AN: Another update because apparently I am a fanfic machine when I should be packing lol. Hope you enjoy this chapter.
BTW if you are a Teen Wolf fan, I have been posting a new OC fic for the last few weeks. About 15 chapters up so far. Take a look if it interests you :)
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over Bobby's salvage yard. The crisp winter air was still, save for the distant rustle of wind through the trees and the soft clinking of empty beer bottles as Dean set up their makeshift targets.
Ali stood a few feet away, rolling her shoulders and flexing her fingers against the cool grip of the pistol in her hands.
"Alright," Dean said, stepping back and crossing his arms. "Five shots. Five bottles. Think you got it in you?"
Ali smirked, levelling the gun. "You do remember who you're talking to, right?"
Dean just chuckled and gestured for her to take her shot. Ali exhaled slowly, steadying herself. Her fingers tightened around the trigger.
Bang. A bottle shattered.
Bang. Another one gone.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Glass exploded in sharp bursts, the last bottle barely hitting the ground before the final shot tore through it.
The silence that followed was thick with satisfaction.
Dean let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Damn, kid. Looks like I got nothing left to teach you."
Ali spun the gun once on her finger before clicking the safety back on. "You never did," she teased, flashing him a grin.
Before Dean could shoot back a response, Bobby's gruff voice called out from the porch.
"Allison! Get in here—you got a visitor."
Ali frowned, exchanging a look with Dean.
"A visitor?" she repeated.
Dean smirked, ever the troublemaker. "Ooooh, secret admirer?"
Ali rolled her eyes, ignoring him as she shoved the gun into her belt and trudged toward the house.
Stepping inside, she wiped her hands against her jeans, still thrown by the idea that anyone would be here to see her. But when she spotted the lanky figure standing in the hallway, her stomach sank.
"Tim?" she said, barely managing to keep the groan out of her voice.
Tim grinned, his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets. "Hey, Ali. Heard you were back in town."
She sighed. Of all people.
Tim had been friends with Tyler back in the day, and while she had nothing against him, he had the uncanny ability to get under her skin. Probably because of the way he always seemed to hover around her, never picking up on the fact that she wasn't interested.
Before she could come up with a polite way to get rid of him, Dean waltzed in, wearing the exact kind of expression that made her stomach drop.
"Oh, hey, look at that," he said loudly, clapping Tim on the shoulder like they were old friends. "Ali's got a visitor."
Ali's jaw clenched. He was enjoying this.
"Dean," she warned, but it was too late.
"Sam!" Dean called over his shoulder. "Get in here, man. Ali's friend came to visit."
Tim looked mildly confused as Sam trudged in from Bobby's study, his expression immediately souring at the sight of Tim. Ali groaned under her breath. Great.
Dean, of course, was grinning like an idiot. "This is Sam. He's, uh—"
"I know who Sam is," Tim interrupted, before looking at Ali. "Didn't realise you had the whole gang here."
Ali shot Dean a death glare before grabbing Tim's arm and pulling him toward the study. "Yeah, we're going this way now."
Dean chuckled behind her. "You two kids have fun!"
Ali resisted the urge to throw something at him.
Inside the study, Ali shut the door and let out a long breath.
"Sorry about them," she muttered.
Tim shrugged. "They seem... interesting."
"That's one word for it," she said dryly.
Tim wandered around the room, eyes scanning the shelves of books, trinkets, and scattered papers. "Didn't peg Bobby for the scholarly type," he mused, running a finger along a dusty spine. "What's with all the old books?"
Ali forced a casual shrug. "He's a collector."
Tim nodded, but his curiosity didn't wane. His gaze landed on the desk, where an array of old phones sat lined up. "And the landline obsession?"
Ali didn't miss a beat. "Scam calls. Gotta keep 'em guessing."
Tim let out a short laugh before his attention shifted again. His eyes landed on Sam's laptop, still open from whatever he had been researching before they had barged in.
"Hey," he said suddenly, leaning in for a closer look. "This guy looks just like Tyler."
Ali's heart stopped. She turned slowly, frowning. "What?"
Tim pointed at the screen. It was a grainy CCTV still from a gas station—an image of a man in a hooded jacket, half-turned toward the camera. And Tim was right. The resemblance was uncanny.
Ali's mouth went dry.
No. It's just an old photo. It has to be.
But then she saw the timestamp.
September. Last year.
Her pulse spiked.
"That's gotta be an old image," she muttered, voice hollow.
