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Bobby just murmured something in his sleep and shifted his head more comfortably – leaving a trail of drool in the book he was using as a pillow, when the blaring ring of his cell phone cut through the air. He startled upright in his chair, cursing, unconsciously wiping at the corner of his mouth. The urgent, annoying sound of the phone was relentless, grating on Bobby's nerves as he shifted through the myriad of his cells, trying to identify the correct one.
Finally, swearing like a sailor, he found the damn thing – one of his old flip phones, crammed in the back of his cupboard.
Bobby's chest tightened watching the tiny display, foreboding filling his lungs like icy water. The number calling was unknown and it was almost one in the morning. That couldn't mean anything good.
He picked up, but stayed decidedly silent. At first only faint rustling could be heard from the other side, making Bobby think it was just white noise. He thought about ending the call when he picked on sounds of laboured breathing. He surpassed the urge to speak, biting the inside of his cheek, waiting.
“H– hello... is this Bobby, Bobby Singer?” Came an unsteady, eerily familiar voice.
Air whooshed out of Bobby as if he's just been sucker-punched. It had been almost a year since he heard that voice the last time – it sounded raspy and deeper now, but he recognised it instantly. “Dean! I'm here. What happened, my boy?”
Waiting for the delayed answer, a fist of dread got hold of Bobby's wildly beating heart. He knew Dean wouldn't be calling him for the first time in months if the situation wasn't dire.
“Hey Bobby,” came from the speaker. Even the two words were noticeably unsteady, though they seemed to be holding a little bit of a smile.
Please, let the boy be just drunk. Drunk and dialing, safe and unhurt. A wishful thought flew through Bobby's brain.
But the hope was shattered almost immediately.
“I've been on a hunt, b– but it didn't go too well…” Dean forced out with obvious struggle, then coughed.
Suddenly weak in his knees Bobby sank into a chair at his kitchen table. He willed his voice to be perfectly steady, trying to proceed calmly, methodically. “Dean, where are you, boy?”
“Wha–” he started before a cough cut him off and only more rustling and choking filled the line.
Bobby's hands began to prickle with pine needles, panic trying for him. He blinked forcefully and hung his head low as it swirled with sudden dizziness.
Dean finally caught his breath again. “In Washington, I'm in Washington, North Cascades park… crossed my path with a skinwalker, a nasty fucking thing it is…” Dean's voice kept wavering in and out, and it was accompanied by low wheeze.
“Fuck” Bobby spat, away from the speaker, not wanting to upset Dean, not wanting Dean to know just how's he upset. “Are you hurt, Dean?” He asked. It was a stupidly obvious question, but Bobby opted for it anyway, seeing it as the straightest way to information.
“Yeah,” came after a brief hesitation, almost reluctant.
“How bad, son?” He asked breathlessly, clutching the edge of his dining table. His fingernails were leaving a trail of crescent shaped dents in the wooden surface.
“Bobby, it's bad.”
Dean's voice broke at the last word.
It took a lot to scare Bobby, but at that moment he was scared. God, he was terrified. The tone wasn't leaving much scope for hope, he knew it meant bad bad.
He pinched his eyes tightly shut for a few seconds, and when he stood up he was hundred percent focused, running on pure adrenaline.
“It's okay Dean, you're going to be alright, I just need you to do something for me, can you do that?” The phone was wedged in between his ear and shoulder now, and he started to frantically shuffle through his stacks of yellow pages books. He continued to talk when Dean gave no clear answer besides moaning. “Dean, your phone, does it have GPS?”
“Uh, yeah, yeah.”
A small jolt of relief surged through Bobby and he let it seep into his voice; they were running short of positives here. “Good, that's good. I need you to turn it on, okay? Can you do that for me?”
“Oh, okay” Dean affirmed in a tiny voice.
“Good. But do not end this call!” He tagged on, fearing that if they got disconnected he might never hear that voice again.
Only rustling and shuffling was coming from Dean as the seconds were bleeding away, the waiting an agony for Bobby. He even sent up a prayer to the godless sky, a testament to just how desperate he was feeling. Off the phone he was lucky and found the number he's been searching for. He tore the page out of the book and hurried towards his landline.
“I– got it going.” Dean rasped finally.
“Oh, thank god.” Bobby exhaled in strained relief. “Okay, hold on, my boy, I'm sending you help.” Still staying on the line with Dean, he picked up the landline and dialed.
He was connected to an emergency nonstop line of the Park service, reaching directly to a sleepy sounding ranger of North Cascades. To the ranger's credit he went to full alert the second he heard Bobby's urgent plea, explaining that his son got lost in the park and was gravely injured. A search party was promised to be dispatched immediately.
“You still there, Dean?” Bobby tried to steady the panicked beat of his heart as he grabbed his keys and threw on his jacket.
“Yeah…” more of a wheeze than an actual word.
“You need to hold on, son, okay,” Bobby pleaded as he climbed into his car, kicking off the engine. “There’s a rescue party coming for you, you gonna be alright.”
Gunning it down I-90 at a lightning speed, Bobby let go of the steering wheel for a second to wipe his free hand down his face roughly, the ever forming tears blurring the sharp cones of his truck's headlights. “Dean, can you hear me, boy?”
