When Bobby awoke the next morning, the first thing he noticed was the neatly-folded comforter with a pillow perched on top. Sam was already gone. He experienced a brief moment of disappointment before he looked across at the other bed and saw the figure lying on it.

Sam wouldn't go without Dean, he thought.

He sat up, looking blearily at the clock. It was barely seven, but he felt so gritty and sore from a night of restless sleep that he was itching to get up. As he dressed, he noticed that Dean's face was free of blood and that he wore a large windbreaker and overlong pants (Sam's pants, Bobby realized) over the brutalized clothing he had died in. Apparently, Sam had been busy.

Intent on discovering what Sam was up to now, Bobby left the motel room, careful not to disturb the salt line along the threshold. The morning outside was beautifully sunny and quiet; the kind of morning that Bobby usually liked to enjoy from his porch with a cup of coffee in hand.

He looked across the parking lot and saw the Impala still parked there. Swiftly scanning the lot and the veranda that wrapped around the motel, he noted that they were deserted and set off around the side of the building.

Behind the motel lay a large field that, upon closer inspection, proved to be a swamp. Across it, a sparse line of trees marched ahead of a dense forest. Bobby squinted in the bright sunlight; sure enough, someone was moving around just beyond the first thin row of trees.

Bobby set off across the swamp, muttering vulgar words every now and again as water seeped into his shoes. He reached the other side in minutes and stopped, surveying the scene before him.

Sam was shoulder-deep in a dark, raw hole in the ground, shovelling mechanically, as though he had been doing this for hours without stopping and his mind was somewhere else. Despite himself, Bobby was impressed with the size of the hole.

"You start diggin' that this morning?"

Sam didn't pause in his shovelling, though he sounded a little out of breath. "No. Well. Maybe. I was here for a long time before the sun came up."

"Did you sleep at all?" Bobby asked.

"Uh – what? No. I – didn't want to dream. That's my thing, dreaming. You know, my nice little exchange with the Yellow-Eyed Demon. I got nightmares and visions, he got my mom" (Sam had started digging faster, thrusting his shovel furiously into the dirt) "and Jessica, and my dad, and like that wasn't enough, he got me killed and because I got killed, Dean got killed, so if we're counting score, I'm adding Dean to his tally, too. You know, for all of that from me, he should've thrown in a TiVo or something."

Alarmed, Bobby was staring at Sam, one eyebrow cocked. This was not the way that Sam typically handled grief. He snapped, Bobby realized. He was at the edge and losing Dean pushed him off. Sam seemed to sense Bobby's unease and finally stopped digging. When he put the shovel down, he blinked and looked down at his hands. They were raw and slippery with blood.



Puzzled, he turned to Bobby. When he saw the expression on his fellow hunter's face, he looked faintly horrified, as though the wrongness of his own behaviour had only just struck him.

"I..." He began, at a loss for words to explain himself.

"Have you lost your mind?" Bobby demanded, sounding so furious and for a moment, so like John Winchester that Sam took a step back.

He realized that the question was not a rhetorical one when Bobby continued to glare at him and the silence stretched too long.

"That'd be one way of handling this," he said quietly.

"Well, pick a better one," Bobby snapped.

Sam didn't respond. A moment of silence elapsed before he picked up his shovel and started digging again with the same intensity as before. There were tight lines of pain around his eyes from the way the rough handle of the shovel was treating his hands, but he didn't give in to it.

Bobby watched him for awhile, hands in his pockets. His fury ebbed away, bit by bit, and the deep, melancholy ache returned; it was his own private sadness that Sam would always have to carry this, his losses and his grief and his guilt, and he would have to carry it alone.

"You want a hand with that hole?" He asked, after awhile.

"I'm almost done."

Bobby wasn't sure how much time passed before Sam deemed the hole complete, tossed his shovel out, and then, with Bobby's help, hauled himself out after it. The youngest Winchester surveyed his work for a moment, his face expressionless. Then, he turned and started walking back across the swamp. Bobby fell in behind him.

They didn't speak as they walked back to the motel, nor as they lifted Dean and carried him to the door. Bobby had had the foresight to pick a motel that wasn't busy, and it paid off; there were two other cars in the parking lot, but their owners were nowhere nearby. Bobby did a quick visual sweep anyway, and finding no traces of human activity, he led the way out of the room.