Tim frowned. "But it says—"
Ali slammed the laptop shut.
Her breathing was suddenly too fast, too shallow. The desk in front of her was scattered with receipts, photographs—things she hadn't noticed before. All of them dated within the last 6 months, some as recent as weeks.
She reached for them with shaky fingers, flipping through them frantically.
Tyler's face. His jacket. Different locations. Different dates. A tremor ran through her. Tim was still talking, but she barely heard him.
Then the door opened.
Sam and Dean stood there, their faces unreadable. Bobby loomed behind them, silent. But Ali didn't need to hear a word. The guilt was written all over their faces.
"What is all this?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
No one answered.
Bobby swallowed thickly. "Ali—"
"Time to go, kid," Dean interrupted, stepping past her and ushering Tim toward the front door. Tim shot her a confused look as he left, but Ali barely registered him.
She turned back to Bobby, her hands trembling now. "Bobby. What is this?"
Bobby stepped toward her, but she took a step back. "Ali, I…"
Her chest tightened. "What the hell is going on?"
Sam stepped forward this time, his expression pained. "Ali, we wanted to tell you, but—"
"Tell me what?" she snapped.
Dean reappeared then, his usual cocky demeanour gone. He looked tired. Worn down.
Ali's throat tightened. There was only one reason they would be acting like this.
Dean let out a breath and crouched down slightly, meeting her eyes. "We didn't want to say anything until we were sure."
Ali's fingers clenched at her sides. She could feel it coming, like a punch she wasn't ready to take.
Her gaze flickered back to the photos, the receipts, the undeniable truth staring her in the face.
"Ali," Sam said gently. She looked up at him, heart hammering. Sam exchanged a hesitant glance with Dean and Bobby before meeting her eyes again.
"We think Tyler is alive."
The world tilted.
For a long moment, Ali could only stare. Then she exhaled sharply, taking a step back, her head shaking. "No."
But the looks on their faces said otherwise. Her breath hitched. The room suddenly felt too small.
Tyler is alive? And they had been hiding it from her. Ali shook her head, taking another step back as if putting distance between herself and the words hanging in the air would make them less real.
"No." Her voice was shaky, breathless. "You're wrong."
Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms.
"If Tyler was alive, he would've come and found me."
But even as she said it, the words felt hollow. Her stomach twisted.
Dean let out a quiet breath. "Ali—"
"No." She cut him off sharply, her chest heaving. "No. Don't Ali me. You're wrong. He's dead. He's been dead for years. You know that."
Silence.
No one spoke.
They weren't arguing. They weren't trying to convince her she was wrong. And that—more than anything—made her feel like the ground was falling out from under her. Her breath came fast, shallow.
Bobby stepped forward cautiously. "Kid, listen—"
She jerked back. "Don't." Her voice cracked. Bobby flinched, his face dark with something close to regret. Ali ran a hand through her hair, feeling herself spiralling. The walls of the study felt like they were closing in, the air thick and suffocating. Her pulse pounded against her ribs, her skin prickling with heat.
They'd been hiding this.
Her eyes darted to the desk—at the photographs, the receipts, the papers scattered across its surface. Proof. Pieces of something she hadn't been allowed to see. She looked at Sam. His expression was pained, his mouth pressed into a tight line.
Ali's voice dropped, quiet but cutting. "How long have you known?" Sam hesitated, glancing at Dean. Ali's stomach churned. "How long?" she demanded.
Sam exhaled, guilt washing over his face. "A couple of months."
Ali inhaled sharply through her nose, but it felt like she couldn't get enough air. "A couple of months," she echoed, her voice eerily calm.
Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Ali—"
"How could you not tell me?" Her voice cracked on the last word, but she didn't care.
Dean ran a hand over his face, looking frustrated. "Because we weren't sure, alright? We didn't want to drag you through all of this if it turned out to be nothing."
Ali let out a humourless laugh. "Nothing?" She gestured wildly at the desk. "You've got months' worth of evidence sitting right there, and you thought it was nothing?"
Sam shook his head. "No. That's not what he means. We just—"
Ali turned on him. "You just what? Thought you'd protect me?"
Sam flinched at the bitterness in her tone.
Dean stepped forward, voice calm but firm. "Yeah, actually. We did."
Ali sucked in a sharp breath, shaking her head. "You lied to me."
Dean's jaw tightened. "We didn't lie—"
"Bullshit." Her voice cracked with barely restrained emotion. "You knew. You knew, and you kept it from me."
