5.10 Coda
Ok, I know that by now I should totally be posting Little Bastards (which, by the way, is already finished and will probably be posted either tomorrow or Sunday) but after last night's episode... come on! How could I resist? So, here’s one of the little scenes that we never got to see, between Castiel whisking away Sam and Dean from Death’s ground zero and the scene at Bobby’s. As always, mucho thanks go to Jackfan2 for her madly awesome beta skills. Any remaining booboo, its all mine. Enjoy!
There was a thump upstairs.
Ever since he’d forced himself to end the connection on the radio link and send Dean, Sam, Ellen and a -in her death throws- Jo, to go fight the devil and the frigging angel of death, while he goddamn SAT on his dead legs and waited, Bobby was ready for something to happen. Anything.
Whenever he managed to drag his wheelchair far enough from the radio receiver, he’d end up staring at the window, waiting for some sign that the world was one step closer to the end. Some kind of hell fire, maybe a couple hundred of frogs raining down from the skies; a flood of blood or maybe pestilence, knocking at his door; or maybe just a pain so deep in his heart that he would know that all the people he had left in this world, all the people he loved, were dead and gone. Failure.
It wasn’t like he didn’t trust the boys and Ellen and her daughter to get the job done, it was just that the odds they were up against...
There was no winning to be had here, only degrees of failure. He was hoping for the smallest of failures... but Bobby was pragmatic enough to prepare for the worst.
Of course the thump had to be upstairs, the one place where Bobby couldn’t satisfy his curiosity or immediately deal with a threat.
He never went up there that often anyway, not even when he had the legs to do it. Upstairs had always been Amelia’s turf, the place where his wife used to knit and work on her pottery. Even now, years later, it still hurt to walk around the places she called her own, it hurt to feel her presence in every corner and closed door.
Bobby grabbed the loaded shotgun he kept against the desk in his study. He might be hopeless but he was still frigging far from helpless. “Who’s there?”
The silence was worse than the mysterious thump of unknown origin. The silence made him think of failing sigils and protections, the silence made him think of exactly what had gotten inside his house. The silence made him think that he was going to die feeling useless and without ever finding out what had happen.
“It’s me Bobby!” Sam’s voice called from upstairs, finally offering some measure of reassurance. He sounded... small.
The first time Bobby had heard the grown up version of Sam yell something, or even raise his usually smooth tone of voice, he’d felt the damn reverberations of the sound inside his chest, rattling all of his bones. That boy had quite the lungs in him and when he shouted or even talked louder than usual, people noticed. Dishes trembled in their racks. Water shook inside glasses.
His voice now... it sounded like Sam had shrunk down. Like something was stuck in his throat, preventing the sound from coming out right.
“Sam?”
Bobby settled the shotgun in his lap and grabbed the wheels handrims on each side, pushing himself to the bottom of the stairs. There was more noise coming from up there, dragging feet and veiled curses and even something that sounded unmistakably like a sob.
Bobby looked up, trying to guess shapes and forms from the shadows that covered the space beyond the banister. Jesus... so many steps! How had he never noticed that there were that many steps in his goddamn stairs?
It hadn’t escaped Bobby attention that Sam had said ‘he’ was there. Four humans and one angel had left his house to stop the end of the world. Four. It seemed like such a ridiculous small number, but...
Poor Jo, Bobby had no real expectations of ever seeing alive again.
He’d seen up close the damage that a single hellhound’s claw could inflict on a human body. He’d seen the way those bastards had sliced Dean right up to the bone. That girl was better off with a quick death than a long, tormented road that would, indubitably, turn out the same way.
But Dean, Ellen... hell, even the stiff-necked angel... they couldn’t all be dead-please God... forget about sending legs -just send those good people home safe--
Deep down, Bobby knew that there was one explanation for Sam’s lonely voice, one far worse than the prospect of all of them being dead. An explanation that meant that Bobby wouldn’t live much longer either. If Sam had been taken, if he’d said yes...
Nah! That was moronic. Why the hell would a fresh-vessel-ed Lucifer waste time with a crippled old man when he had the whole world to burn?
Bobby shook his head. Either way, if he didn’t see head or tail of that boy in the next five seconds, so helped him God, he was getting out of that chair and goddamn crawli-
“We’re coming down, Bobby. Just... hang on a bit,” Sam’s strained voice traveled downstairs once more, like he’d somehow guessed the other man’s insane plans.
