Hello again! Sorry for the slow update, I'll be quicker next time, I promise…and yes, this is Locheline here, repeating that same promise again.

At least it's a relatively long chapter, eh?

Oh, and I'm not sure if Bobby has a T.V., but if not then he saw Logan in the paper.

Enjoy, and Happy Holidays!

The junkyard was absolutely silent.

It was. It truly was. It would have made Logan relax if he hadn't had some idea of what he was getting into, but as it were the silence was downright nerve-wracking. He got out of the Impala warily, the door closing behind him and the latch making a soft, metallic click as it did. He stepped away from the car with his hands at his sides, his pupils already dilated to twice the size of a normal human's as they stretched to collect as much light as possible. The mountains of scraps looked just as empty as they sounded; nothing moved except the wind, which occasionally caused the grass to rustle or the old cars to creak all around him. A shuffling behind Logan caused him to start and he spun, fisting his hands at his sides but holding the blades at bay. It was just Dean, his clothes rustling as he stepped out of the Impala; he raised an eyebrow at the feral as he slammed his door but kept his mouth shut. Sam got out as well and looked between the two other men with a worried expression on his face…even though he'd been the one aching for a fight back at the Blackline, he definitely didn't smell eager now. Logan assessed him with cold eyes but didn't say a word.

The boys went around to the trunk-their own personal arsenal, as Logan had discovered-and pulled out a couple of guns. While they were loading up, Sam glanced at Dean and muttered, "Just don't shoot anyone in there."

"What?"

"Just don't. I'll explain later."

Dean stared at Sam for a second, wondering whether he was drunk or insane, but just shook his head and cocked his rifle. Go into a demon hotbed, but don't shoot anything? Maybe Sam had officially gone over to the dark side and he just didn't want to get shot. Whatever. Dean was still gonna be ready for a fight.

Sam had tried to keep his voice down as he spoke, but when you could hear a heartbeat from across a crowded room you weren't going to miss much. Logan turned away from the car again so the boys wouldn't hear him growling; he honestly couldn't help himself. That dumb bastard just didn't learn, did he? Wolverine shook off the irritation, took a deep breath, and began parsing scents.

Oil, gasoline, dust, rubber, paint, steel, vinyl, pine, oak, soap, ceramic, lighter fluid, plastic, leather, wax, grease-

"What the hell are you doing?"

Logan huffed out a breath of air. "Gimme a minute."

He took another breath through his nose and pushed his sense of smell to its limits.

Gunpowder, blood, compost, smoke, deer, dog, the sweat of a couple of different people, chlorine, baled hay, airplane fuel, mercury, cotton—

"Dude, let's go!"

Logan turned to face Dean halfway. "Just gimme a fuckin' minute!"

"What do you smell?" Sam asked, his voice cold and his eyes narrow...accusing Wolverine of holding something back.

The Canadian turned all the way around to glare at the younger hunter. "None of yer damn business, boy," he growled as he strode past him towards the scent of the smoke. The two brothers looked at each other with matching expressions of confusion and mistrust before they followed Logan towards Bobby's house.

Wolverine paused on the front porch for a half-second of assessment, took a sniff, then continued around the outside of the house to the side door and slipped silently inside. Sam followed Logan and Dean followed Sam, though the older hunter did it unwillingly at first. "We need to watch the other exits," he whispered loudly to Sam's back. "He doesn't know what he's doing," Sam replied as an explanation; Dean wouldn't have argued if it had sounded less like a half-assed excuse and more like the truth. "Since when do you care about him?" he snorted, but his cynicism didn't garner a response. Sam just shook his head at his brother and followed the Canadian inside.

