Handshakes were exchanged and Dean kissed Ellen on the cheek. Apparently he knew the woman a little, by reputation at least. "I heard congratulations were in order," he said then hesitated, seemingly embarrassed. "Did . . . did Dad ever send you guys a card or a gift or . . ."
Ellen looked confused for a moment then laughed awkwardly. "Don't you worry about it. At our age we got all the gravy boats we can use already." Then she continued, more seriously, "but, honey, we were so sorry when we heard the news - "
"It's O.K. I'm all right," Dean assured her.
"Really? I know how close you and your mom were - "
"Really, Ellen, I'm fine," he insisted, still politely, but firmly enough to let her know the subject was closed, and there were a few moments of tense silence.
"Well, you're here now," she said, at length. "And thank God for it. Bobby's been looking all over for you boys. You know he can help, right?"
Dean nodded. "I knew he would if anyone could. We think it's the head gasket." Then, after an awkward pause in which a perplexed expression settled on Ellen's face, he added "sorry . . . help with what?" as it dawned on him she wasn't talking about the car.
"Well . . . the demon, of course," she elaborated. "It's got your daddy, right?"
Sam and Dean exchanged a glance of shock and confusion. "You know about that?" Dean gasped. "How in hell – "
"Who are you?" Sam demanded. "How do you know about all this?"
Ellen shot Sam a slightly sharp glance, but she answered his question. "I used to run a saloon. Hunters have been known to pass through now and again. That's how I met Bobby."
Sam still felt like he was missing something and Dean was equally nonplussed. "Wait! Bobby's a hunter?!" he exclaimed.
Ellen's confusion deepened. "Well . . . that's why you're here, isn't it? Didn't Sam tell you?"
"Tell me what?" Dean demanded in a dangerous tone, turning an accusing stare on Sam but, this time, he had no idea what he was supposed to have been concealing. He was trying to convey his innocence with his bewildered expression when the sound of a horn interrupted the conversation, and they turned to see a blue Ford truck driving up to the house towing the Impala behind it! To add to Sam's consternation, a large black dog jumped out of the back and started barking challengingly at him.
Dean laid a hand on his chest and moved between Sam and the aggressive animal. "It's just 'cause he doesn't know you," he assured him. "Rumsfeld! Here, boy!" he called, and the dog turned its head to survey him quizzically. He stood still while it walked up and sniffed at him, then it gave a low but excited 'wuff" and leaped up to drop its paws on Dean's shoulders. On its hind legs the Rottweiler was almost as tall as he was, but Dean seemed completely unfazed, scruffing the dog's neck and tugging its ears like it was just some overgrown puppy, and now it was slobbering all over his face it didn't seem so very threatening. Sam tried to hide his disgust at the unhygienic behavior. "Yeah, you remember me, don't you?" Dean was cooing. He glanced at Sam and caught his expression. "What? You don't like dogs?"
"Just haven't had much experience with them," Sam acknowledged.
"Rumsfeld! Git down! Stupid mongrel," a gruff voice yelled and Sam looked over to see its owner getting out of the truck. He absorbed the flannels and the old baseball cap and a thunderclap of emotion hit him in the chest even before conscious recognition came to him. He watched, stunned, as the weathered old hunter carried a bag of groceries up to the porch and handed them to Ellen.
"Found this ol' heap down the road," he said, ostensibly to his wife, and indicating the car. "Thought we could strip it down for parts!"
Dean grinned. "Getting tired of life, Bobby?" he shot back.
"Figured when I saw her I'd find you boys here." They shook hands and Bobby gave the younger man a swift but shrewd once over as he clapped his shoulder. "You've grown some since I saw you last," he said.
Dean nodded. "You'd better believe it," he replied with quiet earnestness.
The man turned and studied Sam appraisingly. "Both of you," he added, with emphasis.
Dean's gaze swiped suspiciously back and forth between them. "So, you two know each other?"
"I knew a snotty nosed little kid back in Kansas once upon a time. Looks like I might 'a missed a few pages since then." Bobby took in the young man's shock and discomposure. "You remember me, Sam?" he asked.
Sam struggled to force words past the knot in his throat. He'd been a child lost in a violent world overshadowed with a grief and rage he was too young to comprehend, and this man had provided the only kindly attention he could recall ever receiving back then. It made sense now why Ellen had assumed it was Sam's idea to come here, but it wouldn't have occurred to him to connect the hunter, whose current whereabouts he hadn't known, with the scrap dealer whose name hadn't been mentioned.
"Yeah, of course I remember you Mr. Singer," he managed eventually, in a voice oddly high pitched and breathy.