“Yeah… Bobby, I feel cold”
Bobby flinched at the sound of Dean's faint voice, it so reminded him of when he was a kid.
Bobby used to look after the boys, sometimes for weeks on end, something he came to think of as a privilege, never a burden, and this was the exact voice of little Dean who was afraid to admit he's been sick. It broke his heart then and it completely shattered it now.
“I know,” he breathed tightly. “Are you bleeding? You need to staunch off the bleeding, son, put a pressure on the most bleeding wound.” He said even though Dean would, of course, know that.
More coughing and something akin to a huffed laugh– or maybe a sob, came through the speaker. “My guts are hanging out– I keep them inside my belly with my h– hand…”
Bobby's blood ran cold. A high voltage of dread spread through his body, paralyzing him.
Not even with bad bad was he thinking this.
He struggled to find his voice again, to say something, to offer words of comfort, to soothe Dean, but came up short, aside from repeating the already overused “the park rangers are on their way, Dean, just hold on…” a promise distant and empty somehow, despite it being true.
Bobby stomped the gas pedal down to the floor, already flying twice the limit. “I'm on my way too, my boy, I'm coming for you.”
“You on your way…?” The surprise was palpable even with the tilted slurring. He sounded unsure but pleased.
“Of course I'm on my way, I'm just blowing past Chamberlain, I'm gonna be in Washington soon enough, just in time to take you home with me when they get you all patched up.” Tears were streaming down Bobby's face, but he wouldn't let it be known in his voice.
“I think I'm gonna see mum” Dean mumbled suddenly, startling Bobby.
“Oh, Dean…” what could he possibly say to this? That wasn't a thought he'd want to deny to the poor kid, but he didn't wanna let him think about wrapping it up either.
“Thank you… for– for picking up, Bobby. I didn't wanna… I didn't wanna go alone” Dean uttered into the brief silence, sounding weak yet somewhat content.
“No,” Bobby yelped, way too loudly, toning himself down before continuing. “You ain't going nowhere just yet, son. You are going to be alright,” he gritted out, meaning it as both – an order and a promise. He forcefully tried to avoid thinking about what was implied, even though it was rather clear from the very beginning – alone and at the brink of death Dean called his brother and his father first, but neither of them picked up.
“Bobby… I'm not going to– I can't…” At that point Dean started to sob, albeit in such a quiet way, it sounded like he was apologizing for it at the same time. “I don't feel good.” He admitted after a second, a small soft voice, alone in the dark.
It dawned on Bobby that he was scared. He would give just about anything to be there with his boy to soothe him. “You're going to be okay, kid, I swear.”
“Yeah,” Dean coughed back, not wanting to disagree more than anything else.
Bobby clutched the phone like a lifeline, as if Dean might actually feel the comfort of his touch, if he held onto the device connecting them tight enough. The fear that he's not going to make it in time became unprecedentedly real.
He, at the very least, knew what to say. “I’m here with you, Dean, you ain't alone.”
“You know, I always… always loved when we stayed with you as kids. You'd take care… care of S’mmy ‘n me…” he clearly wanted to go on, reminiscing, but his words were drowned by crackling, wet sounding coughs.
Bobby couldn't quite stop the sound that crawled up his throat, a raw thing full of pain that took him by surprise. He felt guilty that Dean had to hear. “My boy, with you there, those are some of the best times of my life.” He admitted honestly, choked and hoarse.
Bobby hadn't led something one could call a ‘happy life’ per se, but whenever he was happy if it wasn't with his dear Karen, it was with this cheeky freckled kid. “You know, when your daddy dropped you boys on my doorstep, it might have been the best thing that ever happened to me.”
More sobs and sniffing came from Dean, seemingly the remaining extent of his vocabulary.
In desperate want to comfort Bobby went on, knowing what the boy always wanted to hear the most, needed to hear the most. “He loves you very much, Dean, your daddy, and he's very proud of you.”
And Bobby knew that John really did, in his own, rather twisted way. Too bad he couldn't pick up his fucking phone. Or be a good father the last twenty-five years.
Anger rose up Bobby's throat just from mere thinking about the man. He despised John Winchester, always did. Excellent hunter? Sure, but the way he treated those boys – Dean in particular, warranted nothing but disdain.
Bobby would always try to stay on cordial terms with the man though, in fear he would never see the boys again, if he'd got onto John's wrong side. A fear that proved to be well founded after their last encounter, when Bobby decided to give him a piece of his mind and it came down to shooting.
“B– Bobby?”
“Yes, son?” He rushed.
“Can you please tell him… tell dad, I wasn't afraid”
The request took him by surprise. He squelched the automatic placating response; that he will tell John all he needed to himself, as soon as he gets better - Dean didn't need that kind of cheap comfort.
“I will.” He promised.
How fitting that with his possibly last breaths the poor boy was trying not to be a disappointment to the old man. Bobby could basically feel his blood boil, a curious thing considering he felt freezing cold otherwise.
“And–” Dean took a sharp breath, sounding to grow more agitated by the second. He was struggling to hold on long enough to say all that he needed to.
Bobby just crossed the borders of South Dakota. He supposed he broke some sort of a historic speeding record, but it didn't matter because he was still not fast enough.
“Please, tell Sammy… tell Sammy I love him… love him so much and– and I'm proud of him.” Dean ground out with audibly painful effort, stopping for wheezing breaths every other word.
