"Sam?" Bobby called softly, shutting the front door behind him with a gentle click. "Dean?" His heart was thumping so achingly hard against his ribs that the sound seemed to echo off the walls of the large living room. He took a deep breath to silence the frantic beating, but his body refused to cooperate. The heavy weight of worry was an unwelcome presence inside his chest as he stepped further into the unfamiliar house. With a cautious gaze around the large entryway, he called out once more. "Where are you boys?"
At the lack of a response, Bobby tried to ignore the panic twisting his stomach into uncomfortable knots. Take a breath, you old geezer, he told himself. The idjits are fine. They were two grown men who were capable of taking care of themselves and beyond that, they were the best damn hunters he'd ever met. But despite his valiant attempts at optimism, that annoying voice in the back of his head wouldn't shut its damn trap. You're too late, it taunted mockingly. Time's up.
"Screw you," Bobby grumbled to the voice only he could hear, giving his head a tiny shake for good measure. He didn't want to listen anymore, especially because he knew it was right. Technically, time was up. It was 12:14 a.m., and as of almost fifteen minutes ago, Dean Winchester's soul officially belonged downstairs.
You boys better have found a way out of this, Bobby thought pleadingly, shoving his concern into the deepest recess of his mind and taking a few steps forward. He knew that the hellhounds would have been on Dean's ass as soon as the clock struck midnight, but the Winchester boys had always been an impressive pair. Bobby was hopeful that they'd found some way to dodge the beasts. Dean's fine, he told himself again. Sam'd make sure of it.
"Where are you boys?" he called again, gradually making his way further inside. It was eerie, really, the total stillness, and the house was so large that searching the whole place was a daunting task, especially when he wasn't sure what else could be hiding in there. Bobby knew that the boys couldn't have left already. He'd been outside the whole time trying to keep away any curious onlookers, and nobody had entered or exited the house the entire time. He may be getting older, but he sure as hell wasn't blind.
He was in the process of removing his cell phone to just call the idjits when he heard a noise, causing him to immediately drop the device back into his pocket and start for the hallway in search of the source. He pulled the gun out of the waistband of his jeans as he went, just in case he ran into someone or something that he wasn't exactly looking for.
"Sam?" he said softly, hoping he'd hear a familiar voice respond. "Dean?"
He blew out a frustrated breath when there was no answer, but it wasn't long before the muffled sounds reached his ears once more. They weren't too far away, and he turned the corner of the hallway to see two double doors open on his left, though he couldn't see much in the large room beyond.
He held his gun at the ready as he approached, prepared to fire at anything that wasn't his boys, and turned into the room.
"Oh God," he whispered, gun dropping immediately to his side as his eyes fixed on the gruesome sight before him. Any sense of hope that he'd been clinging to disappeared as soon as the grisly images registered with his brain.
Sam was kneeling on the ground, head bowed forward and shoulders shaking uncontrollably with heavy sobs, his hitching breaths resulting in the noise that had drawn Bobby down the hallway. The painful sounds alone were enough to shatter Bobby's old heart into a million pieces, but that wasn't even the worst part. In Sam's lap, held protectively by the kid's long arms, was Dean, or at least what was left of him. Bobby's eyes welled up with his own tears the longer he stared, unable to avert his eyes no matter how desperately he wanted to.
Dean's body was ripped to absolute shreds, the tattered clothing barely covering torn flesh that revealed muscle and bone beneath. He was covered in pools of bright red blood, which had rolled in rivulets off his body and across the floor to soak into the worn denim of Sam's jeans. The normally bright green eyes that once held so much life were now dull and unseeing as they gazed uselessly somewhere past his little brother's shoulder.
Bobby couldn't remember how many unsteady steps he took to get there, but before he knew it, his legs collapsed and he was falling to his own knees across from Sam, the painful thud barely registering. "Damn it, Dean," he choked out, voice breaking on the name. He reached out a shaky hand and laid it gently across the older Winchester's forehead, the smooth skin already cool beneath his palm. How many times had he done just this while Dean was growing up? He remembered a distinct sense of worry whenever he'd rested a callused hand across the kid's head to check for fever, and he knew the feeling of running his fingers down a chiseled cheek to wipe away dirt and- on very rare occasions- tears. He recalled the comfortable warmth in his palm whenever he would pat Dean on the side of the face and smile to signify a job well done. The idjit had always given him that shit-eating grin and swatted his hand away playfully, but Bobby knew he didn't really mind the touches. After all, it sent a message that neither of the boys heard enough. I care about you.
Bobby swallowed past the lump in his throat, blinking away the hot tears that were clouding his vision and threatening to fall. He moved his hand down the side of Dean's bloody face, cataloging the barest hint of stubble against his skin. There was a time when Dean hadn't been able to grow facial hair for shit, and Bobby had laughed every time he'd caught the elder Winchester studying his chin in the mirror, desperately willing the beard to sprout.
"Hey Dean, you ever heard the expression a watched pot never boils?" he asked with a knowing grin, finally deciding to announce his presence. The 17-year-old, oblivious to the fact that he had a visitor, jumped slightly and immediately turned away from the bedroom mirror. From his position at the entrance, Bobby saw the tell-tale blush creeping slowly up Dean's neck as he busied himself with packing the rest of his clothes. "Staring a hole through your face ain't gonna make the hair grow any faster," he teased as Dean quickly pulled on his favorite leather jacket, an old one that John had given him the year before.