Bobby sat and waited. The story of his life of late. The ‘we’, at least, was comforting.
And finally he could see them. Sam, holding a battered looking Dean, both keeping a precarious hold on themselves and the banister as they slowly made their way down.
Bobby kept his look up, expecting, hoping to see who else was there with them. He wasn’t even going to question why they were upstairs in the first place, when he had a perfectly working front door. He just needed to believe that-
“They’re dead Bobby,” Dean whispered as soon as they were in front of him. “They’re both dead.”
Bobby blinked, his nails biting into the wooden handle of the shotgun in his lap. No...
“I’m sorry Bobby... this,” Dean tried, swallowing down a sob, “... this was all my fault.”
Bobby opened his mouth to call nonsense, to call him an idjit, to say something harsh and brassy that would snap the kid out of his self-pity fest.
It seemed to be the trick when dealing with the older of the Winchester kids. It cut Bobby’s heart right in half every single time he had to do it, both because of the hurt he knew he was causing and because he knew the reason why that particular strategy seemed to work so fine - damn you John and your stubborn thick skull and the way you raised your kids- but the fact remained, it worked.
It worked when Bobby needed to get both brothers back together, after the whole mess Ruby made to bring them apart and it worked when the poor boy was falling apart with Jo’s life on the line and a Lucifer to deal with.
This time though... this time the words dried out inside his mouth and never came out. The boy looked like hell. Heck! Both of them did, but Dean had the outside wounds to prove it.
There was blood crusting down the left side of his face and from the way he was holding his mid-section and barely breathing in, there was something wrong with his chest too.
Every time he caught himself thinking that he’d never see Ellen or Jo ever again, Bobby would swear that was something wrong with his chest too. So many good people...
“They’re dead, dead to save us and... and it was all for nothing,” Dean went on. “I couldn’t kill him... I can’t k-“
Bobby gulped, understanding what Dean wasn’t saying. They were screwed. Jo, goddamn Ellen were dead... and they, and the rest of the world with them, was screwed.
He was still staring at Dean when the boy lost whatever was left of color in his cheeks and his eyes rolled up seconds before his legs bent out of shape. Sam, who looked even bigger now that Bobby saw the world sitting down, caught him effortlessly, like he’d been waiting for that to happen.
“That’s why Castiel ‘beamed’ you into a bed and not the car, you idiot...” Sam mumbled softly, holding his unconscious brother tenderly despite the angry words. “Bobby,” Sam’s voice cut through the older man’s grim thoughts. “Bobby... could you get your first aid kit for me? I’m gonna settled him down,” the boy offered.
Bobby found himself nodding, before he grabbed his wheels and turned around.
In all honesty, it took him less than a minute to go to the kitchen counter, grab the plastic box where he kept his supplies and wheel back to the living room. Still, Bobby stopped and froze for god knows how long as soon as he entered the kitchen.
The empty shot glasses, left behind from their pre-war ‘celebration’, were all still scattered over the table. Jesus Christ on a battering stick... he could still smell the fruity scent of Jo and Ellen’s soap, lingering in the room. How could they be gone?
The older man took a deep breath and forced his shattering emotions under control. The boys needed him focused. It would be hypocritical of him to demand focus out of Dean when the boy was under duress, and not impose the same rules on himself. Still, his eyes landed covetously on the half empty bottle of Jose that had also been left behind by the girls.
The longing to just grab it and escape reality was just as strong now as it’d been in the weeks after Dean’s death.
Only, now, Dean was in the other room, not buried in a shallow grave. Now he was right here, waiting for Bobby to take his head out of his goddamn ass and help.
Sam had settled Dean on the couch and taken off his jacket and boots. That boy had been trained to triage and tend to his father and brother’s wounds even since before he could drive a car properly. Yet now, all Sam seemed able to do was push Dean’s hair back and rest his head on his brother’ shoulder. He looked as lost as Bobby felt.
“Sam,” Bobby said quietly, feeling the air ominous and heavy with what had happen, with what would happen next. His hand searched the boy’s back on its own. Underneath his touch, Sam was shaking. “Sam... what the hell happened out there?”
Sam lifted his head and looked at the man at his side. Taking the wet washcloth that he was offering, Sam started to wipe the blood away from Dean’s face. “We failed... Death is out and about and Jo and Ellen-”
Sam’s fingers contorted on the washcloth, squeezing the watery blood all over Bobby floor and couch. Neither man noticed it.