“He knows that, son, but don't worry, I'm gonna tell him.” Bobby let go of the wheel and wiped at the tears and snot that accumulated in his moustache. He angled the speaker of the phone away from his mouth briefly and pressed his clenched fist against his lips, straining his ears to catch anything more Dean might say. The line was getting quiet though, only faint rustling and strained groans that were growing further apart.
“Dean, you still there? Please talk to me, kid.”
“I'm co– cold…”
“I know,” he said helplessly. ”You will feel better soon, don't worry, son.”
And Bobby's intended lie turned out to be much more truthful than he anticipated; Dean's breathing grew more laboured, Bobby could hear the last fading moan and then there was a startlingly loud thud followed by an ear-tearing rustling – Dean clearly losing his hold of the cell phone, which came tumbling to the ground.
“Dean, can you hear me? Dean!” He tried but got no response.
“I'm here with you, my boy, it's alright. I'm with you…” Bobby repeated, holding the dam of emotions with all he had, his voice as loud as it could go without actually yelling, soft and soothing despite the volume. “I'm with you, my boy.”
In the following hours Bobby would repeat the words from time to time, sending the reassurance into the ringing silence, never ending the call. His tears ran dry just as he was leaving Wyoming, and he was halfway through Montana when a voice came through the speaker again. It wasn't Dean's.
“Hello, anybody in there?”
Bobby almost swerved his car off the road with the surprise. “Y– yes I'm here. Is Dean…?”
“Sir, I am very sorry.”
Despite not really expecting anything else at that point, the final confirmation was an unprecedented blow for Bobby. In a haze he managed to pull over, too overwhelmed to be able to continue driving. The compassionate sounding park ranger informed him that his son had passed away, suffering injuries incompatible with life, and told him where they were taking his body. Then, after the six hours and twenty-two minutes long call Bobby at last hung up his phone.
The sun was just rising, thick mist shrouding the ever-present pine trees surrounding the asphalt ribbon of the road when Bobby, on shaky limbs, climbed back behind the wheel of his truck and carried on.
He was grateful for the surface numbness he was experiencing as the miles were fleeting by, though he could feel the ground-shifting grief down there, biding its time hidden deep in his chest, kept in bay only by his self-preservation instinct and the lifelong honed skill of suppressing his feelings. He remembered this pain. The unfathomable hurt of losing someone you love. He hadn't felt like that since Karen… back then, he was sure that he would never have to suffer such agony again, because he was done with the whole loving thing… well, he at least thought so, until the two little buggers came into his life.
And now he lost Dean too, the pain of it sharp and searing, way beyond human comprehension.
The Sedro-Woolley Church had just struck high noon when Bobby arrived into the mockingly picturesque town. It took him a bit of driving around, looking for signposts to find the bleak target of his search; the city morgue.
Inside he was greeted by a lanky red-headed kid in his early twenties, possibly Dean's age. He was expecting him. “Hello, sir. You're the father of the man they brought in this morning, right?”
Bobby could only nod, his throat fully closed.
“Alright, follow me.”
The boy extracted a heavy looking ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked double-winged metal door leading to the morgue.
Bobby's heart sank into his stomach and sat there with leaden weight as he watched the kid go for the right mortuary refrigerator, pulling out the prone form that was Dean, covered from view by linen sheet.
“This him?” The kid clarified, yanking the fabric away from Dean's face.
“Yes,” Bobby choked out and nodded, eyes blurring with pain.
“Alright, I'll give you a moment,” he announced and promptly left the room, closing the door behind himself.
Bobby stumbled forward, coming to Dean's side. An inhuman, wounded sound tore out of his throat on its own accord as his eyes fell onto Dean's life-less face. The paleness of his skin made the freckles dramatically stand out, enhancing his boyish and juvenile look, and even beaten, with bruises high up his cheek and cuts on his eyebrow and the bridge of his nose, the kid was still ridiculously handsome. His hair was longer than the last time Bobby saw him and even with the few days worth of stubble covering his cheeks he still looked so unapologetically young. So fucking young to be laying in here like this, dammit.
“Dean…” Bobby keened quietly and cupped Dean's cheek with so much care and gentleness as if anything more could still hurt him. “My boy,” he whispered and a couple of hot teardrops unexpectedly splattered down onto Dean's forehead.
Bobby drew in long shuddering breaths, trying to calm himself down. His hand slid upwards to run his fingers through Dean's hair, unable to stop himself from doing and saying the things he so desperately wished to do twelve hours ago when Dean still could hear them and feel them.
His heart seized with pain as all the love he felt for the kid was left pouring onto the cold, battered body, turning into ash with having no longer anywhere to go.
On an impulse Bobby's trembling hand reached for the hem of the linen that covered Dean up to his chin, and pulled it down to reveal his chest. He wasn't even sure why he did it, or what was he expecting to see, and he cringed immediately at the sight of the bruises and the many sewn up wounds criss-crossing Dean's torso. Nausea welled up Bobby's throat when he noticed the few bumps under the skin covering Dean's collarbone, his clavicle clearly broken in more than one place. He fastly tugged the sheet back up.
As he did so Dean's bare feet peeked out at the other end, the toe-tag catching Bobby's attention.
