duet: valentine's day
an extended musical passage performed by two singers

She misses Klaus.

It's something she tries not to think about, once she realizes it. It had taken a while to figure out—she could easily pinpoint missing Sam, missing her mom, missing her friends. Missing Klaus, though, had caught her off guard.

But the novelty of snow has long worn off, and she's tired of being so cold all the time.

Caroline has lost count of how many times she has tapped on his name, opening a new text, only to stare uncertainly at the blank screen. What would she even say? Hope you had a happy new year, thinking of you? And would he even text back?

It seems ridiculous, imaging Klaus texting.

She leaves his number untouched.

For now.

—

True to his word, Dean sticks around— "Barely anything to go off of, anyway," he grumbles, and her mind flashes back to when she had, somewhat tipsily, suggested to Jo that they enlist Klaus and what surely has to be a floor-length list of nefarious contacts in their hunt to rescue Sam.

Maybe that's what her text to Klaus should say. Caroline tries to imagine his reaction to weeks of silence after a Christmas drunk dial, only to be followed up by a request for a favor. The idea makes her wince.

She's staring down at her phone, still contemplating her options while going down the stairs one early February morning when she hears the pop pop pop sound of gunfire in the backyard; her heartbeat speeds up, along with her steps. She takes them two at a time and rushes out the back door, hands already tightening into fists, ready to face off against whatever is threatening their hideaway, their secret place—

—but it's only Dean, and he's adjusting Adam's hands around an old revolver, an expression on his face that Caroline knows well: part disgruntled, part proud, part resolved. "Better," he announces gruffly, and when he sees her hovering in the doorframe, he waves her over.

"Tell Adam how long it took you to nail a bottle from this far away," Dean orders and she scrunches her face up.

"Like three months," she confirms and as Dean is reloading the revolver, she takes off to set the bottles back on the top of the fence that borders Bobby's massive backyard. She inspects each one as she lines them up and smiles fondly; Adam hadn't hit a single one.

"Say thank you, Caroline," she sings out as she returns, the bottles lined up neatly yards away. She sits down in a chair nearby and watches with interest as Adam carefully corrects his own stance under Dean's watchful eye. When Dean looks away to opine about something—wind resistance, she overhears—Adam leans back and grins at her from over Dean's shoulder.

She beams back at him.

"Now there's an interesting development," Bobby comments from behind her; she turns in her seat and directs the same beam towards him.

"Right?"

"You do this?" he wants to know as he comes to stand next to her, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches Dean re-adjust Adam's stance.

"Nope. Heard shots, came running."

Bobby looks down at her then, and she spies the tiniest of grins ticking up at the corner of his mouth. "Good for you," is all he says before they both fall silent and turn back to the scene in front of them.

When Adam hits his first bottle, Caroline jumps to her feet, clapping excitedly; but it's Dean's response—a gruff, "Nice work," that makes him smile, the light on his face bright enough to drive the shadows back.

If only for a moment.

—

Caroline is pretty sure that the universe, being the petty bitch that it is, saw her mended fences with Dean and decided to throw a new obstacle in her path. The only thing that she can't quite figure out is if it's something to trip over or to conquer—though she's almost positive it's the latter.

His name is Vaughan and he's not exactly new to the Roadhouse—Caroline thinks she started seeing him sometime around Halloween, but it's late in January when she notices that he's been sticking around for longer than a few days, inching his way up closer to the bar with every appearance.

"Hot," Jo comments under her breath as they clean steins. "Solid nine. And that accent." She mimes fanning herself.

Caroline shoots a discreet glance over her shoulder; he's sitting at a tall table by himself, brow furrowed as he stares at a computer screen. "Nine is a high bar, Harvelle." She wrinkles her nose. "He's an eight," she decides, setting down her stein and reaching for another.

"You're too picky," Jo retorts. "All I'm saying is I wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers."

That makes her laugh. "I mean," she concedes genially with a quirk of her eyebrow, "I'd allow him to buy me dinner."

