AN: Short note on format: This chapter contains a long passage of writing, the writing, when given in short snippets will be italicized but due to that being really irritating to read in long passages, when there is a long passage of writing it will be blocked off by the usual XXXXX then properly labeled. There will be more of this sort of thing in the ensuing chapters, please let me know if you harbor any confusion, thanks so much!

Chapter 9: The Answers You Have Waited So Patiently For

The Winchesters came up the stairs in a torrent of movement, blades drawn. They stopped, stunned by the sight before them. They lowered their knives.

Crowley was suddenly sick with the idea that they would loot her, he crouched by her body again, touching it reverently. Sam, open mouthed, was staring at her.

Sam walked slowly toward Crowley, eyes fixed on her body. Brows knitted together in confusion, he reached out, Crowley nearly flinched away, but his eyes looked only curious. With odd disconcertion, Sam touched a gold pendent slung around her neck that Crowley hadn't noticed. The face of a close eyed man with broad horns.

"Dean?"

"Sammy?"

They spoke in unison, Sam's voice sounded concerned, but Dean's was filled with disbelief, heartache even. Sam looked around, Dean was kneeling too, over the other body, unsure fingers not quite touching the claws and fangs.

"It's Cas, Sammy."

Sam got up from his crouch next to the girl and went to his brother. In other circumstances Castiel turning up as a big toothed monster who ate souls would have been much higher on Crowley's to do list, but considering that the angel monster was already dead, he felt he was allowed to spend some time devastated that the girl was dead too.

"How can it be Cas, Dean? We just saw him...how long ago was it?

"Look at him, Sammy, how could it be anybody else?" He sounded defeated.

"Dean, I know what you're thinking, this isn't your fault because you kicked him out of the bunker."

For the moment Crowley ignored their rampant self blame. He was trying to zip up her jacket, he wouldn't call her by her silly fake name, not now. She had never done him the courtesy of giving him a real name, so she could live on in pronouns.

He just wanted to keep her wrapped up, it was a ridiculous idea. A soft headed idea, but it seemed important and he wasn't in a state to curb small indulgences. There was, however, something rather large tucked inside the jacket. He glanced at the Disconsolate Duo. They were consoling each other or blaming each other loudly, he couldn't tell, there was a ringing in his ears he couldn't quite shake. The injustice of her death rumbled through him then, how dare she allow him to create such beautiful dreams of companionship then run off and die. In equal parts he wanted to burn her to nothing and preserve her body for time immemorial. He in vain tried to zip the jacket again and, unable to cope with the bulge down its left side she reached under her jacket and withdrew a battered, tan leather journal. A thrill jolted him, if she had left this, perhaps left it for him, the answers he wanted might be inside. Her name. Where in the name of Purgatory she came from. Ruthlessly, he pulled open the leather flap that secured the cover and opened it.

The front inside cover was emblazoned HW in an official looking brand. Above that there were military awards pinned into it in neat rows. Beneath the awards, however, was a snapshot, taken with an old Polaroid camera that Crowley found much more interesting. The picture was faded and looked old, remarkably old. The photo showed two people sitting on the hood of that metal heap the Winchesters were so proud of. The largest of the two was quite obviously Dean though he looked a little more weathered, he was grinning with his arm around a tiny girl. She looked no older than six, an adult man's jacket hanging off her shoulders and a large, messy smile splitting her face. Her dark hair looked tangled and there was, perhaps motor oil, streaked across her face. His breath hitched and he stared, uncomprehendingly at the photo. Finally, blinking with the effort of bending his voice into obedience he called out.

"Boys," Crowley called to them, "I'm fairly certain you're going to be interested in this."

"Not now about your girl, Crowley," Dean snarled.

"Moose," Crowley crooned, "I understand that Squirrel is devastated that his angel boytoy grew teeth, but, because we just shared a bonding moment together, I'm going to allow you a single chance to come see this thing you are going to be greatly interested in before I ferret it away in Hell and set a legion of Hellhounds to keep it from your grasp just to spite you." He was not in the mood to be brushed off.

