A/N: Guess I wasn't quite done writing Samulet fic. Many thanks to my lovely beta-readers, RiverSongTam and Crosstown_Rapid.
Bobby knows who it is as soon as he hears the phone ringing, because none of the other hunters he talks to would dare call him at two in the goddamn morning, not even if they were bleeding out in the middle of Sioux Falls Cemetery and needed a ride to the hospital. They all know he'd just tell them to pick a nice grave and lie down, because if they weren't dead before he got there, they sure would be once he was through with them for interrupting his precious few hours of sleep.
Well, all of them know that except one. And Bobby has a feeling he does know, he just doesn't care.
The phone is still ringing, each insistent jangle making Bobby grit his teeth harder and harder. Finally, on the twelfth ring, he heaves himself out of bed and stumbles downstairs to the kitchen, where he snatches the receiver off the hook so violently he nearly rips out the cord. "This better be good, Winchester," he growls.
"God is real," says the gruff voice on the other end of the line.
Bobby takes a deep breath, brings his free hand up to rub over his forehead. "What?"
"God," says John, a little louder this time, "Jesus, angels—they're real. They must be."
It doesn't make any more sense the second time he says it, not least because Bobby's only known John for a couple of years, but it's been pretty evident to him from the start that the man's an atheist.
"Why d'you say that?" he asks, wondering what could have possibly happened to make John Winchester—the only person Bobby knows more stubborn than himself—change his mind.
"Logic," says John, clipped and simple. "Demons exist, don't they? And holy water burns 'em, and they flinch at the name of God. There's gotta be some kind of power behind that."
"That doesn't mean anything," says Bobby. "It's lore, it ain't supposed to be logical."
"But if demons exist, and hell exists, then it makes sense that God does, too," John insists. "And if God exists, then I know how to get Mary back."
There's a brief pause in which Bobby's heart twists in sudden understanding, yanking on that hard painful knot inside him that hasn't loosened since the day he lost Karen.
"Oh," he says eventually.
"Listen," says John, and he must have heard the change in Bobby's tone, because he sounds eager now. A crackle of rustling paper filters over the line. "And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes; and his face was bound about with a napkin."
"Just 'cause it happened in the Bible doesn't mean it's real," Bobby protests, but John just keeps talking, faster and faster.
"I've got accounts of resurrections from Lazarus right up to the present day. Real resurrections, not just revenants or zombies—"
"How long have you been awake?" Bobby asks.
"I found a story from just last week, some guy over in Ford City, Nebraska. He was in a coma, his wife took him off life support, doctors pronounced him dead. He woke up an hour later."
Bobby sighs, rubs his forehead again. He's getting a headache. "Where're the boys? You with them?"
John's voice softens a bit. "Yeah. They're asleep."
"Wouldn't be a bad idea to get some rest yourself," says Bobby pointedly.
"You'll help me, though, right?" says John. "Bobby, please. If I could get Mary back—if my boys could have their mother back—"
"Yeah, yeah," Bobby mutters, defeated. "In the morning."
And with that, he slams the receiver down and stomps back upstairs to bed.
*S*P*N*
There's not much Bobby can actually do to help, though, because there aren't many leads he knows of that he hasn't already tracked down himself, when he was where John is now. It took a few years, but he finally had to admit that there was nowhere else to look; that if there was an answer to his prayers, it wasn't an answer he would ever find in the dusty old books that were slowly taking over what used to be his living room. But he doesn't try to discourage John from chasing the few leads that are left, because he understands the need to go looking for a miracle when God won't provide one. Besides, he thinks that if there's any man desperate enough, and stubborn enough, to actually find God, that man is John Winchester.
It's been several weeks since the last time he spoke to John, and Bobby is so lost in wondering what he might be up to that he doesn't notice someone's standing on his front porch until there's a loud knock on the door.
He has his gun in his hand immediately, pointed across the kitchen towards the door, because whoever this person is they've managed to get all the way there without tripping a single one of the alarms Bobby has in place, mechanical or magical.
