Resolution 7/?
By Sunrize83
Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did. It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined. Post-ep for Born Under a Bad Sign.
Word Count: 2,709 (this chapter)
Author's note: I'm still alive! Major apologies for the unplanned hiatus of this story. A new puppy, a my firstborn heading off to college, and various work insanities conspired against me. I truly hope you're all still with me, and that the chapter is worth the wait. Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for her beta magic.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
Bobby was waiting for them when they arrived.
Sure, he looked like he was working--shoulders deep under the hood of a battered red Mustang, his cap turned backward and an oily rag trailing from his back pocket. But Dean saw the way his spine stiffened at the Impala’s purr. Detected the subtle shift of gaze from road to engine. Caught the flicker of anxiety before Bobby straightened, his expression neutral.
Sam, who’d barely moved a finger during the last 60 miles, turned abruptly twitchy. He sat up straight, one knee jiggling as he chewed a thumbnail.
“Relax,” Dean murmured, parking the car next to a battered pick-up. “It’s Bobby, not a firing squad.”
“Easy for you to say.” Sam let up on the thumbnail and swiped his palms over his jeans.
Dean cut the engine but didn’t get out. “The man’s our friend, Sam. He’s on your side.”
Sam turned to face him, his jaw clenched. “He looks at me different, Dean. Since Meg . . . He hasn’t looked at me the same way.”
For a moment Dean was shocked to silence as he tried to recall their interactions with Bobby once they’d sent Meg packing. Sure, the guy had been a little tense, a little gruff. But a fellow hunter was dead, and a smart-mouthed demon had just tried to kick the shit out of him. And Bobby wasn’t exactly Mr. Touchy-Feely on a good day.
“He was worried about both of us,” Dean said. From the corner of his eye he saw Bobby headed toward them. “This whole mess with Wandell’s buddies getting stirred up? Is exactly what he was afraid might happen. He knows none of it was your fault, Sam, and he doesn’t want you to take the fall for it.”
Sam bit his lip and looked away. When he saw Bobby approaching he pasted on a smile and got out of the car. “Hey, Bobby.”
Dean sighed and shook his head, opening his own door. As he watched Bobby shake Sam’s hand, he looked for hesitation or the slightest hint of suspicion. Bobby’s clasp seemed firm, and if his gaze was sharp, it quickly gave way to a warm smile.
“You boys made good time,” he said as Dean rounded the hood to join them. “Hungry?”
“Not really,” Sam said. When he caught Dean’s I told you so stare, he pressed his lips together. “We stopped for something a couple hours ago.”
“Well I’m starving, so you can c’mon in and watch me eat.” Bobby turned and headed for the house.
Dean pulled his duffel from the back seat and followed, smothering a grin. Bobby had obviously attended the John Winchester school of hospitality. Might explain why they always felt so at home here.
When they hit the porch, Dean snagged Sam’s bag and added it to his own, wincing at the pull on his tender shoulder. “Go ahead. I’m gonna drop these off and hit the can.”
For a moment Sam looked as if he wanted to protest, but he just tightened his jaw and nodded. Dean watched him stride toward the kitchen, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched, tension in every line of his body. A far cry from the guy who was normally content to sprawl on Bobby’s couch, spending hours poring over his extensive collection of books.
With a shake of his head, Dean lugged the bags up the stairs to the guest room--or the closest thing to it. To his surprise, most of the boxes had been shoved into a corner and a set of clean sheets sat on top of the worn double mattress. Huh. Bobby must be worried; he was going all out.
Dean took his time upstairs, hoping his absence would give Bobby a chance to resolve the tension--real or imagined--between him and Sam. He used the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and even changed his shirt before heading down to the kitchen.
As he descended the stairs, he heard the rattle of pans followed by Bobby’s terse voice. “You’re puttin’ words in my mouth. That ain’t what I meant, Sam.”
“You sure about that?”
Dean paused, not exactly encouraged by the irritation in Bobby’s voice, the defensiveness in Sam’s. He leaned against the wall, chewing his lip.
“Am I . . .” Bobby snorted. “Hell, just forget I said anything.” There was the slam of a cupboard door, followed by him muttering under his breath.
