Chapter Four

It was eerily quiet in the salvage yard that night, the moon casting a dim glow over the old house, reflecting off the cleaner parts of the windows. Dean walked forward, the slow crunch of gravel breaking through the silence. Being back at Bobby's was a weird feeling. The last time he was here, was months ago, when he came to pick up his Baby. He'd been pleased to see that Bobby had taken good care of the Impala, the dents out of the sides and the shattered windows replaced. Bobby had even managed to fix the tears in the seat, had it looking as good as new.

Making his way up the creaky wooden stairs, Dean jimmied the doorknob, upset to find it unlocked. That wasn't like Bobby to be so careless. It was dark inside, the interior of the house as much of a mess as the outside. The backdoor led into the kitchen, and even in the dark Dean could see that the sink was filled with dirty dishes, the counters covered in a thin layer of dust and grime. His nose wrinkled in disgust. In the past, when he was younger, the house had always been cluttered and a bit dusty because of all the old books, but it had gotten this bad.

Dean shook his head. He wasn't here to reminisce about the past, about what could have been... In fact, he wasn't supposed to be here at all. He was given specific orders not to get close to the people from his old life, but when Dean had come to get the Impala, it took him a few days to realize that his favorite gun was not in anywhere in the car. Knowing Bobby, the old man had kept it somewhere in the house, too nostalgic to let it go and sit out in the yard and rust along with everything else. And although Dean said he was there just for the gun, he also wanted to see Bobby, even if the man didn't know he was there.

While in hell, the demons would take pleasure in reminding him that his own father and brother had yet to even notice that he wasn't topside anymore, their screeching voices and ugly faces sneering at him as they told him that only Bobby - "that old drunk" - was looking for him.

Although his new father had asked what had kept Dean so strong, strong enough to survive the rack for so long, Dean had always given some bullshit answer, never letting him know that the real reason he withstood the torture for so long was because of his love for Bobby, his desire to make the man proud. Bobby was bad with emotions, threw back more beers than he should have, but unlike John, Bobby had always been there for him, always a phone call away, always trying to get him a choice that didn't involve fucking around with things that went bump in the night. In the end, Bobby was all he had left of his old life that he was willing to acknowledge. Anything and anyone else was irrelevant.

Dean had been debating on whether or not to bring the older man up to his father. He knew that the world would go to shit soon, and Dean wanted to cash in a reward, that reward being Bobby, alive, untouched by the demons that would very soon be clawing their way out from hell and into the world of the living.

A grunt drew Dean out of his musings, and he quickly closed the back door, stepping into the shadows of the living room. A flickering lamp on a small table near the couch was the only light the room had aside from the thin lines of light from the pale moon, and with the small amount, Dean could see Bobby sprawled out on the couch, his neck in a position that Dean knew from experience was most definitely not comfortable. A half empty beer glass hung limply in one of Bobby's hands, the bottle tilted and slowly dripping onto the dusty, scuffed floors.

He frowned at the sight of someone he had viewed as a father. Unsure, Dean bounced on the balls of his feet before making his decision. He prayed that Bobby was out cold as he shimmied his arms under the man's body, carrying him bridal style. He made his way of the stairs as quietly as he could, careful not to hit Bobby's head against the wall. He pushed open the bedroom door with his boot and laid Bobby in the bed, prying his shoes off and turning him on his stomach so that he wouldn't choke on his vomit if he happened to throw up in the middle of the night. Bobby gave another grunt, face scrunching up.

Jesus, it was like as Dean stepped further into the house, the more it looked like a tornado had paid a visit. Even the bedroom floor was covered with books, and at a glance, Dean could see that quite a few were about the lore of various supernatural creatures.

Fuck, Dean thought. He thought that after hell, he was done with this emotional human bullshit. It had been great to kill without have a guilty conscience, to feel no remorse for anything ever. But when it came to Bobby...

With a growl, Dean shuffled through the books on the floor until he found one that looked promising. He flipped through it, stopping when he came across a page about reapers. He angrily recalled how he had ended up in hell without even making a crossroads deal. He laid the book out on the nightstand, reaching up to take the amulet off his neck. He hadn't wanted to keep the thing, but his father had insisted that it might come in handy when he had to step up and fulfill his role to manipulate Sam. Now, however, he found a much better use for it. Deciding to throw Bobby a bone, Dean placed the strings of the necklace in the pages of the book and closed it, the golden amulet hanging out of the bottom.

Throwing a blanket over Bobby, Dean decided to just forget the gun.

He left the same way he came, making sure to lock the door behind him.

Sam stared angrily at his father, his tall form almost menacing as he stood in the parking lot of the hospital. He had finally been released, and after the police had finished their round of questioning, he was free to go. Being outside of the hospital only made it much more real that he had funerals to plan, people to contact. It made his heart clench painfully. His dad wasn't making it any better.

"Are you telling me that I should just skip town?" Sam demanded.

"I know you want to say goodbye," John said. "But -."

"There is no but," Sam snapped. "What, did you think that just because they d-died," Sam swallowed audibly, "that I'd just jump back into hunting? I'm not you, Dad. I got out of that life."

"And yet, here we are." John's intense gaze made Sam look away, jaw clenched. John sighed. "At least take some time off, take a vacation, just...don't go back to that house and make the pain even worse." Although John was itching to get on the road to hunt down the yellow eyed demon, he was trying to be understanding and patient with his youngest son. Bobby's words had struck deep, and without Dean here, John was painfully reminded of how little Sam had suffered over the years, always being shielded by his big brother's protective arms.

