Thanks so much for reading and letting us know what you think, everyone! We really appreciate it!
Many thanks to our awesome beta, Bayre--we don't know how she does it...
Enjoy and let us know what you think!
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Sam sighed as he hung up the phone and set it down on the table. He could tell by the tone of Dean's voice his brother was bothered by the fact Sam was reading the letters, but the young hunter didn't care. He didn't really see what the problem was. After all, it's like he told Dean—he didn't know much about their mother, just what Dean remembered from when he was younger and the few mentions from his dad as Sam was growing up.
"I told you Dean wouldn't like you calling him again," Bobby's voice called out from the other room.
Sam smiled as he rose from his chair and went to stand in the doorway of Bobby's living room. "He'll get over it."
Bobby snorted. "Either that or kick your ass when he gets here." He kept his attention focused on the Colt, spread out in pieces on his desk. A desk lamp lit up the workspace and Bobby had a large, free-standing magnifying glass sitting in front of him. "Where was he at?"
Sam's smile grew a little wider as he heard the concern in Bobby's voice. Sam knew Bobby was just ribbing him about calling Dean again, but the truth of the matter was Bobby was just as concerned about the elder Winchester as Sam. "He said he was about to hit I-80, but it was starting to sleet."
Bobby nodded. "Yeah, I've been listening to the weather reports. The front that moved through here was heading his way." He glanced up at Sam from under the brim of his ballcap. "I just hope that brother of yours knows to be careful."
"He should be fine. He's driven in this kind of weather before." Sam smirked. "Besides, he wouldn't purposely put the Impala in jeopardy if he could help it."
The grizzled hunter chuckled, but it came out more as a throaty growl. "You're right about that. I swear if your brother ever loved a woman the way he loves that car, that girl would be in some serious trouble."
"Yeah." Sam pushed off the wall. "I got the last box finished—there were quite a few books in there so I just put them with all your others. I really didn't go through them and see what they were but I'll do it tomorrow."
"They ain't goin' nowhere," Bobby said with a wave of his hand.
"I thought I would head up the road and grab us a bite to eat—unless you'd rather I cook something while you work on the Colt."
Bobby stopped fiddling with the old weapon long enough to look up at Sam. "Son, do I look like I have a death wish? The keys to the truck are on the kitchen counter."
"Anything in particular you might want?"
"Yeah, anything you don't put your paws on."
Sam shook his head as he headed towards the kitchen. "I'll be back in a little bit."
Bobby's grunt was Sam's reply as the young hunter grabbed the keys from the counter. From the corner of his eye, he spotted the letters from his parents sitting where he'd left them on the table. Scooping them up, he stuffed them into his jacket pocket and after shrugging it on, he walked out into the chilly night.
Bobby's old pick-up started with relative ease, only taking two tries. Turning on the headlights, Sam eased the truck down the dirt drive and pulled out onto the main road heading into town. Just on the outskirts of Sioux City, South Dakota, Bobby lived far enough away from town in order to have his privacy and close enough where he didn't have to travel out of his way to get whatever he may need.
As the full moon above cast a luminescent glow on the scenery around him, Sam couldn't help but feel at ease. Being at Bobby's for the past couple of days had helped take away some of the stress he'd been feeling as of late. It was hard enough trying to deal with all the demons that escaped from hell as well as trying to find Dean a way to get out of his deal. Not to mention the fact Dean telling him if he found a way to get his older brother out of the deal, it could very possibly result in his own death…again.
Sam was willing to take that chance, though. The youngest Winchester was so tired of Dean sacrificing everything—his childhood, his sanity, his life—for him. Sam wanted his brother to see that he was also worth saving, the world didn't revolve around Sam and his needs. Dean was very much part of this world as well and someone needed to show him that.
