A/N: This story takes place after "Swan Song" in Supernatural and during season 2 of Sherlock. I do not own either Supernatural or Sherlock and am unlikely to obtain their ownership in the future, even if I wish really hard.

CHAPTER 1

"I always tried to protect you. Keep you safe. It's like I had one job. I had one job, and I screwed it up. I blew it, and for that, I'm sorry. How am I supposed to live with that? What am I supposed to do? Sammy?"

Dean had never been so alone. Never once in his life. Never once in his deaths either, come to think of it. He had always had Sam, and even in the darkest times he had always known that his little brother would be all right, deep in his heart. But that was gone. He had no one: not his mother and not his father. Not Helen or Joe. Not Castiel and not Bobby. One by one they had been alienated. One by one they had been betrayed by him and his recklessness. And now he no longer even had Sam. He didn't have Sam, and he was broken.

It was not as if being broken was a particularly new feeling for him. He had been shattered over and over again, until stone slowly replaced the fragile glass that used to be his heart. He had still saved people, and he had looked after Sammy, but he couldn't muster the will to give two rat's asses about himself. When he went to hell, everything had changed. He had tortured people, and destroyed them. There were so many that he couldn't even remember their names or stories. One man had sold his soul for his daughter's life. Another had grown up being cursed and beaten as a child, until he had done so in turn. Thousands of them: those with good intentions and those with black hearts, and he never would be able to get the stains of their blood off of his soul.

Sam was different, he may have been the one to pull the trigger on the apocalypse, but he did so through the intentions of saving others lives. It was Dean who had bought the gun, taught him how to shoot, put the bullets in, and pointed it in the right direction. The apocalypse was as much his fault as Sam's, and maybe even more, and now Sam had paid the price by doing what was right. And now Sam would be tortured eternally in that hell box that he had locked himself into with the most accomplished torturer in existence. And the one thing Dean dreaded was the possibility that Sam would one day decide to climb of the rack that he was strapped to, and make the same mistake that he had. Dean would never be able to forgive himself.

Sam died to save the world. He had to get him out.

"You have to promise not to bring me back." "You go find Lisa. You pray to god she's dumb enough to take you in, and you - you have barbecues and go to football games. You go live some normal, apple-pie life, Dean. Promise me!"

Dean swerved over toward the side of the road and slammed on the breaks of the Impala, swearing. He reached under the side of the passenger seat and pulled out a case of not-so-vintage beer. In one swipe he popped one open and started chugging. After he had drowned half the bottle he slammed it down onto the dashboard. It shattered covering the insides of the Impala in beer and glass. He swore again.

He couldn't do anything without thinking of Sam: not read, not eat, not even talk to obnoxious people. When he saw the sky he thought of the long nights they spent here, in their small home, just looking at the stars. He didn't want to give him up, and he couldn't let him go. What could he do? Sam's last request echoed over and over again in his ears. A shadow of what had been.

He didn't want to go to Lisa's. He came close- hell, he had spent the last month circling Indianapolis. He had driven through Cicero, Indiana more times than he could count. Once, he had even gotten to the street where she lived. But always there was another excuse, always there was a monster, or an 'I'll just wait until tomorrow.' He couldn't do it. He knew he couldn't do it. Because, however hard he may try, he couldn't give up Sam.

So he started finding demons. He interrogated them. He tortured them. He found pleasure in their screams. And nothing he did- not one demon he found- was able to give him a way to give his little brother back. Dean eyed the gun sitting in his passengers seat. Cocked, loaded, and almost set to shoot. The safety was off. All he had to do was a little click, and he could join Sam in the pit. Dean didn't believe he was going to heaven.

He swore again, and coated with glass, bear, and self-loathing went back to the road and began driving to Bobby's. He got there around three in the morning, and not gathering up the courage to go to the door and go inside he sat in the car that held his best and worst memories until he fell asleep. That was how Bobby found him the next morning. Dean wasn't awake to see Bobby turn away and let a single tear fall down his face before wiping it away angrily and going to get the hose. He was woken when Bobby opened the Impala door, dragged Dean onto the ground, and sprayed him off, commenting on the idiocy of his almost-son the entire time.

"Would you like to explain to me what the hell you think your doing?" Bobby seethed at Dean. "So your brother's gone: BOO HOO. You've been doing nothing but kill yourself for the past month. You have other people that care about you Dean!"

Dean looked up at Bobby, squinting in the early morning sunlight. "Bobby…" he moaned, rubbing one arm over his eyes as if to wipe the sun away.

"WOULD YOU LIKE ME TO SAY IT ANY LOUDER!?" Bobby shouted, crouching down towards Dean's ear to achieve maximum volume. "Don't think I don't see that gun in your passengers seat. I know what it's like to loose part of myself," Dean opened his mouth to interrupt, but Bobby talked over whatever Dean had been about to say, "Don't tell me I don't boy. I've lost everything I have besides you. You made me promise to hold on, and now you're going to promise the same thing to me."

"Do you have to talk so loud?" Dean whined, covering his head pathetically, "Other people have gone deaf before you know."