“It’s ok son... they knew what was at stake,” Bobby offered, knowing it was the right thing to say, certain that Sam, like him, would recognize it for the bucket of crap it was. Friends were friends and their deaths hurt all the same no matter how high the merit of their death proved to be.
“It was all for nothing Bobby,” Sam went on, his hands abandoning the tethered cloth in favor of reaching for Dean’s shirt and pulling it up.
Just as Bobby had suspected, the kid’s chest was more black and blue than it’s usual tanned color. “Jesus!”
Sam went on, probing the darkest places, searching for out of shape bones, like it was as natural for him as brushing his teeth. He was playing piano on his brother’s bruises, drowning his own pain in the sorrowful music it made. It didn’t seem to help. “We left them behind Bobby... I didn’t even blink when Ellen offered to stay with Jo... I... it was all for nothing Bobby.”
Dean gasped awake under Sam’s touch before Bobby could say anything. Ellen had stayed behind? What for? What were they protecting the boys from? The hellhounds?
He looked away from Sam’s revelations and let his gaze fall on Dean’s face. How was it possible for someone to come back to consciousness with so many tears in their eyes? How was it possible for grief to settle so deeply inside, that the body reacted even when it wasn't supposed to?
It broke Bobby’s heart to see his boys like that. Figuring his hands were shaking a little bit less than Sam’s, he started sorting thorough his supplies for a clean needle and some thread. “That head needs some stitches, son... you want something for the pain?”
Dean turned his drowning eyes on him and shook his head, water leaking from the corners and landing in dark spots on the couch. There was nothing to dull that sort of pain, Bobby was well aware of that.
“Get me some fresh bandages, will ya?” He asked Sam instead. There was no need for it, not really, not when he had everything he needed right there at hand. But Sam, he suspected, needed a little room to breath and crumpled down as much as Bobby himself had been allowed before. “Upstairs, linen closet.”
The boy looked a little reluctant to leave his brother’s side, as if he feared that Dean would disappear the second he wasn’t looking. Bobby figured that, after all they’d been through, that wasn’t all that unlikely to happen, not with angels around that needed nothing more than two fingers to snatch Dean from right under their noses. “I’ll watch out for him, don’t worry,” Bobby said, hoping that the promises of an old cripple were still good enough for Sam.
Sam gave one last squeeze to Dean’s arm and got up, moving every bit as slow and stiff as the old man that Bobby felt most of these days.
“Where’s Cas?” Dean questioned, looking around the room, following Sam’s progress out. “We need to... I have to-”
Bobby pulled the stitch he’d been working on and put his hand on Dean’s chest instead. The pressure wasn’t all that much, but it was enough to counter whatever reserve of strength Dean was tapping into to raise himself on his elbows. He sunk back down like a sack of bricks, his eyes pleading for something, something that Bobby couldn’t name... something that Bobby didn’t want to name.
He felt he anger rise up inside him like a tidal wave when he realized what this was all about. “Don’t you even think about it boy!”
“Bobby... I have to,” Dean whispered. He bit his lip. Unlike most people, who did it when they were reluctant about something or not sure what their decision should be, Dean usually bit his lip when he’d already made a decision. But he bit it because he knew others wouldn’t understand it.
And he was damn right about that! “You don’t have to nothing,” Bobby started, resuming his threading of the gashed flesh on Dean’s forehead. That close to the boy’s face, it was impossible to miss any of the emotions that crossed over those damn expressive eyes of his. “Please don’t give up this soon... saying yes to Michael won't bring Jo and Ellen back--”
“The Colt doesn’t work, Bobby,” Dean said flatly. “I should’ve known... I should’ve used my goddamn head and realized that the Colt would never work...”
“How-why the hell would you know that beforehand?”
Dean sighed. “I saw it, Bobby. I saw how future me went up against Lucifer with the Colt and failed... it was stupid to believe that he’d missed his shot,” he said, his voice trailing off as Dean lost himself in memories of a life he'd yet to live. A life he swore would never exist. For him. For Sam. For anyone. Because no one deserved to be that miserable and still fail. “He failed because there is only one way to stop the devil-“
Bobby grabbed Dean’s chin. There wasn’t much room for him to escape anyhow, but Bobby was done with taking chances. “You listen to me, boy-you listen to me good: Jo and Ellen’s deaths were not your fault! Do not diminish their value by putting this on you! Do not make them worse by adding your own to the pile!”