"Mr. Singer was m' pa," the old hunter replied, extending his hand and gripping Sam's warmly in his. "You jus' call me Bobby."
Dean blinked at them, then his eyes widened and he stared back at the man with renewed interest and a spark of understanding. In the midst of the moment Sam felt something cold against his hand; he twitched and looked down to find the dog sniffing at him.
"Let him get your scent, son," Bobby told him. "So long as you don't have a demon up in ya, he won't bite."
He watched Sam as the dog continued to snuffle around him, and Sam understood he was being tested. He felt absurdly anxious that he wouldn't fail, but presently both dog and owner seemed satisfied.
'All right, Rumsfeld, git," Bobby said, and with the dog dismissed he nodded toward the house by way of invitation. "Come inside and have a drink," he said.
They followed the couple into the house, halting in the hallway to take in their surroundings. Everywhere they could see there were books propping up piles of books, with piles of books on top. A room to the left appeared to be a library with book shelves, a desk with some old books sitting on it, and walls covered with maps, paper, photos . . . A trained eye could pick out mystical symbols from a dozen different cultures around the room.
The kitchen was tidier and looked more organized, but Sam was well aware that the wide array of herbs had other uses besides flavoring food, and it was for certain that neither the cat's eye shells and tiger eyes on the shelves nor the Hand of Fatima on the wall were mere ornament.
Dean stared around him, wide-eyed, and his cheeks pinked a little. He glanced at Sam, loose lipped and sheepish looking. "I never saw inside the place before," he muttered defensively.
"Not many folks get invited." Bobby pulled a whiskey bottle from a cupboard. "Most wouldn't appreciate the décor," he acknowledged. He picked up a couple of tumblers but before he could pour out the shots Ellen pulled the bottle from his hand.
"No need for that," she said, handing them cold beers from the icebox instead. "Rumsfeld says the boys are OK, and it's too early for whiskey. No matter what's in it," she added significantly.
Understanding washed over Dean's face and he smiled ruefully. "Dad once complained to me you watered down your whiskey," he recalled. "He just thought you were being cheap."
The old hunter chuckled. "Glad to meet you. Bobby Singer, paranoid bastard," he said, and produced a hip flask from his pocket, tipping it toward them in salute before taking a swig then sighing appreciatively. "This here's the good stuff," he explained with a wink.
Dean continued to survey the place and he used his bottle to gesture a sweeping arc that embraced all its mystical trappings. "I wish he'd known about . . . all this . . . back when it counted . . ." he said.
"I wish I'd known he was ever gonna need to," Bobby replied.
Sam remained silent, but it seemed to him like Dean was studiously not looking at him, and he felt the unspoken accusation. Not that anything had been said, but Sam was sure Dean still blamed him for not speaking up when he had the chance, not warning the family of what he knew.
"Bobby, how long have you been – " Dean began, but the older man cut him off.
"Long enough," was all he said, and he changed the subject. "So how come you two came here on foot? What's wrong with the car?"
"Blown head – "
"We're not sure – "
Dean glared and Sam sighed inwardly. "It could be the head gasket," he said, trying to mend fences where he could.
"I felt something give out while we were on the Interstate," Dean explained. "She was sluggish all the way here, and then she started overheating. I was hoping you could take a look at her for us."
"Sure, of course," Bobby assured him. "So you know all about engines now?"
Dean half smiled then dropped his chin and shook his head. "Not even close. I think it's time I learned though."
Bobby studied him closely. "From what I hear, you've learned a lot these last six months. By the way, that poltergeist in Pennsylvania? Hell of a job."
Dean pulled his head back in surprise. "Was there an article in the Demon Hunters' Quarterly I missed?"
"I've had my feelers out ever since I heard what happened with your folks," Bobby explained, "But every whisper I got of you two, you'd already moved on. You boys do a fine job covering your tracks." He nodded toward Sam. "I'd've asked your Gran'pappy if he'd heard any news, but he still won't take my calls."
Sam wasn't surprised to hear it. He knew there was no love lost between the two men, though he'd never learned how they came to fall out. "Is it true you threatened to blast him full of buckshot last time you saw him?" he asked.
"Yeah, well, what can I say? Samuel just had that effect on me." Bobby shrugged noncommittally. "We just never saw eye to eye, I guess. But I was willing to help all these years if he'd just picked up the phone."
Dean looked sharply at the old hunter, his eyes lighting up with sudden excitement. "Bobby, can you help us find the demon?" he demanded eagerly.
"No, I can't do that," Bobby replied, but before the hope faded from Dean's face he added "but I can help you trap it."
.
