The sun was out still, but making it's decline. The sky looked orange and deep, but somehow recalled liquor...
Or maybe that was just the craving Bobby had. He climbed the steps to his porch, sighing, hefting the bags of food and drink he'd just bought from the market in town. He looked at the door for a moment, not exactly hesitant; maybe just preparing himself, for Dean.
Looking at Dean was hard these days.
The boy was clearly a wreck, but then who could blame him. He'd lost his pride and joy - Sam was always more than just his kid brother. Dean'd raised that boy, Bobby knew. Sam had been his world. Looking at Dean now was like looking at a crippled man.
Like looking into the welling eyes of a man who knew he'd never walk the same again, if he ever found the strength to walk at all.
Bobby steeled himself, pushing the sad thoughts away. Chili. He'd make chili tonight. That's all he had to think about. Chili.
He opened the door to see Dean walking down the stairs towards him, slowing as they came to face each other, just a couple yards apart.
Chili with cornbread maybe, he thought sadly, to go.
Dean told Bobby as straight as he could. He tanked him for having him, was sorry he hadn't been much of a guest or much as far as company went-
"Ah, 'course ya weren't. Things've been hard, Dean."
but he had appreciated it, he really had. It was just time-
"I didn't figure you'd wanna stick around forever, ya know. I get it - the job is jus' whatcha need right now. I'm not an idjit."
The corners of Dean's mouth almost lifted at that. Almost.
"Yeah," Dean agreed, "I think it might...a little."
Bobby looked at him then, long. Dean had to avert his eyes.
"You don't get stupid, alright? Don't make me worry about ya. Check in."
Dean nodded. Maybe he would. He wasn't quite sure. He lifted his head as he took a deep breath, shifting the bag and pulling something from his pocket.
"I, uh," Dean mumbled, the cleared his throat as he put the keys to what had once been the Impala on the kitchen table, "thought I'd leave these with you. Dunno what I'd do with them, and...just...yeah. There ya go." Bobby didn't say anything, and Dean didn't have to look to know what his face would look like, so he just kept talking, "and if it's alright I'm gonna take the Camry from the yard," he pulled out the envelope he'd been keeping the money he'd gotten from selling the Impala parts in, pulling out the amount written on the car outside, "I finished the axle yesterday, so I'l just buy it you and get going-"
"You put that away right now."
Dean looked up, paused in the act of reaching the put the money on the table. He blinked at Bobby, who looked suddenly outraged.
"Bobby, I'm just-"
"No, you aint!"
"Look it's not-"
"Dean, just take it, you don't need to pay me for anything, don't be ridiculous-
"It's not ridiculous, Bobby, I'm taking a car and I'm paying for it-"
"Boy, if you don't put that money away right now I'm getting my gun."
Dean clenched his teeth, meeting Bobby's glare equally.
"You don't owe me anything, son," Bobby growled, "You take what you need, you hear me? And I'm damn well glad to give it. Family don't need no payment."
And it should have been moving, Dean knew it. It should have felt good, knowing that Bobby considered him family, knowing that he had someone, anyone left. He should have just accepted the gift for what it was, thanked him and left, called in a few days and let it be.
But for some reason, all Dean felt was angry, and pained. His family was dead, his family was gone. The last of it had died with Sam, and he didn't need this right now, he didn't want any more family to lose. He didn't want to deal with how Bobby's fatherly love might affect him, and he didn't want to deal with how Sam being gone might be affecting Bobby, or how Bobby might react if Dean did get stupid, if Dean didn't check in a week from now, or a month from now.
Dean couldn't deal with family right now. He had too much grief killing him, he couldn't deal with family too, so he just wanted Bobby to make it simpler for him, at least for now, he just wanted Bobby to keep his distance, at least for a while, he wanted Bobby to
"Just take the damn money!" and he threw it at the table, turned and walked out the door. He headed to the Camry outside, wiped off the chalked priced with his sleeve, climbed in and started it. He looked once over to the passenger side, only once. He bit the inside of his mouth, willing his throat to calm and his eyes to stop it, just stop stop stop it, and not well up.
He pulled out and drove away, pushing the expression that Bobby had been wearing out of his mind. He'd deal with it when he could.