Sam huffed. “The answer is yes, I keep it on me at all times. Why would I leave myself open, Bobby? Unless you think I’ve already started to slip. That I want it to happen again.”
That got Dean’s feet moving. He rounded the corner and crossed the living room to find Sam glaring a hole in the kitchen table while Bobby stood beside him looking gob smacked, a cooking spoon clutched in his hand.
“Sam, you can’t honestly think that I . . .”
Bobby trailed off, looking helplessly at Dean, who lifted his hands--Don’t look at me.
With a growl, Bobby pulled out a chair and dropped into it. He yanked off his ball cap, ran a hand through his hair and replaced it, then drew in a long breath.
“Sam. Your daddy was a good friend. Obsessive, obnoxious, insufferably pigheaded--but a good friend. I’d never forgive myself if I let something happen to one of his boys.”
Sam slowly raised his head to study Bobby’s face. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. You can’t tell me that’s not fear.”
Bobby rolled his eyes. “Damn right it is. But for you, you idgit. Not of you.”
Sam averted glistening eyes, swallowing hard. “No one’s more scared than me. If it happened again, I . . .”
“It ain’t gonna happen again.” Bobby said fiercely. He stood and lightly cuffed Sam’s head. “Which is why I was making sure you still had that charm.”
Bobby turned back to the stove, and an awkward silence fell until Dean dropped into a chair, briskly rubbing his hands together. “Now that we got that out of the way, something smells awesome.”
“I’d rather hear what Bobby found out,” Sam said, pinning Bobby with eyes that Dean knew firsthand were hard to resist.
“It’ll keep,” Bobby said in a tone that discouraged argument. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and as for the two of you . . .” He shook his head. “I’ve seen zombies look better.”
Though the expression on Sam’s face said he clearly wanted to protest, he slumped back, jaw clenched.
A kick to the leg of his chair shook Dean from his observation.
“You know where the bowls and spoons are,” Bobby said, hooking a thumb at the cabinets over his shoulder while he stirred something in a large metal pot. “Make yourself useful.”
Dean sighed and set the table along with the required amount of grumbling, gratified to see the barest twitch of Sam’s lips. He deliberately set a bowl in front of his brother, ignoring the huff of displeasure. Bobby backed him up by filling it.
After setting three beers and some slices of bread on the table, Bobby joined them. “You boys been working?”
“Put down a zombie earlier this week,” Dean said, cracking open his beer. “You?” He watched from the corner of his eye as Sam hesitantly picked up his spoon.
Bobby shrugged. “Just a couple of werewolves. It’s been pretty quiet.”
Dean sat straighter, Sam momentarily forgotten. “Werewolves? The real deal?” At Bobby’s grunt of affirmation, he protested, “Damn, Bobby. You should’ve called us.”
“No need,” Bobby said, reaching for a slice of bread. “Day I can’t handle a couple werewolves on my own is the day it’s time for me to pack it in.”
“Yeah, but werewolves are badass.” Dean ignored Sam’s soft huff of amusement. “We haven’t seen one in years.”
“Pain in the ass is more like it,” Bobby said. “Nothing to get worked up about.”
“Unless you’re Dean,” Sam mumbled around a mouthful of stew. “Then it’s the equivalent of Disney World.”
“Tell me you don’t get tired of the same old poltergeists and shapeshifters,” Dean replied, secretly relieved to see Sam surface from his brooding, even if talking with food in your mouth was disgusting and . . .
Hang on. Dean froze midchew. Sam was listening to Bobby’s diatribe on why werewolves were no more than glorified black dogs and digging into his stew like, well, like someone who had eaten next to nothing for days. The bowl was already more than half empty.
And then, just like that, it clicked. Bobby’s stew.
Though Dad had avoided resorting to fast food as much as possible when they were kids, his idea of a home-cooked meal had usually come from a box or can. No surprise, then, that when Sam had tasted his first helping of Bobby’s stew, filled with chunks of fresh potatoes, carrots, celery, and mushrooms, the vegetable-loving freak had adored it.
And Bobby knew it.
