-Summary: It's the end of the world and they've got one last card to play. Castiel sends Dean back: back before everything. Now he has time to stop what's coming, but no friggin' clue how to do it. Time travel should really come with a manual. TIMELINE AU

-Chapter Warnings: Time for some long overdue talks! First up, John Friggin' Winchester!

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

The Road So Far (this Time Around)

Chapter 22

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Dean descended the stairs of Bobby's house with an aching body, rubbing at the grit in his eyes still left over from the meager amount of sleep he'd gotten the night before. He and the older hunter had been in the ER for four hours after an already long and painful day. Through bleary eyes, Dean eyed the heavy cast securing his broken ulna from mid-palm to elbow and currently sitting pretty in a sling.

He wouldn't even be wearing the annoying thing, except Bobby would kick his ass if he didn't and the older hunter was surely already up and in the kitchen. So sling it was.

Awesome.

The hunter lowered his useless arm back to his chest and hit the bottom of the stairs, only to draw up short. He could partially see into Bobby's study through the same door Meg had charged him yesterday. The desk was all back in order, or, you know, as much order as Bobby's desk was ever in: covered in books, loose papers, old artifacts, and the odds and ends of spell components.

John was awake, standing in front of the far side of the desk, inspecting something he held reverently in his hands. Dean's grip on the railing tightened as he realized his father was staring at the Colt. Dean had left the gun on Bobby's desk last night, within reach of his brother in case those demons showed back up or God knows what else attacked.

Now Sammy was asleep upstairs and their dad was staring at the gun that would kill Azazel. There was a look in his eye that Dean knew too well, even ten years later.

He took the last step down loudly, purposefully hitting the floor hard enough to jolt his father out of his thoughts. Clearing his throat, the man from the future crossed into the study, body language defensive. John stared at him, then set the gun back down on the desk.

"Where'd you get it?"

The intensity of Dean's gaze didn't waiver. "Daniel Elkins."

John huffed, shaking his head. He clenched his jaw for a second, angry at the thought of his old buddy having the damn gun that could have ended all of it. He'd had it the whole time. The jaded man ran a hand over his fisted knuckles before forcing himself to let it go. It didn't matter anymore.

"And he just let you have it?" The huff in John's words was disbelief enough.

Dean straightened his shoulders, lifting his chin. "I asked him for it."

His father's head snapped up at that, and Dean kept his chin up. John frowned immediately. There was that man once more, the one from his dream; the one that held a gun to his jaw and fully intended to use it. If the boy hadn't walked through two devil's traps, cut himself with a silver knife, and swallowed a glass of holy water after getting home from an exhausting night at a hospital to find his dad holding a gun on him from the couch…. Well, if it wasn't for all that, John wouldn't have believed it was his Dean standing in front of him.

He still wasn't convinced it was, even if it was human.

"Who told you about it?"

His son's eyes flashed dangerously. "Not you, that's for sure."

John opened his mouth to tell his boy to watch it when the thumping of Sam coming down the stairs halted both of them. His youngest son entered the room, faltering in the doorway at the obvious tension in the room.

"Morning," the sasquatch of a younger brother said a little awkwardly, looking between his brother and father. He glanced at Dean's splinted arm and clenched fists, then John, standing almost possessively close to Bobby's desk. Sam's eyes lowered to the gun sitting atop the surface.

Oh.

"How are you feeling?" He directed the question at their father, attempting to break the pressure building in the small room.

"Better, thanks to you, son." John smiled at his youngest, pride shining in his eyes that made Sam's heart swell. He so rarely got that look from his dad. It was offset, however, by the way John turned back to Dean, gaze immediately hardening. "I'm going to need that gun."

"Not gonna happen, sir."

John clenched his fists against the edge of the desk and Sam recognized that expression as the one that usually proceeded his older brother getting hit.

"That gun can kill the thing that murdered your mother!"

Sam took a step forward, but Dean beat him to it as he threw his good arm out angrily. "Yeah, and you're gonna get yourself killed right alongside her!"

The youngest Winchester snapped his eyes to his brother. That didn't sound like speculation or worry. That was the kind of fury Dean used to cover grief. And the look in his eye was enough for Sam to know that Dean wasn't just saying it for the sake of his argument. If he really was from the future… Sam looked back at their dad, as if seeing him for the first time. Suddenly, he really, really hoped he was wrong for once.

John took a physical step back at the verbal slap to his face. Dean had never talked to him like that before, even at his most obstinate. He rallied immediately, straightening up for a good talking to, but his oldest son wasn't done.

