A/Ns: Alrighty, we're back! Sorry for the extra week delay. This chapter's a bit of a beast and it took me extra long to edit it. I've been kinda slow these last couple weeks as well, both busy with Real Life and unmotivated overall (damn you, Covid Fatigue and Depression! [shakes fist at sky]), so it took some extra time to get this done.

Sioux Falls: So, while the actual Sioux Falls, SD is a decent sized city, I noticed that the show kinda plays it off has having a small town vibe. Not super small, but small enough that there's a Sheriff rather than a police department (where as in reality, Sioux Falls has a PD because it's a city), implying that wherever Bobby lives, it's an unincorporated community. I like that vibe for Bobby way more than a decent size town anyway. So the way I'm going to play this to keep to both show-canon and reality is that Bobby lives far enough outside of Sioux Falls to be another town – a sub-division if you will that has its own name and everything, but is so small and unknown everyone just refers to where they live as Sioux Falls for simplicity's sake. It has its own Sheriff department, small downtown area, etc, and only enough residents to warrant the small-town feel the show plays. Sound good? Sweet.

P.S. On that note, if anyone knows any better than that or has more specific info on where in Sioux Falls the Salvage Yard is supposed to be, lemme know! I didn't find anything in my research, but that don't mean it doesn't exist :D (I also tend to slack on in-depth research when I'm happier with my own head canon and don't want to find research that discredits it, LOL 😅)

Chapter Warnings: Andy goes digging about Bobby's house outta boredom, finds a couple of things, gets yelled at, goes digging again, finds a couple of things missing (namely a dog), and decides to make a new friend in town. Not really in that order. The cutest, fluffiest, furiest, and most heart-warming of filler chapters to ever fill a chapter.

-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)

Season 2: Chapter 79

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

- Three Weeks Earlier -

It hadn't taken long for Andy to get bored once Dean and Sam left.

There was only so much to do around the salvage yard, and one could only take so much ASL learning before needing a break. Castiel was comatose, in a 'healing trance' or so Dean had said (with a very stern threat of 'leave her alone or I will murder you via death wedgie and you will regret it' completely implied by glare alone), so she was out as a source of entertainment. As far as Andy could tell, his new mental abilities either didn't work on angels or didn't work on comatose bodies anyway.

Not that he'd tried of course...in any way that might have left evidence for Dean to murder him with, at least.

Bobby wouldn't let him venture into town until he could speak 'properly' to normal folk, his words not Andy's. He could accompany the hunter when he went, but Bobby, it turned out, was pretty much a hermit. And Andy could only poke and prod him into leaving the house, doing something, anything, so many times before Bobby's hackles started rising.

The old hunter's first instinct (okay, that's a lie, it was more like his sixth or seventh after telling the kid to learn ASL, practice it, clean his damn room, go for a walk, do the dishes, anything other than bothering him) was to start teaching him about the occult. Mostly so Bobby would have a hand in the research for the next hunter to call for a little help. Andy had a genuine interest in learning, so that worked out fairly well, but it still wasn't enough to keep the kid's attention all that long. He scoured books with a zeal that almost rivaled Sam's, but had so many questions that Bobby ended up with two jobs instead of less of the one he already had: juggling other fools who were too damn lazy to figure out what they were tackling before they charged in half-cocked, head first.

Not that Andy was a fool. The kid was incredibly smart. Just…still a kid, with the energy of a twelve year old about six root beers in.

'Just go…do something,' Bobby groused one afternoon, caught between a book about five centuries old and a laptop almost as ancient. Olivia Lowry had managed to stumble into a nasty sea witch off the coast of Maine. The cavalry was already on the way – she'd managed to filter just about every curse word in the book between explanations of how the bitch had nearly gotten her and this was definitely not a solo gig – but they'd need all the backup they could get when it came to killing the thing.

Witches. They really were the worst.

When Andy threw up his hands, one forming a very clear 'like what?' even as the images flashed through his brain, Bobby sighed. He rubbed at his forehead, bumping his cap off his head and the headache starting to form there.

'I don't know, kid. Go…explore!' Bobby turned back to his research, grumbling in addition, "There's enough stuff in this house to keep anyone busy. So just…don't touch anything that might kill you, and get."

The look Andy gave him required neither ASL nor psychic powers: 'How am I supposed to know what might kill me?!' But he took off regardless, and Bobby spent the next several hours trying to ignore the sound of a kid rummaging through his closets.

He was getting too damn old for this.

-o-o-o-

The object in the kid's hand wasn't what Bobby was expecting when he looked up from the desk in his den, still neck-deep in sea witch lore. The two hunters he'd sent as backup for Olivia had arrived, and the three were getting ready for a second attack. But something about the case wasn't sitting well with Bobby. He was missing something, and that usually meant trouble for the hunters on the other end.

The flash of a question mark searing itself across the inside of his eyelids for a second time in as many minutes brought Bobby back to Andy, standing in the doorway to the den, holding a thick, leather dog collar and an old, dusty tin bowl.

Considering his hands were full, Bobby would forgive the lack of Signing for the easier, headache-inducing telepathy. (To be honest, the kid was getting good enough – or Bobby was getting too used to – his new powers to even cause much of a headache anymore.)

'Rumsfeld,' Bobby signed, spelling his name out. 'My old dog.'

As silence settled like a weighted blanket in the wake of that statement, a third question mark (well, actually three question marks all together now) flashed through his brain once again. Bobby sighed, realizing he wasn't gonna get this research done for Olivia while Andy had questions apparently. Like, given the raised eyebrows and exaggerated nod to the disused items, the whole story.

'Demon,' the gruff hunter admitted with a single Sign. No point expanding, the end result was obvious without further detail. Bobby managed to hold back most of the emotion that welled inside at the thought of Rumsfeld, and kept his head buried in the book to hide whatever leaked out. He'd gone quick, at least, but Bobby had sure wished Dean had left something of that demon bitch for him to kill himself after what she'd done to his dog. He'd been a damn good boy and hadn't deserved an end like that. Dogs were meant to grow old, damnit.