Dean met his gaze straight on; with none of his usual barriers up, Bobby could see every single bit of raw, stripped of hope, drowning in remorse and regret thought running through that boy’s head. The weight of it almost made Bobby look away.
If before, from the way he’d been raised and all the hardship he’d been dealt with in his young life, Dean seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, now... now, Bobby supposed, he did carry the weight of the world there. And it showed. It showed in the way the kid kept getting thinner and thinner, it showed in the way Dean’s laughter was now only a shadow of what it’d been before; it showed in the green that had grayed in to a dull version of the life Bobby used to see in those eyes.
Dean was perfectly aware that Jo and Ellen’s choices were their own. If Bobby knew him right, and he did, Dean probably even thought that those two, plus those who'd already died in this war, or even Bobby himself, were the true heroes of this silent battle. Dean, in his twisted mind, was probably only atoning for the damage he and Sam had caused. Which was retarded, of course, but utterly pointless to try and explain to him.
No, Dean had made a conscious decision, Bobby could see it now. The Colt, other than Castiel’s foolish search for God, had seemed like their only chance of making things right. And Michael... Bobby knew Dean couldn’t live with himself if any of his actions risked the fate of the world. Just like Bobby didn’t wanted to risk loosing Dean.
“Please don’t tell Sam,” Dean whispered, and for a moment there Bobby’s insides froze in panic, trapped in the memory of those same words being uttered to him by a tearful Dean, one year before he was ripped apart by hellhounds. Bobby didn’t think he'd survive something like that again. He didn’t think he’d have to.
Bobby cupped his face, just like he did then. The touch was as bittersweet and sorrowful now as it was before. He was, once again, saying goodbye way too early.
Sam found them like that when he came back downstairs, his eyes suspiciously red and wet. Bobby wouldn't tell him; he couldn't. To tell Sam that his brother was ready to offer himself up to be used as a weapon was to lose Sam even before Dean got to open his mouth to Michael. Bobby was too selfish to allow that to happen. Death, he hoped, would claim him long before he ever got to experience the heartbreak of losing both boys again. One would be crippling enough.
And in the next morning, when the only memorial that they could provide for the fallen huntresses was a warm fireplace and a burned photo, Bobby found his eyes watering all the harder, as he looked at the image of all the people he loved disappear in to flames.
The end
There was a thump upstairs.
Ever since he’d forced himself to end the connection on the radio link and send Dean, Sam, Ellen and a -in her death throws- Jo, to go fight the devil and the frigging angel of death, while he goddamn SAT on his dead legs and waited, Bobby was ready for something to happen. Anything.
Whenever he managed to drag his wheelchair far enough from the radio receiver, he’d end up staring at the window, waiting for some sign that the world was one step closer to the end. Some kind of hell fire, maybe a couple hundred of frogs raining down from the skies; a flood of blood or maybe pestilence, knocking at his door; or maybe just a pain so deep in his heart that he would know that all the people he had left in this world, all the people he loved, were dead and gone. Failure.
It wasn’t like he didn’t trust the boys and Ellen and her daughter to get the job done, it was just that the odds they were up against...
There was no winning to be had here, only degrees of failure. He was hoping for the smallest of failures... but Bobby was pragmatic enough to prepare for the worst.
Of course the thump had to be upstairs, the one place where Bobby couldn’t satisfy his curiosity or immediately deal with a threat.
He never went up there that often anyway, not even when he had the legs to do it. Upstairs had always been Amelia’s turf, the place where his wife used to knit and work on her pottery. Even now, years later, it still hurt to walk around the places she called her own, it hurt to feel her presence in every corner and closed door.
Bobby grabbed the loaded shotgun he kept against the desk in his study. He might be hopeless but he was still frigging far from helpless. “Who’s there?”
The silence was worse than the mysterious thump of unknown origin. The silence made him think of failing sigils and protections, the silence made him think of exactly what had gotten inside his house. The silence made him think that he was going to die feeling useless and without ever finding out what had happen.
“It’s me Bobby!” Sam’s voice called from upstairs, finally offering some measure of reassurance. He sounded... small.
The first time Bobby had heard the grown up version of Sam yell something, or even raise his usually smooth tone of voice, he’d felt the damn reverberations of the sound inside his chest, rattling all of his bones. That boy had quite the lungs in him and when he shouted or even talked louder than usual, people noticed. Dishes trembled in their racks. Water shook inside glasses.