Stepping softly, Bobby creeps up to the door and peers through the peephole, pressing the barrel of his gun hard against the wood at chest height. He blinks when he sees the intruder—it's a young man, hardly more than a boy, dressed in a faded t-shirt and jeans, his wide blue eyes darting around nervously.
"H-hello?" the boy calls out, voice high and thin. "Anybody home?"
Bobby cocks the gun. "You got five seconds to start explaining yourself, kid."
"Ah—okay, okay, please don't shoot me," the boy gasps, stumbling back from the door and raising his hands. They're open and empty, and it doesn't look like there's anything concealed under that ratty t-shirt, but Bobby keeps his gun steady in his hand. "M-my name's Chuck," says the boy. "This is going to sound strange, but I have something for you. It's important."
"Right," says Bobby, and he reaches out his free hand to yank on the rough hemp cord that hangs to one side of his door. There's a loud creaking from outside as panels open up underneath the overhang protecting the porch, and a deluge of holy water comes spilling out, drenching the boy.
Bobby gets a few seconds to smirk, self-satisfied—he hasn't activated that particular booby trap once since he made Rufus help install it five years ago, but he's always diligently kept the reservoir full, and he's quite pleased to see that his paranoia has paid off. That is, until he realizes that the boy is still just standing there, looking slightly shell-shocked, the water running harmlessly off him onto the porch floor.
"Um, okay," he says, spitting out a bit of water. "Better than being shot, I guess. Look, can I just come inside, please?"
Bobby narrows his eyes. The kid probably isn't a demon; the holy water didn't burn him, and to get to the house he must have crossed over the salt-soaked ropes buried at the edge of the property, and the pentagram painted under the first front step didn't hold him. And Bobby can't think of any monster that would be immune to iron enough to cross the salvage yard, and able to touch the silver knocker on the door.
Plus there's the fact that even if this kid is some kind of monster, if he's powerful enough to get through all that warding then there's not much Bobby can do to keep him out anyway.
He unlocks the door and opens it just wide enough to aim his gun through. "What the hell do you want?"
"I told you," says Chuck. "I have something for you."
He reaches into his pocket. Bobby's hand tenses on the gun, but Chuck just pulls out something that swings from his fingers on a thin black cord, gleaming yellow in the sunlight. Despite himself, Bobby opens the door wider and steps forward for a closer look. It's some kind of charm or amulet, bronze, in the shape of a little horned face.
"What's this?" says Bobby.
"No idea," says Chuck, shrugging.
"Then why are you giving it to me?" Bobby growls.
To his surprise, Chuck looks embarrassed. "I, ah….I have visions."
"You're a psychic?" Bobby hasn't met many psychics, but if the kid has any kind of mojo, that would explain how he got past the alarms.
"Something like that." Chuck shuffles his feet uncomfortably. "All I know is, I have to give this to you. It's going to be very important to someone you care about."
He's still holding out the amulet expectantly. Bobby eyes it, hesitant to take it—it could be some kind of cursed object—but the longer Chuck stands there dripping holy water onto his porch, the harder it is to see him as a threat, and Bobby feels his arm rise, as though of its own accord, and the amulet thunks down, bright and surprisingly warm, into his palm.
Bobby examines it for a moment, alert for any sign of a curse starting up, but he feels nothing unusual. It's just a funny-looking charm.
"Wait," he says suddenly, looking up with a frown, "where did you—"
He breaks off. Where Chuck was standing is nothing but a trail of wet footprints leading down the steps.
Muttering to himself, Bobby retreats back inside, locks his door firmly behind him, tosses the amulet into the first curse box he finds in the basement, and promptly forgets about it.
*S*P*N*
Bobby doesn't think about the amulet at all for several years, until he's cleaning off some shelves to make room for a new batch of books he just bought, and the curse box tumbles to the floor and pops open, letting the amulet spill out with a clatter. He bends to pick it up, remembering Chuck and wondering if he should try to track the kid down, see if he's working with any hunters or if he just keeps his mojo quietly to himself, maybe occasionally delivering mysterious amulets to unsuspecting strangers. Bobby's just about to go to the kitchen to start making some calls when he hears a sniffle behind him.