Then there was the fact Dean seemed upset with Sam after he'd told Dean he'd been reading the letters. Again, he didn't see the harm in it but how could he explain that to Dean? How could he explain to Dean this was something he needed to do, if only to feel closer to the mother he never really knew and the father who spent most of his time away from the brothers? Dean got to have those four precious years of no monsters, no demons, no hunting with two loving parents while Sam never got the chance of that—unless you counted the first sixth months of his life, which he didn't. Sam didn't remember that time so it didn't make it real to him. If you asked him, it was all a fantasy and the life he had now—that was what was real, the life he was meant to have all along.
Spotting a little park, Sam signaled and turned off the road. Pulling up under the canopy of one of the security lights, Sam killed the engine and got out of the truck. Pulling the letters from his jacket pocket, he made his way to one of the many wooden park benches dotting the property. Climbing on top of it and sitting down, he picked up where he'd left off before calling Dean.
As his eyes took in the feminine scrawl on the outside of the letter, he nearly dropped it. There was his name staring back at him written in his mother's handwriting. Sam's heart leapt into his throat and he suddenly felt as if he would pass out. It was a letter addressed to him…Sammy.
Taking a deep breath, he slowly opened the old letter and felt tears instantly well up in his eyes.
My sweet little Sammy,
Today is the day I brought you into this world and into our lives. When you were placed into my arms and opened your eyes to me, I could see by looking into those hazel depths you were destined for great things.
You have a mother who will always be there for you no matter what. Always remember that, Sammy—no matter where you or I may be, I am always going to be there for you. I want so much for you and I want you to be everything I know you can be. There will be times when life tries to throw you curves, but you just have to learn to dodge them and pick yourself up off the ground. Life is always going to be full of challenges—you just have to pick which ones you're going to let get the best of you and even then, you'll find your way past them.
You have a father who has the kindest heart of any man I know. Don't let his gruff voice and tough love fool you because beneath all that is a man who will give anything for his family. If you are anything like the man I know John to be, you will go far in your life, Sammy. Your father has a deep soul, one that is so pure and true it shines brighter than any star in the sky. He will be there to guide you always, Sammy—never forget.
Most importantly you have Dean—a brother who is so full of life and love in his heart, He will guide you along, take you by the hand and show you the world. He loves deeper and has a kind soul unlike anyone else and his smile can truly light up the world. If there is anyone out there I would want you to strive to be and to shadow, it would be Dean. Let him guide you, Sammy, for as long as you can because when you have Dean, you will have the world at your fingertips. He will never steer you wrong and though he is still so young himself he will give you everything he has—his strength, hope, devotion, courage, and most of all his love. Remember that always, Sammy, and I will have no worries about where you go in life.
I love you with all my heart,
Mom
Sam let out a hitched breath as he came to the end of the letter. The last paragraph struck him deeply for he knew everything she said was true about Dean. If she could have seen the man Dean was now, the man she knew he could be, she would be so proud—Sam had no doubts about it. Feeling a tear run a trail down his cheek, he wiped it away and took a deep breath.
He now had something in his hands that was his mother's—her words. It meant more to him at that very moment than anything else in the world possibly could. Gently folding the letter back up, he put it into his pocket and glanced down at the next one in the stack. It was in the same gentle writing as his, but it was addressed to Dean.
Sam wasn't going to read it—he couldn't do that to Dean. It was Mary's private words to her eldest son and Sam couldn't betray his brother like that. Dean deserved to have this moment, especially now.
A sudden chirp pierced the quiet night, causing Sam to jump. Realizing it was his phone, he quickly dug it out of his pocket. Thinking it may be Dean telling him he was getting gas, he felt slight disappointment when he saw it was Bobby's number on the Caller ID.
"Bobby, what is it?"
"Where the hell are you, Sam?"
"What are you talking about? I told you I was getting us something to eat."
"Yeah, and that was an hour ago. What the hell's taking you so long?"
An hour? Had he really been sitting out here that long? "I kind of got sidetracked." Jumping down from the table, Sam gathered up the letters and walked back towards the truck. "I'm about to be at the diner so I'll see you in about twenty minutes."
"Just be careful."
"Sure thing, Bobby." Sam hung up the phone and continued his way towards town.
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"Bobby, I'm back!"
