us reservations somewhere in town."

"You did what?"

"It's not a nice place, it's just supposed to be crowded tonight so I wanted to make sure they would have an open table."

"We could have just grabbed a burger," Dean protests when Sam hands him a button down that's supposed to be for working cases.

"Just put it on. The menu looked good."

"Probably full of salads," Dean mutters but he puts the shirt on and thirty minutes later is putting the keys in the ignition. "Jesus," he says ten minutes later as they pull into the parking lot. "Is it some holiday that I don't know about?"

"No," says Sam. "It just must be a popular place. Which is good because I'm starving. You ate all the eggs this morning."

To Dean's surprise, there's four different kinds of steaks on the menu, each coming with a side of Au Gratin Potatoes, whatever that meant. But carbs are Dean's favorite and he orders a steak with the weird potatoes, telling the waitress not to bother bringing the broccoli and he's so enthralled with the fact he's about to eat a steak, he doesn't even notice Sam has that nervous look on his face again.

"Dean, I just wanted to say something."

"Sam, what is the matter with you? You've been acting weird all day. You gonna propose or something?" A ripple of something passes over the younger man's features and Dean wants to kick himself. He shouldn't have said that; the kid had been planning on proposing to Jessica.

"No," Sam says. "I just wanted to say thank you."

"For what?"

"Just for, you know, taking care of me when I was little."

"Oh," Dean says, feeling awkward. "I did it because it was my job, you know that. I love you, Sammy, and it was my job to take care of you." He shrugs. "So I did."

"I know. I'm just saying thank you. You didn't have to do it so nicely. Dad didn't." Dean swallows.

"Well, I'm not Dad. And you're welcome." Sam looks satisfied and the subject is dropped. In fact, Dean doesn't say much else the rest of the night because just then his steak arrives and it turns out Au Gratin means cheese and breadcrumbs and butter mixed together and Dean is in food heaven and his stomach quickly gets that balloon feeling again.

"You look like you're going into a food coma," Sam says as he pays the bill with a wad of money Dean doesn't remember hustling.

"Maybe I am," Dean says, moaning. "We need some booze."

"We'll stop on the way home. There's a liquor store down the street."

It's not until Sam is in the liquor store while Dean waits in the car that he spots something that in a moment will make everything strange about this day become clear. Next to the store they parked in front of is a convenience store, no more than a glorified gas station place, but there's a big pink and white display in the front, with stacks of cards and little trinkets surrounding it. Dean reads the words through the windshield and when he understands, his gaze swings from the arrangement to the liquor store window where his brother is checking out with a bottle of expensive whiskey in front of him. Another gift. And Dean gets it.

It's Mother's Day.