With Dean between them, Sam and Bobby crossed the swamp once more. When they reached the other side, they lay Dean gently down on the ground. Sam vaulted down into the hole and together, he and Bobby levered Dean in after him. Sam crouched down beside the body, which wasn't easy because the grave was so narrow, and looked hard at Dean.

"I'm coming for you," he said softly. "Please hold on."

He rose, and was about to lift himself out of the hole again when he remembered something. Reaching down, he gently pushed aside Dean's collar and took out the amulet that he had given Dean so many Christmases ago.



"I'm going to take this," he whispered. "But I'm going to give it back. The next time I see you. I swear."

With that, he took Bobby's offered hand and climbed out of the grave. Bobby had only to glance at him to know that he didn't want any words said; no prayers offered.

To him, this isn't a funeral, Bobby thought, as Sam shovelled earth over his brother. Instead of inspiring his faith in Sam, it cemented his earlier belief that the youngest Winchester had lost it. And why shouldn't he? Christ, I'm surprised he lasted this long. The people he loves drop like flies. He kept these thoughts firmly to himself, however. There was no need to say any of this to Sam, who for obvious reasons would not take it well.

"What now?" Bobby asked, when at least they patted down the last layer of earth.

"Now I go after the Colt," Sam replied.

"You got any idea how hard it's gonna be to track that down?" Bobby asked.

"Hard? Really? Guess I'll call it a day, then."

It took Bobby a moment to figure out that Sam was being snide. "You watch your tone with me, boy. I ain't your brother."

"Sorry," said Sam, though he didn't much sound it. He set off across the swamp, walking as quickly as he could without running. Bobby followed, though he had to pick up his pace to keep up with the much taller Winchester.

When they reached the parking lot, Sam did not hesitate. He went to the Impala immediately, but turned to look at Bobby when he reached it. His old friend hadn't moved from where the swamp met the asphalt.

"Are you coming?" Sam asked shortly.

"If you're planning on giving me a lift back to my car," Bobby replied.

"I'm going that way anyway," said Sam. He held up one hand. "And you have the keys."

Bobby reached into his jacket pocket and took out the keys, which he tossed to Sam.

"I'll go check out. Try not to leave without me."

Sam picked up on the sarcasm but chose to ignore it. He tossed his shovel into the trunk and went back to the room to check that they hadn't left anything. By the time he returned to the car, Bobby was already there. Within moments, they were pulling out on to the highway.

They drove in silence for awhile. Sam drove too quickly for Bobby's liking, passing any vehicle they encountered and leaving them in the dust. The older hunter let it go for awhile, but he spoke up when they cleared a tractor-trailer coming in the other direction by a mean six inches.



"Hey, Sam, you want to try not driving like a moron?"

"What do you mean?" Sam asked tonelessly.

"I mean you're doing a buck ten – didn't even know this car would do a buck ten – and you can't help Dean if this time tomorrow, they're sweeping shards of your skull off the dashboard."

"Sorry." Sam slowed down, but only marginally.

Despite the speed at which Sam was driving, it felt like it took ten times longer than it should have to return to the place where Bobby had left his car. The silence in the vehicle was oppressive, and he worried nonstop about Sam and his crusade. Bobby had resigned himself to the fact that there was no talking the kid out of it, but that didn't mean that he thought it was anywhere close to a good idea. When they finally reached his car, Bobby paused before getting out.

"Where are you going to start?"

"Well, Bella's got a place in Queens. Think I'll go there, see if she keeps business records or something."

Bobby nodded. "I'll put out the word, see if it's turned up anywhere or if anyone's heard anything about it."

Sam gave him a small smile. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bobby climbed out of the car and said, before closing the door: "You take care of yourself, Sam. And call me if you run into any trouble."

Sam watched him walk over to his own car and get in. Then, as Bobby drove off, Sam flipped open the glove compartment and riffled through the junk inside until he found Dean's tattered copy of a map of the continental U.S. Unfolding it, he scanned it until he found his present location, then tracked the web of highways that led to New York.

Once he knew his route, it was a matter of pulling out onto the open road. Sam wasn't unhappy to leave this place behind him.