Sam turned away from Dean and Castiel to look at what Crowley was inspecting. "Dean!" He said in his put on growl, hitting Snarling Squirrel on the shoulder. "Its-...Its Dad's journal." That got his attention.

Both of the boys walked over to Crowley and crouched next to him.

Dean snatched the journal from Crowley's hands. His body seemed to be moving slower than he was used to, the commands to his muscles had, it seemed, a few stops to make before they reached their destination. Dean held the journal. He had closed it, he was looking over the front cover,feeling the flaws in the leather, fingerpads gently pressing on it. He, as Crowley had, carefully pulled the strap back ,opining it. He touched first the HW Then, each of the awards, checking them with slow patience, like the was looking for flaws. Then finally he got to the picture, a picture he had been, until this point, ignoring. Crowley watched his fingers shake while he pulled the photo out of its paper clip attachment and looked at it more closely, "Is that...me? Sammy," He asked, his voice was soft uncertain whisper, "that's me. Who the hell is the kid?"

Sam took it from him and turned it over, on the back was written in slanted blue ink, 'Lessons with Baby, 6th Birthday, '35' Dean looked unnerved, "Sam, is that...that's me...is that kid? What the hell? Sammy, what the hell?"

Crowley meanwhile turned his attention to the journal itself, he though the assumption that the journal held by the girl in question might have a few more answers than a man who couldn't control his own sideburns. It was the three ringed kind that you could add more pages to it was full to the bursting. He began idly flipping through the pages, the first were filled with inked drawings, esoteric codes scribbled into margins. He stopped at a few pages, Sam gave commentary, "Those are our Dad's, that's his journal."

Crowley gave him a demeaning smile, "Yes, I actually had puzzled that together for myself when you growled, 'Dean, It's Dad's Journal.'"

Sam sneered at him, annoyed. A third of the way through the pages changed slightly, the contents also altered, smaller, scratchier handwriting, fewer drawings. Along with the hand, the journal also seemed to be being used slightly differently. The first third, John's, was a log of what he happened to be fighting, notes mostly for himself. This part was labeled and organized by monster. There was a page labeled 'Vampires' and beneath it logs of information, how to kill one, where they had been seen, phone numbers of vampire hunters, or hunters killed by vampires. All labeled, made for a person different from the person who wrote it. In the back there was a brief enochian lexicon. Sam interrupted again, "Dean, this is your handwriting."

"Sammy, this can't be Dad's journal, I've got Dad's journal in the trunk."

Continuing to ignore them, Crowley flipped passed apparently Dean's entries in the journal, he was hoping she had written something, even a note perhaps, a name? He was not disappointed. It wasn't as though he didn't have an interest in the parts of the journal mysteriously written by Dean. They all had fought Castiel perhaps, they all had lost pieces. Was he still sure that was how it worked?

The last third changed again. Again it was slightly different paper, and again, the handwriting changed. It was written in a pretty, elegant cursive hand, clearly feminine when juxtaposed to the hunter's scrawl in the rest of the journal. The top of the page was labeled clearly.

THE ANSWERS I PROMISED

Dean and Sam were reading over Crowley's shoulder, they must have looked ridiculous all crowding around a small book, but none of them were in a state to notice. The first few lines had devoured their attention.

My name first, I suppose, you've been waiting so patiently. I could list them, you know, for pages, the names I've had, I could go on for volumes all of the stories attached to them. But I don't have much time, so I'll start with my first. The name I was born under.

Bobby Winchester.

Born March 20th , 2029 to Dean Winchester and a Woman I was never introduced to. I'll keep my preamble brief:

I'm breaking the rules writing this down, you're learning things too soon. But the worry is always that you'll change things if you know too much about what's going to happen, and I'm very much hoping that you do. I don't have the space to write down everything, that would take centuries of writing and libraries of books. But I can tell you this one story, the one that all the other ones come from. Its hard to know where to start, the beginning could have been so many places. I'm going to write down the story you need, but other pieces too, pieces I most don't want to lose. Because if I succeed I won't die. If I succeed my soul will be gone forever, I will be gone, and I want something of my favorite hours to be remembered.