Suddenly dizzy, Bobby leaned on the metallic table, resting his weight on his hands, another sob escaping his throat. Dean Singer. The toe-tag read Dean Singer, the ranger obviously figuring that since Dean was supposed to be his son he would be bearing the same surname that Bobby introduced himself with, and he passed it on to the mortician.
Seeing that name, on a damn toe-tag no less, broke Bobby's heart, or more likely chipped another piece away, and he keened at the pain, he – a man who voluntarily decided to never father a child, going through the throes of losing beloved son.
Only when Bobby walked out of the frigid room did he realise just how long he had to spend in there, and he felt grateful that the mortician kid never rushed him or bothered him. He found him outside on the front porch, smoking a cigarette.
“All done, sir?” He asked.
Not really knowing what to say to such a stupid question Bobby just grunted and heavily sat himself down one of the wooden steps. “Pass me one, would ya?” He asked instead. He kicked the nasty habit long, long time ago, but if this wasn't the time for lighting one up then he didn't know when the fuck it would be.
Kid sprung to action at once, pulling a pack of red Marlboro from his breast pocket, handing it out along with a box of matches.
Inhaling the formaldehyde smoke Bobby promptly launched an impressive coughing fit and the ill effect of the cigarette immediately started merging with his already pre-existing nausea.
“You alright, sir?”
“Not even remotely, kid.” Bobby choked out, not talking about cigarettes or coughing.
“Yeah,” the redhead nodded in understanding. “My name is Axel, by the way. And uh, my condolences," he offered his hand and Bobby shook it, nodding his acknowledgement.
“So, tell me, Axel, what was the damage?” Bobby ventured eventually, not wanting to hear the answer, but at the same time absolutely needing to.
“Sir, maybe you shouldn't–”
“Shut up and tell me,” Bobby cut him off, not caring for the contraindication.
Axel shrugged and flicked the rest of his cigarette away. “Well, I counted eight broken ribs, shattered clavicle, broken radius, punctured lung and severe claw-induced wounds down the abdomen… and uh, I'm talking like partial evisceration severe.” He looked up at Bobby who was positively green. “You don't see something like that very often. I'm thinking maybe a big mountain lion could do that…?”
The sentence tilted into a question by its end, and Axel threw a curious look at Bobby.
Their eyes met. “Yeah, it was a mountain lion, Dean told me so on the phone,” Bobby sighed and disgustedly threw the cigarette away.
“Alright-y, mountain lion it is.”
Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose, deciding not to comment. He said instead, “Is it alright if he stays a little longer? I need to get hold of his brother.”
“Sure thing. With the cougar thing all cleared up the body can be released at your will and I can store it till then.”
Bobby kind of liked that kid, despite his manners which indicated that he spent more time interacting with the dead than with the living. After the impromptu smoke break they went back inside, Bobby having to fill and sign some paperwork and before he left he was given a cardboard box of Dean's personal effects.
He kept the box decidedly shut for the time being, fearing he would break down all over again if he went through those things just yet, so he put it onto the backseat of his truck.
After the night spent behind the wheel of his car Bobby decided to stretch his stiff legs and walk on foot to the café Axel recommended him. Along the way he tried to get hold of Sam, dialing the one and only number he had for the kid, not surprised to get no result.
At Prisma - the questionable café Axel swore by, Bobby got a piece of plain buttered toast, not really feeling like eating anything, forcing the dry thing down his throat, hoping it might do something to quench the ever-present nausea. With toast successfully down he ordered a large coffee to go and let the waitress point him in the direction of the local library.
This felt good, going through the motions, almost like working a case, doing research, converting his grief into purposeful kinetic energy, trying to keep the whole gruesome picture out of the foreground of his mind, just doing his thing step by little step.
At the library Bobby picked the correct yellow pages book out of the available stack, settled at one of the many rickety tables and started to leaf it through. It didn't take him long to find what he was looking for, but it didn't go as smoothly once he connected with the prissy sounding lady at the Office of Stanford Residential Education. It took all of Bobby's charm to win the ensuing verbal match, his prize a reluctantly shared Sam Winchester's landline number.
Not wanting to undergo the dreaded phone call in the confined space of the library Bobby took it outside, settling down a low wall under nearby rowan trees. He wished he asked the mortician kid for a cigarette to go as his trembling fingers dialed the scored number.
“Hello!” A cheery female voice greeted him.
Bobby stuttered, taken by surprise. “Uh, hello, I'm looking for Sam Winchester.”
“Ummm who is calling?” Her pleasant demeanor got the slightest, careful sting.
Bobby sighed internally; she couldn't just pass the damn phone, could she. He was unsure what to say – he hadn't seen Sam in even longer than Dean, and he had the feeling that Sam wanted a clean break off from his old life. Would he take the phone if he knew it was him? There was really only one way to find out…“A friend, Bobby Singer. Tell him it's really important.” He hadn't filtered the graveness out of his voice, and when the girl answered with “okay” there was no trace of her initial merriness.
Muffled sounds could be heard over the phone as the girl relayed the message, before another familiar voice came in, wary and measured. “Hello?”
