Bobby Singer squatted in the darkness among the trees and rusted hulks of long dead cars, a bonfire blazing zestfully before him, sparks spinning in a heat created vortex, then swirling upward into the night sky.
Dressed in a down vest, long sleeved plaid shirt and jeans, the winter clothing was no protection against the bitter South Dakota winter and he was freezing but couldn't bring himself to go inside so he stayed close to the flames, his face, lit by the fire's light, a little older, his beard a little grayer.
Sam and Dean made their way cautiously toward him, snow crunching beneath their boots and watched as Bobby, without ever looking up, pulled a military issued Colt Combat Commander 45 from his pocket, pointed it in their direction and thumbed back the hammer.
"Whoa Bobby, it's me, Sam, Sam Winchester."
"Dean with you?" he asked, still staring into the fire, not really caring but feeling he should be semi-polite.
He had nothing against Sam or Dean Winchester but company was the last thing he wanted.
"I'm here, Bobby," Dean let him know and he lowered the gun, released the hammer and stuffed it back into a pocket but didn't turn to acknowledge either of them, he just returned to whatever he'd been doing before they'd interrupted him.
As they came closer Dean spotted a pile of what appeared to be money at Bobby's feet and watched as he picked up a stack of bills and tossed them into the flames. When he reached to pick up more, Dean grabbed his arm.
"Don't," Bobby commanded flatly, the futility of his actions clear to him but still not able to stop what he had been doing for the better part of the evening.
"Jesus Bobby, that's cash," Dean said as the money sailed into the fire.
Sam picked up a handful of bills; examined them and much to Dean's dismay, threw them onto the fire as well where they flared up nicely and so did Dean.
"Are you out of your friggin' minds? Do you have any idea how many credit card aps I have to fill out to get this kind of scratch?"
Sam, the devil on his shoulder urging him on, looked innocently at Dean and sent another handful of the bills into the flames and smiled when his brother's anxiety level kicked up another notch but before Dean could pummel the crap out of him, he held one out for him to see in the fire's light.
"It's votive money, worthless except to the Hearth Gods, right Bobby?" Sam said with a not so sheepish grin.
"Apparently it's worthless to them, too," Bobby spat out, rising up and stretching, the lateness of the hour, the cold and his age getting the better of him.
He turned and walked back to his cabin, stopping at the door to see if the two of them followed and said over his shoulder, "How about a beer?" and they followed in silence, each wondering how or even if, the burnt offerings played into Ellen's concerns and Sam's vision.
Bobby's house was sparsely furnished but filled to the brim with piles of clutter representing his business, his life and his avocation, though hunting demons was hardly a relaxing hobby. The room was toasty warm and curiously, stank of incense and of limes and when Dean scuffed his feet; dust motes rose into the air and eventually settled back down to the floor.
"You're cleaning lady quit?" he called out as Bobby headed into the kitchen to get the beers.
"Didn't want to sweep out any good luck," Bobby called from around the corner, his head stuck in the refrigerator.
"Or any hantavirus," Dean said under his breath throwing his leather jacket over the back of a chair.
He continued to roam around the room wondering what was so different from the last time he'd been there.
In the kitchen Bobby pulled three green bottles of Rolling Rock from the refrigerator as Sam walked in and stared at the twenty or so water filled, store bought, plastic jugs that lined the counter and asked "Your plumbing effed up?"
"If you want water, use the tap," he replied shortly.
Taking one of the pro-offered beers, Sam realized Bobby had given him a non-answer concerning the water and returned to the living room, searching for a place to sit among the piles.
One pile, covering a beat-to-shit old couch against one wall, caught Sam's eye. It was a collection of paper goods. Paper clothes, red paper fish, multi colored paper flowers, camo painted paper military items, like cannons and tanks and more green votive money. Dean had already studied the pile and gave Sam a 'the fuck?' look and Sam just shrugged.
