Author's Note: This past week I have been hit with both Not Enough Time and Writer's Block. Woe is me! I sat down to write out an E/O drabble or two and—nothing! I couldn't write a thing! So this morning I started again—I realised it was going to be a long one, so I made a plan, worked out days and dates. I was 1,800 words in before I stopped and started again. And here we are, the second draught, written in three hours. My eyes. I only finished this ten minutes ago. Phew! That was close...


1.


Friday, June 26th 1987

Bobby Singer had called a few days ago and said he had a job lined up on the coast. Bobby met up with the Winchester clan in a diner overlooking a large beach. Erosion of the short cliff face would see this diner disappear before long.

Bobby bought them all supper after their long drive. He waited until Dean and Sammy went to the restroom before he turned in his seat to rummage in his duffel bag—John spotted the salt canisters and the bottle of accelerant before Bobby found what he was looking for.

Bobby glanced to either side to be sure no one was watching and slid the page across the table. It was an obituary in a local paper, a grainy black-and-white photograph above the paragraph. John scanned it quickly—Todd Bradley, seven-years-old, died at sea on June 25th 1966. "Died at sea, Bobby? We can't burn those bones."

Bobby's face was grim—John could sympathise; dead kids were tough. "He's buried in a cemetery about a half-hour out. Story goes, the father takes Todd out on the family boat and the kid gets seasick, falls overboard and drowns before anyone can pull 'im out. But that's not all," he slides a handful of papers across the desk, "'cause seven years later on the last Saturday in June, seven kids who were on the beach—they get seasick on dry land. They're not better for a week."

"Seven days," John said. He sorted through the medical records. 1973, 1980...

"Exactly," Bobby nodded, sipping his coffee. He produced a black-and-white photograph of Todd standing next to a sand castle with his bucket and spade. "That was taken a few hours before he died."

"You've done your homework." John was impressed at Bobby's ability to connect the dots and notice patterns, and allowed it to show in his voice. He took another look at the young face staring out of the old photograph before he handed it back. "I guess I'm digging tonight."

"I'll babysit," Bobby assured with a little grin as he packed his research away. Bobby held up a hand to forestall John's automatic protest. "I know how you're always goin' on about how capable young Dean is, but he's just a kid. Let 'im have a break." He had the grace to look sheepish. "And who knows, maybe after this job's done... you could stay for a little while; soak up a little sea air. It would do you all good."

He was trying to be kind, John knew that, but the suggestion still made John's hackles go up. They were his boys, he could care for them—he didn't need suggestions from someone he'd met a handful of times. Bobby didn't know the boys like John did.

Dean and Sammy emerged from the restroom and the anger petered out—he tucked it up, could use it later when he needed to. Too many things made him angry these past few years.