Author's Note:

Ok, so this was supposed to be a two-shot, but it just won't fit, goddamn it. As of tonight it's going into a two-shot plus epilogue. Sorry for being a pain in the arse. The epilogue will be up in a few days (from 17/02/2009). And, I have to say, it's a real doozy.

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TWO:

What You Leave Behind

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Bobby heard the banging and dried his hands, dropping the towel to the kitchen table and walking through to the front door. He opened it to find the boys stood looking at him.

"Hey," he smiled, stepping back. "Unexpected, but hey," he added.

"You're telling me," Sam grinned.

He walked in and toward the front room, patting Bobby's shoulder as he passed him. Bobby paused, wondering why the touch had felt strange. He looked back at the door and saw Dean lift a tired boot to follow him. Bobby noticed the wariness on his face and immediately knew they needed something.

"You boys come for some help then?" he smiled. "Been awful quiet for a while - was getting kinda worried about you two."

"Ah, no, we're good," Sam said cheerfully. "Actually? We're very good."

Bobby looked at him, then back at Dean. He still appeared more apprehensive than pleased to see him. Bobby turned a critical eye on Sam, noticing his boyish smile was decidedly more chipper than he had seen it in a very, very long time.

"Ok, what gives?" he asked seriously. "Either one o' you just got Lilith, or the end of the world already happened while I was sleepin'."

"Not the world," Dean said quietly. Bobby looked at him, watched him bite at the side of his lip for a moment. "Just us two," he finished heavily.

"What you talking about?" Bobby dared.

Unbidden, his mind flashed back to the oddness of Sam's touch. He knew his face was starting to register horror, knew his breath had stopped dead in his throat. He reached out and touched Dean's shirt over his shoulder, half-expecting to go right through him. It was solid - but there was something strange about the material under his fingers. He squeezed it, confused.

"What did you do?" he demanded.

Dean didn't answer, pensive under the older man's gaze.

Bobby shook his shoulder slightly, fear causing his fingers to clamp harder on the eldest Winchester. He stared into Dean's eyes, the green orbs suddenly looking tortured, fearful. Broken.

Sam ambled over, his hands in his pockets, drawing Bobby's attention from Dean's cloud of worry to his own aura of calm.

"Dean won. Everything's settled," he said easily.

"Won what? What's settled?" Bobby demanded. He looked back at Dean. "What did you do, boy?"

Dean let his eyes range around the floor before he looked up guiltily. "You're not gonna like this, but… ah… You won't be seeing us again."

Bobby stumbled back one, making his hand drop from Dean's shoulder hastily. "You two ain't real, are you? What is this, a dream or something?"

"We're real enough. Until we're done saying goodbye," Sam allowed.

"What happened? Someone tell me what the hell happened!"

"Sit down," Sam advised. Bobby backed away to an armchair, landing heavily. "Dean… Dean settled everything. Then he bullied Castiel into doing what he wanted. No change there, then," Sam smiled apologetically. Bobby looked over at Dean, but his gaze was on his boots. Bobby looked back at the taller brother.

"You two are dead?"

"As doornails," Sam confirmed, quietly cheerful. "I'm sorry, Bobby. It all came to a head. The epic battle between Good and Evil kicked off and we sorted it out between us - as we were meant to, all along. That was all that was needed - not the entire universe of people, not huge armies of opposing sides, just… Just two brothers and the test of what they were prepared to do. Not for any side, but for each other." He paused, letting his smile widen. "And I have to say, I've never been this glad. I'm just so… relieved that it's finally all over. And now… here we are."

Bobby felt all too clearly his stomach dropping out. "What happens now?" he whispered. He cleared his throat to get some semblance of normality back in his tone. "I mean… you two are both dead-dead?"

"He's dead," Dean put in quietly. "Technically I'm more like a 'lifted up before actually dying' thing, like some Enid--"

"--Enoch," Sam offered politely.

"--Enoch dude," Dean amended, without skipping a beat. "We ain't gone. You won't see our faces again. But you might see us."

"I don't understand," Bobby managed. "Why? How?"

"Bobby," Sam said slowly, and the soothing tones worked on the older man the same way they always had. "You have to know that… Dean saved me. And then Castiel saved him. So… we're going now. For good, this time."

"Well… dammit, boys! Are you gonna explain this? I'm supposed to just lose you two the same as I lost everyone else?"

"Not everyone," Dean said knowingly.

Bobby turned to stare at him, trying to commit his face to memory, to actually see what was there, to remember the real features.

"We gotta go." Dean paused, and it seemed to Bobby as if he really did not want to have to speak. "We just ah… we just came to say goodbye," Dean added apologetically.

And there it was - the small, rueful smile, the timid eyebrows, the guilty eyes, the look of contrition he had seen in the elder Winchester a thousand times. Bobby turned his head to look at Sam quickly.

A matching apologetic look. The expression of wanting everything to be alright, even though he knew it could never be. Suddenly he looked so young again.