"You want to go after the Yellow Eyed Demon, we do it together. Otherwise, tough luck; the Colt's staying with us."

The finality in those words were certainly coming from a man a hell of a lot older and more confident than Dean Winchester had ever been, at least in this timeline. Sam chanced a quick glance at his brother. Dean was going to have to tell him exactly what happened between father and son that broke the good soldier he used to be. Right after he explained that little comment about them losing their dad to Yellow Eyes. Just what the hell was coming down the road that could take down John Winchester and turn his goof-off, insecure, crass brother into this angry, sharp, hurting man before them?

Sam stepped between the two.

"Can we at least make it through breakfast before we try to kill each other?" He almost couldn't believe what he was asking, or that he stood between Dean and John Winchester, trying to diffuse a bomb. Sure, he'd seen his brother and his dad fight before, but to be honest he'd never been the one to break it up. Honestly, he'd rarely needed to. His father and brother were more the 'storm off and cool down' fighters, especially Dean. No, he rarely played the referee; usually, it was Dean standing in those shoes as Sam fought every bone in his body not to tell his father to fuck off and John used every not inconsiderable ounce of his self-discipline not to beat his son into submission.

Yet here they were; Dean looked just as close to punching their dad as John looked ready to give his oldest a good whipping. Things had definitely changed.

"I'd appreciate that." The three men turned at the new, gruff addition to the conversation. Bobby was standing in the doorway to the study, expression one part cautious, six parts annoyed. "And if you're plannin' on destroyin' someone's house – again – make it someone else's. I'm too old to be cleaning up after you lot."

With that, the old hunter crossed through the room and headed into the kitchen for coffee and whatever was left in his fridge that could be scrapped together for something resembling breakfast.

He didn't stay to see what kind of ridiculous tension-filled, silent-communication looks the Winchesters exchanged. But he put Dean to work scrambling eggs when he entered the kitchen with a somewhat guilty, if not still stormy expression. Sam was put to clearing the table of old bottles, pizza boxes, and books as soon as he edged in behind his brother. John didn't bother coming to help, instead heading outside to do Lord knew what and letting the door slam on his way out.

Bobby didn't pay him much mind, happier with the company that chose to stay as he barked at Dean that he'd put too much milk in the eggs and snapped at Sam to not be messing up his organized chaos until both of them lost the tension in their shoulders and broke down into bickering between each other, the way family should be.

-o-o-o-

When breakfast was cooked up and divvied between four plates, Sam grabbed two of them and headed for the back door.

"Leave it, Sam."

The youngest Winchester paused at the screen, turning back into the kitchen to regard his older brother. Sam's face said he didn't want to fight, on either front.

"He's our dad, and he almost died."

The softly spoken words were yet another verbal slap delivered that morning. Dean's expression flashed to something hurt and haunted before he looked away, burying it under self-righteous anger. Sam pushed the door open with his back and slipped into the salvage yard.

-o-o-o-

His dad wasn't hard to find. John hadn't gone far, leaning against the bumper of an '82 Ford pickup that had seen better days. Sam settled against the car beside his father, handing him a plate of scrambled eggs and a couple pieces of buttered toast. It wasn't much, but as Bobby had griped over the stove while cooking it, it wasn't like he had signed up to host breakfast for four people that morning.

John accepted the offering without a word, and Sam started picking meagerly at his own breakfast, trying to remember the speech he'd prepped on his way out here. Everything sounded stupid now, or likely to start a fight.

"That man in there." John shifted against the car, staring at Bobby Singer's house. He glanced over at his youngest, who met his severe gaze with raised eyebrows. "That's not your brother."

Sam stared at his father, eyes darting back and forth between John's, wondering exactly where this conversation was going if not a fight. With a huff, he looked down at the plate in his hands.

"So you noticed that." It wasn't a question. If anything, it might have been sarcasm. The changes in his brother weren't exactly subtle. But God help John Winchester if he suggested Dean was anything but human. Sam knew what this family did to things that weren't human. "It's Dean. Believe me, I checked. It's…a lot's changed, Dad."

John's gaze was no more relaxed; if anything, he looked harsher in the morning light as he stared at his son with a mix of disappointment and anger. "You can't be sure, son. Whoever that is-"

"I'm sure." Sam straightened against the car. "That is my brother. You think Bobby would let him walk around his house if it wasn't? You think I would let him into your head? That's Dean. He's just…different."