As Sam began recounting one of their run-ins with a black dog, Bobby shifted his gaze to Dean. A quirk of his mouth and his full attention slid back to Sam, so quickly Dean would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching.
Yep, Bobby knew it.
Dean squashed a grin. “It was Wisconsin, not Minnesota,” he said, slathering butter on a slice of bread.
Okay, so maybe he was yanking Sam’s chain and it really was Minnesota. Carrying on an argument distracted his brother long enough for the second helping of stew to disappear. Not to mention for a few precious moments things felt almost normal-for Winchesters, anyway.
Unfortunately, once the food was gone, Sam’s temporary lift in spirits followed. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded in a posture that would have looked mulish except for the haunted vulnerability in his eyes.
“Tell us about Jack and Amanda Brigman, Bobby,” he said. The don’t hold back was implicit in his flat tone and clenched jaw.
Pushing to his feet with a sigh, Bobby tipped his head toward the other room. “If we’re gonna do this, might as well be comfortable.”
Dean followed his brother into the living room and dropped onto the worn couch. Sam stood, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the world.
Bobby gathered papers from his desk and sat in an armchair, giving the same look he’d used on a 10-year-old Sam who wouldn’t stop reading and go to bed. “Kiddo, what’s done is done. You tyin’ yourself in knots ain’t gonna make it go away. Sit.”
Sam pressed his lips into a thin line, but perched on the other end of the couch.
“Like I told Dean, Steve Wandell and Jack Brigman used to team up on hunts,” Bobby said. “Kinda like your daddy and Bill Harvelle before . . . Well, before.”
A soft sound from Sam drew Dean’s gaze. His brother was clenching his hands so tightly his nails were going to leave marks. “What?”
“Nothing.” Sam swallowed and gave a quick jerk of his head, as if shaking off whatever he’d been thinking. He never took his eyes from Bobby. “Go on.”
“Thing is, they were more than just huntin' buddies, they were best friends,” Bobby continued. “Guess it’s not surprising considerin’ how similar their lives were. Both of ’em got into hunting because they’d lost the woman they loved-Wandell to a revenant, Brigman to a shifter. And both of ’em were left with a daughter to raise alone.”
“Both of them were murdered by the same person,” Sam said. “Now they’ve got even more in common.”
“The same demon bitch, you mean,” Dean snapped. “And are we sure about that?”
“A friend of a friend was able to get a look at the forensic reports,” Bobby said. “Same blade killed both men.”
Damn. Though he’d known it was a long shot, Dean had held out hope the deaths were unrelated. “Did you find out anything more about the daughter?” He stole a glance at Sam; his brother’s face was the blank mask he’d seen on and off since Jessica’s death, whenever Sam just didn’t want to deal.
“Just that she’s still missing.” Bobby paused, gaze shifting between the two of them as he laid a sheet of paper on the coffee table. “And she drove an old Volkswagon, also MIA.”
When Sam made no move, Dean picked up the paper--a DMV printout. A quick scan of the year, model, and color told him all he needed to know. Double damn.
“Is that her?” Sam asked roughly, indicating the remaining sheet in Bobby’s hand.
“Yeah.” Bobby laid the photo face up on the table. “It’s a little grainy, but . . .”
Dean leaned forward. Wavy blonde hair framed a heart-shaped face and wide blue eyes. Early twenties and pretty in that girl-next-door kind of way. Sweet.
No need to ask if she were the one. Sam’s eyes were glassy, his face pale.
“It’s about time you boys told me what the hell’s going on,” Bobby said. “Do you know where the girl is?”
When Sam continued to stare a hole through the photo, Dean sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not exactly. We--"
“She’s dead.” Sam stood and paced to the window, his shoulders around his ears. “I don’t know what I did with the body.”
Bobby rubbed a hand along his jaw. “Hell.”
“Wandell’s place had video surveillance,” Dean said. “Any chance Brigman’s was wired the same way?”
“There are at least a half-dozen hunters looking for Amanda and his killer,” Bobby said. “If they’d found evidence it was Sam, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Maybe we should tell them,” Sam said quietly.
“Excuse me?” Dean crossed the room in three quick strides, grabbing Sam by the arm. “Tell me you didn’t suggest what I think you did.”