He turned back to his research.

Andy audibly huffed, entering the den and setting the items on Bobby's cluttered desk. Loudly. Bobby knew he could chase the kid off with some not-unjustified anger at digging through his personal belongings, at bringing up some painful memories and then continuing to poke at that bear. But he'd been the one to tell the kid digging around was fine as long as it kept him busy.

Andy was gesturing to the collar, and forming the word for 'another' in Sign, eyebrows up to make it a question. Bobby did not want to be having this conversation, but considering the kid was using his hands and not his mind, he begrudgingly answered.

"Getting too old for training a new pup," Bobby muttered aloud, almost under his breath. Too old to lose another one, too, not that he'd ever admit that part out loud. Unfortunately, Andy was a perceptive twenty-something toddler. Bobby turned back to his books, gruff rising like hackles. "Got enough strays as it is, kid."

It was Andy's turn to look sad at that, but Bobby chose not to notice. It was a terrible mistake, in hindsight. If he'd been paying more attention, he might have seen that sadness turn into the furled brow of thought, which evolved into the wide eyed delight of an idea, followed ultimately by a dangerous amount of determination.

-o-o-o-

Andy was, indeed, determined. Bobby almost never answered him out loud, whether or not he signed or psychic'ed his questions. Bobby always signed back as long as his hands were free. Andy figured it was something between gruff poking and sincere encouragement, but whichever it was, Bobby was damn stubborn about it. Andy could count the times Bobby'd answered him out loud on, like, one hand. And in just one conversation he'd done it twice.

(The kid didn't actually know when Bobby had time to become an expert in ASL, but it seemed overnight. He'd only managed to stump the old man once, and they'd looked the Sign up together for that one. Andy was still pretty slow with it, himself. Like learning any new language, it took time to deconstruct what he wanted to say and rebuild the sentence in gestures, which he had to remember or spell out letter by letter if he couldn't. Bobby was patient, in a gruff way. He stood silent and expecting, but never pushed. He corrected Andy when he reversed hand positions or words, but was never discouraging. He was a great teacher. A great, scary, scary teacher.)

No, Bobby was clearly torn up about his old dog, and it was a snowball of sadness resulting in a lack of current dog. Well, Andy was going to fix it…somehow.

Which meant a trip into town.

-o-o-o-

The first time Sheriff Jody Mills met Andy Gallagher, she'd been on her way into McGregory Grant's hardware store. Bobby Singer - the town drunk - was on his way out, led by a scrawny little college-aged kid who'd held the door open for him with a flourish that screamed sarcasm, but well-intentioned. Jody had bit back a grin as the gruff old mechanic walked the door with half an eye roll and absolutely no comment.

Noticing the Sheriff on her way in, the kid continued holding the door open, adding a low, utterly exaggerated bow and gentleman's tip of his non-existent hat to the flourish this time. Jody dipped her head in his direction with a wink.

"Why thank you, sir," she'd said, with no shortage of well-intended sarcasm of her own. The kid straightened but didn't say a word in response. He just smiled and gave her a little two fingered salute. Which was when Jody noticed the bruises and cuts scattered across his face - old and starting to fade, but no less startling for their severity - and the bright white bandage wrapping most of his neck.

Startled by the injuries – clearly extensive – on a pretty young man who certainly gave off a charming first impression, Jody wasn't able to form another response before the kid bounded off after Bobby Singer, practically skipping to the man's truck. She watched from just inside the door of the hardware store as they pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road, headed in the direction of Singer's salvage yard.

Still a little shaken – that boy certainly hadn't looked the type to get himself into a fight, and definitely not one so bad it ended with him through the ringer – Jody headed directly for the counter rather than the aisles.

"Morning, Sheriff," Grant greeted with his deep voice and generally unshifting, weathered face. "What can I do for ya today?"

"Morning, McGregor. Was that Bobby Singer I saw heading out just now?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder at the front doors.

"Sure was."

Jody turned back, offering what was supposed to be a smile but felt a little tight. "And the kid with him? Ever seen him before?"

McGregory shrugged, which wasn't much more or less than the Sheriff had been expecting. Grant wasn't known as the gossiping sort. "Last week, but not before that."

"Any idea where he got those injuries?" Jody raised an eyebrow questioningly, but kept her tone as neutral as such a question could be.

The store owner just shook his head, eyes serious but face impassive behind his graying beard. "Far as I know, kid can't talk so I didn't ask. Bobby's a good customer and I don't take to prying."

Jody nodded, understanding that. Midwestern hospitality was a thing Sioux Falls residents took great pride in, but part of that hospitality included a knowing respect that some people's business was their own to keep private. It had been a long shot asking, but those bruises were enough to peak her curiosity as a law officer…and perhaps her concern as a mother. She thanked Grant, heading into the aisles for the road salt and buckets she'd come for.

That had been a week ago, and Jody Mills hadn't seen Singer or his new tagalong since. Not surprisingly, really. Bobby was known for being somewhat of a recluse, only coming into town for supplies as needed. He wasn't one to mingle or dally. No reason a new face hanging around would change that much. And between Mrs. Hutchins starting another row with her neighbor over dog excrement in her yard and Digger racking up yet another drunk and disorderly for his record right alongside a night in the drunk tank, Jody hadn't found much time for digging into the new kid.

Which was why it was somewhat of a surprise that he was hanging around the parking lot of the Sheriff's office, kicking off the wall he was leaning on when she came out the front. He jogged up to her without Jody even noticing the young man at first, tapping her on the shoulder just as she got to her car.