Bobby noticed the exchange and handed Dean his beer on his way to his desk. He sat heavily in the wheeled, oak chair and it creaked with age, the way he felt he did himself if one listened hard enough. Bobby sighed, the melancholia that had come upon him a couple of weeks earlier, growing heavier.
"What can I do for you boys?" he asked staring at his beer but making no move to drink it.
Sam took a swallow of his before speaking, "Ellen asked us to look in on you."
"That right?"
He should have known. Ellen was the closest thing he had to a friend and she would have called the Winchester boys, well, Sam at least, after his last meeting with her. He would have done the same had it been her coming to his salvage yard to settle up after all these years, to effectively cut off all ties.
"Yeah, she's kind of worried about you. Said you came in and paid your tab," Sam continued.
"The tab you've been running since '98," Dean added, watching for any change in Bobby's demeanor.
But there wasn't any as Bobby just looked him in the eye and said, "I just figured it was time. I can't be leaching off of Ellen forever."
"You know she doesn't care, she just wants to see you from time to time, to know you're safe."
"I'm safe enough, Sam," he assured him.
"She also said you returned everything you've ever borrowed from her," Dean added wondering why Bobby was being so defensive and evasive.
"So, I'm a responsible son of a bitch. That a crime?"
Sam looked around the room, the hairs on the back of his neck starting to stand up at the bizarreness of it all.
"Anyway, I'm glad you two stopped by. I've got something for you," he told them pointing to a footlocker in front of the desk.
Dean walked over and squatted down. He set his beer on the floor and lifted the lid of the large metal box. Inside was a veritable arsenal; weapons of all kinds, rifles, shotguns and handguns, knives and swords, sharp and wicked looking, even a high tech wrist rocket that Dean coveted immediately and then it hit him.
He took a quick look around the room and noticed that it had been stripped of every weapon that had ever hung on the walls or resided in the gun racks.
"I want you two to have 'em, I'm retiring."
"What's goin' on, Bobby?" Dean demanded knowing that if they took the weapons Bobby would be pretty much defenseless against any sort of attack, demon or otherwise.
"You can't really retire from hunting, Bobby," Sam pointed out knowing that demons have long memories and give new meaning to networking, "The demons, know you, hate you."
"All taken care of," he said simply.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Ignoring Sam's question Bobby asked, "You want this stuff or not?"
Dean looked to Sam for an answer and noticed the rivulet of sweat dripping down the side of his brother's face and his clenched jaw.
"What is it, Sammy?"
It was a pain like an awl being shoved through his eye and Sam grabbed his head, doubled over and fell to his knees.
"Christ, not again," Dean swore.
"What's wrong with him?" Bobby demanded, standing so quickly that his beer toppled over.
"It's OK, Bobby," Dean assured him squatting down next to his brother, holding him up through the throws of another seizure.
Another pain, sharper than the first if possible, lanced through his head and Sam cried out.
Bobby watched cautiously and deciding there was nothing demonic about the youngest Winchester's pain, asked, "What can I do?"
"He'll be okay," Dean said, "He just might throw up when he done or bleed from various orifices."
Bobby was startled by Dean's indifference concerning bleeding orifices and ran to the couch and with a sweep of his arm, cleared it off.
"Put him here."
Dean helped Sam to his feet and over to the couch, where he laid down, throwing an arm over his eyes, taking in great gasps of air and letting them out slowly.
Bobby got him a wet cloth from the kitchen and placed it on his forehead. He wanted to help if he could because above all, he loved the boys, but in his own way.
Dean was too much like him for them to have formed a close attachment. They were both self assured but at the same time barricading themselves behind walls of self protective bullshit and bull headed as hell when pressed for any reason, never letting anyone other than family get too close.
Looking at Dean was like seeing himself twenty years ago and if he was smart, Dean would look at him and see himself twenty years down the line and take heed.
And Sam, Sam was the complete opposite of him and he had a real affection for John's younger son and like Dean, felt the need to watch out for him, to protect him.
"How long's he been like this?"
"A few months," Dean told him.