His voice now... it sounded like Sam had shrunk down. Like something was stuck in his throat, preventing the sound from coming out right.
“Sam?”
Bobby settled the shotgun in his lap and grabbed the wheels handrims on each side, pushing himself to the bottom of the stairs. There was more noise coming from up there, dragging feet and veiled curses and even something that sounded unmistakably like a sob.
Bobby looked up, trying to guess shapes and forms from the shadows that covered the space beyond the banister. Jesus... so many steps! How had he never noticed that there were that many steps in his goddamn stairs?
It hadn’t escaped Bobby attention that Sam had said ‘he’ was there. Four humans and one angel had left his house to stop the end of the world. Four. It seemed like such a ridiculous small number, but...
Poor Jo, Bobby had no real expectations of ever seeing alive again.
He’d seen up close the damage that a single hellhound’s claw could inflict on a human body. He’d seen the way those bastards had sliced Dean right up to the bone. That girl was better off with a quick death than a long, tormented road that would, indubitably, turn out the same way.
But Dean, Ellen... hell, even the stiff-necked angel... they couldn’t all be dead-please God... forget about sending legs -just send those good people home safe--
Deep down, Bobby knew that there was one explanation for Sam’s lonely voice, one far worse than the prospect of all of them being dead. An explanation that meant that Bobby wouldn’t live much longer either. If Sam had been taken, if he’d said yes...
Nah! That was moronic. Why the hell would a fresh-vessel-ed Lucifer waste time with a crippled old man when he had the whole world to burn?
Bobby shook his head. Either way, if he didn’t see head or tail of that boy in the next five seconds, so helped him God, he was getting out of that chair and goddamn crawli-
“We’re coming down, Bobby. Just... hang on a bit,” Sam’s strained voice traveled downstairs once more, like he’d somehow guessed the other man’s insane plans.
Bobby sat and waited. The story of his life of late. The ‘we’, at least, was comforting.
And finally he could see them. Sam, holding a battered looking Dean, both keeping a precarious hold on themselves and the banister as they slowly made their way down.
Bobby kept his look up, expecting, hoping to see who else was there with them. He wasn’t even going to question why they were upstairs in the first place, when he had a perfectly working front door. He just needed to believe that-
“They’re dead Bobby,” Dean whispered as soon as they were in front of him. “They’re both dead.”
Bobby blinked, his nails biting into the wooden handle of the shotgun in his lap. No...
“I’m sorry Bobby... this,” Dean tried, swallowing down a sob, “... this was all my fault.”
Bobby opened his mouth to call nonsense, to call him an idjit, to say something harsh and brassy that would snap the kid out of his self-pity fest.
It seemed to be the trick when dealing with the older of the Winchester kids. It cut Bobby’s heart right in half every single time he had to do it, both because of the hurt he knew he was causing and because he knew the reason why that particular strategy seemed to work so fine - damn you John and your stubborn thick skull and the way you raised your kids- but the fact remained, it worked.
It worked when Bobby needed to get both brothers back together, after the whole mess Ruby made to bring them apart and it worked when the poor boy was falling apart with Jo’s life on the line and a Lucifer to deal with.
This time though... this time the words dried out inside his mouth and never came out. The boy looked like hell. Heck! Both of them did, but Dean had the outside wounds to prove it.
There was blood crusting down the left side of his face and from the way he was holding his mid-section and barely breathing in, there was something wrong with his chest too.
Every time he caught himself thinking that he’d never see Ellen or Jo ever again, Bobby would swear that was something wrong with his chest too. So many good people...
“They’re dead, dead to save us and... and it was all for nothing,” Dean went on. “I couldn’t kill him... I can’t k-“
Bobby gulped, understanding what Dean wasn’t saying. They were screwed. Jo, goddamn Ellen were dead... and they, and the rest of the world with them, was screwed.
He was still staring at Dean when the boy lost whatever was left of color in his cheeks and his eyes rolled up seconds before his legs bent out of shape. Sam, who looked even bigger now that Bobby saw the world sitting down, caught him effortlessly, like he’d been waiting for that to happen.