Sam shook him off, his features set. “So what--we just let them keep looking? Don’t you think they deserve to know the truth?”
“And after you tell them, then what?” Dean snarled, fear feeding his fury. “You think they’re just gonna let you walk away?”
“You’re the one who keeps saying it wasn’t me, wasn’t my fault,” Sam snapped, his voice rising. “If we explain everything, tell them about Meg--"
“And if they’re not in a particularly understanding frame of mind? These guys are out for blood, Sam! You can’t reason with people like that. Didn’t you learn anything from Gordon?”
Sam went still. “Wait--is that what this is about? What are you really afraid of, Dean? That they’ll find out what I did, or that they’ll find out what I am?”
The accusation hit like a punch to the gut. “Damn it, Sam, that’s not what I--"
“Your brother’s right.”
In the heat of the argument, Dean had forgotten Bobby’s presence.
The older man stood, pinning Sam with a stern glare. “Those hunters don’t want answers, they want revenge. You tell them you were the one holdin’ that knife, you’ll only wind up the sacrificial lamb.”
“See? That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Dean latched onto the back-up, hoping like hell Sam would listen.
“Best thing you can do right now is lay low until things cool down,” Bobby said, turning to Dean. “You boys are welcome to camp out here as long as you need.”
“Sounds good,” Dean agreed, hoping Bobby could read the gratitude in his eyes. “But while Sammy’s keeping his head down, I might take a little side trip.”
“Meaning?”
“We know where the girl’s car is. Think it’s too risky for some damage control?”
Bobby grimaced. “Depends. Where is it?”
Dean opened his mouth but never got the chance to reply.
“You know, why don’t I just leave you two alone,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “Seems like you’ve got things all figured out, and I could use some air.” He grabbed his jacket off the hook and stomped out the door.
Dean looked at Bobby. Seeing his own Oh crap mirrored on the older man’s face, he heaved a sigh. “That went well.”
Continued in Chapter 8
Rating: GEN, PG-13
Characters: Sam, Dean
Summary: For two weeks he'd been living on edge, desperate to fill the blanks in his memory, terrified of what he might see if he did. It was every bit the horror show he’d imagined. Post-ep for Born Under a Bad Sign.
Word Count: 2,709 (this chapter)
Author's note: I'm still alive! Major apologies for the unplanned hiatus of this story. A new puppy, a my firstborn heading off to college, and various work insanities conspired against me. I truly hope you're all still with me, and that the chapter is worth the wait. Thanks as always to iamstealthyone for her beta magic.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations portrayed here aren't mine. This story is for entertainment purposes only.
Bobby was waiting for them when they arrived.
Sure, he looked like he was working--shoulders deep under the hood of a battered red Mustang, his cap turned backward and an oily rag trailing from his back pocket. But Dean saw the way his spine stiffened at the Impala’s purr. Detected the subtle shift of gaze from road to engine. Caught the flicker of anxiety before Bobby straightened, his expression neutral.
Sam, who’d barely moved a finger during the last 60 miles, turned abruptly twitchy. He sat up straight, one knee jiggling as he chewed a thumbnail.
“Relax,” Dean murmured, parking the car next to a battered pick-up. “It’s Bobby, not a firing squad.”
“Easy for you to say.” Sam let up on the thumbnail and swiped his palms over his jeans.
Dean cut the engine but didn’t get out. “The man’s our friend, Sam. He’s on your side.”
Sam turned to face him, his jaw clenched. “He looks at me different, Dean. Since Meg . . . He hasn’t looked at me the same way.”
For a moment Dean was shocked to silence as he tried to recall their interactions with Bobby once they’d sent Meg packing. Sure, the guy had been a little tense, a little gruff. But a fellow hunter was dead, and a smart-mouthed demon had just tried to kick the shit out of him. And Bobby wasn’t exactly Mr. Touchy-Feely on a good day.
“He was worried about both of us,” Dean said. From the corner of his eye he saw Bobby headed toward them. “This whole mess with Wandell’s buddies getting stirred up? Is exactly what he was afraid might happen. He knows none of it was your fault, Sam, and he doesn’t want you to take the fall for it.”