“Sam…” was all Bobby could say at first, the rest getting caught in his suddenly dried up throat. What he was about to say to the boy…
Sam was obviously not in the mood for chatting, though. “Hey Bobby, what is it? And uh, how did you get this number? I didn't really wanted–”
“Sam, boy, I need you to meet me up, I'm in Washington–”
He was cut off by a huffed chuckle. “What? I have finals next week, Bobby, I'm so not flying anywhere. Sorry, but–”
Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose. Didn't the kid realise that if damn Bobby Singer was calling him after years of radio silence onto his damn secret landline something must be terribly, terribly wrong? He needed to be blunt.
“Dean has died.”
The three words were harsh as a sound of shattering glass, and saying them out loud caused Bobby physical pain. Only silence came from the other side, stunned and ringing, somehow loud on itself. “No.” Sam said eventually, hardly above a breath.
“I'm sorry, son.” Bobby uttered with a heavy heart.
“No, that can't be, Dean wouldn't… No,” Sam started babbling, growing frantic.
“I've just been to see his body, Sam. I think you should check your phone, I'm sure he's been calling you last night.”
Apart from stunned denial Bobby didn't get anything more of real substance out of Sam, who seemed to be caught in a state of shock; he didn't cry, and Bobby had the feeling that he didn't really believe him. Not that he'd think he's lying, but the whole concept of Dean – his invincible big brother whom he idolised his whole life – being no longer alive was something impossible to grasp.
Eventually he got a shaky confirmation out of the kid that he's catching the first flight to Seattle, which was relief. Their conversation finished, there was one more call Bobby had to take care of. His heart was pounding wildly as he dialed the familiar number. The first contact he had for reaching John Winchester was apparently no longer existing, the second one would beep once before being automatically disconnected, but it was what came with the third number that made Bobby see red.
'This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son Dean 866-907-3235. He can help.'
“What if it was him who needed the help, you pathetic piece of shit!” Bobby roared, scaring a pair of doves perched above him in the tree. He had to stop himself from smashing his damn phone to the pavement. It dawned on him that this line was the last thing Dean had ever heard from his father when he desperately tried to reach him last night; call my son Dean, he can help. Bobby felt fucking sick.
It was already dark outside when Bobby settled into a seedy motel at the outskirts of the town, completely drained in more ways than one, armed with a bottle of Johnnie Walker and the cardboard box of stuff that Dean carried on himself when they found him. He took a couple hefty gulps of the scotch first– a local anesthetic to numb his pain, before taking off the lid with his shaking hands and diving in.
On top of everything laid a black plastic bag holding Dean's army jacket, muddied Carolina boots, jeans and a flannel shirt, all torn and bloodied. Moving the bag revealed a world of things from Dean's pockets; match boxes and a zippo lighter, pocket knife, stiletto, Dean's beloved M1911 with two extra mags, flashlight and a pack of licorice candy, tin can of salt, a rosary and his car keys.
Bobby put every and each of the items carefully onto his bed, arranging them neatly. Next thing he reached for was Dean's worn leather wallet carrying around hundred bucks, a single ID reading bikini inspector of all things, making Bobby snort wetly, and two old, folded up photographs; one of the Winchester family in full, Sam being just a little baby there, and the second one – Bobby choked – was taken at his scrapyard during the last summer the boys had spent with him, the two brothers standing in front of a car Dean was trying to fix at the time, laughing at something.
After seeing the picture Bobby had to take a moment to recuperate, blow his nose and down more of the burning liquor before going back to rummaging through the box, reaching the very bottom now, as he pulled out a ziplock bag full of jewellery that the mortician had taken off of Dean. Bobby carefully upended it onto his sheets, going through the things as he was putting them back inside. A bracelet made of bone, thick leather band, silver ring that belonged to his mother, banged up military wristwatch and – Bobby's breath hitched – the amulet that he, ages ago had given to Sam who wanted to gift it to their father for Christmas. Bobby always wondered how the thing ended up around Dean's neck, and he was glad it did and he never asked. He gently ran his finger over the pendant and then fastly chased away the next sob that overcame him with another swing of Johnnie.
The last item inside was Dean's cell phone. It was in a ziplock bag too, as it was caked with dirt and dried up blood. Bobby carefully pulled it out and was immediately overwhelmed by a feeling of wrongness when he flipped it open. He didn't mean to breach Dean's privacy, but he felt the urge to look through the device, despite his moral conflict. Maybe it held something important, it's not like he could destroy the phone without seeing to it first.
There was a long column of ongoing calls, most of them with a small pictogram of a red coloured telephone, these addressed to ‘dad’ or ‘Sammy’, and only here and there shone green colour of an accepted call onto an unknown number and the one on the very top addressed to Bobby.
Bobby sniffed and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, sorrow bubbling through him like a molten lava. He backed away from the calls, seeing that Dean left a voice message to both; John and his brother last night. Of course, Bobby would never listen to something that was not meant for his ears, but he did click onto the icon of an envelope leading to Dean's text messages.
Same as the calls, it was a forlorn affair, apart from the occasional numbers that Bobby assumed were Dean's hook ups, it was mostly messages to John. Bobby wouldn't stop to read them – he had no right, but he couldn't block the occasional can we meet up? I finished the hunt you sent. You alright dad? And he also couldn't block out the fact that if John deigned to answer at all it was only with coordinates.