Sam closed the door with his foot as he balanced a couple of carryout bags in his hands. Making his way towards the kitchen, he placed them on the table just as Bobby came in from the living room.
"What took you so long?"
"I was just doing some thinking." He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it across the chair. "Sorry I made you worry."
Bobby smirked as he grabbed a couple of beers from the refrigerator. "Hell, I wasn't worried about you—I was worried about my truck."
Sam smiled as he took one of the beers from Bobby. The demon hunter could come up with any cover-up he wanted, but Sam knew he was worried. He could tell by the sound of Bobby's voice when he called him earlier. Digging into the carryout bags, Sam handed one of the containers to Bobby. "Have you heard from Dean, yet?"
Bobby shook his head. "Nope—you?"
"No. He told me he'd call when he stopped for gas."
Bobby opened his container, the aroma of country fried steak instantly filling the room. "He'll call as soon as he can, Sam."
Sam shook his head as he took a swig of his beer. "No, he should have called by now."
Bobby glanced up at him. "You said the weather was acting up, didn't you?"
"Yeah."
"He probably got delayed then." He put a bite of the meat in his mouth. When Sam didn't make a move towards his food, he let out a sigh. "If it will make you feel better, call him."
Sam didn't know why he wanted Bobby's permission to call Dean, but he wasn't about to waste time dwelling on it. He made a frantic grab for his phone and hit the speed dial for Dean's phone. Sam's worry for his brother increased with every passing ring.
"This is Dean. I can't come to the phone right now so leave me a message."
Sam disconnected the call and leaned back in his chair.
"No answer?"
Sam shook his head.
"Maybe he's in the store, paying for gas or getting something to eat."
"No, I don't think so." He looked up at Bobby. "I don't know how to explain it but I feel like something's wrong."
"What do you mean you feel like something's wrong?"
Sam shrugged. "I told you I couldn't explain it, Bobby." He hit the speed dial for Dean again and was met with the same end result as before.
"This is Dean…"
"Dammit." Sam slammed the phone down on the table.
"Sam, you need to calm down and stop overreacting. There has to be a good reason Dean's not answering his phone."
Sam shook his head once more and fixed Bobby with a piercing glare. "It's the only explanation, Bobby. Dean carries his phone with him everywhere." He took a deep breath, trying desperately to push away at the fear threatening to overcome him. "Dean's in trouble."
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Squeeeeeeek … swwiiissshhhhh … squeeeeeeek … swwiiissshhhhh … squeeeeeeek … the irritating sound repeated over and over, obnoxious enough to his unconscious mind it helped bring him back awake if for no other reason than to seek it out and make it stop. He reached out with a shaking hand, swiping blindly, hoping to make contact with whatever was causing the racket in an effort to silence it. Instead, his hand struck the steering wheel in front of him.
Steering wheel? What the hell? Squeeeeeeek … swwiiissshhhhh … That sound again!
Dean forced his eyes open and was greeted to … darkness. Brief panic engulfed him, but as he forced himself to take a deep breath, then another, the soft glow from the dash created enough illumination he quickly realized he wasn't blind, rather it was just a moonless, dark night enveloping the Chevy.
Squeeeeeeek … swwiiissshhhhh … He pushed the base of his hands against his eyes, forcing them to focus in the dim light as he sought out the annoying noise. Dean watched with fascination as the windshield wipers swiped across the tempered glass. Now devoid of any precipitation, the rubber of the blades caught against the dry glass, squealing in protest as the wiper motor continued to force the motion. Dean reached forward with a groan and turned them off.
Memory rushed back as he slumped against the cool leather of the seat. The detour and crappy weather, the black ice and losing control, the guardrail and breaking through it… wait… why the hell was he still alive? He struggled to sit up, needing to look out the windshield when the first wave of unadulterated pain drove upward through his leg like someone had struck him with a sledge hammer. Biting his lower lip, Dean stopped moving and froze in place while he waited for his lungs to expand and accept another breath.