Bobby tried again. "Ali, you gotta understand—"
"No, you understand," she snapped. "Tyler is my brother. You had no right to keep this from me." Her breath shuddered as she dragged a hand down her face. Her mind was racing. Spinning. Trying to make sense of something that didn't make sense.
Tyler was gone. He'd been gone for years. She had mourned him. She had grieved him.
And now they were telling her he was alive?
She swallowed, her throat aching.
More than anything, she wanted to believe it wasn't true—because if it was, then that meant something worse. It meant he had chosen not to come back. Ali shook her head again, her voice smaller now.
"If he was alive... why didn't he come for me?"
No one had an answer. The silence stretched between them, heavy and unbearable.
Dean exhaled, stepping closer, his voice softer now. "Ali, I don't know." She blinked rapidly, fighting the sting behind her eyes. Dean reached for her, but she took a step back.
She couldn't do this. Not right now.
She turned abruptly, pushing past them, needing to get out of that room, away from the suffocating weight of their secrets.
"Ali—" Sam called after her.
But she was already gone.
The tires skidded slightly as Ali jerked the wheel, pulling off the road onto the gravel shoulder. The car rumbled beneath her, the engine still running, but she didn't move.
Her fingers were clenched around the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles ached, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
Tyler is alive.
The words wouldn't stop echoing in her head, over and over, like a cruel joke she wasn't in on. She let out a bitter laugh, her throat tight with emotion. No, they were wrong. They had to be wrong.
Because if they weren't…
Her stomach twisted painfully.
"If Tyler was alive, he would have come and found me," she had said back at the house.
But even as she had said it, doubt had curled in the back of her mind. Because what if he couldn't? What if something—someone—was keeping him away?
And worse—what if nothing was keeping him away?
Her chest felt like it was caving in. Her hands trembled as she pressed them against her face, trying to will away the hot tears burning in her eyes.
A sharp, broken sob escaped her throat before she could stop it. She slammed a fist against the steering wheel, the horn blaring briefly in the stillness of the quiet road.
She hated this.
She hated that she didn't know what was real anymore.
And she hated that a small, traitorous part of her wanted to believe them.
Because if Tyler was alive…
She drew in a shaky breath, running a hand through her hair.
It didn't matter. None of it mattered right now. What mattered was that she couldn't just sit here, spiralling. With a rough sniff, she wiped at her face, took another deep breath, and turned the car around.
She wasn't done being angry—not even close. But sitting here wasn't going to fix anything.
The bottles shattered one by one beneath the force of her shots, the sharp crack of the gunfire slicing through the cold night air.
Ali barely even noticed the sound anymore. Her body moved on instinct, raising the gun, lining up the next shot, pulling the trigger.
She should have felt satisfaction in the destruction, in the way the glass exploded into nothing under her control. But it wasn't enough. Nothing felt like it was enough.
She was still angry. Still hurt. She reloaded, jaw clenched, and fired again.
Somewhere behind her, footsteps crunched against the gravel. She knew who it was before she even turned her head. Dean leaned against an old rusted car, arms crossed over his chest, watching her.
She ignored him.
Another shot. Another bottle down.
He let her keep going, silent, waiting. When the last bottle shattered, and she reloaded again, he finally spoke.
"Well, damn, still a perfect shot even when you're angry."
Ali didn't answer. Didn't even look at him.
She raised the gun and fired again, this time at an empty beer can that had been left on the fence. The can flew off, disappearing somewhere in the junkyard.
Dean sighed. "Alright. You gonna keep pretending I'm not here or what?"
She still didn't answer.
Another shot.
Dean ran a hand over his face before stepping closer. "Ali, look, I get it. You're pissed."
She let out a short, bitter laugh, but it had no humour in it. "Wow, you think?"
He exhaled through his nose. "Yeah, I do. And I know you're mad at Bobby and Sam too, but this wasn't their call. It was mine."
Ali finally turned to face him, her expression hard.
"Good to know," she said flatly, turning back to the bottles and taking another shot. Dean didn't flinch at the sharp crack of the gun.
"I wanted to be sure," he continued. "Before I said anything. I didn't want to get your hopes up over nothing."
Ali huffed a humourless laugh, lowering her gun slightly. "Yeah? And how long were you planning on keeping this from me?"
Dean hesitated. "Ali—"
"No. How long?" she demanded, finally looking at him. He met her gaze, expression unreadable.
