Chapter Text
March 1st, 2012
Singer Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Finally. Peace and quiet.
Bobby leaned back against the armrest of the couch, feet propped up on the end, beer in hand. Storm was going like hell outside, hadn’t let up all day. Not snow like they were used to this time of year, but lotsa lightning, and thunder so loud it shook the windowpanes and made the whole house sound like it was haunted.
Not that it was. Nothing in Singer Salvage Yard could be. Not with the way Bobby kept the place up. Wards, seals, traps, and lately a circle of Holy Oil on the floor of the study that he could light up with nil effort from the desk or the couch. After that New Year’s Eve fiasco, Bobby’d about had enough of angels dropping in, invited or otherwise. Castiel he could tolerate; hell, he kinda liked the guy. But two angels was one too many and a whole garrison eating as his table made it feel like the Last Supper.
Apart from the storm, though, whole place was quiet tonight. Quiet wasn’t something Bobby got much, between Sam and Dean always calling in favors and Rufus dropping by without calling in first. Not that he resented any one of them; Rufus was a lonely bastard and he’d rather Sam and Dean were staying in touch then going up against all the crap out there by themselves. Still. It could wear on a man.
But tonight, none of that really mattered. For the first time—hell, in months, Bobby Singer was having some time off. Relaxing. He’d been digging through the lore for two weeks straight looking for something about that girl that’d called Sam, and the monsters either going haywire or acting all out-of-sorts; whatever they were looking for, it was obscure. So tonight was a night to get drunk and enjoy a good storm inside a silent house.
Bobby tipped his head back on the armrest.
At any rate, all of the research could wait. Even though somebody was definitely up to something. Had to be. Monster reports starting to trickle in, not like anything Bobby had heard before in his life. Sounded like monsters were flipping out, or weirder, disappearing without a trace, and if the stories Bobby kept hearing from Rufus and Dean were true, both cases were scary as hell.
But he’d earned himself a couple hours off tonight to just listen to the storm with the phones dead quiet and no one bothering him, not even Sherriff Mills. And he hadn’t heard from Rufus in a coupla days, and not from Dean since right after Vegas a week and a half ago. He’d called in on his way to the east coast to take care of some sickness driving a bunch of local kids crazy. Bobby hadn’t asked about Vegas—didn’t wanna know—but something about Dean had definitely been different. Quieter. Kid had a lot on his mind.
Sound of the wind and thunder was actually soothing. Bobby’s eyes slid shut and he set the beer bottle gently on the floor, rolling onto his side. Bed was upstairs, but couch would work just fine.
Right when he was on the edge of drifting off, a sound started up on the other side of the kitchen; sounded like scratching. Not like, mice in the walls scratching, but more like dog at the doggy door. Except Bobby didn’t own a dog anymore, not since Meg had ganked his Rottweiler a few years back.
He waited, listening. Tense. Hand sliding for the dagger wedged between the arm of the couch and the cushion—precaution. Tried to sort that scratching out in his mind—could be a tree branch in the wind. No. Too heavy. Kept getting heavier, then trailing off.
“If that’s Rufus, I swear to God,” Bobby muttered, lurching up onto his feet and leaving the threat properly unfinished. He stomped for the door, flicking on the foyer light on his way. Tried to take a peek out the window; too dark to see anything, too much rain. Bobby kept the knife tucked behind his back and yanked the door open.
Couldn’t see anything at first, couldn’t make out a shadow from another one, so it was a second before he realized there was actually a person standing in front of him. Another second before he shifted and the foyer light fell across a scooped-out, ashen face, jutting cheekbones, sunken dull eyes and a wasted frame.
And that look. That look that’d kept hands from getting swatted out of cookie jars and pinned the blame on his older brother for years.
“Sam?” Bobby said incredulously.
Sam convulsed away from him like Bobby’s raised tone was a threat. The rain plastered his hair to his forehead, but his skin looked like it was—steaming. How high of a fever would someone have to run to burn like that? One arm curled around his chest and a dark deluge of blood spread across the ripped front of his jacket.
“Help me.” He said, his voice as hollow as his face was. “Please.”
“Kid, what the hell do you think you’re—?” Bobby didn’t get a chance to finish the question as Sam’s eyes rolled up to the whites and he pitched over the threshold. Instinct made Bobby catch him by the shoulder, adjust his weight and lower him against the wall right inside the door. Bobby slammed the door against the wind and rain and knelt, cupped the side of Sam’s neck with his hand.
“Sam. Sam!” He shook Sam’s head very lightly, with no reaction. Sam looked—worse than beat to Hell. Looked like he’d been Hellhound puppychow. The pulse under Bobby’s fingertips, faint and thready—getting fainter. “Boy, where’ve you been?”
