Chapter Three

My muse finally came back! This was going to have more in it, but then this section turned out to be pretty long itself, so I'll have the next chapter soon!

Dean climbed out of the third car he'd stolen since the gas station in Pontiac, Illinois, ten hours ago. When each car had run out of gas, he'd been forced to steal another since he didn't have any credit cards or anything on him.

Dean made his way up the porch stairs, heading to the door and knocking on it. He waited for a moment before the door was pulled open, revealing Bobby with a wide-eyed, slack-jawed look of shock on his face.

Dean smiled cautiously at him. "Surprise."

"I…I don't…" stuttered Bobby, easing slightly backwards.

"Yeah, me neither," muttered Dean, stepping into the house. "But here I am."

As Dean stepped towards him, Bobby suddenly pulled a knife out and lunged at him. Dean's instincts kicked in, and he ducked out of the way of the knife, shoving the arm up and around behind Bobby's back.

"Bobby!" Dean yelled at him.

Dean held back, not wanting his newfound strength to emerge. If he let that slip, Bobby would have believe he was himself. And it was probably Dean's restraint that allowed Bobby to break his grip, elbowing him in the face.

Dean stumbled back a little into the kitchen. "Bobby, it's me!"

"My ass!" growled Bobby, advancing on Dean.

Trying to find a way to keep Bobby at bay without fighting him, Dean grabbed a kitchen chair and shoved it in between the two of them. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait! Your name is Robert Steven Singer. You became a hunter after your wife got possessed. You're bout the closest thing I have to a father."

The tension eased out of Bobby as he stared at Dean.

"Bobby, it's me," Dean pleaded.

Bobby lowered the knife, slowly stepping forward and pushing the chair aside. He placed a hand on Dean's shoulder as Dean watched him warily. Bobby suddenly plunged the knife towards Dean, who allowed some of his strength to come out long enough to twist Bobby's arm behind his back and grab for the knife, holding him in place.

"I am not a shapeshifter!" Dean yelled.

"Then you're a revenant!" Bobby yelled back, struggling to break free.

Dean released Bobby and shoved him a little. Bobby stumbled forward and turned back to face him as Dean raised the knife.

"Alright," said Dean. "If I was either, could I do this with a silver knife?" He pushed up his sleeve and rolled his eyes slightly before slicing a shallow cut into his skin. He looked up at Bobby to wait for his reaction.

Bobby stared at him in disbelief and shock. "Dean?"

Dean sighed in relief. "That's what I've been trying to tell ya."

Bobby lunged forward suddenly, wrapping Dean in a tight hug. Dean hugged him back before pulling away.

"It's…it's good to see you, boy," said Bobby.

"Yeah, you, too," said Dean.

"But…how did you bust out?" asked Bobby.

Dean suddenly felt himself surging backwards, the creature with a hold on him dragging him upwards. Dean yelled as he tried to fight the figure, but the creature was too strong for him. As the creature gripped onto him, he felt everything getting lighter and less oppressive, as though he were waking up from a deep sleep.

Dean shook his head a little to dispel the memories. "I don't know. I just, uh…" he turned and put the knife down on the kitchen table, "I just woke up in a pine box—"

Dean turned back to Bobby to get a face full of holy water. He stood there for a moment, trying to look annoyed, but was actually really happy Bobby had done that. The holy water hadn't hurt at all; he was definitely not a demon.

Dean turned his head and spat the water out of his mouth, looking back at Bobby. "I'm not a demon either, you know." He felt a small thrill at getting to say that out loud.

"Sorry," said Bobby, holding up the bottle of holy water. "Can't be too careful." He set the holy water on the table and headed to the kitchen counter. "So, you just…woke up?"

Dean shrugged. "Yeah."

Bobby handed him a dish towel as he headed into the living room. "But…that don't make a lick of sense."

Dean laid the towel on his shoulder, wiping his face off on it. "Yeah, you're preaching to the choir."

Bobby stopped at the desk in his living room. "Dean, your chest was ribbons, your insides were slop, and you've been buried four months. Even if you could slip out of hell and back into your meat suit—"

"I know," Dean muttered. "I should look like a 'Thriller' video reject."

That was one thing he still did not get: how he had healed. If he wasn't a demon, he definitely didn't heal himself. He didn't understand why he didn't even have the scars from the hellhounds.

"What do you remember?" asked Bobby.