Wolverine had heard them talking, but he wasn't listening hard enough to remember what they'd said. He was instead following a very loud set of lungs to their source in the living room, where they were hiding behind the open doorway into the hall. The house smelled of many things, key among them old books and nicotine, but the mingled scents of a hundred different herbs and spices was what caught the Canadian's attention and rattled his nerves. His mind quickly flipped back to his conversation with the hunters just three days before, and the idea of a crazy old man spouting charms and witchcraft wasn't one that warmed his heart. The feral's wariness wore his patience thin before it even had a chance, and he didn't wait for the boys to catch him up once he'd figured on Bobby's exact position. He just struck.

Bobby had hidden himself in the living room because it was the second place any intruder would pass on the way in, and they would be bolder about coming all the way inside once they got safely through the front door. He'd heard someone padding softly up the porch steps and had shifted the rifle at his shoulder in anticipation, ready to ambush the man Sam had told him about. He wasn't as quick on the draw as he used to be, but he was still a soldier at heart and his aim was true. At this distance, he couldn't miss.

But the footsteps had changed position once again after a short pause and had continued around to the side entrance. Now Bobby's hideout was all wrong. He'd aligned himself in such a position so as to have a good defense against both the front and back doors, but he'd assumed that no one would notice the side door in the shadows of the house.

He'd assumed wrong.

He heard the door open and close once, then twice, but he didn't notice a third set of footsteps shuffling around the house. What were those boys-

And then he was pinned against the opposite wall, coughing, wheezing, one of his attacker's hands pressing against his throat and another one holding the rifle. He gasped for breath and raised his free arm above his head in surrender, surveying his attacker with wide eyes before the spots in his vision obscured the bearded face. Bobby's senses slowly settled into the eerie silence and he realized that something was rumbling-his attacker was rumbling-his attacker was growling at him!

What the hell?

Sam and Dean came around the corner at that particular moment, Dean holding the Colt at half mast as though he wasn't sure whether he would have to use it or not. Bobby turned his head to look at the boys as they entered and Dean's eyes widened in shock at the older hunter's predicament. He fired three rounds into Logan's back, the shots coming in quick succession, but the man hardly moved an inch. Just shifted his weight a fraction to the right and eased some of the pressure off his prisoner's throat.

Dean lowered the gun. The colt had failed; he was speechless.

"This the bastard you don't want Dean killin' by mistake?" Logan growled at Sam, not taking his eyes off of Bobby in order to speak. His glare was black with fury, and all of the men present knew that he'd do something nasty if his question was left ignored.

Sam stood stock-still in the doorway. "Yes."

"You think this here's some good trick?"

And then Bobby's eyes got impossibly wider as recognition dawned on his face. "Oh dear lord," he gasped.

"What?" It was Sam asking the question.

Bobby blinked. "This is Wolverine."

The growl turned to a snarl and Logan pressed every one of his four
hundred pound bulk against Bobby's throat. "How do you know?"

"News...the news...Westchester train..."

Bobby's strangled reply had been too soft for the Winchester boys to hear, but his words had made an immediate difference. Logan released Singer and threw him back into the opposite wall with obvious restraint; he was aching to do some real damage. Bobby stumbled obligingly away from the feral, coughing violently, his body curling towards the floor. He didn't drop the gun but held it loosely now; it didn't count for anything any more.

"Who's Wolverine?" Dean asked, his body tense and his fear-scent quickly filling the room after the violent exchange. Logan was still glaring at Bobby, who had now risen to stand at his full height; the Canadian ground his teeth at Dean's question and growled at Bobby. "Don't say a fuckin' thing."

"Why the hell not?"

"Bobby? Who is he?"

And then Logan, repeating himself. "Don't say a fuckin' thing."

Bobby was glaring indignantly at Logan with his arms crossed over his chest. "You really think I was too young to have been alive for all that?" he gave a long-suffering sigh and looked away. "You were in the news twice. Once was the train and twice was in Boston." the hunter looked up again, his eyes narrowing in disbelief. "You're s'posed to be dead, boy."

Logan's eyes narrowed right back. "You don't know the half of it." It didn't sound like he intended to reveal that other half any time soon.