P.S. Crowley, I'm sorry for the turmoil I caused you, pardon a woman doomed her few indulgences.

Dean was pale faced, Sam spluttered, "Time travel? You think...angels? Dean, that might not really be Cas."

Crowley turned the page and read on, if they fell behind it wasn't his problem.

XXXXX

From the Journal of Bobby Winchester

My youngest memory and one I hold most precious to me, I was barely four and sitting in the car with my father. The car, his car, the car he took everywhere as though it was his home. It was, of course, but I didn't quite know that yet. It was late for me and we had had a big day. It may have been my birthday, but it may not have been. But we had gone to a mall, exciting in and of itself, and I had gotten new pretty dresses. Even then you couldn't keep me out of a pretty dress. We had Orange Juliuses and split a Cinnebun. I remember that my belly hurt a , the best part, we had driven out of town and pulled over. Dad balanced some cans on a railing and taken a gun out of the trunk. I couldn't lift it on my own but he stood behind me, kneeling on the ground with his arms around me, holding the gun, his finger curled around mine on the trigger. He told me, in a soft voice in my ear, how to aim, then we had shot down the cans. My first time ever shooting a gun. I had been gleeful.

The ride home seemed long, I was young and very tired. I unbuckled my seatbelt and scooted over to the middle to lean against Dad's arm, he looked down at me and lifted his arm, and pulled me against his chest, inside his jacket. I burrowed into his side, warm and sleepy. He draped his arm over me and I slept, contented. For regardless of the monster were in the dark, how could I be in any danger under the arm of my father. He had saved the world. He was a hero.

When I woke up, as is the privilege of children, I was tucked into my own bed in my own room, deep in the enclave of The Bunker. My room, I had been allowed to decorate it myself, although Dad helped, I wasn't old enough to have deciphered the mystery of keeping things securely on walls. So my walls were covered in pictures I had drawn in crayon. Equally divided between the puppy I so desperately wanted, every flower, real or fake, that I could imagine, and my father defeating monsters. The only parts of my room I couldn't cover up or destroy were sigils on my walls and the demon trap above the door. Although, as per my request, those were pink.

I didn't bother getting dressed, but remained in the pajamas dad had put me in the night before, which I now blearily remembered. My favorite, they were footie pajamas, all my jams were, floors were cold this far underground. But these were special, they had been a gift, I couldn't remember from whom, but I do remember taking them out of pink sparkling wrapping paper. They were, at the time, one of my most treasured possessions. They were all white with a pink belly and short pink tail and cute little pink wings that stuck out on the back. And, my favorite part, a little horse head hood with a pink mane and soft silver unicorn horn.

So still in my favorite pajamas, that I would have worn every minute of every day had I been allowed, I zipped from my room, slipping a little on the stone floors. I made my way up to the library where I knew Dad would be with coffee. But, this morning, I was greeted with a pleasant surprise.

"UNCLE CASSY UNCLE CASSY!" I shouted in glee and, running into the library at full speed I flung myself upward into Cas's arms. He caught me, as he always did, and gave me his little head tilting gaze. I imitated him, small, furrowed brow and everything. I giggled and peppered his face with children's kisses in delight. It wasn't often that he was around, but I treasured it when he was. He wasn't playful like he usually was, I was abjectly disappointed. He set me down.

"Dean," he said to my dad, "We have things we need to discuss."

"Bobby, go eat some breakfast." I nodded and shuffled out of the room, understanding what it was to be dismissed.

In hindsight, this was the beginning of the end. And it happened much to near the beginning for my liking. I don't think I was taken out of the bunker more than twice after that.