Panting now, his heart pounding and a fine sheen of sweet appearing on his forehead, Dean attempted the tiniest movement of his right leg. The resultant pain was instantaneous and excruciating accompanied by a shockwave of blinding heat that brought bile up to the back of his throat. He cried out this time, unable to stifle the verbal response, uncaring at this point.
With a trembling hand, Dean fumbled in the pocket of his jacket until his hand enclosed on the mini Maglite inside. He twisted the flashlight on, quickly shining it down toward the floorboard and his legs. In the back of his mind, his brain was working on the "why" of him still being alive, but as he took in the bloodied denim and obvious deformity of his right lower leg, "being alive" seemed like a lesser question to consider. Wedged between the brake and gas pedal, his booted ankle was twisted at a sickening angle and even if the blood hadn't been an indication of it being broken, Dean was fairly certain the agonizing pain and the angulation was a dead giveaway.
With the flashlight still in hand, Dean slowly scanned the Impala's interior. The small shoebox was gone from its place beside him, as was the remnant of his bag of M&M's, now scattered like primary-colored marbles across the seat and floor. He stole a quick look over his shoulder into the rear, seeing the items from his dad's shed once on the back seat were mostly now on the rear floor as well. The car itself was canted forward at an angle that indicated the Impala had indeed gone over the edge after smashing through the guardrail, but apparently not plummeted hundreds of feet to a fiery explosion of twisted metal and smashed bones as he'd initially anticipated. Well, at least one smashed bone maybe?
He aimed the beam of light out the front windshield, curious to see where the car had landed, but the darkness was too much for the meager ray. Shining it out the driver's side window, Dean saw a patch of ground just outside and assumed there must have been a secondary ledge just beyond where he'd skidded off the icy pavement.
"Maybe the Winchester luck is turning?" he mumbled aloud. Although a portion of him realized he was still in some fairly deep shit at the moment, it was a far cry from where he thought he was gonna be when his head hit the steering wheel a some time before.
"Okay, think Winchester. Where do you start with the mess you got yourself into now?"
As if in answer, the first notes of Dean's latest ringtone sounded from his cell phone. Twisting suddenly to the noise, he gasped when both his ankle and his ribcage shouted out in a chorus of pain to the movement. Dean leaned back against the seat, his breath becoming ragged and shallow as he once again fought down the blackness following on the heels of hurt. The music played a moment longer then his phone went silent as the voicemail picked up the call.
Dean's head sagged back against the seat but immediately jolted upright when his phone went off once more. He aimed the flashlight towards the passenger's side floor where the phone had fallen right before the wreck. Slightly muffled, he knew it must still lie there underneath the contents of the shoebox that had been tossed from the seat during the impact. As Rush played on, Dean knew on his best day he'd never make it to the phone before it went to voicemail again, especially not in his current condition. He knew it was Sam calling him, checking up on him like the worried mother hen only Sammy could be. Yet as the phone ceased its music, for once, Dean was grateful for his baby brother's chronic concern and he was silently praying Sam's over-active paranoia might kick into gear right now.
"Come on, bro. Call me back. Figure it out. You know I'd answer if I could," Dean pleaded in the direction of the out of reach phone. "I'm in some serious shit here and I don't think I'm gonna be able to get myself out of it without a little help. So, now would be a really good time for the psychic wonder to make an appearance again."
He waited for the phone to ring again, nearly holding his breath in anticipation, the flashlight shining down toward the floor as he watched. One minute, then five passed, but the cell remained silent.
Ten minutes passed and Dean's hope began to wan. Maybe he'd been too harsh with Sam before, gave him too much crap about checking up on him that now, Sam figured Dean was ignoring him. Or, maybe Dean's lack of answering the previous two calls already spurred his uber-fearful brother into action. Then again, back to the Winchester luck, maybe they had been nothing more than wrong numbers?
The young hunter shined the flashlight onto the face of his watch. Just a bit past eight, it was going to be a long cold night if he was stuck out here in the Impala, in the dark, on the side of a mountain, alone and injured.
"Great! Nice fix you managed to get yourself into, Dean! Now how you gonna get yourself out of it? Can't rely on Sammy to save your ass. Even if he left Bobby's right now, he's a good fifteen hours away."
