Dean Winchester was dead.
Bobby knew this for a fact. He had seen the boy's body after them demonic pit bulls got done with it. Swiss cheese had fewer holes than Dean's chest and abdomen. Pudding had more consistency than his innards. There was no life in them eyes staring up at him.
Dean Winchester was dead.
There was no changing that. Not that Bobby could see, anyway. Sam, of course rambled on about figuring out a way to get his brother back. Bobby knew it was the grief talking. The shock. Once it all sunk in, Sam would realize his brother wasn't coming back.
Not this time.
How'n hell he kept it together as he helped Sam wrap that cold, empty shell in a sheet and carry him outta that house was beyond him. He wanted to build a pyre right away. Give Dean the hunter's funeral he deserved. Salt and burn his bones so he wouldn't end up becoming a vengeful spirit.
Sam wouldn't hear of it. Said his brother was gonna need his body when he got him back. Bobby gave in. Old fool that he was, he allowed himself to believe that the kid would find a way to get his brother back to them.
His hands and knees shook as he placed Dean inside the coffin he and Sam built. His heart broke as he dug that grave in the middle of nowhere. A part of his soul died as he helped Sam place that plain pine box into the ground. Part of him died the day they buried the boy — his boy, dammit — in that field near Pontiac, Illinois.
No, Dean Winchester was dead.
He had been for four months now. Even knowing that the figure standing before him wasn't Dean, Bobby still found himself wanting to reach out and grab them. Hold on and never let go. Suspicion quickly replaced shock and anticipation. Weren't no way it was Dean standing in his doorway. Just weren't no way on God's green Earth.
"Surprise." A small, hesitant smile graced that oh, so familiar face. "Miss me?"
Sure, they sounded like Dean. Looked like him. Moved like him. They were wearing his meat like a cheap demon suit. The rest was a combination of luck and his fool brain wanting to see what it schooled his features into an impassive mask, and palmed the silver knife left on a small table by the front door for such purposes.
"I, I don't..."
"Yeah, I don't get it either." Not-Dean held his arms out from his sides as he stepped over the threshold. "But here I am."
Not for long, pal, Bobby thought right before he lunged forward, swinging the knife out from behind him in one smooth move. Whatever was wearing the boy's meat anticipated the move because he snatched his arm and bent it behind him. Bobby hadn't been born yesterday. He learned how to escape from all sorts of holds over the years. He cracked the damn thing in the face with his fist before slashing at him again.
"Bobby!" Not-Dean said as he stumbled towards the kitchen. "It's me! I swear it!"
"My ass!"
He lunged again but not-Dean shoved a chair between them to ward him off. Not that it'd keep him at bay for long.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait!" Not-Dean held a hand out and gazed at him earnestly. "Your name is Robert Steven Singer. You became a hunter after your wife got possessed." His voice was ripe with emotion. "You're the closest thing I have to a father. Bobby," he rasped. "It's me."
All Bobby could think was, you can't con a con artist 'Cause that's what this was: a con. Well, he wasn't buying. He'd teach this wolf in a Winchester meat-suit about trying to pull the wool over his eyes. He moved towards him, feigning submission as he placed a shaky hand on his shoulder. Bobby wanted the figure in front of him to really be Dean. He wanted it so badly he ached with it.
For one crazy moment, he allowed himself to believe that it was Dean he touched.
That the boy had come back.
He was home.
"It's me." Not-Dean burst the bubble he almost allowed to engulf him. "It's me, Bobby."
Dammit, boy, I wish it was you, he thought, heart aching, soul weeping. There just ain't no way.
Because Dean Winchester was dead.
And soon this thing would be, too.
A/N: Hello, all! Hope life is being good to you!
This is tagged to episode 4x01.