Or, at least, she would, in another world. Maybe in a world where her brother didn't hover with a perma-scowl; one where she hadn't tethered herself to probably the most powerful being, and definitely the loosest cannon, on the planet—in that world, she'd probably admit to Jo that Vaughan is a nine. In that world, maybe she would flirt with him over the whiskey neat he distractedly orders every night in the Roadhouse.

But this world is not that world, so she holds her peace—or, at least, she tries to.

It proves to be more of a challenge than expected.

Late one night in early February, Caroline bumps Jo's elbow with her own as they pass each other behind the bar. It's snowing, again, and the piling powder outside seems to be discouraging anyone from entering. The Roadhouse is a ghost town, no pun intended, until Vaughan walks in, his face expressionless until he sees the two of them. He cracks a smile and aims it their way.

"You have the bar today," Jo grumbles as they watch him slide easily into a countertop seat. "Lucky bitch."

"Lucky wouldn't be the word I use. Dean made me do like, a billion squats this morning," Caroline retorts good-naturedly. "I'm just a bitch who can barely shuffle around."

The grin Jo shoots her is tinged with lasciviousness. "But think of your ass," she suggests with a wink.

It's then that a group of rowdy men stumble in and sit in Jo's section—clearly not hunters, Caroline can tell immediately. Their faces lack the weariness, the hardness, and the ever-present alertness that she's seen so often on Dean's face, on Sam's face, and even on her own occasionally reflected back to her in the bathroom.

But she is no longer surprised to see it there—it, along with her brown hair, has grown on her. I've done what I've had to, to survive, she thinks as she pulls her notepad out from under the bar. I'm a fucking survivor.

"Surprise me," Vaughan says when he sees her approaching, pen in hand. He arches an eyebrow at her and leans back in his seat.

And she's not stupid—she knows he's flirting with her.

So sue her if she flirts back.

"Whiteclaws then?" she suggests archly.

That draws a laugh out of him, his eyes crinkling. "Sounds like a plan." He motions towards the row of bottles behind her. "If you want something, it's on me."

He very clearly means make yourself a drink and chat with me, his Irish accent wrapping smoothly around the words, but she's not a total idiot. Instead of pulling down one of the dark bottles lining the back of the bar, as he clearly expects, she pulls a cherry Coke out from the fridge beneath the bar and loosens the cap. It hisses, the dark liquid in the bottle fizzing to the top before settling back down.

"Cheers," she says, tapping his tall can with the plastic bottle.

"So," Vaughan says as she takes a sip of the Coke, "how did you end up in a hunting salon bartending?" He arches an eyebrow and leans forward as though they are co-conspirators. "Especially since you're underage?"

She jerks up from where she had been leaning on her elbows to stare in shock at him, sputtering. "I'm not—why would you think—"

"Oh sorry, was that a secret then?" He grins as she narrows her eyes at him, her fingers tight around the neck of her Coke bottle. "I'll keep it to myself," he offers, "if you answer my question."

The carefully crafted backstory Dean had drilled into her head slips through her fingers; Caroline stares at him with absolutely no idea what to say. "Uh—"

His smile cracks as she flounders. "Ah," he says quietly, the humor vanishing from his face. "Understood." He takes a long swig of his cider before looking down at the scratched-up bar top. "So. Who'd you lose?"

It spills out before she can stop it; he's got one of those faces, she decides later. A trustworthy face, she'll tell Jo later; a handsome face, Jo will snort back. But for now— "My mom," she says quietly, picking at the label of her Coke bottle with her thumbnail. She leaves Sam out of it, determined to protect her link to Dean.

Vaughan's face, his handsome, trustworthy face, is somber and sympathetic. "Condolences," he offers gently. "How'd it happen?"

Now she does skirt the truth, picking bits and pieces of it to give him. "My friend was possessed and he—yeah. I don't think she even—" Caroline blinks rapidly and looks down; to his credit, Vaughan doesn't push. "It was quick," she says finally.

He gives her a half smile. "Good," he says firmly. "Small mercies, at least."

Throat tight, she nods and takes a long drink of her Coke; it burns down her windpipe. "What about you?"