It's nearing the end of December, and Sam and Dean are staying with Bobby while John is off following some unknown lead—probably another one he thinks is an angel. Bobby doubts this particular lead will pan out any differently than any of the others have, but he figures at least the time of year seems auspicious for angel-hunting. In any case, he doesn't mind having the boys around; since Dean has gotten older he's been a great help with the salvage yard, and Sam is pretty much content to read or watch TV all day.
In fact, he's watching TV right now, curled up on the couch under a tartan blanket, and Bobby's pretty sure he's just watching one of those stupid Christmas movies they always show this time of year, so he doesn't understand why there are tears running down Sam's cheeks.
"Sam?" he asks tentatively, crossing the room and sitting down on the other side of the couch.
Sam wipes his face hastily on the blanket, and sniffles again. "Why isn't our dad ever around for Christmas?" he asks.
Bobby looks over at the TV screen, where a happy family is sitting around a table, the image slightly hazy and dreamlike because of the poor reception he gets out here. "Your daddy works hard," he says finally.
"But he could be here for Christmas," Sam insists. "It's just one day."
"I think you're stuck with me this year, kiddo," Bobby tells him. "What, ain't I good enough for ya?" he adds, trying to joke, but Sam just looks at him, and he realizes that's a stupid thing to say. Of course he's not good enough; he's not their father.
Bobby drops his gaze, not sure how to break the awkward silence between them, and suddenly becomes aware of the amulet still clutched in his hand. "Well, look," he says, "why don't you give a present to your dad?"
He holds up the amulet by the cord, dangling it in front of Sam, and the kid's face brightens as he sits up and reaches for it.
"It's cool. What is it?" Sam asks.
"It's real special," says Bobby, without knowing where that idea came from. "Your dad'll love it. And he's bound to come back if there's a present waiting for him, right?"
Sam is smiling a little now, turning the amulet over in his hand. "Thanks, Uncle Bobby," he says, and he scrambles off the couch and disappears upstairs, holding the amulet protectively to his chest.
Bobby watches him go, a little dazed by the conversation. He still isn't sure what prompted him to suggest giving the amulet to John, and he worries that he did the wrong thing by giving Sam hope, that now the kid will be even more disappointed when John doesn't show up for Christmas; but it's a distant worry, the way one worries about plane crashes or lightning strikes.
All things considered, Bobby's not entirely surprised when John comes back two days early to pick the boys up. He walks up to the house with something less than his usual straight-backed posture, looking tired and discouraged—a sharp contrast to Sam, who goes running out to meet him, whooping with joy. John sweeps him up in a hug and carries him back inside, but the tired look doesn't leave his face, and he doesn't notice Sam mouthing an ecstatic It worked! over his shoulder to Bobby.
Bobby nods and smiles back at Sam, hoping John will stop looking for God long enough to see how much he still has.
*S*P*N*
Bobby doesn't see the Winchesters again until the next August. He hears from John occasionally—mostly to ask, with increasing frustration, if Bobby has heard of any more leads—but they fall pretty much off his radar. He worries about them, especially the boys, but he's just as happy not talking to John if it means not dealing with John's moods, so he keeps radio silence and just hopes John will call if he gets into any real trouble.
It's a hot, sticky day when he hears the rumble of a car engine pulling up to the house, and it may have been a while since he heard it but he doesn't think he's ever likely to forget the Impala's distinctive roar, so he goes out to meet them.
The first thing he notices is that Sam looks older—Dean does too, but it's particularly noticeable on Sam, his face thinner and sharper now, matured in a way that can't quite be accounted for by the eight months it's been since Bobby's seen him. And then, as they all get out of the car and stretch, Bobby notices the way Sam's eyes are drawn to Dean, watching him as he used to watch John; and finally Dean turns so that Bobby can see the gleam of something small and bronze hanging from a cord around his neck.
It occurs to Bobby then, although he has no idea why he's so certain of it as he watches the amulet shining proudly on Dean's chest, that if anyone ever does manage to find God, it won't be John Winchester.