He was moving his hands in a series of gestures before she even got a word out, and Jody blinked at the rapid movement. She supposed that confirmed one theory, at least; the kid was mute.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sweetie. I don't know Sign," she offered with an apologetic smile, but turned fully to give him her attention. The man waved away her comment like it was no big deal, and instead mimed holding a pencil and scribbling through the air.

Oh, right, paper. She snapped her notepad off her belt, flipping the small thing open to the first blank page, and handed it over. The kid pulled the little attached pencil free from its fastening and started scribbling away. As he wrote, Jody took a moment to study him more closely.

The bruises across his jaw, cheek, and brow were faded significantly more, now a mere smattering of yellow-ish skin with very little swelling remaining. The cuts and scratches were a mix of fading red and healing scabs. A couple had the telling, white dotted scars of removed sutures, but looked decently cared for overall. The bandage around his neck was a mystery, hiding away whatever had happened there to take away the kid's voice.

Overall, hell had clearly happened to this young man, but he seemed well on the other side of it, and at least caring for the injuries properly.

"You're living with Bobby Singer, right? At the Salvage Yard?" Jody couldn't help but pry. It was her job, after all. When the kid looked up, pausing in his writing to give her a smile and a nod. She returned both gestures absently. "You a relative of his?"

He tipped his head to the side in a contemplative, sheepish, wishy-washy way before nodding again, with a grin that said close enough. Jody could understand that, chuckling lightly.

"Uh-huh. He treating you right?" At the puzzled look she got in return, Jody decided to be a little more direct. She eyed the bruises across his brow, down his cheek and jaw, to the bandaged around his neck and finally down at his hands, where healing cuts marred the fingers wrapped around her pen. He followed her gaze down. "Is he drinking too much?"

The kid's head snapped back up, mouth forming a perfectly readable, 'Oh' before scrunching up comically. It was clear from his expression of horror, shake of head, and then sheepish grin that Jody was barking up the wrong tree. He hastily shook the hand holding the pen back and forth in such a cartoonish symbol for no that Jody huffed, unable to help the smile.

"Alright, then." She decided to leave it at that. This kid could tell her in his own time about the wringer he'd been through, if he wanted to. Just so long as it hadn't been at the hands of anybody in her town.

Then he was holding the pad back out, and she took it with piqued interest.

Jody's eyebrows climbed into her bangs as she read his - Andy, as he'd introduced himself in the first line - request. When she glanced back up, Andy Gallagher was grinning widely.

-o-o-o-

When Bobby got back from an errand run later that week, Andy was lying stomach down on the rug in the den, feet swinging in the air behind him, occasionally tapping his shoes together while madly tapping away on his phone. He was surrounded by books, both open and stacked, that looked familiar enough Bobby figured they were from his own collection.

"That the boys?" Bobby asked aloud, if only because his hands were full of a brown paper bag of groceries and a six pack. Andy looked up at the question, eyebrows climbing for clarification. The old man gestured to the phone in the kid's hand with his chin, Andy's thumbs still going at it despite his attention now being on Bobby.

The kid glanced down at his phone, then back at the older hunter, shaking his head.

Bobby frowned, torn between the kitchen to put away his slowly melting tub of Bluebell Pecan Pralines 'N Cream and the curiosity lying on the ground right in front of him, texting an additional mystery. He huffed, surrendering to his curiosity. "Then who you talking to?"

Andy pulled a face, using one hand to gesture aimlessly in dramatized confusion. Bobby wasn't buying it for a second, but the kid set the phone down, freeing his other hand for proper Sign.

'I'm allowed to have friends.'

Bobby blinked once at the defensiveness of Andy's hands, then a second time at the juxtaposed expression of mischief written all over the kid's face. A bad feeling, entirely unlike that of a hunt gone south and much more what Bobby imaged parents of toddlers and teenagers alike felt all the time, settled in the pit of his stomach.

"Uh….never said you weren't…"

Bobby turned, paused, almost turned back, then just shook his head and resumed his way to the kitchen. He had ice cream to save, after all, and the combo of the kid surrounded by his occultbooks while texting 'friends' wasn't something Bobby planned on touching with a ten foot pole. Not till he had to, at least.

Several weeks later, he'd look back on that moment and realize it had been his second mistake.

-o-o-o-

It was midday when the van showed up. Andy was out back, leaning against the house, smoking a joint lazily in the sunshine. Bobby had told him on day two of living with the man that he could inhale whatever crap he wanted into his lungs, just so long as he didn't do it in the house. So Andy took to smoking outside, which didn't really bother him. It was chilly, what with it still being winter in South Dakota, but he'd bundle up with a knitted sweater Bobby had handed to him one night with a grumble and what Andy had obviously incorrectly identified as a rosy tint to his cheeks. Bobby Singer didn't blush, so obviously he'd been having a heart attack or asphyxiating after choking on his own spit or something. Anyway! The thing had been hand knitted (which led Andy to further incorrect suspicions that Bobby had a hobby on the side belonging to little old ladies, loving mothers, and adorable housewives). It was also at least two decades old, given the pattern and clear aging of the yarn (leading Andy to even more conjecture about Bobby's own mother, or possibly one of those adorable housewives, which meant the next time Andy went snooping around the house he had a new goal in mind). The kid had been expecting some itchy, threadbare monstrosity that provided a bit of warmth but not much else when he'd slid it over his head the first night, only to find its age had left the sweater properly worn in and downright snuggly.

When Bobby handed him the matching, hand knitted beanie without making eye contact, Andy's little trash-tv-obsessed heart just about lost it.

So there he was, smoking in the chilly sunshine in Bobby Singer's mysteriously loved sweater and cap, when he heard the noise coming 'round from the front. The Salvage Yard didn't get a whole lot of visitors. In the four weeks Andy had been there so far, there'd only been a handful of customers (muggle and magical alike, or so Andy Gallagher liked to think of them), and the Winchesters returning from that fake hunt in Indiana. So the commotion wasn't common. Andy clipped off the end of his joint, having only imbibed about a third of it, and pocketed what was left. He gave himself a light pat down – it would be no good running into a local townie smelling like weed and getting Bobby in trouble – before walking almost lazily around the house to the front.

