Chrys watched as the fire burned on, consuming wood and cloth and flesh without bothering to discern which was which. Every pop from the flames made her wince and squeeze Sam's hand a little harder. The darkness around them was eerie in its totality, and the wind was making it seem chillier than it actually was. Either way, she huddled into her jacket, uneasy.

Dean's face looked like it had been carved from stone. His eyes were just a little glassy (that would be the whiskey, she thought grimly), and behind that, they were dull and empty. His stance was tense, closed off.

They all were.

Sam stood next to her, stoically still despite the steady stream of tears running down his face and dripping off of his chin. He didn't try to wipe them away or hide them. He just watched the fire.

And so Bobby Singer's funeral pyre raged on, and his family stood witness.


The drive to Rufus' cabin from the field they'd laid Bobby to rest in was quiet in the loose, indefinable way unique to shock and grief. Chrys kept opening her mouth to say something, anything, but there was nothing. So she kept silent, and so did the Winchesters.

They drove along, more silent than the ghosts they so often hunted.


She turned to Bobby. "I'll be out of our hair soon, Bobby. Just let me get my stuff."

He shook his head. "Chrys, you should probably stay and sleep a little. You're dead on your feet. Not good for the baby."

The mention of the baby had her eyes filling. His eyes widened in horror. "He didn't-"

She nodded quickly to interrupt him. She couldn't hear the words.

He wrapped an arm around her and led her gently to the house. "Come on, girl. You know you can stay as long as you need."


Chrys jerked awake from the vivid (so vivid oh my God) dream, disappointed but not surprised at the burning, violent need crashing through her veins.

She rolled to her back, scrubbed her face with her hands, and blew out a hard, explosive breath. Fuck. Sam slept on next to her, oblivious, although that's the way she wanted to keep it. He had enough going on with his hallucinations and the shattered wall in his mind. She'd let him sleep.

It wasn't the first time she'd had the craving to use, but it certainly seemed like it was going to be the most difficult. She found herself wondering if they were too far out to find other addicts. Of course not. They're everywhere. We're everywhere. Maybe they would share? Maybe they'd-

No. Never again.

She waited for another half an hour before she admitted defeat. She pulled on a pair of leggings under her long t-shirt and grabbed her jacket, then slipped out of the bedroom. She made her way to the front porch of the cabin, where there sat a pair of old, shitty rocking chairs that perfectly suited her mood.

She pulled a fresh pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of her coat pocket, unwrapped the pack, lit one up, then leaned her head back and exhaled as she let her thoughts take her over.

Bobby would have been a good grandfather, she mused. Her parents were so thoroughly out of the picture, Bobby would have ended up being granddad by default, had she had the baby. She could picture it quite clearly, his gruff demeanor struggling to stay upright when confronted with a baby girl. Hiding a smile behind his whiskers so no one thought he was any less intimidating than they always had, but turning into complete mush around the baby.

Not that his hard outer shell had ever been especially difficult to pierce, anyway. He'd liked to claim it was only for Chrys, but she'd known better. He would have done anything for the hunters he helped, but especially for the Winchesters. His kids.

He'd counted her among them, too, and it was that thought that brought tears to her eyes.

How many people can you lose before you go crazy? she thought wearily.

The door opening had her turning to see Dean, dressed in a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and his own coat over his bare chest, stepping out onto the porch. He saw her, gave a brief nod, then came to it next to her in the other rocking chair. He held a hand out silently, and she put her pack of cigarettes and the lighter into it.

She watched as he lit one up, then passed the pack back to her. She lit another of her own, and together, they sat quietly.

And smoked.

And mourned.


Sam spent the next day wishing that it had been a hallucination.

He threw away the clothes he'd been wearing, because while blood hadn't made him woozy in years, this blood made him want to vomit and cry and rage. So he threw them away quickly, and didn't mention that there were already two sets of clothes buried in the trash can before he got there.

Both his woman and his brother smelled heavily of cigarette smoke when he woke up, but he didn't say anything about it, even jokingly. It wasn't a day for joking, and he wouldn't have been able to manage, anyway.

I wish this wasn't real.

"Real?" he asked Chrys hoarsely at breakfast.

Her blue eyes shone with unimaginable sadness. "Real," she confirmed.

I wish you were lying.

After they ate a lackluster breakfast, they each got more coffee and, by some silent agreement, went into the living room to sit. Chrys leaned heavily against his side until he brought his arm up to wrap around her. He kept her snug against him, but got little comfort from the act.

I'd take you being a hallucination if it would mean the last two days weren't real.

No, no, that's not true. I wouldn't trade you for anything.

Fuck, does that make me a bad person?

Probably.

By this time, Chrys was normally pulling him out of his head, but a glance at her showed him that she was far too deep into her own thoughts to be able to sense that he was in his.

I should be able to be strong for her. I should be able to do this for her, to be the one who's sensible and reasonable and holds us all together for a while. But I can't. I just don't have it in me. I-

A gentle, warm hand on his thigh had him looking down at Chrys again. She wasn't looking at him, still staring out the window with an almost heartbreakingly serene expression on her face.

"Not now, Sam," she whispered. "Not right now."

That managed to shut his self-loathing up long enough to press a chaste kiss to the side of her head and ignore the way her eyes were filled with tears.

Not right now.


That night, as Dean watched Chrys and Sam go to their bedroom and shut the door, he hoped they would be able to comfort one another. He hoped that maybe they'd be able to find some solace in each other, maybe some peace.

He took up his (Bobby's it's Bobby's it will always be Bobby's) flask, the pack of smokes he'd filched from Chrys' pocket, and went out to the front porch. He wasn't going to find peace out there, but maybe he'd find something.

And if the flask felt a little lighter than he'd thought it should, he chalked it up to a bad day.


- Sorry for the short chapter, but Bobby deserved an entire chapter of us being sad.