If he'd ever be able to at all.
Bobby stared as Dean furiously threw the money at him, and then walked away. He watched the bills flutter, some landing on the table and come skittering to the floor, settling as the sound of the Camry's engine faded away, no doubt churning dirt and dust into the sunset.
He knew Dean was just grieving. He knew he was just struggling to deal. If the boy had wanted to pay him, he ought to 've just let him pay him. He knew Dean didn't mean to hurt him by it.
But Bobby couldn't help the sting in his heart and his eyes, just then. He sat a moment in silence, staring out the kitchen door, to the living room where the couch sat empty, and the books sat quietly collecting dust, and the fireplace sat dirty and unused.
For a moment, he could see a three year old Sam bouncing along after a ball through that room; in his mind's eye he saw him chasing that half-flat ball and all but squealing happily when he caught it. He'd smiled when Dean asked him to tell what color the ball was, what color is it Sam? Tell me the color, and Sam had said in his young and unpracticed voice, Red, Dee, is red, right?, and then turned to gaze up at the man who had sown up his Daddy the night prior, Right, Ungle Vobby?
"Yeah, kid," Bobby whispered to himself, lost in the memory, blinking the sting out of his eyes and letting it drip down his scruffy face, "it's red..."
And then the image was gone, and Bobby was sitting in silence once more, money scattered around his kitchen, chili on his stove, and cornbread in the oven.
Chili, cornbread, and the phantoms of the sons he hadn't even known he had until they were gone.
Dean decided to head to the East Coast.
He wasn't sure why. It'd seemed like a good idea. The West Coast had just too darn much California, and California reeked of Sam. Just too much to take right now.
He stopped at a diner somewhere between Springfield ad Shelbyville, ordered a burger, onion rings, and a coffee for himself and a chicken salad for his sorry, never mind, just the first half, thanks, pulled out Sam's laptop and started trolling through newspapers for lead on hunts.
The Quay County Sun of Tucumcari, New Mexico seemed to complain of what could be a skinwalker. He bookmarked that one for when he headed west again. The Dunwoody Crier of Georgia described something like a poltergeist. Something that looked worth looking into.
Another something in Georgia....sounded like rabies as opposed to a possessed dog, though...
Someone killed inside a locked car in Maine. Doesn't look promising...
Death inside an apartment in Boston, doors locked. Could be a lot of things...
Haunted house in Talahassee. Hm....
It was plenty to be getting on with. A lot to choose from, actually. Too much.
He paused over a webpage from The Morning Call, a newspaper in Allentown, Pennsylvania. He read over the headline that had caught his eye.
"Man and wife found dead in locked car," Dean muttered, head cocked. He clicked the link, and scrolled down, "Gregory and Denise Karp were found dead in their locked car on Thursday, October 12 by a neighbor..." Dean squinted at it for a second, then went to the computer's history and pulled up the link from the newspaper in Maine, reading it with more interest this time.
"Craig Taylor found murdered in his locked car two days after being reported missing by wife Angela," Dean read to himself, "no evidence found to find a suspect..." Dean leaned back, frowning, waiting for his brain to kick in and tell him what he was missing. Something...maybe he should just ask Sam.
"Hey, Sa-"
He froze, staring at the booth, his uneaten burger. The waitress quickly looked back to her notepad, pretending not to have noticed he had been talking to himself a moment before.
Dean let his face go blank, pulled out his wallet and put out the bills for his food.
Boston. He's choose Boston. The rest could wait.
He shut the laptop, downed is coffee, went to the car and drove.
Bobby was sitting in the hospital, waiting for Dean to wake up. How can I tell him? he thought haggardly, rubbing a hand over his face, how can I possibly tell him his brother is dead? He's going to hate me. Aw, Sam, why like this? I can't do this, I can't...
"Bobby?"
Bobby looked up, stunned, into the face of a blue eyes, long-haired, unscathed Sam Winchester, wearing an expression that looked lost and scared.
"Sam? Sam!" he stood, overjoyed to hug him, "you're okay! You're alive-" but before he could reach him Sam disappeared, and the hospital winked out of sight, and Bobby couldn't see anything, but he reached out to try to grab Sam anyway, he had to be just right there...