He froze when he saw her. Gleaming in the sunlight, all gorgeous curves and aging paint, edges rusting and the rest an absolutely hideous burnt orange. Dented on one side, a side mirror hanging loose, swaying dangerously given all that was left of its attachment point was a single, precariously frayed wire.

She was perfect.

Bobby was talking with a rough and tumble gentleman unhooking the Dodge Tradesman from the tow truck he'd driven into the yard. Andy barely gave the guy a chance to shake Bobby's hand before he was between him and the hunter, signing furiously to Bobby.

'I want her.'

The old hunter blinked at him, then glanced at the trucker over Andy's shoulder who shrugged and, with raised hands, headed back for his rig. Bobby shook his head, raising his own hands to reply.

'She doesn't run,' he signed, before giving a wave to the guy climbing into his truck, which started with a heavy rumble. "Thanks, Joe."

'I want her!' Andy repeated, ignoring the grumbled, "Yeah, Bobby, see ya next time," that came from the so-called Joe as the truck's door slammed shut with a metallic creak. The kid was busy grinning hopefully as he glanced between his future lady and his current landlord. Bobby followed the gaze, eyebrows up. He was clearly torn between confusion and amusement.

'What for?' he asked. 'What do you need with a car that doesn't run?'

Andy's grin widened. Bobby worried the kid might hurt himself, smile that big. 'Live in it!'

The old man offered an unimpressed stare. 'My house not good enough for you?'

To the kid's credit, he had the decency to look horrified, which amused Bobby to no end. He, of all people, understood the need for space. He'd lived alone since Karen – with the exception of a pair of boys now and then, growing up through the years – but now he was playing permanent host to a twenty-something kid he had no idea what to do with. And he'd always liked his space being, well, his. Hell, Bobby could use some alone time himself, which meant he'd been totally fine from the start with the kid camping out in this piece of junk and making it his own if he wanted to. Not that he needed to let the boy off that easy, of course.

Andy was floundering, flailing his hands in messy sign after sign as he attempted to explain himself without insulting Bobby further. It was pretty adorable, not that the gruff old man would ever admit to such a thing aloud. He let the kid go on for another minute before finally cutting him loose.

'Stop,' he managed to sign, only barely keeping the smirk buried under his mostly manufactured grump. He had a reputation to keep, after all. 'I get it. She's all yours.'

It wasn't like there was much left of her to strip anyway. The only thing with much value would be bits and pieces of the engine, and if Andy didn't care whether or not she ran, then Bobby could clear it out for anything worth some money, or leave it for the next time he needed parts for a Tradesman.

'But!' He signed quickly before the kid could start celebrating. 'I expect some compensation.'

At the 'what' gesture Andy made, not quite signing but reading clear all the same, Bobby crossed his arms for the sake of intimidation and clearly stating who was – and would remain – the boss around here. Which, he realized a moment later, made Signing real damn difficult.

"Chores, kid. You gotta pay for her somehow." Even as he said it, he dug a hand into his pocket for the keys as a cover for why he hadn't signed back. Damn kid always gave him grief about communicating in a not-psychic manner, and Bobby wasn't one to back down about a point. Especially when he was right.

Andy, however, was giving him a look torn between indignation and suspicion, like he might be onto Bobby's game.

'But you got her for free!' Andy was pretty sure he had, anyway. He hadn't seen money exchange hands and…well…. He glanced over at his beauty, his life, his soon to be everything. The side mirror took that perfect opportunity to break fully free with a snap and fall to the ground.

Yeah, he wouldn't have paid anything for her either.

"Don't mean I give her away for free,"Bobby answered verbally, but also half-signing with his free hand. "Running a business here, kid."

Andy might have snorted at that if he wasn't trying to weasel a free van off the old man. This had been so much easier when he'd had his powers. But alas, such days were behind him. So he promised to do a gazillion chores, even spelling out the word one letter at a time (both because gazillion wasn't a real word and so didn't have a sign, and just to make the hunter happy that he was getting faster with hand spelling). The extra charm seemed to appease Bobby, who harrumphed but handed over the keys, more symbolically than for any purpose they actually served.

The kid fist-pumped the air and then turned and bodily hugged his new van. Bobby rolled his eyes and turned back to the house before anyone could catch him smiling.

-o-o-o-

Andy was in the den once more, spread out on his stomach in front of Bobby's desk, clicking his heels together like Dorothy trying to get home from Oz. It was something he'd taken to doing as a kid – working on homework on the floor rather than at a desk – and he'd never really shaken the comfort of that habit. It probably started with coloring books way back when and he just kept it going into school, surrounding himself with workbooks and textbooks instead of coloring pages and crayons. Even years later as a senior in high school, the carpet in his bedroom had always held more appeal than the desk his dad made sure he had. By the time he'd finished with school and decided there were other pursuits worth his time that didn't involve homework, that surface had never been used, buried under books about six deep, pencils and pens and whatnot, a beat up PlayStation on its last leg, and an old TV his dad had let him have in his room when they got a new one in the family room.

(Not that they'd ever been much of a family, or ever watched TV together. All the more reason to have one in his room, he supposed.)

It's probably what made living in a van after he left home so easy for Andy, bumming it however he wanted whatever way he wanted. Sitting at a desk all day, stuck in a cubicle or coming home to a white picket fence and a family dinner table had never been his style. Especially once he got his powers and didn't need an income to survive.

His new Lady wasn't quite ready for living in yet, though. And, to be honest, Andy figured it would be a part time thing at best anyway. More like a place to smoke freely, read and relax while having a little space to himself than an actual living arrangement. He and Bobby usually tag-teamed meals, anyway, so he'd have to be back in the house every morning and evening anyway (something so ridiculously domestic it never failed to leave Andy smirking, which usually led to nothing short of banter and bickering – moments Andy wouldn't trade, even for a van, since he walked away almost always the victor. Almost.)