"And to thank you, of course. You saved our asses so many times. We can't tell you how glad we are that… well, that you were Dad's friend and that… and that you've always been around, since we were those annoying little kids," the youngest Winchester teased. "Life wouldn't have been the same without you," he added with a warm smile that came from his expressive, soul-rending eyes. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby couldn't tear his eyes from the young man, standing so tall and so relaxed. He looked at Dean, realising the older brother was fighting with himself over something.

"I'm sorry." The hoarse, painful whisper was forced from Dean as if it burned. Bobby felt his throat tighten at the guilt in the young eyes, so old and world-weary. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I had to do it."

Bobby's mouth opened but he had no words, no breath, nowhere to start. Dean put a hand up aimlessly, stretching it toward the older Singer. He let it drop abruptly, but then took a step and reached out again, a much bolder hand catching at Bobby's shoulder. He straightened as he took a calming breath, nodding to him resolutely.

"Thanks. For everything," he managed, sounding much more like his old self.

Bobby stared, afraid to look away, afraid to lose the moment, afraid to lose sight of the pair of them.

He blinked.

He opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling of his front room and gasping in breath. He found himself sat in an armchair and stood quickly, looking around.

"Dean!" he called immediately. "Dean! Where are you, boy? Sam!" He looked around the front room in a panic. "Boys! Where are you!"

He moved to the doorway quickly. Something caught his eye and he looked back at the armchair. A slightly crumpled piece of paper was floating impossibly slowly to the floor. He snatched it up, still looking around.

"Boys!" he roared.

There was no answer. He slowed his breathing, trying to think instead of simply panic, and realised he must have been asleep. The door wasn't standing open, there were no signs of anyone else having been in the house.

"I wus dreamin'," he heaved, wiping his face. "Holy crap." He shook his head, blowing out a long sigh. "Well damn me. What a bastard of a nightmare."

He remembered he had something in his hand and looked down at the piece of paper. He instantly recognised Dean's semi-spidery writing and something made his skin prickle all over as he read it.

'Corner of your yard, parked behind the gate. Got a full tank of gas. She's yours. No-one else would be worthy. Thanks.'

There was a gap, and then Sam's more confident strokes took over further down:

'We'll come in through the window.'

Bobby gripped the note tightly, going to the large window and pulling back the net curtains. He saw the yard, but nothing more. He ran round to the front door and wrenched it open, jogging outside to look around carefully.

He searched high and low. He checked around the wrecks and breakers, the worn dirt track, the outside of the house, every single window or shiny surface he could find. There was nothing.

He retreated to the safety of his front room. He was still holding the note firmly and he made himself put it on the table under the window. He turned, looked around the room, and it trickled into his reasoning that he now had to get used to life in a world that no longer had any Winchesters.

"It wasn't a dream. It wasn't a dream," he breathed. "Why couldn't it have been a nightmare?" he pleaded. "Why them?"

He felt the world crashing down around him, felt the fabric of everything he knew unravelling faster and faster. His head spun, his ears buzzed, he knew he was staggering to the cabinet. He leaned his hands on it hastily, keeping his balance.

"A world without any Winchesters…" he breathed. His voice, the words, the concept was ugly and harsh, raking at his fraying nerves with neither mercy nor attention to fairness. "A world without any Winchesters? It's gonna be a lot smaller, that's for damn sure." He turned and opened the cabinet, pulling out a new bottle of whisky. "Goddammit, boys," he whispered to himself in anguish. He sighed, shaking his head for a long moment, not wanting it sink in but having no choice. "You should never outlive your family."

He carried the bottle to the large armchair, getting comfortable and twisting off the cap. He took a long sip, the water welling in his eyes less to do with its acidic fire than his own grief.

He sat.

He drank.

He tried to recall every moment he had spent with the boys who had never been his own, but had been more a part of him than anyone else in his entire life.

Eventually, he slept.

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He opened his eyes hoping he had had a vicious nightmare brought on by alcohol. But when he blinked at the pre-dawn light and the room exactly as he had left it, he knew it had not been a dream.

He got up slowly, cursing his way to the table under the window. He found the crumpled note and picked it up, reading it over and over. He traced a worn, used finger over the writing before letting it fall back to the wooden surface.

He turned and went to the cabinet. He bent slowly and opened the door, withdrawing a large bottle. He went back to his chair and twisted off the cap, letting himself fall back into the comfortable place.

As he tipped the bottle up he noticed the first rays of strong sun were coming through the windows. He snorted in derision, seeing them burn through the thin net curtains and hit the carpet by his feet. He lifted the bottle up again, hissing as it burnt all the way down. He set the bottle down on the arm of the chair and let his uncaring gaze settle on the patterns on the carpet.

Two long streams of light were hitting the carpet next to each other, and for some obscure reason he didn't fully understand, he watched them.

One was longer, narrower. It followed the shorter, wider one as the world turned and sent them across the carpet inch by inch. As Bobby watched, he realised the shorter one hit all the patches that made it seem lighter. The longer one seemed to run over the same areas and appear almost shaded, slightly darker. They moved slowly, never far from each other, until they reached the side of the room.