"We weren't sure until recently," he admitted. "And even now, we don't have all the answers."
Ali let out a slow breath, trying to steady herself.
"I thought I was going crazy," she muttered. "What you said to me the other week, about you and Sam always wanting what's best for me?" She paused, shaking her head. "I thought you were talking about hell, but you were talking about this, weren't you?"
Dean stepped closer, his voice softer now. "I wasn't trying to hurt you, kid."
Ali swallowed the lump in her throat. "Yeah? Well, you did."
Dean looked down for a moment, guilt flickering across his face. When he looked back up, his expression was more serious.
"I just…" He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I wanted to do something for you before I—"
He cut himself off.
Ali's grip tightened on her gun. "Before you what, Dean?"
He didn't answer right away. And then, finally, he sighed.
"Before I go," he said simply. "I owe it to you to find out what happened to Tyler before I go."
Ali's stomach twisted. She knew what he meant.
His deal. His damn deal.
Anger flared in her chest again, but this time, it wasn't just at him. It was at everything. At this stupid life. At whatever the hell was coming for them next. At the fact that, no matter how hard they fought, she might lose another person she loved.
She looked away, shaking her head.
"Don't," she said, voice thick.
Dean frowned. "Don't what?"
"Don't say goodbye before it's even happened," she muttered. "I'm still mad at you. You don't get to pull the 'sentimental big brother' crap on me right now."
Dean studied her for a moment, then smirked slightly. "Big brother, huh?"
Ali groaned, reloading her gun. "Shut up."
Dean chuckled, shaking his head. But Ali could still see the worry in his eyes.
He shifted his weight, watching Ali as she loaded another round into her gun. The anger was still rolling off her in waves, and he knew better than to push too hard. But he also couldn't leave her like this—stewing in it, letting it eat her up inside.
He ran a hand over his face before finally speaking again.
"This is why we were gone longer than we planned over the holidays," he said, his voice measured but firm. "We were following a lead."
Ali paused just briefly, her fingers tightening around the pistol. Dean caught it, but she didn't say anything. She just set up another bottle and took aim, her jaw tight.
He sighed. "Look, I know you don't think Tyler's alive, but Ali… there was never a body."
Ali's shot went wide, missing the bottle entirely.
Dean didn't point it out.
She exhaled sharply through her nose, reloading with more force than necessary. "That doesn't mean anything."
"Maybe," Dean conceded. "But you gotta admit, it's weird."
Ali's lips pressed into a thin line. She didn't want to hear this. She didn't want to think about it. Because if she let herself believe—really believe—that Tyler could be out there, she didn't know if she could handle what came next.
Dean exhaled. "I don't know he stayed away all this time. But whatever the reason, it must've been a damn good one."
Ali felt something twist painfully in her chest. She didn't want to do this. Not now. Not with Dean. So instead, she lifted the gun again, lined up another shot, and fired.
Dean watched her for a long moment. He could push harder, but it wouldn't do any good. Ali wasn't ready.
So finally, he just sighed, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck.
"Alright, kid. I'll leave you to it," he said, his voice quieter now.
Ali didn't answer.
Dean hesitated a second longer, but then he turned and headed back toward the house, leaving her alone with her thoughts. The door shut behind him, and Ali fired another shot. Her hands were steady. Her aim was perfect. But inside, she felt like she was falling apart.
Hours passed by and the darkness of the night had settled deep over the salvage yard. The only light came from the faint glow of the house and the distant flicker of a broken streetlamp at the edge of the property. The cold was biting now, sharp enough that Ali's fingers were numb, but she barely noticed.
She sat on the frozen ground, legs crossed, fingers twirling Tyler's silver knife between them in an absent rhythm. She had long since run out of ammunition, but she could go back to the house. She couldn't face them. Not yet.
The blade glinted in the dim light, its familiar weight oddly grounding.
Footsteps crunched over the frost-covered dirt, slow and hesitant.
Sam.
Ali didn't look up as he approached, but she knew he was there, hovering just a few feet away.
"You should come inside," Sam said gently. His voice was calm, coaxing, like he was trying not to spook a wounded animal. "It's freezing, Ali." She continued spinning the knife between her fingers.
"I can see you shivering," he added, his tone edged with concern. "You'll catch your death if you stay out here."
A flicker of movement in the corner of her eye, and then Bobby was there too, his steps heavier, more deliberate. He didn't say anything at first. Just stepped up beside Sam, taking in the sight of her sitting on the ground in the dark.