Dean carefully laid the flashlight on the seat beside him, allowing the beam to cast a broad ray throughout the front of the car. Sucking in a deep breath, he next reached down with both hands to grasp the sides of his lower right leg. Taking a firm hold of the denim, ignoring the pain in his bruised ribs as he bent forward, he couldn't disregard the dizziness that caused his vision to blur as his head tipped downward. Closing his eyes and forcing himself to breathe in slowly through his nose, Dean waited till the vertigo passed.
"Wonderful, head, chest, broken leg, what the hell else did I tear up?"
As though the Chevy heard his comment and empathized with his physical pain, the black car shifted slightly on its precarious perch, groaning as the metal undercarriage scraped along the rocky ledge that held it. Inside, Dean froze, momentarily worried the fierce pounding of his heart might be enough to send the Impala over the precipice. When the classic car didn't move any further, he let out the breath he was holding and slowly inched his hands further down his leg until they reached the top of his CAT boots.
His fingertips met wetness there, blood, followed by torn fabric, flesh and the sharp edge of bone that had pierced through just above the boot. Moving as delicately as possibly, he grabbed the top of the boot and pulled upward. The pain induced nausea from earlier returned, along with the blackness that threatened to overtake him. Dean stopped abruptly as the boot caught on the edge of the pedal jarring the fractured bone. Letting go of the leather, he reached up and stuffed the collar of his jacket into his mouth and went at it again. Inhaling through his nose, he grasped the boot, did a mental three count and pulled in one relatively fluid motion. His foot came free with an audible "pop" that did nothing to reassure Dean of the condition of his leg. Gently releasing it to rest limply against the floor, he sagged back against the seat, spitting out the fabric of his jacket, and closing his eyes as the sweat trickled down the side of his face.
He sat that way for several minutes, too exhausted to move, too afraid to move too far for fear whatever was holding the car might suddenly give way. It was finally the continued seeping of wetness into the boot that spurred him into further action. Knowing he needed to take care of the leg, knowing he needed ultimately to get his ass off the side of this mountain, Dean leaned over slightly in the seat. With his upper body lying nearly flat across the front seat, the temptation to just succumb to the darkness was almost overwhelming. He could feel his eyelids becoming heavy, his brain signaling the rest of his body to simply slow down, his breathing evening out as his muscles relaxed from their taut contracture.
"Shit!" he shouted, jerking alert. "King of the friggin' concussion, I should know better. Dammit, Dean, stay the hell awake!"
Refocused, he grabbed the flashlight and aimed it down toward the floor where he'd last seen his cell phone. Buried under the upended contents of the shoebox, the cellular was no where to be seen, but Dean knew it was there, he'd heard it ringing earlier.
"S'pose it'd be too much to ask for if you'd call back right about now, Sam? I swear I won't bitch at you. Hell, call me back and I swear I won't ever bitch at you for checking in on me again."
But despite his wishful thinking, the cell remained silent. "Okay, fine. I take it all back. Call me back or I'm gonna kick your ass Sam!" And still, the cell remained obstinately quiet.
With no other options, Dean leaned over the edge of the seat, stretching his arm out and began rooting through the miasma of items on the floor. Some scattered notes, retrieved from underneath the workbench, blanketed the other items. He tossed them aside and came next to Sam's trophy. Despite the gravity of his situation, Dean took the extra minute to gaze at the cherished keepsake in the beam of the Maglite before gently placing it up on the seat next to him, thankful this one thing wasn't damaged in the crash. He sorted through some other odds and ends until he finally spotted the Motorola, groaning as his eyes landed on its position.
"Friggin' fantastic! Why the hell didn't it just land in the back seat while it was at it?" he grumbled, looking at the cellular which was wedged partially underneath the far corner of the floor mat.
Groaning, Dean rolled slightly on his side to lengthen his reach. Extending his arm out, fingers straining, he reached for the phone. He wasn't even close! Relaxing briefly, he sucked in a deep breath and tried again, unconsciously pushing off with his feet to elongate his body further and accidentally jostling his broken leg.