Furious, Bobby clicked onto Sam's name, but what he saw there felt like a cold shower. If he thought Dean's conversations with John were one-sided it was really nothing compared to Sam, who didn't seem to answer a single text in the last twelve months or so. Tears blurred the unrequited well wishes and pleas to meet up away and Bobby snapped the cell phone shut.
Not even whisky could stifle the sobs that broke free to surface, the control Bobby so teniously maintained the whole day finally slipping away.
God, he never knew the boy was so alone.
In one swift and violent movement Bobby swiped his arm across his nightstand and the bottle of Walker went flying. It hit the wall and shattered, sending shards of glass across the room, the amber liquid soaking into the faded carpet.
He gripped his patchy hair into his fists roughly, cursing himself; he should have reached out to Dean. He should have realised that John would leave him behind the moment he didn't need a babysitter anymore. He should have checked in on the kid in the last few months, a simple Hey, how's it going? might have meant all the difference.
Bobby's fist clashed with the drywall, again and again and again, leaving behind a bloody crater.
It was nearly impossible for Sam to even buckle himself in, his hands numb from the incessant clenching and unclenching of his fists. It wasn't until the plane had taken off that he dared to pull out his cell phone.
It was the same old phone he had in his pocket the day he left for Stanford. At first he'd use it to answer Dean's calls and messages from time to time, and he even gave this number to a few kids he befriended at the campus as first, but once he got his job he saved for a new cell he could use without having to withstand the persistent jump-scares of his past.
Sam rolled his shoulders and dropped his face into his hand, digging one thumb into the corner of his eye, hunting out the source of his rising headache. The lady seated next to Sam was giving him sympathetic looks, interpreting his wrecked state as him being a nervous flyer, but he was steeling himself for the act of finally, finally going through the number of messages that Dean had left for him in the past months and he never bothered to check and read them. Was it really so bad of him to want to start over, on his own and shut the door on his terrible past? Sam never thought so, yet now, opening his inbox, he was overwhelmed by gut-wretching guilt.
He scrolled to the beginning, to go chronologically, the first unopened text dating some eleven months ago.
11.18.2003
Hiya Sammy, I just wrapped up a quick job in Fresno so I was thinking I could drive up and we could meet up for lunch? Wanna hear everything about the college babes and make sure that you didn't get any taller.
11.19.2003
Hey, I'm staying till tomorrow so hit me up if you'd like to have that lunch or maybe grab a beer?
12.25.2003
Merry Xmas kiddo, I haven't got your address but there should be little packet waiting for ya at the campus front desk! You better go get it before someone looks inside and get you into trouble
01.01.2004
Happy New year Sammy! Hope you have a good one. I miss you little brother. Talk soon?
The phone slipped out of Sam's trembling hand into his lap and he buried his face into the crook of his elbow as he sprawled over the pop-up table, hiding the tears and muffling his sobs.
He had never ever felt so sickened by himself as he did now, guilt and sorrow burning through him like acid. Oh god, why didn't he? He suddenly couldn't remember a single reason that he's been giving himself for ignoring his brother. How could he so easily and so entirely exchange Dean for Jess and his new friends? It wasn't like he had to pick either only one party or the other, and now he couldn't fathom why did he insisted so firecely, so stupidly on doing so.
Sam would give anything to be able to take Dean up on that proposed lunch now. He let out muffled whimper, never before experiencing feeling as acute as this grief and regret. The id–
“Honey, are you alright?” Someone squeezed his shoulder and when he turned to the voice he came face to face with the elderly lady. Worried looking stewardess was standing behind her in their aisle, searching for the source of the commotion, Sam causing bit of a scene without realising.
“Are you unwell, sir?” The flying attendant asked.
“Oh, sorry no, I'm alright, I just…” Sam sucked in lungful of air, trying to calm the shuddering hitch of his breath. Everyone around was now staring at him, the scale of emotions on their faces varying from concerned to annoyed. “No medical emergency.” He assured and rubbed at his eyes. It was enough to pacify the stewardess and most of the nosy onlookers, and he fastly picked back his phone before the lady from next seat could prob him further.
Sam plugged in his tangled headphones, as the next message was a voicemail and his heart stuttered when he noticed the date – 01.24.2004 Dean's birthday. Dean had sent him this message on his twenty-fifth birthday. He held his breath and pressed play.
‘Uh, hey Sammy… I was just– uh, yeah sorry I gotta go.’
Was all the chopped message said, Dean sounding blurry and melancholic, as if he's been drinking, as if he spent his birthday on his own, not hearing a single wish from a friendly soul.
Sam bit down on his fist, blocking the sounds that were coming up his throat. God, what had he done?
There were no further messages till the second of May when Dean sent another voicemail, this time composed and heartfelt, wishing happy birthday to Sam, ending his congratulation by saying ‘I’m gonna have to visit you soon, so I can buy you a beer, legally for the first time, little brother– Dean laughed at that, rich and genuine sound– alright Sammy, enjoy your party, but don't forget your manners that I so painstakingly taught you, ha! Love you kiddo.’
Every message landed like a blow, each more crushing then the one preceding it and Sam was starting to feel legitimately sick. The cramping in his stomach that had been present since his call with Bobby refused to go away, instead it spread until his chest ached as well. But the physical discomfort was nothing compared to the profound hopelessness he felt.