XXXXX

By the time I was about eight, I hadn't been more than a few miles from the bunker in years. It was not as hellish as you might suspect. It was nearly all I had ever known and if you get down to it, most children spend their whole young lives a few miles from their home. But I couldn't leave the bunker without Uncle Cas or my father.

Now that I was a little older, I was beginning to recognize the worry my father was collecting. He had never been a particularly happy man, but he was sleeping less and less. He would forget to make meals, disappear for days at a time, leaving me locked away in the bunker. It wasn't a terrible fate, I could make macaroni and microwave ravioli for myself, although I had taken to hiding the cans deep in the garbage when I did, they made Dad sad to see them. I was never sad to cook for myself, although I preferred the hamburgers and fries my Dad would make me to canned ravioli, I thought of it as a contribution to my Dad's noble effort. He was a hero, which meant always saving people, and didn't mean always being home for dinner.

He had given up trying to keep my from knowing about monsters. It was impossible to convince even the smallest child that Uncle Cassy was a human, and it would have been a difficult job to shield a child from the existence of monsters while she was growing up in the headquarters of the Men of Letters. Not that there were any Men of Letters. Uncle Sammy had been one, Dad told me, when he drank whiskey and told me stories. The stories were always about people he said were family, but had died before I was born. Uncle Sammy, Auntie Charlie, Grampa John and Gramma Mary. Bobby. He was my favorite for the childhood reason that we shared a name. That I was name after him, which made him extra important. These stories were my primary source of entertainment. For although they were infrequent, I had used their cast as my imaginary playmates, as I spent most of my days alone.

I, of course, didn't think of it as playing, but training. I would sit in the library researching whatever monster I had decided was terrorizing the bunker, first you had to figure out what you were hunting, then, how to kill it. So those were my steps, sometimes it was a ghost with an elaborate and imminently tragic history, there had been a lot of murdered puppies that needed vengeance in those days. Or a bloodthirsty vampire, or a creeping ghoul. But, of course, I had to bring someone along, you can't hunt alone.

So I chose from my store of companions. It wasn't often Uncle Sammy, it was hard to separate him from the chill of despair that crept into Dad's voice when he talked about him, even the happy stories. He had been my Dad's brother, and died when I was just a baby. He didn't tell me how. But how desperately I wanted a brother. Another person to be locked up with. Being locked up with someone will bond you, being locked up alone will drive you mad. This was the lesson I learned throughout the first part of my history.

Play playmates also were not Grampa John either who, judging from the stories from Dad, wasn't very much fun. But Bobby would join me, calling me gruff names and being warmly impressed by my amazing hunting abilities. Or Gramma Mary, since we both grew up hunters, she and I were almost the same.

I was in the middle of one of these adventures, a djinn, this time, when I got my first glimmer into understanding. The djinn was hiding the the air ducts. Now, I was aware that they preferred ruins but not only did I not have access to ruins, I had recently discovered how to get into the air ducts and thus wanted every opportunity to explore them. Gramma Mary was with me, I remember.

Fully immersed in my game, it took me a moment to realize that I could hear my father talking to Uncle Cas below me. I stopped, trying to be silent.

"Don't you fucking dare, Cas." my father had raged. I flinched, knowing I wasn't intended to hear this.

Cas answered in his gruff tone, "I must, Dean, how could I walk away from this?"

"They're using you, Cas, why can't it be someone else?"

"We have a chance to destroy the demons, destroy them, Dean, not lock them up, get rid of them forever, and you want me to step down?"

"Yeah, and you remember how well it went when we tried to lock them up? Or when you tried to lock up heaven? Big fixes like this don't work, Cas, you're gonna get killed and probably take the world down with you."

"Do you have no faith in me, Dean?"

"You always screw it up, Cas, you try to help everybody and it never works. You die and I have to clean up your mess."

There was a rustle and I knew Uncle Cas was gone. I had never heard Dad talk to Uncle Cas like that, with that edge of meanness in his voice. He usually spoke to him with the gruffness that meant special affection. I was frightened. I very much so didn't want Cas to die, nor did I want to world to end. This part scared me less, like most children I didn't believe the world would really end. Dad would always be there to stop it. But I knew that people could die.