"Shut up," Dean grumbled with embarrassment.
Bobby would have done just that, but some things were too good to let slide so easily. "Hey," he continued innocently as he took a few steps into the room. "It's okay, boy, not everyone can grow hair on their face. Some of us are just damn lucky." He reached up and ran a hand through his full beard, smiling mockingly at Dean.
"Maybe," Dean conceded, nodding as he hefted his duffel into his arms and headed for the door. He paused briefly at the doorway, raising an eyebrow and throwing Bobby a cocky smirk over his shoulder. "But at least I can grow it on my head."
With that, he disappeared down the hallway, leaving Bobby to adjust the ratty baseball cap over his bald spot and mumble "Smartass" as he followed.
Bobby almost choked out a laugh at the memory, but it caught thickly in his throat. He couldn't manage any sort of happiness. Not when the broken body of that boy was shredded on the floor in front of him.
Kid sure grew up, he thought with an ache. But he'll never grow old. Not anymore.
Letting out a ragged breath, Bobby finally rested his hand carefully over Dean's lifeless eyes, gently closing the lids for the last time. He spared a glance up toward his other boy, the one who was silent and so damn broken in his own way, but all he could see was a tangled mop of shaggy brown hair. Sam's head was down, his body hunched over his dead brother and his shoulders shaking with uncontained grief.
"Sam," he whispered, laying a hand on a strong shoulder, but there was no acknowledgement of his presence. "Look at me, kid," he pleaded, lifting Sam's chin to meet his eyes. He almost wished he hadn't. The memory of the pain in that hazel stare would be something he would try and fail to forget. Sam's breath hitched and he sniffled as he attempted to control his sobbing.
Bobby slid his hand up to clasp the side of Sam's neck, giving a little shake of his head as he empathized with the youngest Winchester. This wasn't fair. He could see the tears dripping off Sam's chin, see them landing on his own sleeve before soaking into the fabric of his coat, and it made Bobby's eyes well up even more. But there were things that needed to be taken care of, and he pushed away the tears as best he could. "I'm sorry, Sam," he breathed out quietly, squeezing the back of Sam's neck in support. "I'm so sorry. But we need to go."
Sam shook his head and shut his eyes tightly, pulling Dean's body even closer and resting his forehead on the short, blood-stained hair.
Bobby's heart was crushed all over again, and he couldn't manage to stop the tears from flowing. He ignored them. "Sam," he said gently, and though the hunter didn't meet his eyes, Bobby knew he was listening. "Let's get him outta here and give him the rest that he deserves."
The flow of Sam's tears seemed to increase, his blood-covered hands wrapped around his big brother's shoulders and his fingers tangled in his torn clothing. When the sobbing began to trail off and Sam finally spoke, his voice was so hoarse that Bobby almost missed it.
"He's gone, Bobby," came the wrecked tone, barely a whisper. His eyes were locked onto Dean's face, searching his features as if he could find some sign of life if he just looked hard enough. "He wasn't ever supposed to be gone. I can't…" Sam bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut tight before opening them again. "It hurts too much."
"We'll get through it, Sam. We will. I promise."
He allowed them a couple more moments of silent grief until he was sure that Sam had regained his composure enough to proceed. He pushed himself to his feet, feeling cool blood causing his pants to cling to his legs. "C'mon, let's get him to the car. I'll help you." He reached down, prepared to pull Dean out of Sam's lap so that he could stand up.
"No!"
Sam's response was harsh and immediate as he bent protectively over Dean's body, refusing to let go for even a moment. He inhaled sharply and looked up into Bobby's eyes, offered a silent apology, but his tone was firm when he spoke again. "No," he repeated, quieter this time. "I've got him. I'll take care of him."
Bobby nodded slowly and backed up, understanding that this was something the kid needed. He watched sadly as Sam lifted a large hand to the side of Dean's face, dropping his own until their foreheads touched lightly. Bobby closed his eyes as he heard the broken "I love you, brother," that Sam whispered into Dean's ear before reluctantly pulling back. In a sudden show of strength that Bobby was impressed to see, Sam grasped his brother underneath the knees and back and stood up, heaving Dean's body into his arms and cradling him against his chest like a child. Dean's head lolled lifelessly before coming to rest against Sam's shoulder, blood dripping steadily from his ruined body and splashing sickeningly to the floor.
Bobby nodded encouragingly when Sam had settled Dean into his arms. "Okay, let's go," he said, motioning towards the door. "We'll clean him up and give him a proper hunter's burial."
"We're not burning him."
Bobby wasn't sure if he liked that response. "Sam, don't be a damn idjit," he admonished, no heat in the words. "You know that we need to."
"No, we don't," Sam argued, but his tone wasn't aggressive, just pained. "We only burn people so their souls can find peace. His soul is gone, Bobby. Besides," he added, meeting Bobby's eyes, "he'll need his body when he comes back."
With a determined gaze Sam headed for the door, carrying his brother carefully as he went. Bobby tracked his exit with sorrow, shaking his head and allowing himself an unsteady sigh. He didn't know what exactly the kid was planning, but he knew that he needed to be there to make sure it was nothing stupid.
"I'm watching out for him, Dean," he quietly promised the empty room, though it was really for his own comfort. He knew no one was listening. "I'll take care of him."
With that, he followed Sam's tall form out of the house and towards the car, purposefully not looking back.