January 6-7, 2002

Only a little eggnog remained after the holidays were done, so as Dean took down the last of the decorations, he polished it off – after adding a generous splash of rum, of course. And then another for good measure.

For weeks before they were due to arrive, Dean had been looking forward to Sam and Gabriel's visit over winter break. It would be the first time Sam had been back since leaving for school in September. Gabriel had popped in a time or two, but with his class load, Sam hadn't been able to get away. To take full advantage of their visit, Dean had even arranged for Garth to take care of things at the salvage yard office while they were here.

Dean shook his head and grinned as he sorted glass ornaments into their boxes. When he'd hired Garth Fitzgerald IV, he'd had his doubts. The guy had seemed completely spacey, and it was hard to believe he could tie his own shoes, never mind drive a forklift or track inventory. But he'd been recommended by Ellen Harvelle, so Dean had given him a chance. He'd turned out to be more than competent, if a little on the weird side. But Dean was grateful he'd worked out, and that he'd been willing to put in extra time over the holidays.

Having Sam and Gabriel back home again was fantastic. Dean was happier than he'd been in longer than he could remember. But as much as everyone seemed to enjoy the visit, it was clear from the way Sam talked that he loved his new life out west. Considering that most of what he talked about was a girl named Jessica, Dean couldn't blame him. She sounded awesome, and if she made Sam happy, then Dean was cool with it. Even if it made him ache a little inside.

They'd done the holidays up right, with over-the-top decorations and obscene amounts of amazing food. The house had brimmed with energy while Sam and Gabriel were here, but they'd returned to California this evening, and now the place seemed desolate. He stared down at the empty glass in his hand, then around the quiet room. Dean knew it was just the post-holiday crash getting him down, but it sucked anyway.

All the excitement of the visit had left Bobby exhausted – feeling, as he put it, 'like hammered crap' – so Dean was cleaning up the house while Bobby rested. Having something to occupy him helped him ignore the echoing silence that pressed into his ears.

When he was done, Dean considered heading to the Roadhouse for a few drinks since he hadn't gone out at all while Sammy and Gabriel were here, but he just wasn't in the mood. Instead, he went to bed early, too. Not quite twenty-three years old, and already he was turning into an old fogey.

"Dean."

Something was wrong.

"Dean, wake up." Joshua's voice was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Blinking himself up into consciousness, Dean pushed himself upright. "What is it? What's going on?" he slurred.

It was nearly dawn. The gray light filtering in past the curtains gave just enough illumination for Dean to make out Joshua's face, wet with tears.

A cold hand gripped Dean's heart. He knew before Joshua said anything, but he didn't want to believe it. "No..."

Joshua gave a small nod, and his face crumpled as more tears fell. He choked out a few heaving breaths before he managed to say, "Bobby's gone. Heart attack."

"Fuck," Dean whispered. He scrambled out of bed and ran for Bobby's room only to lurch to a halt in the doorway.

Bobby looked like he was sleeping. A wild hope flared that somehow Joshua was mistaken, but it vanished almost as quickly as it had come. At first, he couldn't even figure out why, but then he registered the stillness. Even asleep, a body moves. Bobby didn't. There were no fluttering eyelids or shifting eyes beneath them. No pulse beating at his throat. No soft sighs or light snores. No rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

Dean's own breathing stuttered erratically – it felt like his chest was collapsing in on itself.

Joshua's warm voice was thready in his grief. "I came as soon as I felt it happen, so he wasn't alone...in the end."

Hot tears spilled over, scalding Dean's cheeks as he nodded, grateful to the angel for the comfort he gave to Bobby then and to Dean now.

"Oh, shit." Suddenly horrified, Dean turned to Joshua, gripping his shoulders tightly. "What about you? What happens to you now?"

Joshua pressed his lips together, but they still trembled. He shook his head.

"How long?" Dean demanded.

"I don't know," Joshua replied after releasing a deep sigh. "Not long."

Dean threw his arms around the angel and held on for dear life. "No. No, no, no, no..." he muttered under his breath. He couldn't do this. It was too much.

Joshua hugged him back for a moment, but eventually pushed him gently away. "Dean, you need to call someone. Let me help you while I still can."

A fresh wave of tears flooded down Dean's face. Joshua was dying, but here he was, helping and comforting Dean in the the little time he had left.

Mopping his cheeks with the shoulders of his T-shirt, Dean nodded and attempted to get himself together. Call someone. That's what he had to do. He stumbled back to his room to find his cell. He made the call to 911 and afterward, returned to Bobby's room and sat at the edge of his bed, staring down at the best man he'd ever known.

"He was never very good at expressing it, you know, but he loved you boys more than anything." Joshua stood beside him. He hadn't heard the angel approach. "Bobby never believed himself to be fatherhood material. I'm so happy you came into his life to prove him wrong."

"Well, if he really thought that, then he was the 'idjit'. He was the best damn dad Sam and I could've had. I don't know what I'm going to do without him." Dean turned to look up at Joshua. "Or without you."

Joshua put a hand on Dean's shoulder and gave a light squeeze. His hand felt cool through the thin fabric of his shirt, and Dean noticed his halo had begun to flicker and wane.

"Joshua?" His voice came out tiny and afraid.

The angel wet his lips and swallowed before speaking. "I think I'd better lie down."

Dean jumped to his feet and led Joshua out to the couch where he'd be out of the way when the medics arrived. Dean dragged the coffee table closer so he could sit by the angel without crowding him on the couch.

"Is there anything I can do?" Dean asked, desperate to stop feeling so helpless.

Joshua shook his head. "Just take care of yourself. Without Bobby here, I worry you won't."

"Yeah, he was always pretty good at making me pull my head out of my ass," Dean replied with a weak smile.

"Indeed he was."

Dean stayed with Joshua until the doorbell rang. He led the medics to Bobby's room and answered their questions numbly. When the coroner finally came and wheeled the body out, Dean was shaking with the effort it took to stay in one piece.

After everyone left, Dean returned to his vigil by the couch. Joshua's eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow and labored. His halo was barely discernible anymore.

When the angel raised a hand toward Dean, he took it. Joshua tugged his hand in to cradle it against his chest. His eyes were narrow slits. "You need to call Sam," he wheezed.

"I will," Dean promised. "After."

Joshua gave the faintest of nods. "You and Sam weren't my bloodline, but you were family all the same."

A sob lurched out of Dean, and he struggled to rein himself back under control. "You, too," he whispered. Then he frowned. "Joshua?"

But the halo of life energy from Bobby that had sustained the angel for so long was depleted. Joshua had taken his last breath.

Dean squeezed his hand tightly as he sobbed freely for the family he'd lost – and not just today. Today was just the breaking point. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against Joshua's shoulder as he cried so hard he thought he might be sick.

And then suddenly, he felt movement. The hand in his seemed to...slip. He jerked his head up and watched Joshua's body dissipate like fog. Without Bobby as his anchor to the physical world, the angel was reclaimed by the ether.

And just like that, Dean was left utterly alone.