Plus, it got friggin' cold in South Dakota, and his Baby didn't have a heat source. Yet.

Has the eagle landed?

Andy tapped his feet again, bumping the balls of his ankles together twice before dropping his legs back down, toes bouncing off the carpet as he waited for a reply to his text. Bobby was on the phone at his desk – talking to a hunter by the sound of the conversation – but Andy was only half listening to the case. He had his own mission underway.

I'm not using codewords, kid. Especially such cliche ones.

The psychic grinned as his phone buzzed in his hand and the return text came through. He chuckled silently to himself, thumbs already at work crafting his most excellent response.

But has it landed?

His phone buzzed almost immediately.

NO.

A few moments later a second text came in, which Andy had been anticipating. Some people had a pattern to their texting habits, and his new pen pal was shamelessly predictable in her lecturing.

I told you, these things take time. Give me a couple weeks.

Andy went back to tapping his feet together, grin wide across his face. It's been a couple weeks!

It's been ONE week.

Right, which is only one less than a couple!

P.A.T.I.E.N.C.E

Andy sighed dramatically, tilting his head back and lowering the phone to the ground. The Sheriff was such a mom.

"You saw what?" Bobby's voice grew in volume, a sure sign that he was as surprised as he was increasingly worried. Andy looked up, watching the older man's expression as Bobby rubbed at his forehead, pushing his hat almost off his head in the process. "Well that don't make a lick o' sense."

Andy's phone buzzed again, but he was focused on Bobby's case now, trying to recall what the man had been talking about just before. He knew he was talking to a pair of hunters and that they were investigating something in a forest somewhere cold, given the jokes about snow and 'freezing' one's 'balls off.' Andy frowned, something about that poking at his brain.

"I don't know what to tell ya, Isaac," Bobby sighed, resettling his baseball cap to its rightful place. "I'll keep digging for something that's got antlers, red eyes, and is also somehow invisible at the same time. Just…." Bobby let out a noise reminiscent of someone starting a fight they knew they weren't gonna win. "Don't go after again it till I get back to ya, alright?"

The kid stopped listening, those three things Bobby had said pinging off the inside of his skull like a pinball machine. He propped himself up to the point of looking like a seal, eyes wide. He must have read about it recently. That's why it sounded familiar! Andy's eyes fell to the dozen or so books surrounding him. They weren't the only ones he'd read in the last couple weeks of living at the Salvage Yard, but they were a good place to start. He jumped to his feet, staying in a crouch as he started shuffling through the various tombs, checking the titles and table of contents for a subject that made sense with creatures that took on animal forms, liked the cold, or lived in the woods. It had to be one of those things that he was triggering his memory.

When he found it – a lengthy read about Indigenous myths, creatures, and legends he'd started out of sheer boredom earlier in the week and actually found completely fascinating – Andy jumped to his feet in excitement, book raised high. Bobby's head lifted for a minute in surprise and confusion, giving the kid a hell of a look – before going back to his phone call. Which…okay, fair. Andy was pretty well used to getting that same look by now, and not without having earned it along the way.

But this was important! He knew what those hunters were facing.

He waved his arms in equal parts excitement and to get the older man's attention, but Bobby was now in a heated argument with someone else, some lady named Tamara. So Andy did the only thing he could without a voice.

Bobby jerked at the sudden flash of images – illustrations from a book, exclamation marks, and flashes of text that came and went too damn fast to ever have a hope of reading – and glared at the man standing in front of him pointing to a book.

"Damnit, kid, I'm busy here!"

Andy dropped his hands at that, momentarily taken aback at the biting delivery of Bobby's equally sharp words. It was the first time he'd ever raised his voice at the kid, and the gruff old man could already feel the guilt welling. Not that he had time for that right now. Damnit, he'd apologize later, once he made sure Isaac and Tamara didn't go get themselves killed hunting something they didn't even know the identity of yet.

But Andy was a trooper – a strong kid and a hell of a hunter, really – because he walked right up to Bobby's desk and dropped the book right in front of the man, tapping it twice with his finger pointedly.

'The last thing you said,' Andy signed determinedly, and Bobby watched his hands carefully, phone still pressed to his ear and Tamara hollering on the other end. 'About antlers and red eyes.'

The kid tapped the book again, and Bobby read the title, frown forming as he realized Andy had only been interrupting to help on the case.

"I'll call you back, Tamara. Do not go after it yet, ya here? We're figuring out what this is, just give us a second." With that, Bobby lowered the phone back to the desk, the tinny sound of her reply, "Who's, 'we?'" lost to the beep of Bobby hanging up on her.

The old hunter picked up the book, eyeing the cover for another moment before holding it out to Andy, gaze serious. "Show me."

So Andy did. The creature was called an Ijiraq. It was a pretty obscure creature, mostly lost to time and the lack of a written history over an oral one. Plus the fact that they lived almost exclusively in the arctic and only prayed on the kids of Inuit tribes way up north. Which kind of spoke to why no American hunter had so far encountered one. There was hardly an entire page dedicated to it in the book, but it was all in there. A shapeshifter that always had red eyes, no matter the shape they took on. But they often took on the image of caribou – hence the antlers – and could be spotted out of your peripheral, only to disappear whenever you looked straight on at one. Which had given validity to the local legend that they could turn invisible.

Bobby called Tamara back as soon as he was sure, but Andy had done good work. He relayed the information, including best known ways to kill one, and where to find the kids the thing had taken. Then he hung up and eyed his house ward, who'd gone back to lying on the carpet texting his pen pal.

"You…uh…" Bobby made a clucking sound with his tongue, knowing what he wanted to say but also knowing he owed the kid an apology. "Damn. I'm sorry I snapped at ya, kid."