There were only three messages left, a single ‘Sammy?' in June, a short text from August and a day old voicemail that Sam absolutely dreaded opening. He felt like pleading with the God or whatever higher power there was. Please take the last two days back… take the last year back, let me do it again and better.
It was less than an hour before landing when he summoned enough courage to have his heart completely and definitely broken. He pressed play.
‘Hey Sammy…I know you didn't wanted, but– oh, fuck. I uh, I had this accident, but you don't need to worry Sammy, because I'm gonna be alright. I just wanted to– wanted to hear your voice, you know? ‘Cause I miss you and I just wanted to– wanted to make sure that you know that I was never– never angry with you for… for leaving, you know? I– I hated to see you go, but– Oh fuck’
There the message got sawn in half by a rattling bout of wet cough before Dean recovered his breath.
‘And, and I'm so, so proud of you, okay? Gahh– it's alright, I'm just… You know what? When I get myself sorted out I'm gonna drive down to California. To visit you… I know you didn't– didn't really want that, but I promise it's gonna be awesome, you know… like, like when we were little… for a day… I love you Sammy, you know that, right? I gotta go now… gotta go. I'll call you when I feel a little better and maybe we can– I love you, alright?’’
The day was grey and bitterly cold, and Bobby's head hung low and his hands were buried deep in his pockets as he stood at the wind-whipped, shabby bus station. He didn't have to wait long for the long-distance bus to arrive and for the impossibly tall and lanky figure of Sam Winchester to clamber out. The kid looked terrible, eyes puffed and red, complexion almost as pale as his brother's; a complete train-wreck, and when he stumbled towards him he would hardly meet his eyes.
Upon seeing Bobby Singer all kinds of emotions welled up Sam's chest. He gave up on trying to distinguish whether they were positive or not, the only thing he knew that it was painful. As he walked towards him Sam realised he couldn't really meet the man's eyes. Not only was he fearing to see there the finality of his soul-crushing grief, but he was scared of Bobby's disdain– he couldn't help but wonder if Bobby knew what a terrible person he was. What a terrible brother and human being.
“Hey Bobby,” he croaked.
“Sam.” Bobby sighed heavily and nodded in acknowledgement. The blatant absence of hug or other was making it clear that Bobby was aware.
The drive to the morgue was filled with oppressive silence. Sam's palms were full of bloody, crescent shaped marks from his nails and his lip was bleeding where he gnawned on it. He's been sneaking glances on Bobby's ashen face, gathering courage to speak up. “Wh– what happened, Bobby?” Sam cleared his throat. “He only said he had an accident.” Dean's name would somehow not pass through his throat.
“Had a run-in with a skinwalker, from what I gathered. He called me when he failed to reach you or your daddy. He's been hurt real bad… I sent him a search party but it was too late, they couldn't… We stayed on the phone till the very end.”
Barb of regret went through his chest at Sam's sob. He knew he couldn't really blame the kid for turning his back onto his brother. Or that he at least shouldn't. John Winchester was the one to put the blame on, Bobby knew that.
Speaking of the man– “Sam, do you have your daddy's number? I tried mine and the one from Dean's phone too, but I didn't manage to connect. He should know…”
Sam tensed and swallowed heavily. “Yeah, yeah he should, but I don't, I don't have the number…” he squirmed in his seat for a bit and continued, his voice somewhat pleading, “Bobby, I thought he's been with dad the whole time… I didn't know that–” he cut himself off when his voice became unsteady.
Bobby sighed, feeling the kid's pain quite precisely. “Yeah son, you and I both.”
At the morgue Bobby could only shake his head at the cheerful manner Axel greeted them with. “Take your time, son,” he told Sam and briefly squeezed his shoulder, before Axel led him inside to see his brother.
He was in there for over an hour. Bobby spent the time with Axel smoking on the porch. At one point there was an unfortunate incident when the whisky that Bobby tried to drown himself in last night made a surprise appearance onto the wooden floor, but Axel brushed off his apology with laughter.
Though hardly possible, Sam looked even worse after crawling out of the morgue than he did before. Bobby's old heart couldn't take it no more and he wrapped the kid into a bone-crushing hug. While Sam bawled into his dirty flannel Bobby was surprised to find that his own tears must have run dry last night. All that was left was the familiar numbness, the never-ceasing pain and grim purpose.
Sam peeled away from him, blotched and snotty, not only reeking of heartbreak but also of guilt. Despite the feelings Bobby harboured in regards to the unanswered texts, he couldn't leave the kid hanging like that.
Because for all of Sam's life Dean was, for all intents and purposes, his parent. His caretaker, his role-model and authoritative figure, and when he reached the age when he, quite naturally, wanted a life of his own, away from the old ways, from hunting and from John it also meant that he wanted to get away from Dean, as in Sam's pubertal mind Dean was never too far from being represented just like John's extended arm.
The snag was it had never felt that way for Dean. In his eyes they were a team. Equals, best friends, and so when Sam left, he unknowingly broke his brother's heart in two and took the other half with himself, unfortunately not treating it very well.
“Listen to me, son, this is not your fault. Nothing is, you hear me?” He said emphatically and patted his cheek in affectionate slap. It was ridiculous just how high he had to extend his hand to reach him.