Pulling one of Sam’s oozing arms over his shoulders, Bobby maneuvered them both carefully to their feet, and headed for the Panic Room.
Not much like waking up next to a brunette in the morning.
Dean was sprawled on his back with her arm across his waist, her head on his chest; sunlight pouring in through the window of her house, middle of Mulberry Street, Pleasantville. Yeah, she definitely wasn’t Lisa, and maybe part of Dean was missing that life this morning. But the lady had a right to be grateful. He’d just single-handedly vanquished a spirit that had been influencing children in the neighborhood, turning them into cannibals, and she’d been on the food chain. Wasn’t his fault how she wanted to express her undying gratitude.
Dean closed his eyes, tucking an arm behind his head. Case had taken longer than he’d expected and he was still getting over freaking Las Vegasand the case he and Castiel had stumbled into out there. But this ditzy South Carolina town was about as far from the Sin City as you could get, industrially, economically, definitely morally. Kind of a nice change up.
The thin metallic strains of an AC/DC ringtone alerted Dean. He disentangled himself from the girl’s arms and reached for his jacket on the back of the bedside chair, grabbing his phone and checking the Caller ID. Taking the hit like a familiar pain when he saw it was just Bobby.
He flipped it open. “Case’s a wrap, Bobby.”
“Dean, you better get your backside back to Sioux Falls.” Bobby said without preamble. “I found Sam.”
Dean sat straight up, every sense snapping back to livewire alert. “Found him. Found? Sam? What, like he was hiding from us or someth—?”
“Probably a better way’a puttin’ it would be, he found me.” Bobby interrupted. “Showed up on my doorstep in the pourin’ rain, middle of the night last night.”
Dean rubbed a hand down his unshaven jaw and closed his eyes. Seven weeks of worrying about his brother, not hearing a single damn thing from him. Last week he’d found out a piece of his soul was inside of Sam. They definitely had lot to hash out. Right now, though, it was enough to know he was back. “Thank God he’s okay.”
“Actually, Dean. That’s why I called you fast as I could.”
The relief started prickling up into something sharper on the back of his neck. Dean stiffened. “Bobby? What’s goin’ on?”
“Sam’s not exactly in the same state he left us.” Bobby said with that old-man delicate thing that meant he was poking around the edges of something huge…like, cosmic, Lucifer-let-Death-out-of-the-hole huge.
“The hell’s that supposed to mean?” Dean grated out, yanking his shirt on with one hand, maneuvering the phone to keep it pinned against his ear.
“Means he’s unconscious, Dean, has been since he got here. And I’m telling you, it looks like Sam went through a woodchipper, or a…meat processor or some damn thing.”
“Whoa, whoa, wait. You’re telling me someone tried to make meat pies outta my little brother?” Dean demanded, stepping into his jeans. “When Sam wakes up, you gotta ask him who he—”
“That’s the thing, Dean.” Bobby cut him off quietly, seriously, stopping Dean with one foot half-in his boot.
“What.” He said, flatly.
“Sam’s spiking a fever, I mean—the kind that’d fry most peoples’ brains. I can’t bring it down and he’s not coming around. There’s more to work with here than I know where to start.”
“Call Cass.” Dean said.
“Tried that a few times. Think he’s busy, or we’re not the first in the prayer line.”
“Son of a bitch.” Dean swore. “What else can we do?”
Bobby’s breathing was all that came over the line, measured and deep and uneven. Dean stat back from lacing up his boots, snatching the phone closer to his head. “Bobby.”
“Best I can offer is to try and keep the kid breathing until you get here, Dean.” Bobby said hopelessly.
Dean’s suddenly numb fingers flexed around the phone. “You mean, to say goodbye.”
“And that’s bein’ optimistic.”
Dean glanced at the bed; girl was still tangled up in the sheets. She’d sleep through anything. Lucky him, they could skip the awkward part. Dean threw on his jacket and let himself out, heading straight for the Impala.
“You tell Sammy I’m on my way, and he doesn’t get to go out on us this easy, or I’ll crawl up into Heaven and drag his Sasquatch ass back out. You hear me?”
“Roger that.” Bobby said with a bite of sarcasm; then, more seriously. “Hurry, Dean. He’s hangin’ on by his fingernails.”
“I’ll be there in a couple hours.” Dean dropped the call and punched the gas in, leaving a squealing smudge of black rubber on the pavement as he pulled out. Flexed his fingers on the steering wheel and realized he should probably be panicking.
He wasn’t. Had one clear though in his head. Same as before Cold Oak. Same as before the last seal broke.
Get to Sam. Get to Sam, now.
Pedal flat to the floor, Dean felt the tension in his shoulder, forearms, wrists, white knuckles jutting under his skin.
You better wait for me, Sam. You’re not facin’ this alone.
Not this time.