That makes him look down and fiddle with his napkin. "Sister," he says finally, the paper twisting in between his fingers. "'Bout… a year ago, I guess. Maybe eighteen months." He looks stricken for a moment. "Goddamn," he says with a shake of his head before giving a humorless laugh. "Can't believe it's been that long."

"What happened?" she asks gently. He reminds her, inexplicably, of Dean— Dean, before Sam had walked out of their kitchen in Mystic Falls, only to be followed by John; back when the world was simpler and could be boiled down to boys and homework and the drama of who was at the top of the pyramid at cheerleading practice.

Another long drink, then he shakes his head and says, "Dunno, exactly. Can't figure out what kind of supernatural fucker dismembers their victims then puts them back together."

A cold finger of dread slides down her spine. "That's awful," she whispers, a buzzing in her ears. There's no way, because what are the odds? It can't be. "Where was it? I'll, uh—I'll keep an ear out for you." She waves at the bar and offers him a weak smile that he doesn't return. "Lots of talk around here, you know?"

"Tennessee," Vaughan says. "Trail goes cold outside of Tennessee."

—

"You look weird."

Caroline pulls her knees into her chest, her mug of hot cider balancing on the arm of the sofa as she shifts. "Thanks," she quips sardonically, tucking Bobby's horrible crochet blanket—that she is definitely stealing whenever they do leave for home—around herself. Her hair nearly brushes the top of the mug; it's the longest it's ever been, and the brown has faded into a dark ashy blonde that she doesn't really like, with lighter blonde roots that are cute on no one. But it means she no longer does a double take at her reflection, and that, at least, is something. "You look weird too, Dean."

He scowls and drops gracelessly down on the other end of the couch; she winces as her mug of cider jostles, coming dangerously close to the edge. "No, I mean, you look like something freaked you out." His eyes narrow. "Consider this prefaced with all that feminist crap you like: do I have to kill someone?"

She rolls her eyes. "You are such a drama queen," she informs him crisply, taking a prim sip of her drink.

"Jo said that Irish dude Vaughan was talking to you today." At the aggrieved look on her face, he adds swiftly, "She just mentioned it. No girl code was broken, swear to God."

"Uh huh."

"Care," he says, turning serious, "what's going on?"

Caroline considers him thoughtfully. "How much do you know about Vaughan?" she asks carefully, her fingers drumming against the side of her mug.

Dean tilts his head, considering. "Been on the scene a couple months, maybe a year. Not bad, not great. 'Bout what I'd expect from a new kid." His gaze sharpens. "Why?"

She hesitates just briefly before it all spills out. "He said that his sister was murdered in Tennessee," she begins slowly, her finger tracing a slow outline on the mouth of her mug. "He said that she was ripped apart, then put back together."

"Shitty way to die," he remarks flatly.

Caroline ignores him. "You were—you weren't there," she continues softly and he stiffens, his spine straightening and his jaw setting. "Sam was around, sporadically, but not all the time, and Stefan, he—" she takes a deep breath. "He left, with Klaus, and Damon was looking for him." She meets his eyes pointedly. "At one point, Damon tracked them to Tennessee, where there were two dead girls found in their house. Dismembered and put back together." She pauses and waits for the penny to drop.

It doesn't take long; understanding flares and Dean groans, his chin dropping to his chest. "Shit."

"Yep."

"Fucking great. Have I mentioned how much I hate your friends?"

"Not lately," she says tiredly.

"Didn't think so. I really fucking hate your friends." His eyes narrow. "And your wannabe boyfriend. What the fuck, Care?"

She doesn't bother trying to defend Klaus—only partly because she knows Dean's right, that his actions are indefensible. But Dean has never been invincible, has never felt the heady rush of knowing that there are very few things in the world capable of hurting you. Caroline has, and if the quiet in South Dakota has made room for anything, it's her understanding of just exactly how Klaus ended up the way he is.

Instead she gives a single, sharp nod and points to him, "Preacher," then points to herself, "Choir."

