(no subject)
The past week had been almost god damn surreal. First a shootout at the boarding house, which Bobby had missed because he'd been off somewhere lookin' for clues into the recent deaths. Now folks seemed to be torn between goin' around in a daze and wantin' to live life to the fullest while they could. Bobby was sure as hell no stranger to death, but that didn't make it any less impactful when it happened. Ysandre had been a good woman, and though he hadn't known her all that well, it was a damn shame she was gone. Same for the other two women.
It was late afternoon when he headed back to his hut, the sun startin' to get lower in the sky and makin' the shadows slant longer along the path. Bobby walked along, hands in his pockets and thinkin' he might go see what Ellen was doin', when he came into sight of his hut and saw somethin' stickin' outta the door. Frowning slightly, not able to quite make out what it was, Bobby picked up his pace just a bit, until he got close enough to tell that it was a knife. "The hell?" he mumbled aloud. He hadn't lent a knife to Sam or Dean recently, and even though he knew they knew where to find 'em, he was pretty goddamn sure they wouldn't go about returning one by stickin' it in the damn door. They both knew better than to handle his knives like that.
It wasn't until he got right up to the thing, jammed in the door at just below eye level, that it hit him just what knife it was. A chill passed through him, down to his very bones, and he reached up and grasped the thing by the handle, sliding it out with a jerk without lookin' at it. He would've preferred not to touch the damn thing, but he couldn't exactly leave it stickin' in his door, starin' him in the face. Bobby took a deep breath and looked down at the knife.
The blade was covered in blood.
Bobby made a noise that was halfway between a gasp and a moan, strangled and aching, the memory of that day springin' to the front of his mind like it'd been yesterday. That was her blood, his wife's blood all over that goddamn knife, and his hands started shakin' so badly it was a wonder he didn't drop it.
"I'm so sorry, baby," he whispered, barely audible, as tears blurred his vision.
It was late afternoon when he headed back to his hut, the sun startin' to get lower in the sky and makin' the shadows slant longer along the path. Bobby walked along, hands in his pockets and thinkin' he might go see what Ellen was doin', when he came into sight of his hut and saw somethin' stickin' outta the door. Frowning slightly, not able to quite make out what it was, Bobby picked up his pace just a bit, until he got close enough to tell that it was a knife. "The hell?" he mumbled aloud. He hadn't lent a knife to Sam or Dean recently, and even though he knew they knew where to find 'em, he was pretty goddamn sure they wouldn't go about returning one by stickin' it in the damn door. They both knew better than to handle his knives like that.
It wasn't until he got right up to the thing, jammed in the door at just below eye level, that it hit him just what knife it was. A chill passed through him, down to his very bones, and he reached up and grasped the thing by the handle, sliding it out with a jerk without lookin' at it. He would've preferred not to touch the damn thing, but he couldn't exactly leave it stickin' in his door, starin' him in the face. Bobby took a deep breath and looked down at the knife.
The blade was covered in blood.
Bobby made a noise that was halfway between a gasp and a moan, strangled and aching, the memory of that day springin' to the front of his mind like it'd been yesterday. That was her blood, his wife's blood all over that goddamn knife, and his hands started shakin' so badly it was a wonder he didn't drop it.
"I'm so sorry, baby," he whispered, barely audible, as tears blurred his vision.