Sam lay in Bobby's spare bed, exhaustion marring his boyish face even while he slept, while Dean stood at the window staring out at the night.
Bobby had excused himself and said he was hitting the rack but he was back outside again and Dean watched him as he bent down and stirred up the fire, adding more logs to build it back up to where it had been before they'd gone inside.
Horrified, Dean watched as Bobby went back to the porch and picked up a can of gasoline. Upending it, he poured the liquid over his chest and arms, soaking his clothing.
"Son of a bitch," Dean swore bolting out of the bedroom calling to Sam as he did.
He knew Bobby had gone too gently into that good night and should have known he'd try something stupid and he dove off of the porch tackling him and wrestled him to the ground.
"I'm not gonna let you do it, man," Dean vowed, "Not on my watch."
"You can't babysit me forever, Dean."
"No, but I'm not leaving until I knock some sense into that hard head of yours."
"Guys," Sam shouted and the two of them stopped grappling.
Dean got up off the ground and held his hand out to Bobby who slapped it away and stood up on his own. Considering a return of his obvious slight, by punching him in the face, Dean held his anger in check and backed off.
"Guys," Sam repeated pointing toward the fire.
A specter had appeared, just as Sam thought it eventually would, and the three of them gaped at it. It was nobody Bobby could remember ever having met before, either in Vietnam or here at home.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Dean demanded of the woman dressed in the black pants and flowing white top Sam had described from his vision.
Bobby put his hand on Dean's arm to shut him up while he searched her face but there was no recognition of the person, only of the despair and anger that radiated from her as her head swiveled to look first at Sam, then Dean and finally at Bobby.
"I'm here for you," she said stretching out her hand toward him and Bobby was ready to go to her, eager in fact.
He just wanted the pain to stop and to be able to finally rest and told her, "I'm ready."
"Bobby, we don't even know what she wants," Sam warned but Bobby didn't care.
"I want you to do the honorable thing, say what needs to be said," she explained cryptically, taking a step toward them.
Dean grabbed the shotgun Sam held out to him, aimed it at her to warn her off and shouted, "Screw the honorable thing. Now back off, bitch!"
Bobby ignored Dean's outburst and stepped in front of him and asked, "What do you want me to do?"
He was mesmerized by her, the joy of times past wrapping around him even as she pointed to the fire and it grew, leaping higher into the sky.
"In my country it is said that to burn oneself by fire is to prove that what one is saying is of the utmost importance," she told him, her voice caressing him like a gentle wind.
"And I've done it," he admitted, yanking up his sleeves to show her the burns that lined both arms, some fresh, others older and crusted over, all of them painful as the gasoline soaked through his shirt and onto his skin.
"Jesus, man," Sam said incredulously looking at the damaged flesh, "What the hell are you doing to yourself?"
"Trying to kill the voices in my head," he said without emotion.
"Bobby, maybe this is post-traumatic stress disorder and not really some lame assed vengeful spirit," Sam tried to convince him.
"Oh yeah, than what's she?" Dean asked pointing to the specter.
"Point taken but…"
"There is nothing more painful than burning oneself. To say something while experiencing this kind of pain is to say it with the utmost of courage, frankness, determination and sincerity," the apparition said again, her voice soothing as she pointed to the fire, urging him closer.
Dean stepped between Bobby and the fire, the gas fumes wafting from them both warning him to keep well away from the flames and told him, "This is crazy, Bobby. It's suicide!"
"Back off, Dean," he warned and she spoke again.
"Suicide is the lack of courage to live, to despair of life and loss of hope and desire of non-existence. Do you wish you had never been born?" she asked him and Bobby laughed mirthlessly.
He'd wished he'd never been born plenty of times. If he'd never been born he would never have had to bury family and friends and feel the inconsolable pain of loosing everyone he'd ever loved. He would also have never known or touched the evil that was so ingrained in man or known or touched the pure evil that walked the earth.
"Is that what you wish, Bobby Singer?"
"How do you know my name?"
"I know the names of all sinners."
She had him pegged all right. He had been a sinner most all his adult of life, a thief, a liar and a killer starting with the war in her country and continuing up until now. And he was suddenly sick to death of death.
"The person who burns himself has lost neither courage nor hope, nor does he desire nonexistence. On the contrary, he is very courageous, hopeful and aspiring for something good in the world to renew the communion of the dead."
Her voice was seductive, her words making perfect sense and he asked her, "What do you want me to say?"
But Dean wasn't buying any of it and grabbing Bobby by the arm, vowed, "It doesn't matter, 'cause I'm gonna knock your ass out before you get the first word out of your mouth."
Bobby glared at him and growled, "You little piss ant! You think you're so tough. When you've seen and done one tenth of what I have and you're still sane, then you can try to knock my ass out."
But before they could come to blows, the specter shouted, "Chet la het no!" and vanished, the stench of sulfur choked the air around them.
Sam and Dean immediately looked around for the demon that was stinking up the place but only Bobby remained standing by the fire, a blank look on his face.
Loosely written and translated:
"Chet la het no." - Death quits all scores.