Dean sighs, slouching further down the couch. "I'll deal with it," he says finally, looking disgruntled at the idea. "Covering your shitty friend's tracks. It's gonna be fine."

And that description of Stefan—dismissive and borderline sneering—spurs her into the defensive lecture that she can't quite allow herself to give for Klaus. Not to Dean, at least. "Stefan is a lot of things," she says quietly, eyes fixed on her cider, "and some of them are truly awful. A lot of them, even. But I don't think I'd be here without him."

"How do you figure?" Dean challenges and she hums as she takes a sip of her cider.

"Damon would've killed me," she says matter-of-factory. "Human, vampire, I'm not sure it ultimately would have mattered, but once I turned—if Stefan hadn't taught me how to control—" she gestures aimlessly into the air with her free hand, "—all of it, Damon would have one thousand percent killed me."

She hesitates before adding softly, "And Stefan never…he never turned it off, Elena said. He felt every death, every bad thing he did, and it's not an excuse, and it doesn't make it okay, but it—I dunno, Dean, but it does mean something, I think. That counts for something."

For a long moment, they're both quiet.

"Can I kill Damon, then?" Dean asks casually.

It startles an unexpected laugh out of her. "Knock yourself out."

—

"You got mail, kid," Bobby grunts early one morning, dropping the stack of paper down on the counter next to where she's nearly falling asleep into her oatmeal. It's freezing outside and the trek to the Roadhouse seems impossibly far when it's covered in feet of snow.

Caroline jumps at the thud then blinks blearily at the stack. On top is a slim white envelope with the Harvard crest in the left-hand corner and her heart sinks into her stomach at the smallness of it. Rejected.

"You gonna open 'em?" Bobby asks, and when she looks up at him, he's half-grinning, half-beaming.

"Open what?" Dean wants to know as he enters the kitchen, heading straight for the coffee pot. He turns as he pours it into his mug and stares at her, a frown crossing his face. "Don't you have school?"

"Independent Study is a joke," she informs him as she turns the Harvard envelope over in her hands. "It's nine-thirty and I'm already done."

Dean grimaces then zeroes on in the envelope in her hands. "Oh shit," he says as he puts the pot down and leans forward. "Hang on, we need Adam and Cas in here for this—Adam!" he bellows and this time, both Bobby and Caroline jump.

"What?" Castiel demands from the doorway just as Adam comes thundering down the stairs, his hair a mess and his eyes slightly wild, scissors gripped tightly in one hand.

"This isn't necessary," Caroline tries to say, but she is ignored. Dean is entirely focused on the scissors in Adam's hand, the beginnings of choked laughter escaping him.

"What're you gonna do, snip someone to death?" he demands and Adam colors before tossing the scissors down.

"You never know," he mutters before he too focuses on the stack of mail and brightens. "Acceptance letters, Care?"

She waves the thin envelope. "Rejection letters, most likely," she mumbles, feeling her cheeks heat.

"No way," he assures her, "There's some big ones in there too."

Castiel comes to stand next to her. "I don't understand. The size of the envelope matters?"

"Nah, Cas," Dean says, "it's all about the motion of the ocean." The comment makes her nearly spit out her cereal, and next to her, she hears Adam snicker.

"Why don't the lot of you shut up," Bobby suggests tartly, "and let her open one? Christ Almighty."

The group falls silent and Caroline suddenly feels the weight of their collective gaze. "Um," she hedges, "maybe it's better if I look at a different one. One that, ya know, might be an acceptance."

She's more than a little surprised when her fingers tremble as she reaches for a hefty envelope, the—her heart speeds up—Georgetown crest large in the left-hand corner.

"Hell yeah," she hears Dean say lowly as she tears it open and pulls out the introduction letter: Dear Caroline Forbes, we are pleased—

"Oh my god," she whispers, and the prickle of tears in her eyes catches her entirely off guard. "Oh my god, I got in."

Across the counter, Dean gives a whoop and Castiel turns to Adam, who is grinning from ear to ear. "I don't understand what's happening," he says plaintively, but whatever Adam replies is too soft for her to hear.

