"So. How's this going to play out Bobby? Are we actually going to shoot each other?"

"Nope. I'm gonna shoot you. It won't be a reciprocal arrangement."

"I see."

"Bullshit! You ain't seen nothin' for a long time."

Bobby waited, but as was so often the case, John Winchester had nothing to say.

"Them boys are stayin' with me. There's nothin' you can do about it. They'll be better off here."

"They're my boys Bobby."

"Tell them that! They don't see you for weeks and when they do, you're all torn up to hell and drinkin' like prohibition's comin' back."

John slumped onto the steps outside Bobby's porch. He wasn't going to hurt the man who had been a better father to his own kids than he was.

He wasn't leaving without them either though.

"You reckon you can do a better job Bobby?"

"I already am. They have a room, beds, food – someone to care for 'em."

"C'mon Bobby. You know it's not that simple."

"They need a home John. They're just kids."

"You think I don't know that?"

Bobby eased himself into his porch chair – right beside the door – keeping his shotgun trained on John's back the whole time.

"You're hell-bent on revenge John."

"I guess I can't deny that."

"You know that I get how that is. I felt that way for a long time too, but it didn't do any good. It just eats you up inside til there's nothin' left."

"I'm not just doing it for me. It's for them too."

"I could shoot you right now, you pompous jackass!"

John stood quickly, but the muzzle of Bobby's shotgun was immediately raised, so he carefully climbed the porch steps and walked to the chair on the other side of the door, making to sit down.

"No. Sit there."

"The swing seat?"

"Yup. Need a clear shot."

"You're not gonna shoot me Bobby."

"Take one step near this door."

"Bobby. I get that you care about my boys. I get th…"

"You don't get nothin'! You think you can haul them kids all over the country an' it won't affect them? You think you can leave them here and there with Jacob or me, scared to death and wonderin' where the hell you are?"

Bobby paused, emotion making his voice tremble.

"Did you ever hear them cry at night John?"

"I heard Dean."

"What?"

"When it happened… when Mary was …killed. Dean cried for his mom. Night after night. Worst fucking sound I ever heard. He was four years old and I couldn't find a way to comfort him. I couldn't find a way to comfort myself."

"Yeah, 'cept through a bottle."

John made a move.

"Don't give me an excuse to make this conversation a lot shorter Winchester."

"I want my kids Bobby."

"And I want your kids to live some kind of normal life. They could do that with me John. I'd give it up. Do you understand? I'd give up hunting for those boys. I love 'em."

"I know you do – that's why I trust you better than anyone to look after them. But so do I Bobby. Can't you believe that?"

"Well you have a piss poor way of showin' it."

"Maybe I do, and you're probably right Bobby. But they're still my sons. Not yours. And if you asked them to choose – you know they'd choose me."

"I'd never do that."

Bobby didn't want to put that to the test. Didn't want to feel the heartbreak of knowing it was true – because of course, however much he didn't want it to be true – he knew it was.

So John left with Dean and Sam early the next morning.

And Bobby was left with a bad hangover…

… and an aching need to shoot John Winchester the next time he saw him.