EPILOGUE
Three days later, Dean and Sam drove away from Bobby's home in SD. The doctors in Cheyenne had taken good care of Bobby and Ellen, and released them with a clean bill of health, but told them both to take it easy for a few days.
Dean put on his sunglasses as he turned the Impala onto the on-ramp for the interstate. He was so glad for the past few days to be over, to get back out on hte open road, and track down all the hell-spawn that escaped in Wyoming.
He reached under the front seat and pulled out the ancient box of even more ancient casette tapes and started shuffling through them.
Sam was reading through his email on his Palm Treo when Dean slammed on his breaks and quickly pulled off to the right side of the road.
"Dude," Dean looked sternly at Sam, using his most John-like tone. "Where the hell is my B.O.C. tape?"
Sam opened his mouth as if to say something, but nothing came out. He was searching for a good story, but wasn't able to come up with one. He closed his mouth and settled on a shake of the head and a quizzical look on his face.
Dean clenched his jaw, dissatisfied, then leaned into the floorboard to search in case the tape had gotten bumped out of the box. He sat back upright emptyhanded, scratching his head, and glanced at the dash. His hand went immediately to the small cut in the vinyl, trying to sooth it away as if it were an illusion of the early morning sun.
"And what the HELL did you do to my dash?"
Fine