A/N: Here, the whereabouts of Dean's amulet, as told through a series of conversations between Sam and Bobby. Originally, this story had an ambiguous ending. I toyed with continuing it for months, but then 11x20 "Don't Call Me Shurley" aired, and I just had to (potentially, possibly) bridge this narrative to the current season. The additions are in Chapter 2, so that the original story is preserved in Chapter 1 (with a few minor tweaks and one line added at the end).
Spoilers and references through season 8.
Regarding language: If it's in the show without being bleeped, it's fair game.
I'll Keep It Safe
"Hey, Bobby, can I talk to you for a sec?"
Sam lingered awkwardly at the threshold to the library, leaning against the doorframe and trying to find something to do with the hand that wasn't buried in his jacket pocket. It ended up in his hair, absently clutching and twisting the strands on the back of his head.
Bobby's eyebrows twitched as he gazed up at the 6-foot-5 man looking for all the world like the shy 7-year-old whose brother once pushed him into this very same room to ask Uncle Bobby for a ride to the public library. He was all fidgety then, too, eyes big as planets.
Now the kid was counting down the hours 'til hellfire, and damn if that wouldn't make any man fidgety. If he was being truthful, Bobby didn't want to have this conversation, whatever it was going to be about (and he could make a few educated guesses), but he couldn't turn Sam down, not now. Not ever, really.
"Sure," he said aloud. Then, after Sam didn't move, "You just gonna stand there and look pretty?"
Sam huffed a laugh and pushed away from the doorway, one hand still fidgeting in his hair and the other still fidgeting in his jacket pocket. "No, I uh…I have a favor to ask you."
That kind of conversation, then. Aw, shoot. "Shoot."
"I, uh… Can you keep this for me? You know, for after…"
"I know." Bobby cut him off before things got too morbid then glanced down at the object Sam had pulled from his pocket. It was as familiar to Bobby as any of his old, half-chewed ball caps: an ugly little charm he gave to Sam almost two decades ago as a present for John. The same one he saw bouncing around Dean's neck instead of John's the next time the boys came to visit — and every time thereafter. The same one he gave to Sam a second time after he lifted it from a lifeless body and placed it in Sam's hands with fingers he pretended weren't shaking. The same one he watched Dean reluctantly hand over to the angel in a hospital room, and the same one that hadn't reappeared around Dean's neck, even though it was old news that Cas had returned from his fruitless search.
He'd never asked Sam what happened, and he didn't ask him now. Nor did he ask him why it was Bobby, not Dean, the kid was holding the charm out to. "Of course," was what he said instead, reaching for the necklace. "I'll keep it safe."
Sam let out a breath and looked so relieved and so like that skittish 7-year-old, it made Bobby's heart feel heavier than a hemi engine. Dammit, boy.
"Thank you, Bobby. Really. It means a lot." Sam's mouth made motions like it was practicing the next part, or forcing the words to line up right. "I didn't want to…I just…I hope, someday, he'll ask for it."
Sam's eyes started going all dewy and Bobby quickly concentrated on twisting the cap off a fresh bottle of hunter's helper. "Ah, you know your brother. I'm sure he will," Bobby told the beverage.
"Yeah. Yeah…" Sam trailed off and melted from the room. Bobby looked from his beer to the amulet to the paper-strewn room that suddenly seemed so empty. He tipped back the bottle and took a long drink.
"Hey, Sam, can I talk to you for a sec?"
Sam had just risen from the table where two beer bottles sat empty. He was turning away from Bobby, already keyed on the front door, but he swiveled mid-exit, eyebrows raised, hands lifted from his sides in a universal gesture of accommodation. "Sure thing, Bobby. What's up?"
The older hunter snorted wryly at the contrast in atmosphere from the last time they'd had this conversation. Just a few months ago, the apocalypse was in full swing, earthquakes and lightning were tearing up the planet, and Sam was one word away from letting Lucifer ride shotgun on a one-way road trip to hell. The kid was bumbling and misty-eyed and had made Bobby feel like a sappy old fool.
Funny how things change — and how little comfort Bobby took from it.
"Well, seein's how you're not in the pit, I just wondered if you wanted it back."
That familiar little crease appeared between Sam's eyebrows. "Wanted what back?"
Bobby almost didn't want to remind him — there was his answer, clear enough. And damn, but it smarted a little. "The necklace? Dean's necklace?"
The switch flipped and Sam's face brightened. "Yeah, yeah, of course." He flicked his head as if to fling away the cobwebs. "Thanks again for keeping it for me. But, uh, if you wouldn't mind just holding onto it a little longer…?" Eyebrows were raised again. It was almost that puppy-dog face Dean used to complain about. Almost.