"SONOFABITCH!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, his head slamming back against the leather as he pounded the seat with his fist. If moving his leg had been a mistake, then banging his already concussed skull was the next dumbest thing he'd done as flares of light blossomed behind closed eyelids. He lifted his head slightly, opening his eyes to mere slits, but the flashes continued like an army of photographers snapping off countless pictures one after another. Reaching a hand up to his head, his fingers touched the gelling stickiness of coagulating blood at his hairline.
"Can't lay here, dude. Get up, gotta get up, gotta get the phone, get help, get Sam, get the hell out of here, get the hell out of hell, not going to hell a day earlier than I'm due, no early check in…" he rambled. "Dammit, stop! Stopstopstopstopstop."
Dean pulled in a full breath, hands returned to his sides as he willed himself to get under control. He recognized the signs of a head injury, knew his inability to concentrate was also hampered by the blood loss from the open fracture in his leg. His survival depended on reaching that phone, getting help, stopping the bleeding, staying awake; and generally in that order.
"Okay, going for broke. Do or die. Suck it up, Winchester. It's just a flesh wound," he chastised himself.
Rolling over slowly to his right side again, ignoring the tenderness in his chest, forcing himself to breathe through the pain, he spotted the cell phone. Crimping his eyes tightly shut, he took in several long breaths, holding the last one before pushing off with his left foot only and launching toward the elusive device. His cry of agony would have raised the hair on the neck of anyone hearing it, had there been anyone within screaming distance. But the effort paid off as his fingers closed around the phone and he drew it back to his chest, securing it there and clinging to it with a trembling hand.
Dean ran a forearm across his head, wiping away perspiration and caked blood. He considered attempting to sit back up but even the slightest movement in that direction made the interior of the Impala swirl crazily in his field of vision. Deciding it wasn't worth the effort, he lifted the cellular and tapped the scrolling button, illuminating the screen. He keyed down until he came to Sam's programmed cell number, accidentally went one past it swearing quietly. He tapped the key back up until it highlighted Sam again and quickly hit the "send" button, nervously waiting for the call to connect as he felt darkness beginning to eat at the edges of his consciousness.
"Answer Sammy, please answer," he pleaded, feeling the cold numbness crawling up from his extremities and threatening to drag him down into its icy embrace.
Then, just as his eyes gave up the fight to remain focused on the small screen and his mind gave in to his body's screaming demand to shut down, he heard the ringing end and his brother's frantic voice calling out his name.
"Dean? Dean, where are you? Are you okay?"
As the blackness engulfed him, Dean managed one last word. Relief and rescue in two syllables, he called out, "Sammmyyyy…."
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"Sam, I swear to all things holy if you look at that phone again I will take it away from you and throw it in the yard."
Sam put down his phone, pushing it away as he glanced up at Bobby. "Don't you think that's a little childish, Bobby?"
Bobby glared as he pointed his fork at Sam. "You think I won't do it?" There was a challenging tone to Bobby's voice as if he dared Sam to tell him otherwise.
Sam quickly ducked his head for nothing more than to get away from Bobby's penetrating glare. "No, I know you would do it."
"You're damn right I would." With that, the elder hunter shoved another bite of meat into his mouth.
Sam wished he could stop worrying about Dean but it was proving to be hard to do. No matter what the young hunter tried to tell himself, to convince himself Dean was okay, a million bad thoughts ran through his head. What if Dean got into trouble? What if he was hurt and couldn't get to his phone? What if Dean was…dead? As soon as the thought entered Sam's mind, he stubbornly pushed it away. He wouldn't believe Dean was dead, not even for one second, no matter how many times the thought popped into his head.
Picking up his own fork, Sam absently played with his food, but his mind stayed on Dean. He knew he never should have let Dean go back to New York alone to gather up the last load. He should have insisted going along with his brother, instead of agreeing to stay behind with Bobby. That's not saying Sam didn't put up an argument when Dean told him to stay back, because he did. But when you had both Dean and Bobby teaming up on you, it was difficult to get your way—even his patented so-called "puppy dog eyes" didn't work this time.