Because he had apparently traveled back in time an undetermined amount of years and wasn't the Dean they knew at all. And yeah, Sam would be having that conversation with his brother just as soon as he figured out how to approach it. Or got over the all-encompassing rage he felt every time he thought about it.

There were a dozen theoretical explanations for his brother not telling him he was a time traveler from the future. Hypothetical paradoxes and metaphysical laws Sam could only hazard at. And if this 'Castiel' had anything to do with it, possibly divine intervention as well. But Sam knew his brother better than Dean knew himself; none of that would matter to him. The only reason Dean Winchester wouldn't tell his kid brother about a secret that big was because he didn't trust him with it – didn't think he could take care of himself in regard to it. Because Sam had been dealing with that Dean Winchester for twenty three years, and a hundred more wouldn't change that about his brother.

Heaven help John Winchester if he dared open his mouth and told Sam his brother was a monster, or anything else. Liar or not, from the future or not, Dean was still his big brother. Of that, he had no doubt.

Lucky for both of them, John changed the subject. "That gun. That how you kept your girl safe?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah. We came to…an arrangement with the Yellow Eyed Demon."

His dad huffed in disbelief, but it was relatively non-judgmental for the bitter hunter, so Sam tried not to jump down his throat for it. It took more effort than he was willing to admit.

"He tell you how he got it?"

The young hunter shook his head. He was pretty sure 'he asked for it' wouldn't go over any better the second time. Not to mention, he still had trouble believing it himself.

Beside him, John was shaking his head angrily. "Daniel wouldn't even tell me he had it. How the hell did your brother know about it?"

Twenty four hours ago, Sam would have jumped on that in the blink of an eye. Dean had definitely told him their dad was the one to mention the Colt. To be honest, though, he'd known that was bull in the same breath Dean first said it. John Winchester didn't share things, alcohol-induced or not.

Now, Sam was pretty sure Dean learned about the gun from entirely different circumstances. Of course, that wasn't something he was about to share with his father. So he shrugged.

"Dean knows a lot of things he doesn't tell me."

"That gun could end it, Sammy." John locked that harsh, imploring gaze on him once more. Any softness that might have been present in any other widowed father was absent in the face of the revenge and anger that was John Winchester. "It could kill the thing that killed your mother."

Sam looked away. So that's how it was going to be. John Winchester disappeared for almost a year, refused to answer their calls or show up when they needed him most, and now expected Sam to turn on his brother, the one person who had been there for him the last half year. Through Jess and her family, the yellow eyed demon and Meg, the demon blood….Dean had stayed beside him through it all.

Damn. He really hadn't come out here to start a fight.

"I think it's bigger than one demon, Dad," he protested quietly, trying one last ditch effort to keep the train from crashing. Knowing him and his father, it was an inevitable outcome. His grip on the forgotten plate of breakfast was only tightening, despite his best efforts.

He could still see Yellow Eyes standing half a dozen feet away, the ice cold grip of the colt in his hand, the pressure of its muzzle flush against his skull. He could still feel the pulsing in his vein, begging him to do it, to kill the thing that had ruined his life, that had tried to take Jess away from him, for nothing more than a damn game.

Did John think he didn't want the demon just as dead? Jess's life was riding on them ending this. His future with her was riding on it. God, he had wanted nothing more than to shoot that bastard right between his horrid yellow eyes.

But it hadn't been about him. This couldn't be just about him. That was something John Winchester would never be able to act on. This was still about revenge for the jaded man, no matter how he tried to color it with honor or justice.

Sam looked back at his father in the face of his silence, only to stop at the sight of the man looking back at him. He could see it. He could see it in the lines of sorrow around his father's eyes, the crease in his brow, the way his hardened gaze had turned more desperate than angry.

John Winchester god damn knew this was bigger than one demon, and still he was asking for that gun. Still, he was leaving his sons behind and cutting them out of the biggest decision of their lives.

"Did he say anything to you?"

Sam looked away from his father. The man already knew the answer. He'd known all along.

A terrifying numbness overcame him as he gripped at the edges of the plate in his hand, food all but forgotten. His dad was asking about the confrontation with Jess, but all Sam could see was that muddy parking lot. The taste of copper climbed up his throat and spilled into his mouth. He turned away from his father, trying to keep the bile from rising. Hastily, he placed the plate on the hood of the car with a clatter. A piece of toast fell off, sliding onto the metal.

