Bobby turned from the charring picture.
He was done. Finished.
All the good guys – chewed up and spat out.
Who was left? Dean and Sam? No, apparently they couldn't die. It was just everyone else: everyone they touched – or cared about.
All killed. Or left vulnerable…
Bobby understood then, and it was an easy enough decision after all – he would take himself out of the equation. Whatever Dean said, he was a liability.
Of course, it was forever before they left him alone.
But once they did, he wheeled himself to his room – newly converted on the ground floor.
"Here's to you John and to Mary, Jo and Ellen!"
Bobby Singer toasted his friends.
Then, refilling his glass, "and you guys, best sons I never had!" Tears trickled down his grizzled features as he thought about Sam and Dean.
Three more glasses in, having toasted everyone he ever recalled, and gun in hand, he finally toasted his long dead wife.
Then the phone rang.
"sonuvafuckinbitch!"
He wheeled himself to the phone. "Yeah, what?"
"Robert Singer, just what do you think you're doing?"
"I'm tryin' ta shoot meself!"
"Well you can just stop trying that right this minute!"
"Who're you ta… Missouri?"
If Bobby had been able to stand up, he would have fallen down. Instead he dropped the gun.
"Good start Bobby. Now put a lid on that whisky bottle and let's talk."