A/N: Because the newer episodes of Supernatural made me cry, I made this. And then cried some more. Also, I refuse to believe that Bobby is actually dead. Just like Cas isn't actually dead and that, eventually, Ellen and Jo are going to be brought back too. And Crowley. And, dear God, the writers for Supernatural need to stop killing all of the good characters!
He never stopped trying, the hunter whispers, even when he should have.
The patrons of the bar, a small dingy place, don't even turn their heads when the man speaks. They are used to hearing broken mutters and sorrow filled pleas. People only come into this dimly lit place when they have lost it all and are trying to forget. So this hunter doesn't even register in their minds. Not even when he swallows down yet another shot, and there have been many already, and slaps his hand down on the counter.
The bartender avoids the hunters eyes as he fills the shotglass with more brandy and turns to walk away. Stops when the hunter calls his name. Listens as he starts to speak, voice trembling and words soft.
Always fighting, says the hunter. Always pulling our asses out of the flames and setting us straight. Kept us on the right path even when it pulled him off his own.
The bartender nods but still refuses to meet the hunters light blue eyes. Doesn't want to see the loss that will be there. Is tired of seeing people come in with that look in their eyes, the one that says they are about to break.
Another shot, the hunter demands, tossing back the amber liquid in his small glass cup.
The bartender complies. Refills the glass. Watches as the hunter swishes it around and watches the ripples, shadows growing in his eyes.
Liquid medicine, he used to call it. Said that it could cure anything, the hunter murmurs. But he doesn't drink this shot. Doesn't want to be cured or numbed, not yet. Not until he makes sure that someone in this God awful bar knows who has been killed. Knows that the last true hero in this barren world has been killed. Destroyed. Vanquished.
Gone, says the hunter, and then he lets out a mirthless chuckle. Because, in a way, it's funny.
Funny that he's gone. Funny that no one really cares, except for this one lone hunter. Funny that the world has kept right on spinning even with such a great loss.
Again, the bartender nods. Feels the grief of the hunter, though muted, and recognizes the fact that not a single other customer is paying the slightest bit of attention. Recognizes the fact that if someone doesn't start to listen soon, and listen well, then this shattered hunter may end up breaking anymore. Might even go to join his friend on the Other Side.
So the bartender walks around the counter and settles down in the empty and worn stool next to the hunter. Listens as he talks. Hears what he feels. Starts to recognize the loss that the hunter feels.
The man that is dead is named Robert Singer. And he died a hero, or so this young hunter says. Saved the world. Protected his family - even though he didn't have to. The dark haired hunter makes this very clear.
That Bobby didn't have to do anything. But he did. And the hunter seems to have a hard time wrapping his mind around this fact because he keeps saying it, over and over and over again.
Then the hunter laughs again. Downs the shot. Doesn't ask for another, doesn't want another, still doesn't want to be numb.
But he still wants to talk and so the bartender listens.
The bartender learns the story of this Bobby man. Learns how he raised two boys that he could have just left. Fixed them when no one else could. Did everything in his power to keep the evils of the world away from them, even when they did their best to leap head first into those evils.
Bobby, says the hunter, fought devils and angels and Gods and things that no one can even begin to name.
And by now the bartender is beginning to get interested. So he asks the hunter; how did he die? How did this man save the world? Why should I care that he's dead when I've never met him?
And the hunter looks at him - and it is like he is staring straight into the bartenders soul. When he speaks it is as though he is saying the thoughts of many a man.
You should care, the hunter tells him, because Bobby Singer cared. Even when he shouldn't have. Especially when he shouldn't have.
The bartender doesn't understand, not really, but he gives a slow nod anyway. Asks one last question; and why are you telling this story?
Silence stretches, long and thick. Life goes on in the bar. The hunter stands, rubs roughly at his face, but gives the bartender a crooked smile.
Because someone has to, the hunter says. Someone has to get the legend started.
Then the hunter leaves and the bartender goes back to work. In the bustle of his day, he forgets all about this one lone hunter. Until one day, many years later, when a man wearing a tan trenchcoat comes in and orders a shot of brandy.
Starts telling a tale, of bravery and loss and love that never failed, of the three men that saved the world.