Sam didn't think he could take a vacation. A vacation meant time alone with his thoughts, and time alone with his thoughts could end disastrously. Going back to work would provide him with a purpose, with a distraction. And yet, as he thought of sitting in his office, or talking in court rooms, it felt wrong. Jess and Emily's death was just a reminder that no matter how hard he tried to get out of hunting, he would never truly escape. He was tied into the world of the supernatural, never able to truly leave and lead a different, less dangerous life. He had believed that California, far away from his father, Dean, and even Kansas, would allow him to ignore his past, to put that part of his life way behind him, something to be forgotten and erased from history. But obviously, that wasn't an option for him.

Looking up at his dad, Sam wondered if he had tried to go back to normal after Mary, if he tried to forget what he saw that night and continue on. If he'd tried to find them a new house, give Dean and him a life other than hunting, if he'd ever made that effort. He wanted to ask, but the answer he might receive wasn't something that he was ready for.

As much as he wanted to erase his wife and child's burning bodies from his mind, he knew that no matter how far he went, the supernatural would find him again. It seems like it always did. Why waste time and money running, constantly looking over his shoulder, when he could end it for good?

"Just," Sam exhaled heavily, pressing his eyes closed tightly. "Just let me give them a funeral, let me say goodbye. And then we can go hunt that bastard down."

While Sam was making the arrangements for the funeral with the Moore family, John decided to step out for a bit. Deep down, he knew he should have been there for Sam during the process, been there to ground him and prevent another breakdown, but he couldn't stand being cooped up in a room with people that were lucky enough to never know about what goes bump in the night.

The day was cool and gloomy, a perfect reflection of the mood in Palo Alto. After the Winchester Tragedy - as quite a few people were calling it - a lot of people came together to try and help Sam rebuild what was left of his life, unaware that as soon as this was over, Sam would never be seen by them again. They had tried to salvage what they could from the fire, even bringing Sam casseroles and words of comfort, but Sam became a completely different person almost overnight. No longer was his face alight with a smile, no longer were his words kind and encouraging. Something inside of him hardened, and while John was secretly glad that Sam was sliding back into this life like he had never even left, it made something break inside him just a bit to see Sam running on nothing but a wink of sleep and a heart full of rage.

John huffed, rubbing his cold hands together, hunching his shoulders up to try and shield his ears from the wind.

Looking around, John never thought that he'd be in Palo Alto like this. Although John had occasionally swung by California to check on Sam, that was only if a hunt was in the area, and he had never stopped to talk to the boy, only making sure he was alive before moving on to the next hunt. After the night Sam left...John didn't think they'd ever speak again, and honestly, in what he thought to be Sam's opinion, even that would still be too soon. John had never told Sam, but he was proud of him for getting a full ride to Stanford. He had bragged about it to as many people as he could, gloating about his smart boy. Every time he opened his mouth to talk about Sam's scholarship, Dean would look at him with that face, and God, the look in his eye made John uncomfortable.

John let himself flop onto a cold bench. What Bobby had said...John hadn't wanted to admit it then, but it had taken him a while to notice that Dean was missing. He was ashamed to say that it took him years. It was common for he and Dean to go there separate ways when hunting; after all, Dean was a grown ass man now, and he didn't need to be babysat for every little hunt. And so John would go off, calling Dean whenever he had a case to throw his way or to make sure he was still alive. John struggled to remember a time when he didn't call Dean about a hunt, if he'd ever called to even say happy birthday.

When Dean hadn't picked up in a while, he hadn't even registered that Dean could be hurt. He just figured that Dean was off on yet another tantrum about John not being there, and at one point, John had assumed that Dean was with Bobby; Lord knows how much Dean loved it in that house, watching Bobby work on the cars. And with Dean off and out of the way, it gave John more time to focus on the yellow eyed demon, to try and uncover the sinister plot that was no doubt slowly playing out, if Jess and Emily's death were any indication. It hadn't even occurred to him that Dean was missing until he'd realized that the hunts he sent Dean weren't completed.

And, oh boy, at first he'd been ready to tear Dean a new one! People had been dying, monsters going unchecked and terrorizing the townsfolk, and Dean was nowhere to be seen. In a rage, John had called Dean, prepared to ream him out, only for each number he tried to go to be disconnected. Tracking Dean proved pointless, as the Impala had basically dropped off the map, taking Dean with it. Even the credits he'd tried to trace brought up nothing.

But even then, John didn't let himself panic. Sometimes his sons did that; sometimes they fucked off because they needed their space and didn't think it imperative to let someone know. After all, Sam did the same thing at Flagstaff, maybe this time it was Dean's turn.

But weeks flew by, and Dean still didn't turn up.

Coming to Sam was a last resort. And also selfish. He wanted Sam to come back to hunting, wanted Sam under his close eye. It was foolish to let Sam run off to college, especially when he knew damn well that the yellow eyed demon had his sights set on him. He hadn't yet figured out what the piece of shit was planning, but he knew that it couldn't be good. Nothing in the life of a Winchester ever was.

John dug in his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Flipping it open, he pulled up Bobby's contact information. Their last conversation hadn't gone too well, but Bobby had extensive knowledge and experience, and he could help speed up the process of both finding Dean and ganking that yellow eyed son of a bitch.

Calling Bobby would probably be useless; the man could just ignore the call. John stuffed the phone back in his pocket. After Sam finished up in Palo Alto, they'd head to Sioux Falls and drop in. Bobby would be less likely to turn them away if they showed up on his doorstep, especially once he heard what Sam's recently been through.

Steeling himself for yet another painful stroll down memory lane, John pushed himself to his feet and headed back inside the funeral home.