"Yes!" Bobby shouted in Dean's ear, more commandingly than plenty of men in the military, "Now, I'm gonna tell you what your gonna do. You're going to suck it up, clean up yourself and your car, and come inside. There, we're going to have a nice long heart to heart. You get me?"

Dean moaned.

"I'll take that as a yes then," Bobby said contemptuously, "Now GET MOVING!"

Leaving the hose still spraying over Dean, Bobby stormed toward the house, disappearing around the side. Another moment and the hose sputtered to a stop.

After a few more minutes of wallowing in self-pity and mud Dean slowly sat up. His head hurt with a vengeance. He peered into the car and saw the carnage he had made the last night. "Oh baby, what did I do to you?" he murmured. He ran his hand along the side of the care, stopping it right above the driver's side window. Ducking down to get a better view of the Impala's inners he directed his gaze towards the passenger's side seat. After a moment he saw that the gun was gone. "Son of a bitch…Bobby!"

Dean ran up to Bobby's house and pounded on the door three times before slumping on the wall next to the entrance of the house. After a moment multiple locks were clicked out of place and Bobby's head appeared through a crack in the door. "Are you done cleaning up yet?" he asked gruffly.

"No, but—"

"Well what are you doing moping outside my door then?" The door clicked shut and the crackle of several locks going back into place was heard.

Dean stared at the place where Bobby's head had appeared just moments before in disbelief. He nocked again, yelling "Bobby!" sharply. Muffled behind the door he heard Bobby's voice say something that sounded suspiciously like 'Go away.' "But Bobby!"

Another crackle and Bobby's head appeared around the side of the door again. "Look kid, as much as seeing the innards of my house must interest you, you ain't going through this door until you have your car and yourself cleaned up. Even I have a reputation to uphold."

"Bobby you're the town drunk." Dean said in disbelief, but the door popped shut again. "Shit," Dean swore. After glancing back at the Impala once, he leaned his head against the door. Regretfully, he slowly took a few steps back, preparing himself to kick the door in. He stood in that position for what seemed to him as quite a long time, before he swore again, turned away, and headed back towards his car.

Three hours later he was brushing out the last of the glass from under the passenger's seat in a newly changed shirt and jeans that he had worn the day before yesterday while hunting a Kobold that had gone rough and killed the occupants of several neighboring houses. In his defense, the small bloodstain on the sleeves was from a different hunt. The shirt didn't even smell too bad for not being washed in over three months. A jacket was draped over the hood of the car, and a plaid shirt was bundled up in the driver's seat. The sun blazed hell-fire from overhead.

He wiped his forehead with his arm, managing to spread the sweat more than get it off, and ducked his head back down to the floor of the Impala peering under the seats for any stray glass. Not finding any he stood up, grabbed the shirt bundled in the seat, pushed the Impala door shut, and leaned on the jacket resting on the hood. He had a streak of dirt on his cheek from when he had wiped away the sweat with his arm. Staring straight ahead he rested there, in the heat of the sun, both anticipating and dreading the conversation that was to come. He pushed himself away from that object that was so much more than a car and slinging his jacket and over-shirt over his shoulder he walked back up to the door of Bobby Singer's house. He knocked.

After a long moment the door opened, fully this time, and Bobby appeared in the frame. He scanned Dean up and down before directing his gaze past him to the car. "Took you long enough," he grunted, and stepped back so Dean could step by him. Glancing sharply at Bobby Dean swept into the house, throwing his jacket and shirt over the back of a chair. After giving a quick once-over to what could be described as Bobby's office Dean turned back to Bobby, now standing in the doorway of the office room giving Dean a look.

"Bobby," he led, "where the hell is my gun?" Bobby rolled his eyes and stepped into the room, walking around the chair and table Dean was standing in front of. Dean turned with Bobby as Bobby walked around him.

Once he had reached the opposite side of his desk he said. "And what exactly were you planning on doing with it, I wonder? Gonna have a nice mosey with it in the park? Blow the tops of off all those pretty tulips?" Dean stared at him. "Maybe you thought you'd take more weapons along with you too," continued Bobby, "and were wondering what 'the hell' I've done with all the pretty toys you keep in your trunk." A pause. "Now you listen here boy. You're gonna sit down and have a nice chat with me or so help me I will lock you in the basement."

"Bobby, I didn't mean to come here. I was drunk, and I was angry, and I was fed up with all the crap going on in my life right now. Now give me my gun and my tools and let me go." The glaring match that followed could compete with the one between Michael and Lucifer that Dean had so kindly interrupted that day. It lasted longer too: one, two, five minutes slipped by with both of the men determined not to loose any ground. On any other day, or in any other state Dean might of won, but Bobby was driven by a father's love. He was the only one that could make Sam and Dean pause in their beliefs anyhow.

Dean was the one that sank down into his chair first.

"Well glad you finally got some sense into you," Bobby barked, sitting down as well. "Now," he continued sardonically, "are we ready to talk about our feelings?" Dean stared straight ahead. "I'll take that as a yes. Look son, I'll start, and be honest with you. Your life sucks." This startled Dean, who had been expecting the whole you are special and beautiful and isn't that rainbow nice outside speech. He moved his eyes to meet Bobby's.