Andy's hand reached up from the ground, just visible beyond the edge of the desk, and flapped back and forth forgivingly.

"So. You ever thought of helping out around here?"

The kid's head popped up over the edge of the desk next, a frown bordering on a pout firmly on his face. He waved around the room, then signed, 'What do you think that was?'

Bobby snorted. 'I meant on a regular basis.'

Andy's jaw dropped open in a moment of surprise, and his eyes blinked the 'oh...' he needn't bother signing. He settled back on his calves, having bounced up onto his knees to converse with Bobby. The hunter leaned forward on his desk, making a 'well?' gesture with one hand.

The kid seemed to be giving it serious thought before raising his hands. 'Like a job?'

Bobby developed a frown of his own. 'Yeah. Sort of.'

Andy's grin spelled trouble from a mile away. He raised one hand, rubbing his fingers against his thumb in a universal sign, no ASL needed. 'Money?'

This time the snort Bobby gave was about as clear an answer as that non-Sign gesture had been. He spread his arms out even as he climbed to his feet. "What does I look like, a bank?"

He headed to the kitchen for a beer, leaving Andy in the den. Bobby already knew he had the kid; Andy was too good a soul not to help out and, more than that, he could tell the kid was already hooked. He was too good a researcher. But, not one to give up on a good argument when he was most definitely winning, Bobby tossed over his shoulder, "It's called room and board, kid."

The hunter was sure of the laughter happening behind him, silent though it may be. It was confirmed when an image flashed through his brain of a certain Dodge Tradesman waiting out front. He harrumphed – something he did anytime he wanted to cover up the fact he was laughing – and shook his head in amusement as he opened the fridge.

"Yeah, yeah, alright. And yer van."

-o-o-o-

The box wasn't anything particularly special, not to Andy. Just another piece of so-'n-so yet to be discovered in Bobby's house. He'd gone snooping, just like he promised himself he would, next time the older man was out running an errand or, in this case, helping another hunter. Bobby had only done the latter twice now, and only after extensive persuading (more than Andy had anticipated) the first time. He'd been surprised how much assurance it took to convince the man that he was fine on his own for a single hunt. All grown up and ready to sit in an old, drafty house on his lonesome without supervision.

(The look Bobby had given him at that had not been a pleasant one, and probably added an extra twenty minutes of convincing to the already day-long streak he'd been swinging.)

So, Bobby was out helping a friend on something he promised would be quick – a day or two max – which left Andy ample time to start looking around for evidence of that loving mother or adoring housewife. He'd found what he'd been looking for on the evening of the second day; there was a picture tucked away behind some boxes in the closet of Cas's room (one of the last rooms Andy had left to explore. Something about poking about while an angel lay comatose ten feet away was…disconcerting.)

Whoever she'd been – Andy also found a tattered booklet from a memorial service long since passed and instantly felt like crap for digging – she was beautiful. And the smiling face of Bobby, arms wrapped around her, was almost foreign.

Andy had tucked the picture away just like he'd found it, and retreated.

Now he was snooping just for funsies. Hey, come on, he was bored and left without supervision. Bobby really should have known better. Which was how he found the box, shoved in the back of one of the desk drawers in the den. It wasn't much, just five pieces of wood seamlessly fit together and a sixth top piece painted with a blue, oblong, squished up star he'd never seen before.

Well-used to occult objects (and their dangers) randomly tucked in the nooks and crannies of Bobby's house, Andy did the cursory check for any traps or spells. Bobby had taught him the basics on day one, shortly after giving him the all clear to explore the house as he pleased and realizing what a terrible mistake that had been. He didn't see any telltale signs here, so, gingerly, he slid open the top.

Huh. There was nothing inside but an old, antique key.

Andy shrugged, a little bummed by the lack of something exciting, and was sliding the top of the box back on when the phone rang. He almost fumbled the box in surprise, head jerking to the kitchen where the row of landlines hung on the wall. Quickly, as if Bobby was on the other line and new exactly what he'd been up to while the hunter was gone, Andy shoved the lid back onto the box, the box back into the drawer, and the drawer shut as fast as he could. Then he hopped off the desk and bolted for the kitchen.

It was Bobby's main line – none of the duplicate ones meant for verifying some hunter's alibi or identity as a cop or whatnot – so Andy went ahead and picked it up. Given his recent communication…er, challenges, he wasn't supposed to answer any of those other phones, but since helping out on the Ijiraq case, Bobby had gone ahead and told some of those hunting buddies that he had a research 'colleague' (Bobby's words, not Andy's). He'd told 'em to spread the word, that the kid might be the one to pick up but he'd only be speaking in Morse.

So Andy put the phone to his ear, grabbed a pen off the kitchen table, and started tapping away for the hunter in need on the other end.

It was time to earn his new Lady!

-o-o-o-

Can't believe I'm saying this but….

At the vibration against his thigh that indicated a new text, Andy paused in his retro-fitting on said Lady – working an old twin mattress into the back for a cozier place to hang out – and pulled his phone out.

The eagle has landed.

Once he read the newest texts, Andy's grin grew until it couldn't possibly be any bigger. And it was only half because Sheriff Mills had finally caved to the use of codewords.

Even without magical powers that could people bend to his will, Andy still had it.

Roger that!

-o-o-o-

Andy waited excitedly for Bobby to return from the hunt. He'd told Sheriff Mills to hold off, since the old man wasn't in town yet. He'd wanted to take the dog – Sarge, Jody said – in right away and just surprise Bobby when he got home, but the Sheriff assured him it didn't work that way. If it was going to be Bobby Singer's dog, Bobby had to be there for the drop-off.

So there Andy was, waiting excitedly for the tell-tale rumble of Bobby's truck. The hunter had phoned from the road a couple hours out, and that was a couple hours ago now. He was practically twitching with excitement, leg jiggling as he alternated between staring at his phone and looking out one of the front windows at the empty road. Bobby was taking his sweet-ass time, dangit.

