Bobby's had dogs for more than twenty years now; most of them more wild than tame. Feral things, they prowl his junkyard like wolves, creating their own society, building a hierarchy that's taught Bobby a lot of things - about both dogs and people. Really, in the most essential of ways, they aren't so different. People just like to pretend otherwise.

He watches the Winchester boys grow up as well, wandering the junkyard with the dogs, playing, training, working. He sees the way Sam balks at the family business, protests the hunt, and knows, even now, that there will be trouble one day. There's a dark storm brewing; Sam is an ill wind where his father is concerned. John might be top dog now, but there will always be a day where a new generation rises and takes control.

With the dogs, it's usually a fight to the death. No mercy; just teeth and claws and primal instinct. Come out on top. Eat or be eaten. Survival of the fittest. Bobby's watched one of his rotties tear his old man's face apart, just for daring to sniff around his food bowl. Here, amongst the glittering heaps of scrap metal, dog eat dog becomes something literal and fierce. It's disturbingly poetic, in a way.

And Sam? He's getting bigger, now; brighter. Every time they show up on Bobby's porch, he's a little bit edgier, a little more defiant. He's always pushing the boundaries, keeping John on his toes. He can see the older man lunging at the end of his rope, Sam dancing just out of his reach. It's obvious, even now, that Sam's meant to be an alpha some day. He's a born leader. He's preparing for it even now; challenging his father at every bend.

Sam marches steadily towards eighteen and independence and no chain in the world will be strong enough to hold him then. Except maybe one. And that one? Is the same chain John's tied to.

Both straining at opposite ends, pulling bullheadedly, neither sure when the chain will break, or who'll be holding the bigger half when it finally does, but Bobby can see that the final push and shove, out and out battle for dominance won't be pretty.

And it won't be fair. Because Dean is the chain holding them together, and he's going to be torn right in half; broken, no matter who wins.

God must have a twisted sense of humor, Bobby thinks, to throw such a dangerous mix of personalities into one family, and then shove them into a dynamic that can only even exasperate the situation. It's almost painful to watch, to be able to see the thread that will someday unravel the entire damn sweater and be able to do nothing about it. Because Winchesters, being Winchesters, look after their own and even friends' noses aren't welcome in that business.

Bobby keeps quiet and goes about his business. He feeds his dogs, feeds his friends, and hopes that when the fallout hits, the Winchesters are nowhere near his junkyard. It's not that he doesn't care, or doesn't want to help. But he's fairly certain there's going to be a lot of pieces too small to be picked back up, and he doubts he'd be allowed to try anyways.

His dogs govern themselves, out there in the scrapyard wasteland. Bobby knows by now, not to interfere when he hears barking, lest he be bitten. The Winchesters, he decides, are very much the same.