"Uh, hey Bobby."

Bobby Singer, half out of his mind from lack of sleep and not entirely sure why he was answering the phone when he should have been curled up in his soft bed, suddenly sat up straight. "Dean," he said, the answer much less of a question than a statement.

"Yeah," Dean's voice rang through the receiver. "I, uh, don't really know why I'm callin'…" Bobby waited for a follow-up statement, but all he could hear were Dean's calculated breaths coming through the other end.

"Dean?" Bobby prompted, worry level spiking up to one-hundred. He tried to track the last time Dean had called him. From what he remembered, Sam had been missing and Dean had been in a panic when he'd called asking for help. Never had Bobby gotten a call from him to just say hi. "What is it?"

"Oh, um…" Once again, Dean's voice trailed off. Bobby huffed an annoyed breath as he waited for the boy to continue. "I, um… Can't I just call up my favorite uncle and chat?"

There were many things that made that statement seem so wrong.

First off, Bobby could remember maybe one time in the past ten years when Dean had referred to him as "uncle," and that was when the boy had been nearly killed by a werewolf when he was fourteen and had just woken up from anesthesia after hours of lengthy surgery and his father had been nowhere to be seen. He'd been drugged up, out of it, and severely upset that his father wasn't there. Naturally, Bobby had stepped in. Dean was twenty-two now, and Bobby just found it a tad odd that he'd be using the child-coined nickname that he hadn't even uttered for ages.

Second, it was four in the morning.

"Chat?" Bobby repeated incredulously. He rubbed his face wearily. The only thing that had kept him from a soft bed a moment ago was the persistent ringing of his personal phone. Not the FBI or the CIA phones, but the one whose number was only given out to those he knew wouldn't shoot him when he let his guard down. Like the Winchesters. But now, seeing as Dean only wanted to "chat," Bobby was rethinking his decision to forego that bed. "Boy, you know what time it is?" he growled.

"No, I—what?" There was a rustling sound. "Oh. Oh, crap, I'm sorry, Bobby, I didn't realize, I just thought that maybe… I dunno, it was stupid. Sorry, Bobby. I'll hang up now."

Bobby scowled tiredly. "No, ya idjit. I'll talk, if you tell me what's so important that it couldn't wait 'till morning."

"It's just… I just needed someone to talk to."

Bobby heard something in the boy's voice, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. It was something he'd only heard a few other times out of Dean, and that was…

Oh. Desperation.

For some reason, Dean needed someone to talk to. And Bobby could hear in his voice just how much he needed it right now.

"Where's your daddy?" Bobby demanded. "Is Sam alright?"

"Dad's out," Dean answered. "He'll probably come crawling back in here come morning with one helluva hangover, seeing how completely pissed he was last night…"

Dean didn't elaborate, and from his tone of voice, Bobby guessed he didn't want to.

"And Sam?" Bobby prompted, seeing as Dean didn't answer that part of his inquiry.

There was a long pause, too long for Bobby's liking. He almost suspected Dean had dozed off when the young man answered, "He's… good. You know him, Bobby. He's always good."

Bobby was in no way satisfied with the answer, but he let it be. If Dean was hiding something, he wasn't going to just say it out in the open. It was the Winchester way; you hide your feelings and never let anyone know how you feel. "And how 'bout you?" he asked, softer. "You doin' good?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Yup, always am, Bobby." The statement was cocky, but the delivery wasn't. Bobby didn't miss that.

Stifling a yawn (because he hadn't slept in nearly forty hours), Bobby pressed, "So if nothin's outta the ordinary, Dean, enlighten me to why you've called. Because if nothin's happening, I'd like to go to bed."

Dean let out a breath. If Bobby were in a right state, he'd have said it sounded shakey. "Bobby, if you can't talk right now, it's fine. I mean, I—" This time, the young man's voice quivered. Bobby heard a definite crack in his voice, and sympathy clawed at his heart. Sounded as if things weren't as hunky-dory as Dean would like him to believe.

Dean sighed, and stopped whatever he'd been trying to say.

"What's the matter, kid?" Bobby wondered in a soft tone. "And don't you tell me it's nothin', 'cause I can tell by the tone of your voice that it ain't nothin'."

"He's gone, Bobby."

Dean's voice sounded on the edge of tears, and Bobby froze. "Yer daddy?" he questioned tenderly. He'd always known that John would get himself killed on the job someday, and that it would cost his boys something big. He idly wondered what it'd been. A werewolf? Poltergeist? Tulpa, rugaru, shapeshifter? No matter, Bobby knew what had to be said to Dean. He had to urge the boys to come live with him.

The words almost came tumbling from Bobby's mouth when Dean piped up, "No, Dad's… Dad's fine. Out drinkin'. The same, you know." There was a pregnant pause. "It's Sam."

Bobby sucked in a breath. "What happened?" he somehow got out, though his chest felt overwhelmingly tight.

Dean let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Guess we shoulda seen it coming, with him scrounging up the money to take all those SATs and ACTs, and taking all those AP classes. I feel so friggin' stupid."

"Dean, what are you talking about?" Bobby asked, though he had a sinking feeling he knew where this was going.

"He's at college, Bobby," Dean breathed out. He coughed softly. "Got a full ride into Stanford. I'm so proud of him."

Bobby nodded warily, measuring his next words carefully. He could now picture a simulation of what might have happened. Sam, who had never enjoyed the hunter's life, told his family he wanted to go to college. John blew up, and Dean tried not to take sides. Now John was "grieving" the loss of his youngest with his usual coping methods—also known as having a little alone time with Jim, Jack, and Jose—and Dean was left alone.

Dean seemed unstable at the moment, so Bobby thought deeply about what he to say. "That's great, Dean," he finally decided on, even though he knew it wasn't one hundred percent great in Dean's eyes. "We always knew he could do it."

A sigh. "Yeah…"

Bobby waited for an explanation to Dean's forlorn tone, but one didn't come. "Somehow, I doubt that's the end of it, Dean," Bobby said.

"No, it's not."

There was another prolonged hesitation, and Bobby prompted, "You gonna tell me?"

"I, uh… It's kinda early, don't you think?"

Bobby sighed. "Yeah, it is."

"Maybe we both should get to bed."

"Maybe," Bobby agreed, though he clearly saw what was happening. It was a common Winchester avoidance technique.

"I, um… I'm actually kinda worn out, man."

"You sound it."

"So I guess I'll be heading to bed?" Dean sounded puzzled, as if even he himself wasn't sure what he was suggesting.

"If you want, Dean." Bobby shrugged. "But if there's somethin' you need to talk about, I'm up now."

"Nah, I… Maybe I'll call you in the morning, once I get some sleep? It's been a rough day."

Bobby nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I'll be expecting your call. Don't you skip out on me."

Dean hummed something—an agreement of sorts, Bobby supposed—and replied softly, "See ya, Bobby."

"See ya, kid."

Bobby got a few hours of shut-eye, thank goodness, but he couldn't help but notice something missing the next day.

Dean never called him back.