The minute he heard it – the rumble of that old truck turning off the paved highway onto the dirt lot – rapid-fire thumbs sent a confirmation text to Sheriff Mills, giving her the all clear to come on over with Sarge.

Papa bird is back in the nest!

His phone buzzed almost immediately in reply.

Sigh.

He cackled noiselessly at the single word and tucked his phone into his pocket. His new pen pal had literally written out the word sigh. Oh yeah, he definitely still had it.

Bobby stomped through the front door looking tired and in need of a beer, which Andy presented to him on cue. The old hunter eyed the drink warily, definitely aware of a pot-sweetener when he saw one (even if he was unaware of the existence of a pot or what exactly was already in it), but took it all the same. He surveyed the house with the same amount of hesitant caution.

Andy raised his eyebrows.

"Just checking you didn't throw a wild rager or something," Bobby grumbled, but nodded approvingly at the state of his home. He popped the beer, taking a swig. Nothing much was out of place, if you took into account that a kid had been living there for the last couple days.

The look said kid gave him was a wounded one. Dramatically so.

'You don't trust me?' he signed, adding big puppy dog eyes and huge brows for emphasis. Bobby snorted. 'Besides, who would I invite?'

The hunter got to raise his own eyebrows in response to that one, pointedly dropping his gaze to the kid's cell, which was buzzing away on the kitchen table. No doubt the kid's new 'pen pal'. Andy just smiled, though it was far from innocent.

'Who, that?' he signed, the picture of incorruptibility but with an air that Bobby was missing out on a joke. The hunter wasn't buying it for a second. He hadn't been born yesterday, thank you very much. Still, Andy just kept on smiling. 'It would have been a really short rager.'

He even took the time to spell out the word, rather than use the easier sign for party. Specificity was important, here.

Bobby didn't know what to make of that, eyeing him. Which was right about the time the doorbell rang. The hunter's eyes narrowed in suspicion at the still idyllic grin on the kid's face before setting down his beer.

"Uh-huh," he muttered, turning and heading towards his front door. Andy skipped along behind him, doing a terrible job at concealing his excitement.

Opening his door and expecting…. Well, Bobby didn't know what he was expecting, but Sheriff Mills standing on his front step with a canine unit sure as hell wasn't it. The German Shephard was panting lightly, tongue lolling as he sat patiently by Jody's side, and the Sheriff gave a warm smile to the old hunter. Bobby wasn't buying that, either.

"You got a warrant, Sheriff?" was his first question, second only to 'what did I do now?' which he didn't bother voicing aloud. He eyed the dog warily. It had to be something big if she'd brought a search dog with her. At least he didn't currently have any bodies buried on the property. Thank God for that timing.

Jody's eyebrows went up. If he didn't know any better, she looked damned amused. "Do I need one?"

"If you're planning on bringing that mutt in here, then yeah, you'll be needing one." Bobby crossed his arms, not one to mince words with the local officers. Jody was a nice enough woman, but he couldn't say it was the first time she'd shown up on his property with one complaint or another. Stolen vehicles, public intoxication, that one brawl fight that led to a bogus assault charge, yada yada yada. He'd heard it all.

The Sheriff, much to Bobby's surprise, just chuckled. She shook her head with nothing short of a disappointed soccer mom expression intermingled with amusement and a dash of 'oh boy, I can't believe this. No, wait, I'm raising a toddler, I absolutely can believe it.'

"He didn't tell you," she said and Bobby immediately became a whole different type of suspicious. His first instinct was to turn back into the house and find that troublemaking stray who absolutely had to be the 'he' in this conversation, but the Sheriff was still talking. "Alrighty then, guess I'll just have to leave Sarge right here on the porch."

The look on Bobby's face made Jody absolutely wish she had a camera, a thought that only doubled down when Andy came barreling out onto the porch past the frazzled older man. The kid wrapped Jody in hug – the Sheriff letting out a startled explanation that turned genuine enough as she returned his embrace one-armed – before he knelt down on the increasingly crowded porch and gave Sarge a good scratch.

"What in hell's name is going on here?" Bobby tried to holler, but his frustration was outweighed largely by exasperation, especially as Andy immediately climbed back to his feet, taking the leash from Sheriff Mills and trotting inside. The dog followed obediently as Andy started signing – at first over his shoulder and then, realizing how not-well that was working, spun on his heel, slipped the leash over his wrist, and started signing with both hands while still walking, only to run into the first available piece of furniture with a loud thud and a cringe – about the dog's sit command.

Not that Jody Mills could understand what he was asking. But Bobby sure as hell did.

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no." Now that he was properly hollering, he added a shaking finger for extra emphasis. But before Bobby could follow the kid and their absolutely-not-staying canine guest, Jody pushed some papers into his chest, interrupting his path back inside. He grabbed at them distractedly, momentarily caught off guard until he glanced down and realized they were adoption papers.

He glared at the woman, mostly for daring to sit there smiling that smug little smile, like this was all somehow sweet, and instead went back to yelling at his kid. This time waving the papers around. "I told you I didn't want another dog!"

Andy perked up from inside, where he was crouched in front of a sitting Sarge trying to get him to shake. He immediately gave up that endeavor in order to reply. 'No, you said you didn't want to train another dog! Well, Sarge comes fully trained!'

"What'd he say?" Sheriff Mills asked, leaning in to see the kid past the doorway. Bobby huffed something unseemly, but also along the lines of what Andy had said. Jody straightened back up, puttering her hands on her hips with a simple smile and a nod. "That's right. Sarge is retired K-9 unit. Fully trained. There's a page in there on all his verbal commands and hand signals."

She pointed to one of papers Bobby was holding and out of politeness and absolutely nothing more, he flipped to it.