He didn't want to admit it out loud – not to John Winchester, who had no room for grey in his black and white world. Not to his hunter father, who drew the line in life between human and everything else. Right now, Sam didn't know where he existed on that line, not anymore. He really didn't want to know where his father would put him either.

The college kid swallowed, finally turning back and leaning against the truck in a parody of normal that hurt his soul. He clenched his hands in fists. He didn't want to lie. Lying was all the Winchesters seemed to do to each other, and he was sick of it. He refused to be a part of it any longer.

"You first."

He looked back up at his father, mustering every ounce of his anger, every ounce of betrayal and fear, and forced it into strength and resolve. John watched the boy before him and wondered, with no small amount of pride, when the kid had grown up.

"I don't know much," he conceded, taking a deep breath of the cool morning air as he turned his eyes up to the blue sky, dotted with clouds. He and his youngest had never been on the same page. Hell, most of the time they weren't even in the same book. They lived in two very different worlds, both unable to cross into the other's understanding. But what that demon had done to him…That was on John. It was a father's job to protect his children, to protect his wife. And he'd failed them all.

Damn, it had hurt to learn it. He'd suspected something for a while, but the confirmation of finding another kid that bastard had touched, of hearing his parents talk about the night, about the blood… He glanced back at his son, at the boy with the demon blood who was destined to kill, if that demon had any say in it. The kid would never know how badly John wanted to spare him that, how desperate he was to kill the monster before he could dig his claws in any deeper.

"He…. He did something to you as a kid," he finally admitted, unsure how to best say it. If confirming it had hurt, telling Sammy was a thousand times worse.

"He bled in my mouth."

John's gaze snapped to his son's and he had no words for the surprise blanking his mind. How had Sam- had the demon told him? Why would Yellow Eyes do that, what advantage could it possibly give him?

His dad's silence was reaction enough. Sam shoved himself off the car, anger eating at every inch of him even as he fought it back.

He really hadn't come out here for a fight.

"You knew," he bit the words out with enough venom to make John Winchester flinch. He spun back on him. "How long?"

"Sammy-"

"How. Long."

John couldn't keep his son's gaze, looking down at his hands. "Not long. I suspected something for a while, but I didn't know what he really did to you until…about a month ago."

Even angry, Sam's mind never stopped, and he connected the dots easily enough. "When he came after you with the Baku.

The vein under his dad's ear ticked as he worked his jaw, remembering too easily the close calls he'd had the past couple of weeks, culminating with the Baku. "Guess I was getting too close."

He looked up at his youngest, who was standing with a wide stance, squared shoulders, and clenched fists. Like a caged animal, Sam seemed a moment away from blowing up.

"I'm closing in, Sammy. The fact he's coming after me is proof I'm getting to him. I'm close, son. With that gun-"

It was the final push that John Winchester never could see coming when it came to his youngest. Sam, sick of his father seeming to only care about his revenge over everything – over his own well-being, over the inclusion of his sons, over the lives they were trying to lead – finally exploded.

"You're not the only one invested in this, you know!" He took a step towards John, who stood from the truck, knowing the sharp lines of a man about to throw a punch. Sam stopped himself at the single step, but he knew the anger coursing through his veins wouldn't be held off a second time. "Jess's life, my life, Dean's life – we've all got something in this, Dad. It can't be about revenge anymore!"

"You think that's what this is?" John countered, voice raising to match Sam's. "You think stopping that yellow eyed bastard is just about avenging your mother?"

"If it isn't, then why the hell aren't you letting Dean and me in? We can help, dad, we have always been able to help. It's what you trained us for! Let us!"

John turned away from his boy, frustration clear in the taut muscles of his back. "It's too dangerous, I told you that-"

"Bullshit! I am so sick of you and Dean trying to protect me. You dragged me all over the country, raised me like a soldier, made me murder things before I was old enough to drive. I learned how to stab a werewolf in the heart before I learned about the damn birds and the bees, Dad."

John spun back around, face reddening in the face of yet another round of the same argument he'd had a thousand times with his stubborn, bleeding heart of a son. "It isn't murder. I have told you-"

"It is murder! We kill things, some of them just trying to survive!"

"Evil things!"

"Who are we to decide that?" Sam shook his head, jaw clenched. "We don't get to play God just because a demon killed your wife or my mom."

John's fists shook at his side as he loomed before his boy, despite the good half foot Sam had on him. "You watch your tone with me, boy."

"I'm not a boy," Sam bit back, matching his father's anger and intimidation step for step. "And I'm done taking orders from you."