XXXXX

This was when I had my first secret from my father. I had found the blueprints to the air ducts. There were two sets. One, a small winding labyrinth were actual air ducts, impossible to move around in. The other, my air ducts, were escape hatches really, made to allow Men of Letters to flee, it was why Cas couldn't tell I was there, they were inlaid with every angel, monster, and demon magic they Men of Letters had. Unfortunately, they weren't made for eavesdropping so they only worked if the people I wanted to listen to happened to stand below them. Which was not often, my store of information was minimal and carefully guarded.

But they were my secret and I treasured them. I dragged my little world up there, cups, food, books. I made nests in the few corners there were and carved out my own private home. Later, I would be glad of this.

The day came, when I was hiding up in my favorite nook, reading with Bobby, other Bobby. He was my favorite reading companion. From beneath me I heard a voice I didn't recognize, something that got my full attention, it was so infrequent that I heard someone I didn't know. I couldn't remember, in fact, the last time I had, immediately, it was followed by my father's angry, hateful tone.

"Hello, Squirrel, it's been so long." This voice had an accent I had never heard except in movies. It was dark and gravely and dangerous.

"Crowley, how the hell did you get in here?"

The name chilled me, I had been warned about Crowley, demons in general yes, but Crowley specially. He was the King of Hell, the biggest and the baddest of the demons. My father had told me to never believe a word that came out of his mouth, and to never no matter how smart I thought I was being, or how good it sounded, to take any deals from him. I lay on the floor of the duct, ear pressed to the floor. Listening.

My father spent awhile snarling but Crowley was unwilling to tell him how he had gotten in.

Crowley spoke again, in that villain's voice, "I hear the Squirrel has had a Kitten, aren't you going to introduce us?"

"Not a chance in Hell, douchbag. Leave."

Crowley ignored this, "Call off your boyfriend."

Dad said nothing.

Crowley continued, I didn't know what he looked like but I imagined a scaley black monster with red eyes and hulking bat wings. Although he probably just looked like a person. Most monsters did.

"Castiel's little spell, the one he thinks will be the bane of all demonkind? Stop him."

"Why, because I have so much fun talking to you?"

"First of all, you utter moron, because it will kill more than just the demons, to finish the spell, dear little Cas has to die too."

I gasped, but was not scared for long, despite my previous fears, I had convinced myself that Uncle Cas wasn't going to die, Dad would save him. Dad saved everyone. But a nagging thought came upon me for the first time, maybe Dad couldn't always save everyone, after all. I had always thought that the dead came from people whom other people failed to save but maybe my ghostly playmates people my father himself had allowed to die?

Neither of them said anything after that so I thought maybe Crowley had left. I huddled deep into my corner next of blankets, I was afraid.

XXXXX

I wish I could give you a better account of how this all happened, but I was a child locked in a bunker with only one, very reluctant, source of news. So I will relay what I can.

I was nine when my father came into my room. He looked stricken, almost like he had been crying, did Dad cry? I didn't even know he knew how.

"Uncle Cas is..." he stopped, fishing for the right word, "dead." I wanted to burst into tears, I wanted to tantrum and weep. I loved Uncle Cas, he had taken me flying once. But Dad looked so sad that I didn't think the bunker could handle us sad all at once. So I pressed my lips really tight and clenched my teeth.

My dad didn't saying anything else about Cas, only, "Don't go outside, don't go anywhere without a gun, even in the bunker."

The weeks passed in a slow burn of fear. My father was gone for long tracts of time. But he didn't leave me with ravioli alone anymore. When he left he made sure the bunker was fully stocked,he said I could live for years. Made sure I had emergency backpacks hidden in nearly every room. I knew every way out, every secret nook. He would wake me in the middle of the night and time me fleeing, but always stop me at the door, it had just been practice, to see how fast I could do it. I hadn't seen the sun in weeks. I would lock me in when he left. I, of course, knew the secret way out. But I never went. Just read and practiced shooting and hoped he would come back. I would have prayed, but he had ordered me not to. And, of course, I always had my gun with me, a tiny thing that fit into my hand, and a knife in my little boot.