With a quiet sigh, Bobby pulled a thick blanket from under his arm and draped it around her shoulders. Ali flinched slightly at the unexpected warmth but didn't push it away.
Bobby eased himself down next to her with a grunt, stretching his legs out in front of him. He didn't try to make her talk. Didn't try to fix anything. He just sat there, solid and steady, like an anchor.
After a long moment, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the fancy bottle of whiskey she had gotten him for Christmas, holding it out to her.
"Drink?"
Ali hesitated, then took the bottle from him without a word, bringing it to her lips. The whiskey burned on the way down, but the warmth spread through her chest, dulling the cold just a little.
Bobby nodded approvingly. "Good stuff."
Sam lingered, still standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest like he wanted to say something else. Bobby glanced up at him and jerked his chin toward the house. "Go on, Sam. It's alright."
Sam hesitated, shifting on his feet. "Bobby—"
"She's fine," Bobby assured him, his tone leaving no room for argument. "She just needs a minute."
Sam exhaled, reluctant, but after a long pause, he gave Ali one last look and finally turned back toward the house.
The silence stretched between them for a while after Sam was gone.
Ali didn't speak. Bobby didn't push.
He just sat there with her in the cold, the quiet weight of his presence saying more than words ever could.
Bobby stayed with her until she couldn't fight the exhaustion anymore, her eyes beginning to droop as her body sagged on the ground next to him. He pulled her to her feet, guiding her into the house with an arm around her shoulders. She really was freezing now, and when they got to the house, Bobby steered her into the living room where a fire was still roaring in the hearth.
He set her down on the sofa, placing the blanket over her as he watched her eyes give in to the fatigue the day had brought her.
He sighed, pulling his armchair closer in as he took a seat, his own body aching from the cold. He poured himself a glass of whisky and settled down, his eyes watching over the blonde girl whose breathing had become slow and deep.
He would stay there all night, and he would be there when she woke up in the morning.
Morning light filtered through the grimy kitchen window, casting long shadows over the cluttered table where Bobby, Sam, and Dean sat. The smell of coffee lingered in the air, blending with the scent of burned toast. Someone had been up for a while.
Ali paused in the doorway, fingers gripping the edge of the worn wood frame. Her body ached from the cold night, her limbs sluggish despite the warmth of the blanket draped over her shoulders. But she was done waiting. Done avoiding.
Three pairs of eyes turned toward her, conversation halting mid-sentence.
"You're up," Dean said, setting his coffee mug down. His voice was casual, but there was something guarded in his gaze.
Ali ignored the implied question and stepped further into the room. She didn't sit. Didn't reach for the coffee pot or acknowledge the seat Sam subtly nudged out for her. Instead, she stood firm, shoulders squared.
"I want to know everything," she said, her voice steady despite the exhaustion pressing down on her. "No more half-truths. No more avoiding it." Her fingers curled tightly around the fabric of the blanket. "What do you know about Tyler?"
Sam exhaled, glancing at Bobby. The older hunter's expression was unreadable, but he nodded, as if confirming what they all already knew—there was no use keeping it from her now.
"We tried looking into records," Sam started, leaning forward, resting his arms on the table. "There's nothing on him after he went missing. No credit cards, no social security, no medical records. Just… gone."
"Until about six months ago," Dean added, watching her carefully. "That's when he suddenly pops back up."
Ali felt a cold pit settle in her stomach. She already knew the answer, but she needed to hear it. "What happened six months ago?"
Bobby sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "That's when the Devil's Gate was opened."
The words hung heavy in the air, pressing down like a weight on her chest.
Sam hesitated, like he was choosing his next words carefully. "If he was dead—if his soul was in hell—he might have escaped when the gate was opened."
Ali swallowed hard. "So, you think he got out?"
Dean shifted in his chair. "Maybe." He didn't sound convinced.
Ali's stomach twisted. "But?"
Dean met her eyes, his own dark with something unreadable. "But there's another explanation."
She already knew what he was going to say, but she let him finish anyway.
"The demon that killed him—it could know this was the conclusion we'd make." Dean's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "It could be wearing Tyler's body, trying to make you believe he's alive."
Ali inhaled sharply, her fingers clenching the blanket so tightly her knuckles turned white. The air in the room felt too thick, too heavy. She looked at Sam, at Bobby, searching for some kind of reassurance, some reason to dismiss the possibility. But none of them contradicted him.