He spun towards the house, stalking back with blood still boiling. He hadn't hit his dad, though, so that was better than some of their previous fights, at least.

"Don't you turn your back on me, Samuel!"

Of course, there was still time.

"Like you turned your back on us?" He spun on his heel, standing ground like he always had and always would against his old man. "I was dying. Where were you? We needed you, in Lawrence, in Palo Alto. So many times in the last six months. But you left us. You don't get to change that now that we have something you want. You want that gun, you want Yellow Eyes? Then you can hunt him with us. But it's Dean's gun, Dean's show. I've got nothing else to say to you."

He turned back to the house.

"Alright."

The soft admission drew him up after only a few angry steps, and he glanced back at his dad. "What?"

John, staring at the ground, shuffled uncomfortably. He raised his gaze to meet his son's, and Sam could count on one hand the times he'd seen his dad look so damn regretful. "I said alright, son. It's Dean's show."

The young hunter narrowed his eyes at the easy concession, hardly willing to trust something so simple. Not when it came to John Winchester.

"I don't like it," his dad added, and there was a hint of the miffed soldier beneath the honest-to-God father in his expression. "But I get it. I wasn't there for you boys when I should have been..."

Sam didn't move, still not daring to believe the utter one eighty. John shook his head with a heavy sigh and settled back against the old pickup. He looked damn tired, almost as tired as he'd been in Sam's first vision of him and the Baku.

"You gotta understand somethin'," he began, rubbing his palm over his thigh roughly. "When your mother…passed, all I saw was evil. Everywhere. And all I cared about was keeping you boys safe – alive."

John nodded his head, though it hung heavy with the movement. "So, yes, I trained you. Hard. I wanted you prepared. Ready. Somewhere along the line I….I stopped being your father. I became your drill-sergeant. And when you wanted to go to school…" John huffed a breath, shaking his head side to side. "I never could accept that you and me…we're just different."

Sam stared at his dad, at the first confession he'd ever heard that they hadn't had an ideal childhood. The first time his hard-as-granite father tried to understand his world. It didn't look like it was any easier on his father than he imagined it would be.

"We're not that different," the young hunter all but whispered, a bitter grimace stretching his lips. "If Jess…if the demon had gotten to her…I think we'd be exactly the same."

It was a cold, painful confession, but one he knew was true. He had no doubt that if the yellow eyed demon had taken her away from him, like he had taken Mary away from John, he would have done anything to hunt him down and kill him, without mercy.

John lifted his head to stare at his son, eyes starting to water despite his multiple attempts to blink away the evidence. "That evil is still out there, Sammy. And it's after you now. If we can just end it…I can keep you safe, like I couldn't that night…"

The young Winchester couldn't help but see it from his father's perspective, couldn't help but empathize with the father and husband, still grieving the loss of his wife and his children's innocence. It didn't make it right, didn't fix all the wrongs, and certainly didn't change the fact that it was John Winchester who had cost his sons their childhoods, not a demon. But Sam could still sympathize with the haggard, tired figure in front of him, in a way he rarely had in his lifetime.

"It's not your job to save me from him, Dad. It's not your fault, either." Sam commented softly, the anger draining from him as quickly as it had set in. "It won't end with him."

"I know…I know, I can't-" John had to look away, fisting his hand in the material of his jeans like it was that was grounding him. "I can't see any further right now, son. It has to end with him, because otherwise I don't know what to do."

Sam crossed the space between them to resettle against the truck beside his father. "We'll face it, together. One obstacle at a time. We can do this, dad, we'll use the gun together, and then we tackle whatever comes next. We can end it, as a family."

His dad stared at him with as close to pride as Sam had ever seen in his father's eyes. That look was usually saved for Dean, and the young hunter had mixed emotions suddenly seeing it now. But John nodded and dropped his gaze. He didn't agree or make any promises, which didn't escape Sam's notice, but he didn't fight anymore either.

Father and son sat in a rare peace in the South Dakota morning sun, and John soon asked him about Jess. Sam's anger and worries were almost forgotten as he tried not to gush about the most beautiful woman he'd ever met, and who he still hoped to one day marry. The smile on his dad's face was one he'd never forget.

-o-o-o-

Bobby waited till he was sure Sam was out of earshot before he pinned Dean with a look.

"Alright, spill it, Future Boy."

The boy spared him a half-assed glare of his own before shifting, uncomfortable, in the kitchen chair. He glanced at the back door, then Bobby, then the door again.