XXXXX

I was ten when it all came down around me. I heard the door open, a sound I was deeply attuned to, I ran toward it, eager to have my father back home. I glimpsed him out the door but, before he was in it I screamed. Something was behind his shoulder. For less then a moment, I thought it was Uncle Cas, but he had fangs and claws and his wings like a smoldering demon. Dad turned, drawing a long knife. He slammed the door behind him, blocking my view. I sprinted toward the library, the nearest entrance to my enclave. I darted into it and crawled, pulling myself through the maze as fast as I was able.

I stopped at one of the exits, above the main door. The stone before me was enchanted by some old spell so I could see through it, though it was solid from outside. The Men of Letters had wanted their escapees to be able to tell if something was waiting for them. From there I could see it.

The monster Cas loomed above Dad, mouth pulled into a twisted grin.

Monster Cas leered, "Are you going to kill me, dear Dean? Can you? I'm the only one you have left!"

Dad answered by lunging at him, slashing him deep with the blade. But it did nothing. It tore his body open but it closed as fast as it had been wounded.

Monster Cas laughed in delight, "Oh, Dean! You WOUND me!" Then he laughed tyrannically. "But do you know what I'm going to do? I'm going to kill you, and I'm going to eat your soul. And, my dearest, oldest FRIEND, I'm going to break into your bunker and murder that darling little Bobby. But Dean, you know how I loved her, it will be hard for me to kill her, it might take me a very long time."

Dad let out a raging snarl and launched himself at Cas, but he had gotten in too close. Monster Cas grabbed him with one of his claws, the other delved deep into my father's chest, blood gushing out of him. I yelled out in panic as blue light crept from my father's wound, rolling up Castiel's arm, wrapping around him and sinking into his skin.

Cas hooted in delight, "Goodbye DEAN WINCHESTER," he cackled, pronouncing every syllable of his name like its own sentence.

My father's body dropped and Castiel laughed and laughed and laughed. A cold, snarling, animal laugh. Then the leapt into the air, beating his wings and flew off. I could hear my heart beating in my ears. But no other sound came in. My breath felt like knives in my chest. I scrambled out of the bunker, through the small exit and dropped down next to my father.

He was gone, unnaturally cold, unnervingly empty. I touched his wounds, my brain not able to put together my father and death. Hand shaking, I pulled his keys out of his jacket pocket and opened the door to the bunker. I wanted to bring him inside. I pulled, but I couldn't move him couldn't make him budge even an inch. So, unable to bring him home, I took relics. From his coat I took the journal, Grampa John's journal, although he had been adding to it, for me, he had said. And his wallet, because he had a picture inside that Cas had taken, he and I sitting on he hood of his car, his arm around me. It was after he had let me help him fix her. It was the only picture of us I had.

I went back into the bunker to fetch lighter fluid and a matchbook. He needed a hunter's funeral, even if it would be right where he fell. I climbed back through the escape hatch, I wanted to see outside before I dropped. It was good that I did. Castiel had returned. He was scratching at the door to the bunker, the manic grin still on his face.

"Bobby!" He crooned, "Come out, Come out! It's Uncle Cassy!"

His voice terrified me, it was Cas' but so much sharper, and his teeth clicked as he spoke. I lay at the edge of the hatch unmoving. Then, more of them came, first ten, then twenty, then more than I could see with my limited scope. A convent of monsters clawing at my door. I could hear the grating of the metal in every corner of the bunker, or so I thought, it may have been my mind punishing me. They left, eventually, after shrieking a discussion in a language I did not know. But I did not.