She nodded slowly, trying to process it. Trying to stay standing.
"So either Tyler escaped from hell…" She forced herself to say the second part. "Or the thing that killed him is possessing him."
Dean didn't look away. "Yeah."
Ali swallowed. "And we don't know which one."
Sam shook his head. "Not yet."
Silence filled the kitchen, thick with unspoken fears.
Ali closed her eyes for a brief second, then opened them again. Her jaw tightened, her spine straightened. "Then we find out."
She wasn't running from this. Not anymore.
Dean watched Ali carefully, his jaw tightening as she squared her shoulders, determination written all over her face. He knew that look—she was ready to throw herself headfirst into this, fuelled by hope and stubbornness. And that scared the hell out of him.
"Ali," he said, voice firm. "You need to be ready for the possibility that it's not really him."
She met his gaze, sharp and unwavering. "I know."
"No, you need to really get this," Dean pressed, leaning forward. "If we find him, if we track him down, there's a damn good chance that it's not Tyler walking around out there. It could be something wearing his face, using his memories, twisting everything it knows about you to keep itself alive."
Ali didn't flinch, but Dean could see the flicker of something in her eyes. Pain.
"I said I know." Her voice was quieter this time.
Dean shook his head. "I don't think you do. Because when the time comes—when we have to put him down—you can't hesitate." His voice was hard, almost cruel, but he knew she needed to hear it. "If this thing is a demon, it's gonna play you. It's gonna make you believe it's him. And if you hesitate, even for a second, people die. You could die."
Ali inhaled sharply, but she didn't look away.
Dean leaned back slightly, exhaling, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders. His next words came quieter, but no less serious.
"Tyler could still be gone, Ali."
The room felt suffocatingly still, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator and the distant creak of wood settling.
Ali swallowed, nodding once. "I understand."
Dean searched her face for any sign of doubt, any hesitation. He needed to be sure she meant it.
Bobby, who had been watching the exchange in silence, finally spoke. His voice was rough but steady. "You ain't gotta like it, kid. Just gotta be ready for it."
Ali let out a slow breath, her fingers tightening around the blanket still draped over her shoulders.
"I am," she said. And this time, there was no hesitation.
Dean studied her a second longer before nodding. "Alright."
Sam exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face like the whole conversation had left him drained. "So… where do we start?"
Ali straightened. "We need to find him first."
Her voice was steady, her resolve unshaken. No matter what the truth was—no matter what they found at the end of this road—she was ready. She had to be.
Ali turned on her heel and strode out of the kitchen, the worn wooden floor creaking under her steps. The conversation had ended, but the weight of it still hung in the air. She disappeared down the hall and up the stairs.
For a few moments, silence stretched between the three men. Sam let out a slow breath and took a sip of his coffee, his shoulders losing some of their tension. Dean sat back in his chair, running a hand over his face.
It wasn't until the quiet had settled that Dean glanced toward Bobby and noticed it—the way the older hunter was gripping his coffee mug a little too tightly, his jaw set like he was biting something back.
Dean narrowed his eyes. "Alright. What is it?"
Bobby didn't look at him. Just muttered, "Nothin'."
Dean wasn't buying it. "Bull."
Bobby exhaled sharply through his nose.
Dean leaned forward, lowering his voice just enough to keep Sam from getting too involved. "I get that this is hard on her, but this has to be hard on you too." He paused. "You helped raise Tyler after their folks died. This can't be easy for you either."
Bobby let out a short, humourless chuckle. "You don't know the half of it."
Dean tilted his head slightly, frowning. "Then say it. If you've got something to get off your chest, just say it."
Bobby finally looked at him then, his eyes shadowed with something heavier than frustration—something closer to grief. "You don't understand how hard this is gonna be for her," he said, voice rough. "If she loses him again…" He shook his head, looking away. "I watched what it did to her when she was eleven. When we lost Tyler the first time. She was a mess, Dean. Could barely function. It damn near broke her."
Dean sat quietly, letting that sink in. He could picture it—Ali as a kid, grieving in a way no kid should ever have to. He'd seen firsthand what losing family did to people, the way it shattered something inside them that never quite healed right.
Bobby rubbed a hand over his face, his exhaustion showing. "I can't watch her go through that again."
Dean exhaled slowly, thinking. "So what are you saying?"
Bobby didn't answer right away. Instead, he took a long sip of his coffee, then set the mug down on the table.