Bobby let out a loud sigh and put down his fork. Grabbing up his beer, he rose from the table and walked around to put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'm not about to sit here and watch you do this."
Sam looked up. "Do what?"
"Obsess over this. Your brother will call you as soon as he's able, so in the meantime eat somethin'. You're not gonna be any good to me tomorrow if you don't eat."
Sam reluctantly stabbed at a piece of meat and shoved it into his mouth. "Happy?"
Bobby grunted. "I swear, you're more like your brother every time I see you." With that, he turned from Sam and went into the living room.
After making sure he couldn't hear Bobby moving around anymore, Sam picked up his phone and began to scroll through the numbers once again.
"Sam, put that damn phone down!"
What the hell…Sam quickly put the phone down and picked up his fork, spearing a potato onto the utensil. As he was bringing it up to his mouth, his phone rang. He couldn't put down the fork quick enough as he made a frantic grab for his phone and glanced at the screen. Dean!
"Dean? Dean, where are you? Are you okay?" Sam couldn't keep the frantic, panicked tone out of his voice.
At first, Sam didn't think his brother heard him until he heard a faint voice that made his blood run cold. "Sammmyyyy…."
"Dean! Dean!? Dean, answer me!"
No answer.
"DEAN!"
The call ended as a dial tone met the young hunter's ears. Jumping up from his chair, Sam rushed into the living room, startling Bobby. "Bobby, I need your keys."
"What—Sam, what's going on? Was that Dean?"
Sam didn't answer him as he walked back into the guest room and began to pack his duffel. He didn't even look up at the sound of Bobby's booted feet coming to a stop in the doorway.
"Sam, what the hell is going on?"
Sam shoved a shirt into his bag and finally turned to look at Bobby. "I don't know—Dean, he only said my name and then the call got lost."
"Is he okay?"
"I don't know." Sam shoved past Bobby and went back into the kitchen to grab his jacket from the chair. Bobby didn't let up as he followed Sam.
"Did you try to call him back?"
"No, I'll call from the road."
"You don't even know where he is—you're going in blind."
"Look, I don't care, Bobby. I know where he told me he was headed, so I'll go there." Shrugging into his jacket, he held out his hand. "Can I have the keys or not?"
"No, Sam—I'm not about to let you drive over there by yourself. It's fifteen hours away and knowing you, you won't stop to take a break. You'll run yourself ragged and you'll be no good to your brother."
"Bobby, I have to get to him."
"Then I'll come with you."
Sam stubbornly shook his head. "Bobby, I need you to stay here and keep working on the Colt—the sooner you can get it finished, then the sooner we can use it to get Dean out of his deal."
"I still don't like you going after Dean alone, Sam. You're gonna get yourself killed."
"I'll be careful, Bobby. Please…let me do this. I'm begging you."
Bobby stared at him for a few moments and Sam could only imagine the thoughts running through the older man's head. Bobby was worried about them and the last thing he wanted was for the both of them to land in trouble and unable to do anything to help them. Bobby could fool anyone with his gruff appearance and demeanor, but under all that was a caring man who would do anything for him and Dean. Sam knew it and Bobby knew it, too.
Finally reaching into his pocket and pulling out the keys. Placing them in Sam's hand, he didn't relinquish his grip. "You'll call me every couple of hours and let me know what's going on." It wasn't a question.
"You have my word."
Releasing the keys, Bobby followed Sam to the door and walked with him to the truck. After Sam climbed into the driver's seat, Bobby leaned into the window. "You be careful, son. The last thing I need is for you to land in trouble, too. One of you boys is enough."
"I will, Bobby."
Bobby stepped back and patted the window frame. "You just make sure you bring your brother back—preferably, in one piece."
"Yes sir." Sam started the truck and with one last wave at Bobby began making his way towards Dean, with one thought replaying in his mind over and over.
Please let Dean be okay…