Disclaimer: I do not own "Supernatural" or any of its characters (or plotlines!)

Author's Note: Hiya. Hope everyone's summer is going well! :-) This chapter takes place the evening following "Everybody Loves a Clown." Tis Bobby PoV.

Thank you all for your fabulous reviews and PM's. I love to hear from you. Mega thanks to Lembas7 for beta'ing this for me, any remaining errors are all mine-- since I went back and added stuff! ;)

Hope you enjoy!

They were as screwed to hell as he'd thought they'd be; Dean ashen and more still than Bobby'd ever seen him, moving like he had nowhere to be ever again. Sam was almost as pale and strung wire-tight, anxious eyes tracking his brother's every movement.

They'd taken care of the body, Sam had told him, voice choked with tears. Dean had said nothing.

He'd made them dinner that first night, let them wander around the house, let them wallow a bit. Then in the morning over black coffee and hard bagels he'd told Sam his library could use an organizational overhaul and Dean that his vendor contact list was in the garage office and he'd better put the tools back where he found them when he was finished for the day.

They'd blinked at him a little bit, and then nodded; each silently finishing his breakfast and then heading off to do their respective 'work.'

And just like that he'd unwittingly laid out a pattern for them to follow. Dean especially adhered to it rigidly. After breakfast he'd spend the entire day working on the Impala and whenever humanly possible he avoided speaking.

Sam would work with the books all morning, then he'd make lunch and take it out to Dean. After which he'd spend two or three hours trying to talk with his brother.

That usually ended with Bobby's kitchen door slammed nearly off the hinges and one of his tools flung across the junkyard.

When they'd taken up a hunt, he'd thought things were looking up; thought maybe Dean was unwinding a bit and Sam was getting ready to head back to that wife he'd told Bobby he had.

Then Dean had bashed holes into the Impala's trunk with a crow bar.

And Sam had emptied an entire shelf of books onto the floor with one sweep of his hand.

Bobby wasn't sure which Winchester's ass he wanted to kick most. John's, he supposed-- goddamn the bastard for kicking the bucket. Who the hell told him he could go and die anyway? Die and leave his kids all tangled up and cracked open.

Bobby sighed and stood from the porch steps, enough with inner monologue.

He'd give it another week, he decided as he headed inside, if they didn't work things out themselves, didn't figure out how to start livin' again, he was going to have to get his hands in the mess and sort it out for them, damn Winchester's.

"Been a long time since I seen you standing by a wreck with a tool in your hand."

Sam's head lifted at the sound of his voice. Bobby'd gone in to take a shower after sortin' out his plan of attack on the porch; had his sweat-pants and raggedy t-shirt on for bed when he noticed one of the lights still on out in yard; seen Sam standing by the Impala almost as soon as he'd stepped off the porch.

He'd almost reached the kid when Sam spoke again. "I don't know what to do."

"Yeah," he said wryly, "That seemed to be the case whenever I did see it."

Sam's laugh was quiet, almost humorless as he set the screwdriver down where he'd found it.

"Good idea. Your brother'd tear you a new one for fiddlin' with'er."

Sam turned to face him. "I wish he'd give it a try, Bobby. I wish he'd give anything besides this a try." He made a motion towards the Impala, the only thing Dean had shown an interest in since…

They both winced a little at the earnestness in Sam's voice, the yearning.

Bobby released a long, tired sigh. He'd known as soon he'd stepped out in the yard that Sam was out here mopin'-- come to think of it, Bobby wasn't sure he could take a full of week of this.

Sam had spent the evening re-sorting the books he'd spilled and then he'd disappeared from sight; just like Dean.

"There's just so much." He continued, "The thing that killed mom… a demon, Bobby. And it almost--almost killed Dean… and a colt that can—can kill anything and just… Pastor Jim is gone… and there's just so much that happened."

The kid drew in a deep breath, then shook his head slowly, "I knew that—that things were happening, I knew it because he stopped telling me stuff, didn't call as much. I knew things were happening and I knew it had to be—to be bad—if he wasn't telling me. And I didn't push, Bobby. I didn't—I was afraid that it could… I liked things the way they were and I didn't want to—to shake things up and I should have—should have thought that maybe he needed to talk, needed help. I should have pushed."

"Sam--"

But the kid wasn't listening, his eyes were fastened intently on the ground his voice picking up in fervor. "I'm going to push now, Bobby. I have to. He has to talk about it, to tell me what he's thinking. Because he's so still and quiet and I know he's thinking. And I have to—have to know what he's thinking. I'm going to push." He stopped there, speech just ending like it could no longer give voice to his racing fears and determinations.