Dean hesitated a moment before deciding what story to run with. When he finally got to Sam, he didn't want the kid to feel burdened with the hell Dean was stuck with the rest of his life.

"Not much," shrugged Dean. "I remember I was a hellhound's chew toy, and then…lights out. Then I come to six feet under. That was it."

Bobby leaned against the desk, thinking.

Dean glanced nervously at Bobby, not wanting to ask his next question for fear of the answer. "Sam's number's not working. He's, uh…he's not…"

"Oh, he's alive," Bobby assured him. "As far as I know."

Dean felt all the worried tension rush out of him at the word "alive." He smiled. "Good." He frowned as bobby's words got through his mind. "Wait, what do you mean, as far as you know?"

"I haven't talked to him for months."

"You're kidding. You just let him go off by himself?"

"He was dead set on it."

Dean turned more to face him, his concern for Sam working its way out through anger. "Bobby, you should've been looking after him."

Bobby stood and faced him to defend himself. "I tried. These last months haven't been exactly easy, you know—for him or me. We had to bury you."

"Why did you bury me, anyway?"

"I wanted you salted and burned—usual drill—but Sam wouldn't have it."

"Well, I'm glad he won that one," mumbled Dean.

Although, he could've buried me a little closer to the surface, he thought as he glanced down at his bloody knuckles and fingernails.

"He said you'd need a body when he got you back home somehow," said Bobby. "That's about all he said."

Dean frowned. "What do you mean?"

"He was quiet, real quiet. And then he just took off, wouldn't return my calls. I tried to find him, but he didn't want to be found."

Dean rolled his eyes, putting all the pieces together. He hadn't wanted Bobby to find him either when Sam had died, because he knew Bobby would stop him from saving his brother. "Oh, dammit, Sam…"

"What?"

"Oh, he got me home okay. But whatever he did, it is bad mojo."

"What makes you so sure?"

"You should have seen the gravesite. It was like a nuke went off. And then there was this…this force, this presence, I don't know. But it-it blew past me at a fill-up joint. And then this."

Dean took his left arm out of his jacket, letting it hang from his other arm. He rolled up the short sleeve, revealing the handprint burned into his shoulder.

Bobby frowned as he stood and headed towards him, staring at the burnt skin. "What in the hell?"

"It was like a demon just yanked me out," said Dean. "Or rode me out."

Or maybe it was something else, he thought as he flashed back to that blinding figure.

"But why?" asked Bobby.

"To hold up their end of the bargain."

"You think Sam made a deal."

Dean stared at him. "It's what I would have done."

Bobby shook his head as Dean put his shirt back in place and slipped his jacket on. "This is nuts."

"Nuts?" mumbled Dean. "Nuts is normal. This is psychotic."

Bobby smiled at him. "What else is new, right?"

Dean glanced up at him, sighing. "Actually, this."

Bobby watched as Dean walked over to the fireplace and grabbed the fire poker from its holder.

Dean turned back to him, raising the crowbar in front of him. "Promise you won't start flinging the holy water again?"

Bobby frowned as he nodded. Dean put a hand on each end of the crowbar, glancing one last time at Bobby before unleashing every ounce of strength he had. Bobby's eyes widened and his jaw dropped as Dean managed to bend the crowbar into a U, straining with the effort. Dean held the bent crowbar up, waiting for the salt gun in his face.

Nothing happened except Bobby stepping towards him and grabbing the crowbar from him, examining it. He tried as hard as he could, but he couldn't make the metal budge. Satisfied that it wasn't some practical joke on Dean's part, Bobby looked up at him.

"How in the hell did you just do that?" he asked.

"You tell me," said Dean almost desperately. "I first noticed it at that gas station. I thought I'd turned into a demon, but then I saw the date, that it had only been four months. And then there was no reaction to salt, no black eyes. And then the holy water…Bobby, what's going on?"

"Hell if I know," said Bobby, starting to head for several stacks of books. "I can probably find something here—"

Recognizing a research zen worthy of Sam starting to brew, Dean put his hand on Bobby's arm. "How 'bout later? I wanna find Sam."

Bobby nodded, turning back to him. "Yeah, yeah, of course. Go get cleaned up. There's some extra clothes upstairs."

Dean nodded and turned towards the stairs, feeling relief that he was gonna get out of these dirt encrusted clothes that his corpse had been wearing four months.