The sunlight was now all over the room, making it appear a much brighter place than he knew it to be. He also knew that the two rays of sun would be lost in the much larger sea of light on his far wall.

He tipped the whisky back and took a long, helpful sip. When he looked again, he paused.

The two rays of light were on the far wall. They were against the backdrop of the bright light against the paint, and yet there they were, boldly defying physics by still being visible, solid, definable, definite lengths of sunlight. One was taller, narrower. One was shorter, wider. Both were dead opposite Bobby's chair.

He raised the whisky at them.

"Mornin' boys," he smiled. He watched the rays of light, letting himself feel slightly more comfortable with his discomfort.

He heard his front door open, heard footsteps approach the doorway. He looked round quickly, hoping against hope.

The feet came closer and closer. A face appeared round the doorjamb, looking in cautiously.

"Hello, Bobby," Castiel said quietly. Bobby just stared at the beige mac, the rumpled suit, the lazy tie, the soulful look of sympathy.

Castiel walked into the room with a silent tread. He made it to the sofa and sat with a slowness born of respect, or perhaps regret. He sat forwards, his hands clasped together, his elbows on his knees. He stared at the two bright beams of light on the wall, as if trying to work them out. Or remember them in detail.

"Hello yourself," Bobby managed. He eyed him, feeling something different about the angel. Perhaps it was the morning light, perhaps it was the surreal situation, but some hunter's instinct rang a harsh bell in Bobby's head, alerting him that some tiny, tiny detail was amiss. "You in on this?" he accused.

"I facilitated," Castiel admitted, with customary slowness. He turned his head and looked at him with blatant curiosity. "Dean was worried. About you. I've come to reassure you."

"Reassure me how?" he snapped. "I know they're both dead."

"Dead… would be the short explanation," Castiel nodded, a painfully acute hangdog expression of regret sticking steadfastly to his apparently caring frame. "But… I arranged a few things."

Bobby felt the nasty remnants of alcohol abuse pounding at his head, threatening to mangle his thoughts. He concentrated. "Like?"

"They're together. Sometimes. And they're still busy."

"Talk straight," Bobby demanded. "I ain't in the mood for your shit, even if you are an angel."

"That's just it," Castiel said sadly, turning on the sofa to look at Bobby square-on. "I'm not an angel any more."

Bobby just stared. "Wha--." He cleared his throat, tried again: "What the hell?"

"Dean was half right; I didn't just owe him, I owed them both. There was no getting around it - everything eventually fell into place, everything aligned itself just as it was supposed to, just at the right moment. There was simply no choice - it was meant to be, after all," he added with a small, deprecating shrug. "My gradual disaffection for my position, their slow decent into mutiny and distrust - it was all there for a reason…" He paused, looking up at Bobby with wide, blue eyes that suddenly seemed much brighter than Bobby remembered them to be. "I traded. I traded my Grace for their positions. Positions they'll have for eternity - my father will see to that," he allowed. His face didn't smile, but his eyes did.

"You're human now?" Bobby gasped.

"As you are," he shrugged.

Bobby simply stared, and Castiel realised he was being appraised. He shifted over and held his hand out, palm up.

"There is a pulse. You can check, if you like."

Bobby just stared. Before he knew what he had done, his hand was out and pressing into the warm wrist. He felt the bouncing heartbeat and snatched his hand away quickly.

"But… Dean stabbed you. We shot you. How in the hell is that body still alive? And where's the poor bastard that lent it to you in the first place?" he protested.

"We swapped places," Castiel nodded slowly. "Planes. Places. Planes and places," he corrected thoughtfully. "And we did manage to repair the damage done to Dean's corporeal body by hellhounds - before I re-attached his soul, if you remember. Fixing a few salt-shot-wounds and one hole made by a knife was easy in comparison."

There was a long silence, a rather uncomfortable affair on Bobby's part.

"Which brings me to a personal problem," Castiel added apologetically. "I am beholden to Dean; I must look out for you. And… I find myself without employment or purpose, in a world I have not lived for several millennia."

Bobby's mouth dropped open. "You're asking me if I need a sidekick? Tell me why I shouldn't kick your ass after what you done to them!"

"Go ahead, if it'll make you feel better," Castiel shrugged. "But you have to understand, I did it for them. I did it because they deserved it. I put things right." He paused, leaning slightly closer, his elbows back on his knees, his face serious and earnest in a way that almost reminded the older man of a certain young Winchester. "I put things right."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Castiel's long-suffering, worn features lightened slightly as he looked back at the older hunter.

"It means… Everything is as it should be. What was, is now again." An abrupt, cheerful smile took over his face. "And will always be."

Bobby took a deep breath. "For the last time," he stated clearly, "just what the hell does that mean?"

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The title comes from Pericles' infamous quote: "What you leave behind is not what is engraved in stone monuments, but what is woven into the lives of others."

Part three coming soon.

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