Sam bit his lip and looked away. When he saw Bobby approaching he pasted on a smile and got out of the car. “Hey, Bobby.”
Dean sighed and shook his head, opening his own door. As he watched Bobby shake Sam’s hand, he looked for hesitation or the slightest hint of suspicion. Bobby’s clasp seemed firm, and if his gaze was sharp, it quickly gave way to a warm smile.
“You boys made good time,” he said as Dean rounded the hood to join them. “Hungry?”
“Not really,” Sam said. When he caught Dean’s I told you so stare, he pressed his lips together. “We stopped for something a couple hours ago.”
“Well I’m starving, so you can c’mon in and watch me eat.” Bobby turned and headed for the house.
Dean pulled his duffel from the back seat and followed, smothering a grin. Bobby had obviously attended the John Winchester school of hospitality. Might explain why they always felt so at home here.
When they hit the porch, Dean snagged Sam’s bag and added it to his own, wincing at the pull on his tender shoulder. “Go ahead. I’m gonna drop these off and hit the can.”
For a moment Sam looked as if he wanted to protest, but he just tightened his jaw and nodded. Dean watched him stride toward the kitchen, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched, tension in every line of his body. A far cry from the guy who was normally content to sprawl on Bobby’s couch, spending hours poring over his extensive collection of books.
With a shake of his head, Dean lugged the bags up the stairs to the guest room--or the closest thing to it. To his surprise, most of the boxes had been shoved into a corner and a set of clean sheets sat on top of the worn double mattress. Huh. Bobby must be worried; he was going all out.
Dean took his time upstairs, hoping his absence would give Bobby a chance to resolve the tension--real or imagined--between him and Sam. He used the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and even changed his shirt before heading down to the kitchen.
As he descended the stairs, he heard the rattle of pans followed by Bobby’s terse voice. “You’re puttin’ words in my mouth. That ain’t what I meant, Sam.”
“You sure about that?”
Dean paused, not exactly encouraged by the irritation in Bobby’s voice, the defensiveness in Sam’s. He leaned against the wall, chewing his lip.
“Am I . . .” Bobby snorted. “Hell, just forget I said anything.” There was the slam of a cupboard door, followed by him muttering under his breath.
Sam huffed. “The answer is yes, I keep it on me at all times. Why would I leave myself open, Bobby? Unless you think I’ve already started to slip. That I want it to happen again.”
That got Dean’s feet moving. He rounded the corner and crossed the living room to find Sam glaring a hole in the kitchen table while Bobby stood beside him looking gob smacked, a cooking spoon clutched in his hand.
“Sam, you can’t honestly think that I . . .”
Bobby trailed off, looking helplessly at Dean, who lifted his hands--Don’t look at me.
With a growl, Bobby pulled out a chair and dropped into it. He yanked off his ball cap, ran a hand through his hair and replaced it, then drew in a long breath.
“Sam. Your daddy was a good friend. Obsessive, obnoxious, insufferably pigheaded--but a good friend. I’d never forgive myself if I let something happen to one of his boys.”
Sam slowly raised his head to study Bobby’s face. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. You can’t tell me that’s not fear.”
Bobby rolled his eyes. “Damn right it is. But for you, you idgit. Not of you.”
Sam averted glistening eyes, swallowing hard. “No one’s more scared than me. If it happened again, I . . .”
“It ain’t gonna happen again.” Bobby said fiercely. He stood and lightly cuffed Sam’s head. “Which is why I was making sure you still had that charm.”
Bobby turned back to the stove, and an awkward silence fell until Dean dropped into a chair, briskly rubbing his hands together. “Now that we got that out of the way, something smells awesome.”
“I’d rather hear what Bobby found out,” Sam said, pinning Bobby with eyes that Dean knew firsthand were hard to resist.
“It’ll keep,” Bobby said in a tone that discouraged argument. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and as for the two of you . . .” He shook his head. “I’ve seen zombies look better.”
Though the expression on Sam’s face said he clearly wanted to protest, he slumped back, jaw clenched.
A kick to the leg of his chair shook Dean from his observation.
