Sam was brooding quietly. (This did not surprise Dean overmuch because Sam was always brooding quietly.) But when he started looking at the DirecTV channel guide and flipping through porn, Dean had to ask.

"Is there something I should know about?" he asked, putting down his sawed-off and cleaning supplies and scooting to the edge of his bed to sit in a position of utmost attention, head forward and knees apart with arms resting on them. (He found that an open body posture encouraged Sam to talk.)

"It's June 17th," Sam said without looking up from the television screen.

". . . And?"

Sam sighed and turned, that taut look of annoyance/disappointment/resignation at Dean's stupidity plastered all over his face. (Dean hated that look, and instantly abandoned the open body posture.) "It's Father's Day," Sam said dryly.

"Oh." A pause. "So why the sour puss?"

Sam shook his head. "You know what, never mind. Just forget it." He reared up off the bed and shut off the TV, tossing the remote onto his pillow.

Dean got up too. "No, no, Sam, I get it. I mean . . ." He spread is arms. "Dad's dead. Father's Day brings that closer to home. But I don't understand how this year is different from the past – what – six years? I mean, you never bitched about it before."

Sam looked away, biting his lip as his eyes grew slightly red. He looked back at Dean, forcing the everything's-not-alright-but-I'll-put-on-a-brave-face-anyway half-smile. (This look Dean found cute and reminiscent of Chubby 12-year-old Sammy, though he would never say so.)

"We'd be calling Bobby right about now, don't you think?" Sam asked.

Dean sobered instantly. It was true. They would never outright call and wish Bobby "Happy Surrogate Father's Day", but they would usually find some excuse to call him just to talk. Bobby knew it too, though he would never outright say so or thank them.

"Okay," Dean said. "Well, thank you for officially spoiling my day." He smirked to cover his own emotions. "I guess this means I should go surf some porn, huh?"