"Thanks Bobby," he growled, "very therapeutic. Are we going to do yoga now?"

Bobby talked over Dean as if he hadn't heard. "You and that idjit brother of yours saved a lot of people doing what you did, and I ain't gonna forget it. Now, I've known you two knuckleheads for quite some time, and I know you're gonna keep whining till your brother gets back." Dean looked away. "So get this in that thick skull of yours Dean: Sam wanted you to have a happy life, just like you wanted for him. Any idjit could see it. So whatever he made you promise to do you're gonna do it. And you're not getting your gun back until you promise me a couple of things too."

There was a pause, and when Dean looked up there was a dry, angry pain in his eyes. "Bobby, listen up. I've been trying and I can't. Once you get in this life you don't ever get out. Not ever. I've been hunting demons Bobby, and I'm getting close, I can feel it."

"You think I'm blind boy? I'm not that old, and I'm a more popular conversationalist than you. I know what you've been up too. But understand me Dean, you continue on this trail, and I don't know if you'll like what you find." There was a pause, as if Bobby considered saying more. A long moment and he continued, "Sammy went to hell, Dean. To hell. You of anybody should know what that's like."

Dean looked back at Bobby. "Bobby," he said, softly, "Do you know how God-damned shady that sounded?" Bobby glanced away for a fraction of a second, but Dean caught it anyway. "Bobby," he spat, "Do you know something I don't?"

Bobby slumped slightly in his chair. Dean wondered when he had risen. "It's nothing kid, don't worry about it. There have just been whispers…its nothing." Bobby raised his gaze to meet Dean's. Sighing in a would-be casual tone he intoned "There's some more books I've brought in recently if you want to scan them for anything to help you with your demon hunt." Bobby had lost only a little of the fire in his tone. "But, Dean: I still need you to promise me some things."

Dean stared suspiciously at Bobby. His tone grew stronger. "Name them," he said, curiously taking strength in Bobby's vague hints, "I'd like to get back to work."

"I'm sure you would, boy," Bobby said sarcastically, "Of course, I forgot that you're gonna be nodding your way through this talk just to get it over with and then go back to the far more important matters of your booze and suicidal thoughts." Dean pointed at himself mouthing 'Me?' mockingly. Bobby rolled his eyes at him. "First off, you are gonna stow away that gun. Checking out won't do nobody no good, least of all Sam. Could you have had a stupider idea?"

"You didn't seem to think it was a half bad plan not that long ago," Dean growled softly to Bobby.

"Like you have the lottery on being an idjit? Even with the lot of it you take up there's still a thin sliver to go around." A smirk graced Bobby's gruff face as he continued, "Just because you think I'm immortal and perfect don't mean I am, son." After a pause Dean nodded jerkily. "Fantastic," rumbled Bobby under his breath, "thank God I don't have to worry now."

"You gonna keep talking Bobby or can I get to work yet?" Dean indicated the doorway.

"Since when does 'some things' mean one condition?" Bobby asked, "Or did I miss some special lesson in the English language they only teach at smart-ass prep?" Dean glared at Bobby. "Right…" Bobby mumbled, "stoic: I forgot. Anyhow, next few hours, you're gonna get some sleep."

It took every inch of Dean's self-control not to roll his eyes. "I've been sleeping Bobby," he protested gruffly. The dark circles under his eyes became more pronounced as he turned his back to the sunbeams peeking through the window to his right.

"Right…" Bobby said. "Just like you were sleeping when you got back from hell, or when Ruby was gettin Sam to drink demon blood, or when you learned Lucifer wanted to take a little trip into Sam's noggin. Or how you were sleeping when you were gettin close to letting your guardian angel or whatever Michael called it into your noggin. Or when Helen and Jo kicked the bucket. Or when Cas started turning honorary human. Or when…"

"Alright!" Dean barked. "Point made: I'll grab a few. Anything else you wanted to do or has the concern for my well-being dried up?"

Bobby didn't respond for so long that Dean made to get up. "Hold on, boy," Bobby intervened, "I got one more thing, but you're not gonna like it, and when you don't like something it generally doesn't get done anyhow."

"Out with it Bobby."

"I'm lettin you out of my sight for a few, but I don't like it, and I sure as hell don't think it's a good idea." A pause. "I need you to promise me that after the next big fish you gut in that big wide ocean of sharks that tells you…" Bobby drifted off. "Goddamnit!" he said suddenly, "there's no good way to put this. I need you to promise me that after another fortnight of this you're gonna give it up or so help me I will find you, drag you back to my place, and stick you in the bunker till you get your head on straight."

Dean sat their for a few moments before saying, "Right Bobby: of course." He then pushed his chair out, grabbed his jacket and over shirt, and swept out of the room, heading for the staircase to Bobby's bedrooms upstairs to crash in one of the beds.

Bobby sat in his chair a long time after Dean left, debating and reviewing and discarding ideas in his mind. Sighing he stood up and walked into the kitchen. He opened his fridge and grabbed a beer. After taking a swig he looked back outside to the Impala and shook his head.

"Idjit," he said sadly.