"Open this one," Bobby says, sliding another thick envelope over, and when the blue of the Yale crest jumps out at her, she starts crying in earnest. She tears it open to read the letter: Dear Caroline Forbes, Congratulations! "Oh my god," she says again, "I got into Yale."

Arms wrap around her in a tight hug—Dean's, Adam's, and possibly Cas's, though she's pretty sure he doesn't really grasp what they're celebrating and is just going with the flow. Bobby doesn't join in, but the smile he sends her way over the counter stretches from ear to ear.

From her spot buried beneath the group hug, she spots a thick envelope that simply reads Stanford in red blocky font across one corner and her breath catches. Sam should be here, she thinks, and his absence is a raw wound that reaches down to the bone. Her chest aches with the intensity of grief torn anew.

"I'm crackin' champagne," Bobby announces, "since we're celebratin'."

She meets Dean's eyes as both Adam and Castiel step away; he hasn't let go of her yet, and she lets her head rest on top of her shoulder, watching as Bobby tears the paper from the neck of a dusty champagne bottle.

"He should be here," she whispers, so quietly she can barely hear herself.

"He will be," Dean whispers back, his arm tightening across her shoulders, and for a moment, she lets herself believe him.

For a moment.

—

"What're you thinking?" Jo asks quietly from the other end of the couch, a mug of hot chocolate in her hands as Caroline tallies up her options: accepted at Georgetown, Yale, UVA, VCU, and Stanford; waitlisted at Dartmouth and Harvard.

"I don't know how we pay for anything that isn't UVA or VCU," she admits with a soft sigh. "Seems really unfair to make my dad and Dean try to figure that out."

"Student loans?"

She lets her head drop back and groans. "Looks like."

"Or…" Jo hesitates before setting her mug down and leaning forward. "Caroline, there is always…" She trails off but Caroline knows exactly which name her friend is leaving unsaid.

She's thought about it herself, after all.

"There are always strings with him," she says quietly. "I've already asked for so much, and there's more to ask for that I've been putting off, and—" she cuts herself off, shaking her head. "I can't keep handing over pieces of my life, of myself, to him."

"Can I say something without making you mad?" Jo asks, tilting her head. "As a like, kind of an outside looking in thing?" She doesn't wait for Caroline to give an answer. "Based on what I know, which," she pins Caroline with a look that she's seen on Ellen's face countless times, "is not everything, I'm sure—the things that seem to come with strings are things you're asking for other people."

Caroline shifts uncomfortably. "Gathering ancient angelic artifacts was to stop the world from ending," she reminds Jo, "which definitely benefited me, seeing as how I, you know, live in the world."

Jo waves her off. "Have you ever asked him from something that's just for you? Not for Dean and Sam, and thus by extension you? Or not for your friends?"

She almost answers immediately with of course I have, but the beseeching look on Jo's face stops her. Her mind replays the terms of their deal, of which she has not told Jo; and further back—from her half-hearted attempt to coax him into removing his hybrids, to acquiring angelic weapons in their fight against Heaven.

"To be less of a jerk?" Caroline offers weakly.

That makes Jo smile. "Something that doesn't require a personality transplant?" she corrects lightly, but the point has been made. "God knows he's gotta have the money, based on that house."

"He does," Caroline says quietly, letting her head rest against the back of the couch.

"So," Jo leans forward, "if money's no object…what're you thinking?" One of her eyebrows arches. "Gotta be Yale, right?"

"Yale's really far," Caroline protests, and Jo waves it off.

"Dean'll deal," she says firmly. "Probably by moving to Connecticut with you, but, you know. He'll figure it out. What do you want to do?"

It's something she's been asking herself more and more, especially lately. She's spent nearly the entirety of her senior year in South Dakota, away from her friends, away from the drama of Mystic Falls, and in the quiet, she's discovered that she doesn't really have an answer yet. Oh, she knows she wants Sam back, would give anything to that end; but for herself?

A question without an answer.

"I'll let you know," Caroline says softly, "when I figure it out."

—

Later, she'll blame it on the arrival of the letters.