"He seen a doctor?"
"It's nothing like that. He has...visions."
Bobby looked at the young man lying on his couch and grew angry. Why wasn't John Winchester here for this, for his boys? Why wasn't he here with him, to help him sort out what was happening to him? Maybe Sam was the key?
"What'd you see, Sammy" he asked cautiously, fearing the answer would have something to do with fire and with himself.
"Nothing," Sam whispered, "It's just a mother of a headache," and Bobby knew he was lying, as did Dean.
Whatever Sam had seen, it had scared him, but not as much as his refusal to divulge whatever it was scared the hell out of Bobby and he took a step back from the two of them and said, "I'm going back out to the fire. You two stay as long as you need, then take the hardware and go."
"No!" Sam sat up his stomach roiling, threatening to expel his Carl's Jr. Jalapeno gut burger, "You need to stay in the house."
"Why?"
"Just trust me," Sam begged him.
"What'd you see, Sammy? If it has something to do with Bobby he has a right to know."
"I don't know if it is about Bobby. I saw the woman again."
"What woman?" Bobby asked him. It was like pulling teeth.
"A Vietnamese woman."
Bobby's face blanched but recovering quickly, he simply asked, "You boys want another beer?"
Relieved that Bobby had changed his mind about kicking them out and always up for another beer, Dean nodded while Sam laid back on the couch, waiting for his stomach to settle.
Retrieving the beers, Bobby offered them to the brothers before opening a desk drawer and rummaging fairly deeply into it. He pulled out a battered old photograph and handed it to Sam, who looked at it but couldn't be sure if it was the woman of his visions.
"I'm sorry Bobby, but she's just not sharp in my vision, kind of faded out," he explained and Dean, seeing the frustration on both men's faces, changed the subject.
"Did you know Dad when you were over there?" he asked and Bobby shook his head.
He knew John Winchester had never talked to his sons much other than to bark orders, knew for sure he'd never answered their "Daddy, what did you do in the war?" questions and thought that maybe he could answer some of them for him.
"Your Dad didn't get to Viet Nam until almost the end. By '74 it was, for all intents and purposes, a done deal. We lost."
He said the last with a sad resolve; his voice barely a whisper and Dean noticed Bobby suddenly looked ten years older than when they'd arrived. They couldn't have known but he'd stopped sleeping for the most part, weeks before; just walked around in the darkness drawn to the fires he built, night after night.
"What was it like over there? Dad never talked about it," Sam told him.
"I don't doubt it. Before they got to Saigon, your Dad's unit was into some heavy shit in Laos and Cambodia, though we were never officially there."
"How about you?" Sam then asked.
"I was in the Nam for three tours, each one shittier than the last," he told them, his first tour setting the tone for the other two, "The country was beautiful, except where we left a heavy footprint, Agent Orange and bomb creators the size of football fields and plenty of dead, U.S. and indigenous, both military and civilian. I saw some awful things, things you'd expect in a war torn country where law and order went by the wayside almost from the get go."
Bobby scrubbed his hands across his face, the pictures running through his mind in nightmare-vision, images he'd tried hard to forget over the years.
"I also saw things I couldn't explain...until I got back stateside and hooked up with folks like Bill Harvelle and your Dad. It took years but things finally made sense but there was a price to pay for the knowledge. I found out that there was unspeakable evil all over the world and if we were lucky, we could stay one step ahead of it and destroy it."
"You mean you saw things over there like we see here?" Dean asked rolling his empty beer bottle between his hands.
"Sure, why not? You can trace most of our legends back hundreds of years and across thousands of miles which means they probability traveled with our ancestors."
"There were more than just settlers on that first ship to Jamestown," Sam assured him as he sat up and hands shaking, took a sip of beer.
"You think?" Bobby asked smiling fondly at him.
Bobby knew there were more than just a few devil's gates in the world and that some of them had been opened at one time or another and with that, the conversation waned and they sat in silence for a few minutes more before Bobby begged off to go to bed.