“You know where the bowls and spoons are,” Bobby said, hooking a thumb at the cabinets over his shoulder while he stirred something in a large metal pot. “Make yourself useful.”
Dean sighed and set the table along with the required amount of grumbling, gratified to see the barest twitch of Sam’s lips. He deliberately set a bowl in front of his brother, ignoring the huff of displeasure. Bobby backed him up by filling it.
After setting three beers and some slices of bread on the table, Bobby joined them. “You boys been working?”
“Put down a zombie earlier this week,” Dean said, cracking open his beer. “You?” He watched from the corner of his eye as Sam hesitantly picked up his spoon.
Bobby shrugged. “Just a couple of werewolves. It’s been pretty quiet.”
Dean sat straighter, Sam momentarily forgotten. “Werewolves? The real deal?” At Bobby’s grunt of affirmation, he protested, “Damn, Bobby. You should’ve called us.”
“No need,” Bobby said, reaching for a slice of bread. “Day I can’t handle a couple werewolves on my own is the day it’s time for me to pack it in.”
“Yeah, but werewolves are badass.” Dean ignored Sam’s soft huff of amusement. “We haven’t seen one in years.”
“Pain in the ass is more like it,” Bobby said. “Nothing to get worked up about.”
“Unless you’re Dean,” Sam mumbled around a mouthful of stew. “Then it’s the equivalent of Disney World.”
“Tell me you don’t get tired of the same old poltergeists and shapeshifters,” Dean replied, secretly relieved to see Sam surface from his brooding, even if talking with food in your mouth was disgusting and . . .
Hang on. Dean froze midchew. Sam was listening to Bobby’s diatribe on why werewolves were no more than glorified black dogs and digging into his stew like, well, like someone who had eaten next to nothing for days. The bowl was already more than half empty.
And then, just like that, it clicked. Bobby’s stew.
Though Dad had avoided resorting to fast food as much as possible when they were kids, his idea of a home-cooked meal had usually come from a box or can. No surprise, then, that when Sam had tasted his first helping of Bobby’s stew, filled with chunks of fresh potatoes, carrots, celery, and mushrooms, the vegetable-loving freak had adored it.
And Bobby knew it.
As Sam began recounting one of their run-ins with a black dog, Bobby shifted his gaze to Dean. A quirk of his mouth and his full attention slid back to Sam, so quickly Dean would have missed it if he hadn’t been watching.
Yep, Bobby knew it.
Dean squashed a grin. “It was Wisconsin, not Minnesota,” he said, slathering butter on a slice of bread.
Okay, so maybe he was yanking Sam’s chain and it really was Minnesota. Carrying on an argument distracted his brother long enough for the second helping of stew to disappear. Not to mention for a few precious moments things felt almost normal-for Winchesters, anyway.
Unfortunately, once the food was gone, Sam’s temporary lift in spirits followed. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded in a posture that would have looked mulish except for the haunted vulnerability in his eyes.
“Tell us about Jack and Amanda Brigman, Bobby,” he said. The don’t hold back was implicit in his flat tone and clenched jaw.
Pushing to his feet with a sigh, Bobby tipped his head toward the other room. “If we’re gonna do this, might as well be comfortable.”
Dean followed his brother into the living room and dropped onto the worn couch. Sam stood, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the world.
Bobby gathered papers from his desk and sat in an armchair, giving the same look he’d used on a 10-year-old Sam who wouldn’t stop reading and go to bed. “Kiddo, what’s done is done. You tyin’ yourself in knots ain’t gonna make it go away. Sit.”
Sam pressed his lips into a thin line, but perched on the other end of the couch.
“Like I told Dean, Steve Wandell and Jack Brigman used to team up on hunts,” Bobby said. “Kinda like your daddy and Bill Harvelle before . . . Well, before.”
A soft sound from Sam drew Dean’s gaze. His brother was clenching his hands so tightly his nails were going to leave marks. “What?”
“Nothing.” Sam swallowed and gave a quick jerk of his head, as if shaking off whatever he’d been thinking. He never took his eyes from Bobby. “Go on.”