It's the worst nightmare she's had in a while. In the six weeks that have slipped past since New Year's Eve, she's had nothing but quiet nights, and Caroline had slowly let herself begin to hope that maybe Castiel had been right after all. Maybe it all had been a product of PTSD, and their retreat to Bobby's has finally, finally begun to work the magic she had been hoping for.

She knows immediately that it's a dream. The snowflakes are too thick, and she isn't cold when they land in her hair or on her face. Her breath is a soft white cloud in front of her, and when she looks around, it takes her a moment to figure out just exactly where she is.

The buildings that surround are familiar, despite the fact that she has only visited virtually, aided by Google Earth: the weathered stone and Gothic build of Yale's campus, blanketed by snow.

There's a prickle at the back of her neck, and Caroline knows immediately she is being watched. She takes a deep breath, and the frosty air envelops her lungs as she turns.

At first, she thinks that it's Katherine in front of her. Her hair is in curls, after all, and her mouth is set in a hard line that is both familiar and strange all at once. But upon closer inspection, it becomes incredibly apparent that it isn't Katherine at all—the curls are too loose, and her face carries the sneer awkwardly.

Caroline's heart sinks. "Elena," she whispers, her breath turning to vapor in the air. "Oh, no, Elena."

The girl in front of her—Elena, who she has known since she was in diapers; Elena, who had downed too many Jell-O shots with her at their first high school party; Elena, who had giddily hopped in the passenger seat of her KIA when Caroline had gotten her driver's license and demanded to be driven around the block—is Elena, her best friend, and yet not Elena at all.

The brown eyes that flick over her are Elena's, yet they lack all of her warmth. She doesn't say anything, and Caroline can only blink in shock before the scene changes.

This time, she knows immediately where she is. She's been in this room enough times to recognize its walls, the extravagant fireplace at one end, and the California king on the other with its richly colored comforter. Her shoulders set and she steels herself to see him, to see Klaus.

But he isn't there. The room is empty, and as she turns, whirling in a circle, a slow-burning desperation crawling up her throat, she catches a glimpse of herself in the long mirror standing in a corner of the room.

Her hands come up to press at her temples and she shuts her eyes as tightly as she can—

When she opens them, the sting of fresh tears hot in her eyes, his room has vanished, replaced by her house.

Her house, where Sam is sitting on the porch swing.

She stares at him in shock. "Sam?" she whispers, her hand reaching out, as though he will vanish like he always does in her dreams.

And he does—she blinks, and he is gone, like a wisp of smoke that had never been there in the first place.

When she wakes up, it's with a gasp and tears on her face.

—

Caroline tiptoes to the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face before returning to her dark bedroom, the sole source of light that of the moon that has slipped through her curtains.

Her college acceptance letters are scattered on the floor, and she sits down on her bed slowly, her thumb swiping dangerously close to his name, the nightmare burning bright in her mind's eye.

"Either do it or don't, Forbes," she whispers to herself. "But do something."

But she loses her nerve, and instead, sets her phone down and tiptoes downstairs.

The kitchen is quiet, and she freezes as she steps on a creaky board, wincing in anticipation of someone coming running and demanding what exactly she's doing. And therein lies the problem—she's not sure herself. All she knows is that if she closes her eyes, she'll see Sam, sitting on their front porch back in Mystic Falls as though not a day has passed. As though he's still there, waiting for them to come home.

Taking a deep breath, Caroline creeps over to the stove and flips it to preheat before quietly moving over to the fridge.

She's managed to pull out all the ingredients for banana muffins before she's caught, the overhead light flickering on and a throat clearing intently.

"Kid," Bobby drawls from the doorway, a cup of coffee steaming in one hand, "it's three in the goddamned morning. What in the hell are you doin'?"

Caroline looks up from her mixing bowl, eyes wide before they narrow at the cup of coffee in his hand. "What am I doing?" she repeats incredulously. "What are you doing, caffeinating at three am?"

He has the grace to look guilty before he sits across the counter from her and hands her the potato masher. "Couldn't sleep. I'm guessin' you couldn't either."

