2008's Bobby POV

"This should only delay us three days, maybe four," Sam promises over the sound of passing cars on the highway. "We're about two hours outside of Hayward, and, from what we can tell, it's just a lone werewolf. But we can always put someone else on this if you-"

"Your worry is precious, but I've never known a hunter to croak from too much peace and quiet before," I grumble, cell phone threatening to fall from where I have it cradled between my cheek and neck. I readjust it before it can fall into the pot of chili, which is already billowing steam.

Sam pauses, then gives a half-laugh. "I take that to mean that you've enjoyed having us out of your hair this week."

"Whatcha talking about?" one of the Deans speaks from the background. "Bobby loves us. We're adorable."

I think about the episode of Tori & Dean I have on pause and the clawfoot bathtub I discovered on the second floor. "Just saying, there's no need to do a half-assed job on my account."

"We won't," Sam insists. "And, if you really don't mind, I might come back a little later than everyone else. I have this—uh—well, a friend asked me to stop by if I was in her area…"

"Is that so?"

"Sammy! Are we talking about-" I hear before the line clicks off. Small mercies.

No doubt, I love those boys like my own—but distance makes the heart grow fonder and all that crap. Plus, it's nice to be able to set down my book of angel lore without having someone move the damn thing in the five minutes it takes me to get a beer.

Was it risky? Sending past Dean on a witch hunt to Iowa when that kid attracts more unwanted attention than someone going through airport security with a metal knee? Probably. But he was getting to that stage of restless where he was climbing the bunker's walls—his attitude growing along with how many beers a day he drank—so it was either let him kill something or one of us was going to kill him.

As it turned out, while there were witches in the area, the one causing all the ruckus was a psychic that had been trapped in her family's basement for years. When she tried reaching out to nearby minds for help, well, they ended up dropping dead. In the end, the boys decided to let her live—with an aunt out in California—hoping that now that she knows more about her powers, she'll be able to control them.

It's definitely not one of those hunts that you can box up all tidy and wrap with a bow, but then again, hunters prefer using duct tape anyway.

/

Three hours later, feeling just the right side of full, I find myself wandering the bunker.

It's a weird feeling—having a room in Sam's and Dean's house rather than the other way around. Having Dean make breakfasts and do the laundry—with, get this, Mountain Breeze fabric softener. Taking a leak at night and bumping into an angel wandering the halls.

A few days after arriving here, I thought, Wouldn't John like to get a load of this? only to be instantly grateful that I was the one given the window seat to 2016, not him.

Don't get me wrong—I buried my grudge with John Winchester along with his body—but as good of a hunter as he was, it seems to me like his boys have done a hell of a lot more for the world than he or I could have ever dreamed of. And I don't think they could have stopped the Apocalypse, dispensed with the archangels, killed off several Knights of Hell, and talked down God's long-lost sister if he'd been around, making them doubt themselves at every turn. I don't think they'd have the family they have now if John Winchester had been alive to warn them against mixing their dirty laundry with anything supernatural.

Past Dean still has John's voice in his head, that's pretty clear. It's what makes him frown at his older self for walking around in a robe and slippers, like owning anything fluffy is an insult to his ego. It's why he rides Sam for what he's learned about Ruby—even though that's done and past. It's why he gravitates towards Cas one day and then pushes him away again as soon as he notices how close the angel is with his older self. If only shaking someone by the shoulders worked as well as kicking a TV for giving them a clearer picture.

To be honest, I was surprised all four of them agreed to go on this little road trip. I'm even more surprised that everyone seems to be getting along—even if taking two cars probably helped.

With the boys gone, I've continued to patch up the warding around the ceiling. I'm in the middle of the weird trumpet-like rune, ronove, which is part of the spell that warns the bunker of outside cataclysmic events, when something catches my eye.

Son of a bitch! The ladder wobbles in my surprise but stabilizes quickly.

As I climb down, my eyes scan the other corners of the war room, noticing an uncomfortable pattern. Trying not to look too out-of-the-ordinary, I pack up my supplies and retrace my steps through the bunker, wandering past the boys' dormitories as I go.

Half an hour later, I'm dressed and eyeing the hot rods in the garage for anything drivable that won't have random idjits asking me if there's a classic car show going on.

Motorcycle it is, I decide—definitely not struggling to heft my left leg over the damn thing.

Now, Sioux Falls ain't exactly New York City, but it's not quite the sticks that Lebanon is. A few weeks ago, I wondered what the population was here. Cas answered "199" with the caveat that Mrs. Tenley, who ran the butcher shop where they pick up lamb's blood, was expecting twins any day now. So, the chances of finding an internet café in town were slim to none.

Luckily, I found one in Smith Center, a few miles away and quickly get to work.

"Son of a bitch!" I say, out loud this time, ignoring the looks it gets me from the other patrons.

Sam's phone rings before finally going to voicemail. I try Dean's. Then the other Dean's. Then Cas's, struggling not to roll my eyes. "Make… your voice… a mail."

"Goddammit, You boys better be on radio silent because you're stalking something—not fallen into a trap like a bunch of Bambis. When you get this, call me. Don't go back to the bunker. There's cameras set up everywhere—sending live feed—but when I checked the control room, all it's showing is looped footage. Plus, I did some follow up on that psychic whose box you just popped—Magda. Seems like she never made it to California. If I had to guess? The Men of Letters have been keeping an eye on you."