“Yeah, but I failed him… he cared for me my whole life and I couldn't even be bothered to answer a fucking text.” Sam spat hoarsely with utter disgust.
Bobby just signed because he didn't really have an answer for that. There was nothing to add, so he turned to very interested looking Axel. “Alright kid, we are ready to take him now.” He announced.
“Alrighty. Can I recommend you some really good funeral house?”
“No, we're good.”
“Oh, okay. So… what's your idea of transport, sir? That truck of yours should fit our stretcher all right, I guess, but you'd really have to promise me you'd bring it back. They would have my ass, sir, if it went and disappeared.”
Bobby held his palm up to shut the kid up. “Fret not you idjit. That sheet of yours will work just fine. Could you just– just bring the stretcher here?”
“Sure thing.” Axel disappeared, leaving the two of them in heavy silence.
Getting Dean, wrapped in the thick white canvas from the stretcher to the backseat of his truck, was a completely dreadful affair, even though it went smoothly. The feeling of the intense coldness and stiffness and the dead weight in his arms was something Bobby would never forget, and he knew the same went for Sam.
“I need one last autograph,” Axel sauntered in with a sheet of paper. “Yo, listen, whatever you do you better be quick about it, alright? Without embalming the… situation tends to get ugly rather fast.” He added in half voice as Bobby handed the paperwork back.
He nodded his acknowledgement and outstretched his hand, “thanks kid for taking care of my boy and everything…”
Axel shook the offered hand, almost beaming. “Sure thing, sir. Take care.”
“So… what are we going to do?” Sam ventured as they turned onto the highway, out of the town.
Bobby glanced at him, considering. “Earlier today I built a pyre in the woods. I thought we give him a hunter's funeral here, if that's alright with you. Or do you have another place in mind? Kansas, maybe? I mean, it's been his home…” he pitched, though he wasn't really sold to the idea; he just hadn't wished to be overstepping boundaries.
“No, no. This is good. He– he didn't really have a home. Apart from his car, maybe.”
“I found her too, in a parking lot by the Park. I assume that she now belongs to you, Sam.”
“Maybe we should–”
“No! Don't even say that out loud, Sam, or he's gonna come to haunt our ass.”
“Well, maybe that wouldn't be so bad…” Sam mumbled in a tiny, tiny voice, managing to make his 6’4 self seem like a little child for a moment.
“Sam…” Bobby said gently.
“I know,” the boy whispered, a bit of colour creeping to his cheeks.
Less than an hour later they were on the site where Bobby built up the pyre in the morning, everything ready just to flick a lighter, but somehow neither of the men standing side by side in heavy silence could find it in them to make the final move.
“Dammit” Bobby murmured and reached out but not to lit up the pyre just yet. Gently, he tugged the shroud down from Dean's head, to see his translucent face for the one last time. He pressed his lips to Dean's temple briefly and whispered, “till we meet again, my boy. Rather sooner than later.” Then he stepped aside, to give Sam space for his own final farewell with his brother, before the shroud was fixed back and they together lit up the damn thing.
Even feeling the waves of heat from the blaring wall of fire, Bobby was shivering with cold. He would go on, though, as he always did, he would do his thing, his job, and he would try to save as many people as possible, only the life would taste somewhat more bitter now, would feel somewhat colder, the colours less vibrant than they used to be two days ago. He would carry on, going through his motions, but when the reaper comes to claim his life he would be ready, hell, he already kind of looked forward to it. Not in an suicidal way, but tired, tired and old and sad, having more people he cared about on the other side of the veil then in this stupid place.
“What– what we gonna do now?” Sam asked, pale and shaking, looking completely lost. They drove to the parking lot where the Chevrolet Impala waited, and Bobby felt a foolish pang of regret at the thought that the car will never get to see her owner again, as though she was a sentient thing.
“There's nothing more to do, son. You go back to school, live your life.”
Sam rubbed at his face, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket. He was leaning on the hood of the Impala, running his hand over the pristine black paint in a mindless caress. The box of Dean's stuff was sitting in the Chevy's backseat where Bobby put it, apart from Dean's pocket knife, which he took for himself with Sam's blessing.
“You gonna be okay to drive, kid?”
“Yeah.”
“And Sam, you really should try to get hold of your daddy.”
“Yeah, I will.”
“Alright.” Bobby felt that all that needed to be said was already said; as there wasn't really much to say, but Sam still hasn't made a move to leave. It was understandable, that he didn't feel like just taking his brother's car and leaving, but there was simply no other thing to do; there was nothing to achieve by standing in a parking lot, in the middle of godforsaken, motherfucking Washington.
“I'm so sorry, Bobby,” Sam said suddenly, hardly above a whisper.
“Yeah boy, so am I” Bobby echoed and crossed the space in-between them and he wrapped the kid into a one-handed hug, squeezing him briefly. “You really gonna be okay to drive? I can get her towed, I can give you a lift to an airport. It would be no trouble for me, kid.”
“No, I'm okay,” Sam shook his head and finally reached for the door handle.
“Alright, but you take a break whenever you need one, you hear me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Alright,” Bobby huffed and watched the kid dry his face, climb into the car and back out of the gravel parking lot.
He stood there and stared even long after the tail-lights disappeared into the gloomy forest.