"He needs time, Sam." Bobby stated after a moment.

Sam's head lifted, eyes meeting his, shaking his head again. "It's been almost two weeks. I'm not saying he shouldn't still be grieving, because I know that-- I mean, it's never-- I don't expect that to go away, but Bobby… he's not… he's… just not. He's not dealing with it at all and it's-- it's ripping him to shreds inside, it has to be. And I'm scared he's gonna do… I just don't know what to do! I tried to-- to talk to him after this hunt, to get it out in the open, but he's just—it's like he's shut it out or off or something."

Bobby shrugged, moving in closer and sitting on bumper of an old junker. "Losin' your Dad--"

"I know," Sam cut in, sitting down next to him. "You don't think I know? I--" The kid's voice broke suddenly and Bobby dug the toe of his unlaced boot into the ground. "One day, Bobby. That's all-- it's my fault, I know that, but all I got was one day with him and--"

Bobby looked up. "Whoa, whoa. Hold it, kid. Don't be puttin' rose-colored glasses on. That rift 'atween the two of you was as much John's fault as yours. Both a'you too damn stubborn."

"Half the time I don't even know what we're fighting about. That's what he said to me, Bobby; that half the time he didn't even know--"

There was that choked sob again, head hanging low, eyes closed tight as Sam tried to regain control. "Five years and he didn't even--"

Eyes full of tears and soul-drenching regret lifted to look at Bobby. "And me either, Bobby. I couldn't tell you what half of the fights were about. Just me not wanting to…" He shrugged, head dropping again. "Not wanting to let him win, to-- to be like him. And now--"

"Now what?" Bobby interrupted. "You got yourself a wife, Sam. A career. You tellin' me you regret that? You tellin' me you'd give that up if you had a second chance?"

The kid's head snapped up, eyes wide. "No! I just-- I could have, should have done it differently!"

"Different how?"

"I don't know… talked to Dad, maybe tried harder to make him--"

"We still talkin' about John Winchester here?"

"Bobby--"

"Your Dad knew one way of doing things, Sam. His." Bobby waited a moment so the words could sink in, for Sam to remember how true they were, then he added, "You did it the only way you could do it. No shame in that."

The yard was silent and Bobby let his gaze travel back to the house, to the darkened window of the room Dean was using. Somehow he knew it wasn't like the boy to not be there when Sam needed him; when Sam had to do something like this, had to work things out like this, by talking and sharing and being understood and reassured.

He was looking at Bobby again, eyes imploring, looking for that understanding and reassurance. "I didn't realize-- I really just… missed him."

The words were awed, like the boy had just come up with the concept, like five years of estrangement had just caught up with him—and maybe they had.

"I mean—he… he was my Dad and I did love him, Bobby, I did. I just… thought— or didn't think… I never thought that one day he wouldn't be there, you know?"

Bobby held his tongue, knew the boy wasn't really looking for an answer, was just looking to let it out, to give voice to the thoughts that were haunting him in hopes that he could somehow escape them, somehow find peace.

Sam swallowed hard, shaking his head, eyes meeting Bobby's again. "God. I never—I never thought for one second that if I needed him— you know, really needed him, he wouldn't come. I never thought he wouldn't come. How stupid is that?" He asked deprecatingly.

Bobby was silent for a beat, then stated wryly, "Not too bad considerin' he would'a."

His efforts were rewarded by a small puff of air that could have been a laugh or another sob. They were silent for another long moment, before Sam ducked his head, "So much—wasted time… and I just… I miss him." He repeated sounding impossibly young and lost.

Bobby nodded, saying nothing, wrapping an arm around the kid's shoulders, feeling the way Sam turned into him, the way the kid scrunched down to bury his face in Bobby's shoulder. This is what Sam needed, how he drew comfort and peace. How or where Dean would find the same things Bobby had no idea.

The feel of heavy air around him, of being watched, had him lifting his face to Dean's darkened window again. He caught Dean's gaze immediately. The moonlight illuminating the way the boy's eyes were fastened intensely on him and Sam, his face completely blank.

It was such a strange, faraway look that Bobby felt a prickling along his skin, like he was watching Dean impassively float farther and farther away them.

And as the boy let the curtain drop, removing himself from window pane, from view, Bobby couldn't help but wonder if that wasn't indeed what was happening.

TBC.

Author's Note #2: Actual Brother Interaction in the next chapter, I swear! ;)