“That’s why Castiel ‘beamed’ you into a bed and not the car, you idiot...” Sam mumbled softly, holding his unconscious brother tenderly despite the angry words. “Bobby,” Sam’s voice cut through the older man’s grim thoughts. “Bobby... could you get your first aid kit for me? I’m gonna settled him down,” the boy offered.
Bobby found himself nodding, before he grabbed his wheels and turned around.
In all honesty, it took him less than a minute to go to the kitchen counter, grab the plastic box where he kept his supplies and wheel back to the living room. Still, Bobby stopped and froze for god knows how long as soon as he entered the kitchen.
The empty shot glasses, left behind from their pre-war ‘celebration’, were all still scattered over the table. Jesus Christ on a battering stick... he could still smell the fruity scent of Jo and Ellen’s soap, lingering in the room. How could they be gone?
The older man took a deep breath and forced his shattering emotions under control. The boys needed him focused. It would be hypocritical of him to demand focus out of Dean when the boy was under duress, and not impose the same rules on himself. Still, his eyes landed covetously on the half empty bottle of Jose that had also been left behind by the girls.
The longing to just grab it and escape reality was just as strong now as it’d been in the weeks after Dean’s death.
Only, now, Dean was in the other room, not buried in a shallow grave. Now he was right here, waiting for Bobby to take his head out of his goddamn ass and help.
Sam had settled Dean on the couch and taken off his jacket and boots. That boy had been trained to triage and tend to his father and brother’s wounds even since before he could drive a car properly. Yet now, all Sam seemed able to do was push Dean’s hair back and rest his head on his brother’ shoulder. He looked as lost as Bobby felt.
“Sam,” Bobby said quietly, feeling the air ominous and heavy with what had happen, with what would happen next. His hand searched the boy’s back on its own. Underneath his touch, Sam was shaking. “Sam... what the hell happened out there?”
Sam lifted his head and looked at the man at his side. Taking the wet washcloth that he was offering, Sam started to wipe the blood away from Dean’s face. “We failed... Death is out and about and Jo and Ellen-”
Sam’s fingers contorted on the washcloth, squeezing the watery blood all over Bobby floor and couch. Neither man noticed it.
“It’s ok son... they knew what was at stake,” Bobby offered, knowing it was the right thing to say, certain that Sam, like him, would recognize it for the bucket of crap it was. Friends were friends and their deaths hurt all the same no matter how high the merit of their death proved to be.
“It was all for nothing Bobby,” Sam went on, his hands abandoning the tethered cloth in favor of reaching for Dean’s shirt and pulling it up.
Just as Bobby had suspected, the kid’s chest was more black and blue than it’s usual tanned color. “Jesus!”
Sam went on, probing the darkest places, searching for out of shape bones, like it was as natural for him as brushing his teeth. He was playing piano on his brother’s bruises, drowning his own pain in the sorrowful music it made. It didn’t seem to help. “We left them behind Bobby... I didn’t even blink when Ellen offered to stay with Jo... I... it was all for nothing Bobby.”
Dean gasped awake under Sam’s touch before Bobby could say anything. Ellen had stayed behind? What for? What were they protecting the boys from? The hellhounds?
He looked away from Sam’s revelations and let his gaze fall on Dean’s face. How was it possible for someone to come back to consciousness with so many tears in their eyes? How was it possible for grief to settle so deeply inside, that the body reacted even when it wasn't supposed to?
It broke Bobby’s heart to see his boys like that. Figuring his hands were shaking a little bit less than Sam’s, he started sorting thorough his supplies for a clean needle and some thread. “That head needs some stitches, son... you want something for the pain?”
Dean turned his drowning eyes on him and shook his head, water leaking from the corners and landing in dark spots on the couch. There was nothing to dull that sort of pain, Bobby was well aware of that.
“Get me some fresh bandages, will ya?” He asked Sam instead. There was no need for it, not really, not when he had everything he needed right there at hand. But Sam, he suspected, needed a little room to breath and crumpled down as much as Bobby himself had been allowed before. “Upstairs, linen closet.”
The boy looked a little reluctant to leave his brother’s side, as if he feared that Dean would disappear the second he wasn’t looking. Bobby figured that, after all they’d been through, that wasn’t all that unlikely to happen, not with angels around that needed nothing more than two fingers to snatch Dean from right under their noses. “I’ll watch out for him, don’t worry,” Bobby said, hoping that the promises of an old cripple were still good enough for Sam.