"Bobby, what's going on?" Sam asked the older hunter. He didn't like the sound of the Canadian's feral rumbling...it was spooky how real it sounded. Wild. Logan wasn't just trying to scare them; he was holding himself back from causing serious, regrettable damage. Sam had never come across a monster that restrained itself, but even so the idea of ending Logan's life was extremely attractive at the moment. He looked over and met Bobby's eyes, questioning, and the other hunter subtly shook his head...he knew Sam well enough to know what he was aching to do.

"Don't, Sam. It's alright...at least in the way you're thinking." he sighed again, looking askance at Logan. He'd never thought he'd see this day again, and he wasn't quite sure what he thought about its coming.

"He's a mutant."

There was an awkward silence as Bobby's words sunk in. Then Dean shook his head, snickering at the name. "A what?"

Logan glared at Bobby. "I told ya to shut the fuck up."

"A mutant. A news story. A public danger. A peacemaker. A lot was said about you after that stuff in Boston, ya know."

Logan was quiet for a moment. When he replied, his voice was sharp. "I know. I don't care."

"I ain't sayin' that you do."

The room was silent, but the wordlessness that filled the gap between the two men was unusually loud for white noise. Finally Sam broke the tension. "What happened?" he asked gently, his curiosity getting the better of his mistrust. He now felt like he'd been left out of the loop. Dean, on the other hand, wasn't at all sure he wanted to hear Logan's story. Judging by the man, it wouldn't be a pretty one. But the older brother didn't speak his mind...if Bobby wanted to tell it, then why not let him? Besides, being informed was always preferable to finding yourself unprepared, and Dean knew that better than most. He had to know what he was doing if he wanted to survive in his line of work.

Logan glared at Bobby and then whipped around and left the room, his strides short but obviously restrained. As he walked away he jerked suddenly to his right and slammed his fist through the wall, leaving a sizable hole in the plaster as he did. No one spoke until he'd gone outside, and even after that Sam and Dean were left waiting for Bobby to speak for a minute or two. Eventually the older hunter did, but his voice was lower than it had been before. Wary and respectful. Both boys began to speak in subdued tones from that point on.

"About thirty years ago, there was a generation of people born who were different. They could…do things, move stuff without touchin' it, breathe underwater, that sort of thing. Weird stuff. But they were just people, and some of 'em were dangerous."

Bobby took a breath, resigned, as if what had happened next was inevitable.

"Now the government here in the States was thinkin' of lockin' 'em all up, internment camp-style, at least until they could decide what to do with 'em. They almost got it done, too. But the muties were regular votin' citizens an' they managed to get that one offa the ballot...I guess nobody'd figured that there'd really be so many of 'em around to vote."

"An' then there were some pretty nasty terrorist attacks by the muties, an' a government jockey by the name of Stryker decided he'd kill 'em all off. Just like that. Did it in five minutes, too. Some people called him a national hero, some wrote him off as a murderer, but he killed every damn one of them freaks—"

"Freaks?"

It was Logan. He'd come back inside and was leaning against the far wall, watching them with shadowed eyes. None of the hunters could remember how long he'd been there, but it couldn't have been too long…all three of them were exceptionally observant, and they would have noticed him soon enough on their own if he hadn't drawn on their attention himself. He stood, walked towards them and halted right outside their circle, his movements still painfully slow and restrained just as they'd been on his way out. He ignored the Winchesters and stared Bobby down, his steely expression barely masking his rage. Bobby hadn't been afraid before, not really, but now he could feel his adrenaline rising higher and higher the longer he held Wolverine's gaze.

"You really think that's the way it went, don't ya?"

It was suddenly very quiet. Bobby's lips twitched under the strength of Logan's stare, and the feral's tawny eyes didn't waver in the least for another thirty seconds. Then some internal trigger was switched and he leaned away from Singer, giving him half an inch to himself.

"You watch yer tongue, boy. I ain't denyin' the cold-hard facts, but I don't like how yer puttin' 'em out there, either."

"Don't you think for a second that yer outta the woods with this."