"Bobby..." Sam's voice echoed around him, tortured, "where's Dean?"
Bobby jack-knifed in bed, panting.
For a tenth of a second before he blinked, he though he saw Sam standing at the foot of his bed in the near black darkness, the same lost expression on his face.
Only a slice of a second, and Bobby saw nothing but his room, his bed, his drawers, his curtain on his window and his shaking hands gripping his sheets.
Sam hadn't been there. Of course not. It was just a nightmare. He helped Dean salt and burn the body himself. He had the ashes in a box downstairs.
It was just a dream.
Bobby put his head in his hands.
Just a dream.
Boston was a waste of time. Dude dead in a locked house. No sign of forced entry, no weapon found, no prints.
The wife did it. What a bitch.
All it took was one talk with the guy's best bud to get it all out. From there it was as simple as a quick peek at the prenup and the life insurance policy, and everything fell into place. Dean met with her, and the woman's fake tears weren't even remotely convincing next to her brand new six thousand dollar earrings.
Stupid cops. He left an anonymous tip for them to check her shoeboxes and talk to the best friend. Like spoonfeeding. Geez.
And now Dean sat in a coffee shop on a corner somewhere downtown, trying to pick the next hunt. Maybe the Georgia one...
He looked at the other chair at the little table. He suddenly felt a distinctly heavy blanket of loneliness fall.
There must've been thirty people in the shop, all talking or taking orders or making calls or tapping on their computers. But it seemed much too quiet, quiet without a specific voice, quiet to the point of being oppressive.
Dean looked at the chair, at the quiet.
"Whaddayou think, huh?" he managed to ask the air.
He watched the empty chair.
"Yeah I know," he shook his head a little, " doesn't really matter which."
Dean sat there 'til the place emptied, until it was quieter still and the employees were glancing at him awkwardly, waiting for him to leave so they could close up.
Dean nodded once more, still looking at the empty chair, and he could barely swallow around the huge hot knot in his throat to mutter, "Georgia it is, then."
Ivy shut her stamps drawer and locked it. She went around the counter to the front doors of the post office and made sure they were pulled shut, locked them, and engaged the alarm. Turning, she smiled at Jesse and Martin as they started clearing up and putting things away for the night.
"Thank God it's friday, right?" Ivy laughed, while Jesse boomed out his deep chuckle, stacking the packages to be picked up tomorrow behind the counter.
"We work in a post office Ivy," Jesse said, smirking, "we work on the weekends, too."
"You know what I mean!"
"What you mean," Martin winked at her, elbowing Jesse as he spoke, "is hurry up and finish closing so you can go home to Alan." Both Jesse and Martin laughed, closing the other stamp drawers and finishing the stacked boxes and envelope files. Ivy rolled her eyes, waving her arms at them to herd them toward the back door.
"Potato, potahto," she said, turning away from them to flick off the light switch, "let's go home!" She turned back, and was surprised to see Jesse and Martin nowhere.
"Jesse?" Ivy called, puzzled, "Martin?" She walked through the post office toward the hall to the back door, pulling her sweater around herself at the sudden chill she felt, "did you guys leave already? Wha..."
She halted her steps, and her words faltered when she turned the corner to see both Jesse and Martin on the floor, lit by moonlight from the window and clearly dead, throats open, blood everywhere.
Her eyes bugged, and she stumbled back, gasping air to scream with.
She'd hardly turned when she was met by a letter opener pressed against her throat, and a voice echoing in her ear, "Where is he? What have you done with him?"
The post office didn't open on Saturday in Shullsburg, Wisconsin. An employee found the bodies of her three co-workers inside the next morning, and called the police, sobbing.
Amidst the yellow crime scene tape and confounded police, the stacked packages sat behind the counter, waiting to be picked up, some of the spattered with still drying blood.
On the topmost package, next to a sticker reading EBAY in block letters, read an address to and from.
TO:
Gary Shorr
P.O. Box 28898
1441 Bradley Street
Shullsburg, WI 17833
SENDER:
Dean
Singer's Auto
1874 Ritchers Road
Mobridge, SD 45776
Next to the package lay a bloody letter opener, with no fingerprints to be found.