A/N: SPN/Pet Sematary Xover. There's character death in this one. Don't say I didn't warn ya.

Lost and Found

Bobby never told the boys what he did after they left to save John. He told them he lied to the paramedics about that Meg girl's body, and yeah, he did.

He never told them about finding Rumsfeld's broken body.

Never told them about the graveyard down the road, either.

Bobby tries not to think about what would have happened if he'd known about that damn place after he killed...after his wife died.

He buried Rumsfeld in that place, on a whim. Being a hunter and all, that was really damn stupid. Bobby loved that dumb dog, but he was just a dog, after all.

Rumsfeld came back a day later.

Everything was fine at first. Rumsfeld smelled like dirt no matter how much Bobby bathed him, and sometimes he forgot where his food bowl was, but he acted like a happy, slobbering pooch. That lasted about a week. But then there came the day when the mutt decided to stalk Bobby out in the yard.

Bobby emptied both barrels of his shotgun into him.

He buried Rumsfeld out back, right next to the fence. Bobby renewed his long-time friendship with Jack and Jose. He spent the next three days in a fog, but all that burned away when John Winchester showed up at Singer Salvage with the bodies of his two boys.

Bobby stood there blinking in the bright sunlight at the shrouds in the trunk. He remembered Dean's bright, slightly crooked smile, the quiet way Sam moved around the house whenever they came to visit.

"They died getting me out of that place." John's shoulders shook silently, but he sounded calm. Bobby wasn't fooled, not one damn bit.

"I need...I need to give them a hunter's send-off." The old man held himself in tightly, but Bobby knew he was screaming inside.

Maybe it was the booze. Maybe it was the hang-over that made him open up his damn mouth and say those things. Maybe Rumsfeld came back wrong because he was just a dog, after all. Maybe Bobby waited too long to plant him there in there first place.

Whatever the reason, Bobby talked, and John listened.

One month later, and ain't life grand.

They have a good life out here, far away from everything. John pretends everything's fine and normal.

He'd pray, but God never was one much for answering Winchester prayers. John knows he's caught in a hellish trap. Knows it, and he just doesn't give a damn anymore.

His boys are back. They're the same, but different. They know how to bathe and dress themselves. They get a little confused sometimes. They forget the names for things, have to relearn the basics. Fire burns. Knives cut.

Once John asks Dean where they were before they came back. Dean looks blank for a moment, and then whispers, "Home."

John couldn't bring himself to ask where "home" was.

Sam doesn't say much to John. "Yes." "No." He communicates with a tilt of his head, a quirked eyebrow. Dean talks a lot more. His voice seems lighter, more child-like.

They sleep in the same room in the cabin. Most nights Dean sits upright in bed with his back against the wall. Sam stretches out on his bed just as stiff and rigid as if he were on a mortuary slab somewhere. The first time John sees Sam like that, he nearly panics. He stays calm enough to check Sam's vitals, and his hands shake a little as he fingers Sam's pulse at his throat. Sam's heartbeat is slow and steady; his skin cool to the touch.

"Sammy's sleepin', Daddy," Dean mutters quietly from the other bed. He hugs his knees, rocks back and forth until his eyes close.

Bobby tracks them down after they left Singer Salvage the first time. They've moved twice since then. Bobby won't give up until he finds them; John knows that. He remembers why they moved the first time. That family down the road didn't deserve what happened to them. Dean and Sam didn't say much, just stood there on the front porch, pale and silent.

There was a lot of blood.

John doesn't sleep much these days. He sees that dull gleam in Dean's eyes. He wonders who else is in there with Sam. Dean and Sam whisper more among themselves. They always stop whenever John enters the room.

He carries the keys to the Impala with him all the time now. There was a time when Dean was an absolute fiend with a lock and a paper clip. John doubts he'll try for the weapons cache in the trunk now. Whatever's inside his eldest son's skin doesn't have the skill for such work.

There were three knives in the kitchen drawer. When John checked this morning all three were gone.

They wait until moonrise to move on him. John sits at the wooden table near the window, and the boys smile as they slink towards him. Each one has a knife, and the sight of John's gun in his hand only makes Sam smile.

Two shots ring out. What's done is done, and what's dead is dead again.

John thinks about Bobby as he gathers the wood for the pyre. It's tempting, but he can't blame him. Not really. Hunters are human, after all. Sometimes in this game that's a weakness. Sometimes it's a strength.

It takes an eternity for the flames to finally die out. John doesn't mind. He pulls his gun from his back waistband, and he silently asks their forgiveness for being so damn weak in the first place.

It's okay, Dad. It is.

Dean.

Slight pressure on his right shoulder. A light touch, unseen, but firm.

Sam.

John pulls the trigger seconds later, and the third bullet pays for all.

-30-

A/N: Understatement of the year: "Pet Sematery didn't end pretty."