My father's body had not survived the meeting and there was nothing to burn. His journal, however, would prove my most valuable asset. I read it carefully, looking for any clues, hints to what they were. As it turned out, they had an entire entry, dog eared and everything. I won't rewrite it here, look in my father's section, under Hellions, it's alphabetized.

XXXX

From the Journal of Dean Winchester

Hellions:

Enochian 'myth' they were a legendary creature of the angels said to come to clear the demons from their holes. Don't bother looking for sources if you don't speak enochian. Created, not born, there's a spell but I don't know it, but you make a demon smoke out into the corpse of an angel. They'll call it a 'husk.'

The first one was made by the stupidest angel that's ever been given wings who volunteered like the moron he is. That's important, that they volunteer. So the angels turned Castiel into a Hellion and set him loose in Hell. Turns out the way they 'burn the demons from their godless holes,' is by eating them, them them like the black smoke. And they're hungry dicks too. There's more than one now. But theres a big difference between the ones that volunteered and the ones that didn't. If they were forced into it, they're worse.

Don't know how to kill them.

Don't know how to slow them down.

They're on Earth.

XXXXX

From the Journals of Bobby Winchester

After I read that I didn't leave the bunker. If they had killed my Dad then they could kill anyone and I was far to frightened to leave. So I stayed in the bunker alone, with no hope of reprieve. But at least now I had a project and with the fire of my father's death burning me into action, I trained. I promised myself I would kill those things. Learn how to rip them up and burn them. Luckily, homebound as I was, I was homebound in the greatest arsenal the world had ever seen, home to the most thorough library on monsters the world had ever seen.

It was there, alone, shut it and talking to ghosts, I grew up. Dad had done well packing the rations, I could live here for years. And I did. Seven, in fact. Seven years of physical training, regimented gun practice and reading every book on angels and demons I had supplied to me. I had a knack for languages, as it turned out, a trait that would serve me well in every step of my journey.

It was a brutal coming of age, locked alone embittered with self inflicted training. Survival skills also, I memorized plants I could eat, ways to hunt animals, knowing well that my stores were not endless. I spoke to my ghosts constantly Mary mostly. They were my only companions.

There isn't much to tell about this chapter in my histories, I was an odd unsure girl in clothing repaired from the men's clothing I found in the bunker store rooms. Training for a battle I wasn't sure I would ever see, and, during some nights, learning to fix a car I was sure I would never drive.

I was sixteen when my stores were depleted and I had to set foot in the world. I'm sure I was mad. Apparently not irreparably so, maybe irreparably so. But to say I survived seven years of isolation undamaged would be a lie. I recognize that my ghosts were more real to me than they should have been. I had almost forgotten that they weren't really with me. Although still sane enough that I probably would have denied it, if asked, I lived as if I was in the constant audience of the talkative and friendly Mary and Bobby, the harsh and unforgiving John, the clever and unruly Charlie, chilly and distant Sammy. My father did not join my ghosts, perhaps it was my last attempt to rage against his death. Nor did Cas, whom it took me many years to forgive.

Leaving the bunker was not the tumult I had suspected it would be. I wasn't tied to the bunker, I could take my ghosts with me anywhere. It would be harder later, when I was farther away, but at sixteen, I itched to see a bit beyond my tiny world. I packed a careful backpack, chose my weapons and cuttings from books with absolute care. Then I walked out of the only world I had ever known.

I had expected the hardest part would be learning how to talk to the people. I was aware, books I had read had told me, how crooked I would be from being so much alone. But the chance to discover if that were true would be a long time in coming. The world I walked out into was empty.

AN: I hope you guys all liked the first installment of Bobby's side! Please give me your feedback and thoughts, I have a few different ideas of where to take this story and it would be lovely to hear the parts you guys liked or didn't.

Thank you reading and thank you to my absolutely delightful reviewers that light up my inbox!

Sorry for those I promised that this would be up last night, I was taken away from my computer by silly SOCIAL EVENTS. So I couldn't update. But here it is, and to make up for the lateness, ITS LONGISH!