"Don't mind at all," Bobby said, not knowing whether it was the truth. "Just let me know when you're ready for it."
"Definitely. I will. Thanks, Bobby." Sam turned and vanished from the room. Bobby heard the door rap shut and the Charger growl to life. Sometimes he actually missed the apocalypse. Ain't that the damnedest thing. Bobby shook his head and grabbed another beer from the fridge.
"Hey, Bobby, can I talk to you for a sec?"
Bobby hated himself for the instant of doubt he still felt whenever Sam approached him. No matter how many times Sam had apologized, and no matter how firmly his brain knew this was the real Sam, not the Terminator wannabe that had chased him around the house with an axe, Bobby's survival instincts had to overcome the split-second urge to head for the hills. The realization made him feel sick every time.
He swallowed his disgust and set down the carburetor he'd been cleaning. "What's on your mind, son?"
The old hunter winced as soon as the word left his lips, and he saw the ghost of pain on Sam's face as the kid's eyes shut down. Well done, genius.
"I just, uh… you know what? Never mind." Sam's eyes searched the work table for something safe to talk about, some polite excuse to bolt. "Can I bring you another beer?"
Bobby shook his head. "Your apology was accepted the first time, ya idjit," he grumbled, picking up the carburetor again. "But yeah, I'll take a beer."
"Hey, Sam, can I talk to you for a sec?"
Sam's eyes were glued to the other end of the couch. The TV prattled on in Spanish to Sam's left, and Bobby could hear the squeals and groans of old plumbing as Dean turned on the shower in the other room. Sam didn't move, except he was sort of trembling.
"Sam!"
The kid jumped, and wide, wild eyes snapped to Bobby's face. He watched as Sam's hand, still twitching, came up to rub the other palm like a worry stone. Sam's eyes began to calm, and the old Sam came back. Mostly. "Sorry, Bobby. You need something?"
Bobby sighed and shook his head. Not the time for bad news. Maybe later, when Lucifer wasn't hanging around. "Nah, just wondering if you wanted a beer."
"Hey, Bobby, can I talk to you for a sec?"
Sam dropped onto the porch steps, resting his arms on his knees and letting his hands dangle in the dead space between. "I can't find the necklace. I looked for it in your stuff. It-it wasn't a big deal or anything, but I wish I could ask you where it was." He looked down at the splintering boards. "I mean, for all I know, it's just a pile of ash in your house. But I think you'd have told me. Or maybe not.
"I was hoping…I know Cas said it was worthless, but with Lucifer, I thought maybe…I'm just running out of ideas here, Bobby. Dean tries to help, but there's only so much he can do when the problem's inside my own damn mind. But focusing on Dean seems to work a little, so I thought maybe the necklace would somehow…" He laughed lightly, a wet, pathetic sound to his own ears. "Yeah, it sounds stupid when I say it out loud."
Suddenly shy, Sam brought one hand up to scrub the back of his head.
"God, Bobby…I wish you were here. Just…yeah. I miss you. I hope you're having drinks with Ellen and Ash and giving the angels hell. But man, we need you here. It's not the same, you know? It's just not." He trailed off, picking at his brand-new stitches.
"Oh, stop, you're making my mascara run," Lucifer sniffled. He was perched on the hood of a crappy Datsun they'd boosted last week, the same spot Dean used to occupy on the Impala when they'd park it in a deserted field on clear, starry nights. The angel's blonde hair shone whitish in the pale light as he swiped at his eyes with melodramatic flair. Sam closed his own eyes and dug into his palm.
"But I'm hurt, Sam. You think a little necklace would make me go away?" The angel's voice stuttered as blood began to seep under Sam's thumbnail. "The Sam-n-Dean love connection isn't that strong. Otherwise, he wouldn't have thrown it away. Right, Sam?"
Go. The hell. Away. Sam grimaced as he twisted his nail further into the torn flesh. No response. When at last he opened his eyes, he was alone. Thank God. With a sigh, Sam pushed himself up from the porch steps, groaning as the weight of two centuries in hell pressed on his bones. How was it possible to feel so old and so powerlessly young at the same time? Dammit, Bobby. With one last glance at the junk car, its hood mercifully empty of anything but chipping paint and moonlight, he went inside to see if his brother spared him a beer.
Bobby shook his head ruefully from his place by (or sort of within) the window as Sam trudged inside the cabin. He slapped a hand through the glass. "Balls!"