"Not now. They could come back any minute, alright?"

Bobby shook his head. "That's your brother and father out there, son. You know sure as I do we'll hear the end of that conversation long before they make it to the door."

Dean shifted again, but couldn't argue the truth of it. Bobby leaned across the table, elbows supporting his weight as he regarded his surrogate son with a stare he couldn't avoid any longer,

"So spill."

Dean pealed at the label of an old beer bottle while Bobby sat across from him in silence, growing ever more impatient with each tick of the kitchen clock. Finally, he rolled his eyes with a huff, climbed up from his chair, and crossed over to the fridge. He returned with two beers in hand, clunking one down pointedly in front of his surrogate son.

When he sat down across from the man again and still only silence filled the space in front of them, he cleared his throat. "You waiting on a Christmas card, or something?"

"I don't know where to start." The confession was immediate, but quiet. Bobby had to take a moment to appreciate the gravity of the situation in front of him. His kid, the loud mouthed boy he'd helped raise from training wheels all the way up to shotguns, not knowing what to say. His time-traveling, snarky ass boy.

Bobby dragged his hat from his head, ran a hand through his thinning hair, and took a deep breath. When exactly had he become a damn den mother?

"The beginnin's usually a sound place," the older hunter snarked. Catching his surrogate son's expression – half glare, half pained grimace – he sobered. "Maybe start with whatever climbed up your butt concerning your daddy."

"Thanks for the mental image, Bobby." Dean's look definitely turned more glare. But he set the beer aside with a deep breath. "He lied – is lying – about…almost everything. He knew about Azazel, about what he did to Sam and the demon blood-"

"Demon blood?" The look on Bobby's face clearly said he was already regretting starting this conversation. Dean had half a mind to shove it in his face, because yeah.

Instead, the elder Winchester closed his eyes, counted to ten (it didn't help), sat back and settled an intense gaze on his friend and father. "Six months ago, an angel sent me back in time from the year 2016."

Bobby, who had sort of hoped this was all still some weird joke or a really bad joke, blew out a long breath. He went for the beer he hadn't bothered opening for himself, popped the top and took a long, hardy swallow. He cleared his throat awkwardly when he'd finished, his son still staring at him. The hunter shrugged awkwardly in the face of that foreign, intense gaze. "Balls."

Dean couldn't help it, he shook his head as his face broke into a grin. "That's all you gotta say? I just told you I traveled back in time ten years!"

"What do you want me to say?" Bobby repeated his awkward shrug. "You know who wins the Super Bowl?"

The younger hunter full on laughed that time. Leave it to Bobby Singer, father of idjits, to greet his first time traveler with the severity appropriate to the situation. There were many reasons Dean thought of this man as more of a dad than his own. The thought – the reminder of both deaths to come, one significantly sooner than the other – sobered him damn quick.

The change of mood in the kitchen wasn't hard to catch on to, and Bobby set his beer back on the table. "Alright. I want all of it. Don't sugar coat it."

Dean caught his gaze, frowning.

"Start at the top, ya idjit. Lay it out for me." Bobby stood from the table. "I'll get some paper, we'll write it down and…I don't know. Figure it out, I guess."

The man from the future stared up at his friend with the same awe he'd always felt in the tenacious, older hunter's presence. He had to blink away the water in his eyes as he realized how much he'd missed that man. Damn emotions. Instead, he grinned up Bobby, the man he went to when he had to talk to someone, to work things out, to be less alone. The surrogate father who had been just as inaccessible these past six months as he had been for the last four years. Far too long, in either case.

"Man, Bobby, I missed you." He said it with a light chuckle and a sip of his beer. The heavy, awkward silence that followed clued Dean in before he'd finished swallowing. Bobby was staring at him with shell-shocked eyes and a slack jaw. Dean almost choked on his beer when he caught the look, realizing what he'd said.

Shit.

Bobby's jaw clacked shut. "I don't wanna know."

He turned into the study to fetch that paper, shaking his head and repeating it more for his own sake. "I don't want to know."

-o-o-o-

When he sat back down, legal pad and pen in hand, Dean cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to assuage the ten year expiration date he'd just inadvertently informed his father figure of. "It's not gonna happen this time."

Bobby pinned him with a look he had seen few times. It quelled monsters and Winchesters alike; few dared speak in the face of it. "I don't. Want. To know."

Dean nodded and went back to chugging the last of his beer. He had a feeling there would be several more before this conversation was over.