Sam gave one last squeeze to Dean’s arm and got up, moving every bit as slow and stiff as the old man that Bobby felt most of these days.
“Where’s Cas?” Dean questioned, looking around the room, following Sam’s progress out. “We need to... I have to-”
Bobby pulled the stitch he’d been working on and put his hand on Dean’s chest instead. The pressure wasn’t all that much, but it was enough to counter whatever reserve of strength Dean was tapping into to raise himself on his elbows. He sunk back down like a sack of bricks, his eyes pleading for something, something that Bobby couldn’t name... something that Bobby didn’t want to name.
He felt he anger rise up inside him like a tidal wave when he realized what this was all about. “Don’t you even think about it boy!”
“Bobby... I have to,” Dean whispered. He bit his lip. Unlike most people, who did it when they were reluctant about something or not sure what their decision should be, Dean usually bit his lip when he’d already made a decision. But he bit it because he knew others wouldn’t understand it.
And he was damn right about that! “You don’t have to nothing,” Bobby started, resuming his threading of the gashed flesh on Dean’s forehead. That close to the boy’s face, it was impossible to miss any of the emotions that crossed over those damn expressive eyes of his. “Please don’t give up this soon... saying yes to Michael won't bring Jo and Ellen back--”
“The Colt doesn’t work, Bobby,” Dean said flatly. “I should’ve known... I should’ve used my goddamn head and realized that the Colt would never work...”
“How-why the hell would you know that beforehand?”
Dean sighed. “I saw it, Bobby. I saw how future me went up against Lucifer with the Colt and failed... it was stupid to believe that he’d missed his shot,” he said, his voice trailing off as Dean lost himself in memories of a life he'd yet to live. A life he swore would never exist. For him. For Sam. For anyone. Because no one deserved to be that miserable and still fail. “He failed because there is only one way to stop the devil-“
Bobby grabbed Dean’s chin. There wasn’t much room for him to escape anyhow, but Bobby was done with taking chances. “You listen to me, boy-you listen to me good: Jo and Ellen’s deaths were not your fault! Do not diminish their value by putting this on you! Do not make them worse by adding your own to the pile!”
Dean met his gaze straight on; with none of his usual barriers up, Bobby could see every single bit of raw, stripped of hope, drowning in remorse and regret thought running through that boy’s head. The weight of it almost made Bobby look away.
If before, from the way he’d been raised and all the hardship he’d been dealt with in his young life, Dean seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders, now... now, Bobby supposed, he did carry the weight of the world there. And it showed. It showed in the way the kid kept getting thinner and thinner, it showed in the way Dean’s laughter was now only a shadow of what it’d been before; it showed in the green that had grayed in to a dull version of the life Bobby used to see in those eyes.
Dean was perfectly aware that Jo and Ellen’s choices were their own. If Bobby knew him right, and he did, Dean probably even thought that those two, plus those who'd already died in this war, or even Bobby himself, were the true heroes of this silent battle. Dean, in his twisted mind, was probably only atoning for the damage he and Sam had caused. Which was retarded, of course, but utterly pointless to try and explain to him.
No, Dean had made a conscious decision, Bobby could see it now. The Colt, other than Castiel’s foolish search for God, had seemed like their only chance of making things right. And Michael... Bobby knew Dean couldn’t live with himself if any of his actions risked the fate of the world. Just like Bobby didn’t wanted to risk loosing Dean.
“Please don’t tell Sam,” Dean whispered, and for a moment there Bobby’s insides froze in panic, trapped in the memory of those same words being uttered to him by a tearful Dean, one year before he was ripped apart by hellhounds. Bobby didn’t think he'd survive something like that again. He didn’t think he’d have to.
Bobby cupped his face, just like he did then. The touch was as bittersweet and sorrowful now as it was before. He was, once again, saying goodbye way too early.
Sam found them like that when he came back downstairs, his eyes suspiciously red and wet. Bobby wouldn't tell him; he couldn't. To tell Sam that his brother was ready to offer himself up to be used as a weapon was to lose Sam even before Dean got to open his mouth to Michael. Bobby was too selfish to allow that to happen. Death, he hoped, would claim him long before he ever got to experience the heartbreak of losing both boys again. One would be crippling enough.
And in the next morning, when the only memorial that they could provide for the fallen huntresses was a warm fireplace and a burned photo, Bobby found his eyes watering all the harder, as he looked at the image of all the people he loved disappear in to flames.
The end