Dean pressed. "You think I should've left it alone?"
Bobby was quiet for a beat too long. Then, without looking up, he muttered, "Doesn't matter now."
Dean studied him, hearing everything Bobby wasn't saying. Maybe part of Bobby did wish they'd left it alone. Maybe he thought Ali deserved peace more than answers. But it was too late for that now. They'd already opened the door.
Dean let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he watched Bobby stare into his coffee like it might give him an answer.
"It does matter," Dean said finally, voice quieter but still firm. "If you think I should've left it alone, then say it."
Bobby shook his head. "Ain't that simple."
"Sure it is." Dean leaned forward, elbows braced on the table. "You think I dragged her into something she wasn't ready for? That I should've let it go? Because I know what it's like to chase ghosts, Bobby. I know what it's like to want so bad for something to be true that you don't stop to think about what it'll do to you when it's not."
Bobby sighed. "This ain't just some damn ghost hunt, Dean. This is her brother. And if he's gone—" He hesitated, shaking his head. "If he's gone again, I don't know if she'll come back from that this time."
Dean's jaw clenched, his fingers curling into a fist on the table. "You don't think I know that?" he said, voice lower now, edged with frustration. "You don't think I thought about that before I told her?"
Bobby's gaze snapped up to meet his, something sharp and old in his eyes. "Then why the hell did you do it?"
Dean stared at him for a moment, then exhaled through his nose. "Because she deserves to know the truth."
Bobby scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "The truth? The truth might damn near kill her, boy."
"And what—lying to her wouldn't?" Dean shot back. "You really think she would've just gone on with her life, never knowing? If there was even a chance Tyler was out there, she was gonna find out one way or another. At least this way, she's not walking into it blind."
Bobby's fingers drummed against the table, tension tightening the lines on his face.
Dean pressed on, voice calmer now but no less serious. "Look, man. I get it. You want to protect her. But she's not that eleven-year-old kid anymore. She's eighteen, Bobby. She's got the right to fight for this, even if it hurts."
Bobby was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he muttered, "Yeah. And when it damn near kills her, I guess we'll just hope she gets back up this time, huh?"
Dean felt the weight of that settle deep in his chest. Because that was the real fear, wasn't it? Not just losing Tyler again, but losing her in the process. Dean didn't have an answer for that. Not one that mattered.
So he just sat there, staring at the table, as Bobby reached for his coffee again, his grip just a little tighter than before.
"You always gotta be the one to light the damn match, don't you?" Bobby muttered, more to himself than to Dean.
Dean frowned. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Bobby set his coffee down harder than necessary, levelling Dean with a look. "I mean you kicked this hornet's nest without thinkin' about what happens after. Without thinkin' about what it's gonna do to her when this all comes crashing down."
Dean's eyes darkened, his shoulders tensing. "I told you, Bobby. She deserved to know—"
"Did she?" Bobby cut him off, voice edged with something sharp. "Or did you just not care about the fallout? 'Cause you ain't gonna be here to deal with it, are you?"
The words hit harder than Dean expected, knocking the breath from his lungs for just a second. His face gave nothing away, but Bobby saw the flicker of something in his eyes. Guilt.
"That what this is?" Bobby pressed. "You figure you're already on borrowed time, so screw the consequences? Ain't your problem if she falls apart, right? You'll be in Hell."
Dean clenched his jaw, gripping the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles went white. "That's not why I did this."
Bobby exhaled, shaking his head. "Maybe not. But you sure as hell didn't stop to think about what happens when you're gone. She loses her brother again, and then she loses you too."
Silence stretched thick between them.
Dean forced himself to breathe evenly, shoving down the ache in his chest. "She's stronger than you think," he said finally, voice quieter now.
"No," Bobby said, his voice just as low. "She's exactly as strong as I think. And I know what losing Tyler did to her before. I watched her fall apart once, and I put her back together. You ain't gonna be here to do that this time, Dean. And I don't know if I can do it again."
Dean looked away, jaw tight, staring at the worn surface of the table. He wanted to argue, to say that Ali would be fine, that she'd fight through whatever came next, that she had to. But he knew better than anyone what losing family did to a person.
He'd just handed her the possibility of getting her brother back. And maybe, in the end, that was worse than letting her believe he was gone forever.
When Dean finally spoke, his voice was low and rough. "It's too late now."
Bobby sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Yeah." He reached for his coffee again, but he didn't pick it up. "It is."