“Thing is, they were more than just huntin' buddies, they were best friends,” Bobby continued. “Guess it’s not surprising considerin’ how similar their lives were. Both of ’em got into hunting because they’d lost the woman they loved-Wandell to a revenant, Brigman to a shifter. And both of ’em were left with a daughter to raise alone.”
“Both of them were murdered by the same person,” Sam said. “Now they’ve got even more in common.”
“The same demon bitch, you mean,” Dean snapped. “And are we sure about that?”
“A friend of a friend was able to get a look at the forensic reports,” Bobby said. “Same blade killed both men.”
Damn. Though he’d known it was a long shot, Dean had held out hope the deaths were unrelated. “Did you find out anything more about the daughter?” He stole a glance at Sam; his brother’s face was the blank mask he’d seen on and off since Jessica’s death, whenever Sam just didn’t want to deal.
“Just that she’s still missing.” Bobby paused, gaze shifting between the two of them as he laid a sheet of paper on the coffee table. “And she drove an old Volkswagon, also MIA.”
When Sam made no move, Dean picked up the paper--a DMV printout. A quick scan of the year, model, and color told him all he needed to know. Double damn.
“Is that her?” Sam asked roughly, indicating the remaining sheet in Bobby’s hand.
“Yeah.” Bobby laid the photo face up on the table. “It’s a little grainy, but . . .”
Dean leaned forward. Wavy blonde hair framed a heart-shaped face and wide blue eyes. Early twenties and pretty in that girl-next-door kind of way. Sweet.
No need to ask if she were the one. Sam’s eyes were glassy, his face pale.
“It’s about time you boys told me what the hell’s going on,” Bobby said. “Do you know where the girl is?”
When Sam continued to stare a hole through the photo, Dean sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not exactly. We--"
“She’s dead.” Sam stood and paced to the window, his shoulders around his ears. “I don’t know what I did with the body.”
Bobby rubbed a hand along his jaw. “Hell.”
“Wandell’s place had video surveillance,” Dean said. “Any chance Brigman’s was wired the same way?”
“There are at least a half-dozen hunters looking for Amanda and his killer,” Bobby said. “If they’d found evidence it was Sam, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“Maybe we should tell them,” Sam said quietly.
“Excuse me?” Dean crossed the room in three quick strides, grabbing Sam by the arm. “Tell me you didn’t suggest what I think you did.”
Sam shook him off, his features set. “So what--we just let them keep looking? Don’t you think they deserve to know the truth?”
“And after you tell them, then what?” Dean snarled, fear feeding his fury. “You think they’re just gonna let you walk away?”
“You’re the one who keeps saying it wasn’t me, wasn’t my fault,” Sam snapped, his voice rising. “If we explain everything, tell them about Meg--"
“And if they’re not in a particularly understanding frame of mind? These guys are out for blood, Sam! You can’t reason with people like that. Didn’t you learn anything from Gordon?”
Sam went still. “Wait--is that what this is about? What are you really afraid of, Dean? That they’ll find out what I did, or that they’ll find out what I am?”
The accusation hit like a punch to the gut. “Damn it, Sam, that’s not what I--"
“Your brother’s right.”
In the heat of the argument, Dean had forgotten Bobby’s presence.
The older man stood, pinning Sam with a stern glare. “Those hunters don’t want answers, they want revenge. You tell them you were the one holdin’ that knife, you’ll only wind up the sacrificial lamb.”
“See? That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Dean latched onto the back-up, hoping like hell Sam would listen.
“Best thing you can do right now is lay low until things cool down,” Bobby said, turning to Dean. “You boys are welcome to camp out here as long as you need.”
“Sounds good,” Dean agreed, hoping Bobby could read the gratitude in his eyes. “But while Sammy’s keeping his head down, I might take a little side trip.”
“Meaning?”
“We know where the girl’s car is. Think it’s too risky for some damage control?”
Bobby grimaced. “Depends. Where is it?”
Dean opened his mouth but never got the chance to reply.
“You know, why don’t I just leave you two alone,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “Seems like you’ve got things all figured out, and I could use some air.” He grabbed his jacket off the hook and stomped out the door.
Dean looked at Bobby. Seeing his own Oh crap mirrored on the older man’s face, he heaved a sigh. “That went well.”
Continued in Chapter 8