"His handler died in the line of duty. As is tradition when that kind of tragedy happens, Sarge was retired and put up for adoption. The family of the fallen gets first say, then other cops, then the general public." Jody smiled something a little more sad than sweet. "Andy said you were looking for a new dog, fully trained, already grown. Sarge is seven years old and sure could use a loving home. It hasn't been easy on him since his owner died, and he's got no one else.

Bobby Singer could spot a guilt trip well more than a mile away…but it didn't mean he was any less susceptible to it working on him, damnit.

The kid looked up at the absolute worst damn moment, too. The way his eyes lit up and that damn happy smile across his face – like a kid at Christmas who just gave the best damn gift instead of getting it himself – cemented it. No turning back now. But Bobby didn't have to be happy about it, damnit.

"You're taking care of him!" he hollered, for show if nothing more. Andy nodded far too enthusiastically. Bobby held out the pages he was holding, the one with Sarge's training right on top. The kid practically stumbled to his feet, grin never fading, to come grab the pages. "That means walks and exercise! And keeping up on his training."

Andy was still nodding, already back in front of Sarge, who'd stayed waiting, sitting patiently. Bobby tried to think of something grumpy to say, or more chores to demand from the kid. (Who wasn't even a friggin' kid, dangit, but a full grown man definitely acting like the five year old. But, well, a responsible five year old at least).

He was already practicing one of the hand signals with Sarge. The dog followed along perfectly obediently, lifting a paw to set it perfectly in Andy's hand. Jody Mills was still on his front step, grinning herself silly too.

So Bobby just sighed. Guess they had a new dog.

-o-o-o-

- Present -

Andy summed all of that up in like three images and eight hand gestures from within a new cloud of smoke that was once again so thick they could barely see the kid. Which made his signing about as clear as the story had been.

Not that Dean, at least, had been expecting much more.

"Cool van," he said in response, grin matching Andy's, both entirely too pleased with themselves.

Sam, meanwhile, was frowning, those big puppy dog eyes looking between Andy, Dean, and Bobby with clear confusion, like he was missing a piece of the puzzle everyone else seemed to have. "Who's Jody Mills?"

Then Ronald woke up, and they all knew the moment he did, because his screaming was clearly audible even out in the yard.

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

A/Ns: When this chapter started, I was seriously worried about being able to fill the entire thing with just Andy's time at Bobby's. I was so worried I wouldn't have enough material that I started coming up with backup plans on what to fill the second half of the chapter with. For reals, 113 chapters in, three years, seven novels worth of words, you'd think I'd have, you know, PICKED UP on the fact that I'm VERBOSE AF. ALWAYS. But nope! I was legit worried I wouldn't be able to fill out this chapter. And then the Muse heard the name 'Andy Gallagher' and was all "hold my Chai Tea Latte."

[head thud]

Bobby Losing His Temper: Also, writing Bobby getting angry at the kid was *hard*. I had to quit that part and come back to it several times. It was just *one* line and everyone is allowed to lose their temper but gaaaaah, I did not like it.

Bunker Key: Also, Also. How'd you all like that reminder that the bunker key's still just hanging out in Bobby's desk, just waiting. Huh? Huh? Huh? [immediately ducks for cover, chortling in many a no good, dirty rotten way] I swear, I am teasing and taunting because I can, but it *is* coming. By the end of Season 2, cross my heart! (and we're finally, finally not that far away from that finale!)

(…which still means like…twenty chapters away because…you know, verbose af [head thud])

((because we're only got one episodic case left between us and the finale, but that'll be at least three chapters, probably four or five, and then there's setup for the finale, and that'll be at least three damnit, and then the actual finale and lord knows how long that'll actually be. Sweet jesus.))

(((but I swear, we're close. So close.)))

Sarge: Also, Also, Also. About Sarge. So waaaay back in Season 1, I allowed Rumsfeld to meet the same fate as he did on the show, but I couldn't bring myself to write or even acknowledge that I'd done it. I swore to myself many, many years ago that I'd never kill off a dog in my writing – it's something I can't really handle to be honest. I can beat Dean within an inch of his life and put Sammy through withdrawal, but hurt a dog? NOPE.

But then I ran headlong into this story without thinking, at all, about Rumsfeld and changing his fate, right up to the point where Meg had already shown up and I realized I had done *nothing* to change how that happened. So I had to stay committed to the canon story line because there was no reason it would change on its own and I'd messed up by not realizing I needed Rumsfeld mentioned, safe and inside, earlier. But rather than admit that, I just…ignored it. And then felt bad about it for years. Years, guys. Because it wasn't just sloppy of me, it's that I knew even then that I could do better and just…chose not to. I've been a bit ashamed of that ever since.

So! Sarge is my apology to myself, to all of you, and to Bobby for taking away his dog without even acknowledging that I'd done it. And while I will never promise the well-being of any other character in any of my writing (because I'm a no good, dirty rotten author), Sarge is safe. I will never kill another dog in my writing.

Alrighty, that's it from me! (Damn was I chatty today) See y'all in two weeks! :D

Cheers,

Silence

UPDATE 3/5/2022:Alright, once again total apologies for the radio silence for weeks! It's been a very busy month at work which hasn't left much free time + I'm exhausted when I do have the free time. Also, and this is the most devistating: I'M OUT OF WRITTEN CHAPTERS D: [insert image of me wailing here. No, no, that's not dramatic enough. Really amp it up. Yeah, there you go. That's me right now] I've got the next chapter half written but dangit...I should never have said aloud that I thought these next few chapters would write themselves. That damn Muse perked right up and said, "What? Sweet! VACAY!" To which I cried out "No, wait, I meant that you're the one who's going to write them- aaaand she's gone." And, of course, the cosmos chimed in to say "dun, dun, duuuuun" Really, it's been a very exciting couple weeks over here -.- I will keep writing as much as I can as often as I can, and get you a chapter soon as it's written. Until then, thank you so much for your patience, understanding, and pokes!