A/N: This was written for the "John, Bobby and Castiel Comment Fic Meme" on spngenlove, in response to the prompt: "Bobby, after Dean's death, coping with grief and with Sam." My thanks to Wave Obscura for the beta work.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything Supernatural related.
--
Bobby took a sip of whiskey, rubbed his face wearily. He was so, so tired, worn out by exhaustion that went further than his old bones and touched the very core of his soul.
One year ago, he'd found Dean kneeling on the muddy ground at Cold Oak, cradling his dead brother in his arms, whispering nonsensical words of comfort that Sam couldn't hear anymore. He'd thought things were bad, then. How fucking naive he'd been.
Thirty-six hours ago, he'd found Sam standing in a living room in New Harmony, and Dean was dead at his feet. Sam's shirt and jacket were smeared with blood, so he'd probably been holding his brother in his arms at some point, but he wasn't anymore. His cheeks were wet with tears, his eyes red and puffy, and there was snot drying on his upper lip, but he'd stopped crying. He wasn't uttering a single sound, and the only thing worse than that was Dean's body torn to shreds, his green eyes dead and empty. At that moment, Bobby had the dreadful feeling that he'd lost them both.
But there'd been no time to think, he had to take charge, because Sam sure wasn't up to making any decision. They escaped from New Harmony and the cops were coming. He'd found a place where to bury Dean - it went against all his hunter's instincts, but Sam had insisted, it was the only words he'd spoken and Bobby couldn't refuse him anything. And then they'd come back here, to his place. Sam was now sleeping upstairs - or maybe not - and for the first time since... everything, Bobby was able to stop and think.
And drink. Bobby didn't consider himself a drunk, but there certainly were some bottles in his house, bottles filled with hard liquor, because there were always moments in a hunter's life when alcohol was very much needed. If now wasn't one of those moments, Bobby didn't know what qualified.
Thinking didn't help one bit, so Bobby drank quite a fucking lot. Thinking only reminded him what happened to Dean, where exactly the poor boy was now. He shouldn't be surprised with the outcome of this deal business. He'd known in his mind that there was nothing they could do, but his heart had held onto the hope of a goddamn last minute miracle, like the old fool he was. He couldn't bear the thought of what was going to happen to his boys now - because they were his boys, he'd earned the right to call them that. Sam and Dean were each trapped in their own hell and worst of all, unable to reach each other. Bobby had seen and heard about all kinds of sad, tragic and fucked up things, but with this he felt like he'd fallen into a bottomless hole of black despair.
So he drank, and drank, until he fell asleep, and didn't dream.
On the following morning, Sam came to him. He was leaving, he said. And his eyes were so devoid of anything alive, like the soul had been sucked out of him. It frightened Bobby, because Dean hadn't looked like that, like he was already dead and couldn't care less - though he'd looked like he wished with all his heart that he was dead.
Bobby tried convincing him to stay, that they'd find a solution together, but he knew he'd had more chance with talking a wolf into adopting a baby rabbit. There was no changing a Winchester's mind, and Sam was very much his daddy's son in this. The saddest thing was that it seemed like he was bound to be more and more like John fucking Winchester, like there'd never been any other road for him.
So Bobby let him go, knowing he had failed to protect the boys he loved like his own flesh and blood, the kids who had once been little boys playing in this house, happy and lively and loving each other so much.
Then Bobby drank some more.