"Bad dreams," she mumbles into the bananas as she pulverizes them. "Every time I think I've turned a corner, they're right there to smack me in the face."

Bobby begins to measure the cinnamon for her, studiously avoiding her face. "I think you've got them for the foreseeable future, kid." He slides the cinnamon her way and she dumps it into her bowl, trading the masher for the whisk. "Coming back from the dead has consequences."

She thinks of Jeremy, of Matt, and the ghosts that had haunted them. "I guess there are worse things," she says softly, and Bobby grunts in agreement before taking a long sip of his coffee.

They sit in comfortable silence, Caroline adding ingredients to her bowl before Bobby says, "Got into a lot of good schools, kid. Congrats."

"Oh—um." She blushes and looks down to pour her batter into the muffin tin. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Got any idea on where you're gonna go?"

"Not a clue," she says honestly, gently steering the bowl from mold to mold. "I'm—I'm kind of wondering if I should defer a year, actually."

Bobby's eyes narrow at her. "Now why the hell would you do that?"

She arches an eyebrow at him instead of answering.

"Kid," he says, leaning forward, "I'm gonna shoot straight with you here." His gaze fixes on hers, blue eyes bright, "He wouldn't want you to put your life on hold. Especially not for him."

Caroline drops her eyes from his and whisks harder, the metal scraping the sides of her bowl. "How would you know? It's not like he's here to confirm or deny."

She doesn't have to look up to guess at what expression is on Bobby's face—she's seen it on him before, on Ellen and Jo when she and Dean had first arrived in South Dakota, and on the faces of her friends before they had left Mystic Falls. It's a certain subset of sympathy, the helpless kind, tinged with just the tiniest bit of uncertainty. Like she's a livewire, and one wrong word might set her sparking.

Which, if she's honest, isn't all that inaccurate.

But instead of backing down, Bobby says, "Because I knew Sam, and I know why he did what he did. He ended the friggin' Apocalypse so that you and Dean could live your lives, and—" he breaks off with a sigh, looking down into his coffee mug before continuing slowly, "Listen to an old man, Caroline. Life goes on, even if we don't want it to." Grief, old and deep, flashes across his weathered face before he leans back with a sigh. "Lord knows, sometimes we don't want it to."

It's hard to swallow around the lump that's been building in her throat. "Bobby," she says hesitantly, setting the now-empty bowl down next to her. "Who picked the color of your house?"

A half-smile flickers across his face. "Karen," he says. "My wife." He tilts his head and considers her. "She would have liked you."

Her heart twists at the words, and at the ones that remain unspoken. The air feels heavy with their weight. "It feels like giving up," she whispers, her arms wrapping protectively around her stomach.

"It does," he agrees. "But that doesn't mean that it is." He reaches over and pats her hand once, the movement the tiniest bit awkward, as though he had to fight through his own hesitation. "Grief can be a funny thing, kid. It's gonna tell you that you should stay stuck in it, that you should let it cover you up like quicksand."

He tilts his head, his eyes losing some of their focus as he gazes at a point somewhere beyond her shoulder. "But you gotta trust that you knew Sam better than that, 'cause you will wanna drown in it. But you can't let yourself."

"It's not easy," Caroline whispers, using the long sleeve of her shirt to swipe at her eyes.

"Won't ever be," Bobby agrees. "But it does get easier." He focuses back in on her, eyes sharp and knowing. "Go wherever you want. That's what Sam would want, and not living your life ain't gonna bring him back, kid." He stands and gestures to the muffin tin. "Holler at me when those are done, if you don't mind."

With that, he slides out of his chair and is gone.

What do you want?

The answer feels as though it's right there, hovering just out of her grasp no matter how hard she reaches.

Elusive.

—

tbc

A/N: Sorry for the delay on so many projects, everyone. There's been a lot going on, but I'm slowly getting back into my groove! As always, I am on Twitter at sunnydaisy6 and Tumblrat little-miss-sunny-daisy. Your comments mean the world, so if you have a moment, I'd love to know your thoughts.