Dean never questioned the presence of the old sword he'd seen hung up on the wall in Bobby's house. Or even when he'd come along on a hunt and it'd be sitting there right underneath the older hunter's rifle in the gun rack of his pick-up. Hunters needed a lot of odds and ends to do their job, from weapons of silver and bronze to items easily located in the average kitchen cupboard. Sometimes, a broad blade was more use than a hundred bullets, especially when you came up against something that needed a good dismembering before it'd rightly lie still. He'd never questioned the old man's expertise, either, his easy way in a fight.

Next to his father, Dean held Bobby up as a shining example of what a hunter should be. He could look death or worse in the face and not flinch.

He started asking questions when the first head-hunter came and he was there to see it.

After the electricity flashed over the salvage yard, blasting the scattered corpses of automobiles, bursting glass, and running through Bobby like he was a damned lightning rod, Dean helped him dispose of the headless corpse. They went in for a beer, and Bobby told him a story about a scrawny kid growing up in the old West, about Quickenings, and about the Game.