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Dean swung into Bobby's front yard as "Ramble On" came to an end. He grinned in satisfaction, perfectly timed. Dean stepped from the car, stretching and scanning the yard for Bobby's truck.
Rumsfeld bounded up with a low bark, content to let Dean scratch his ears and stomach before ambling back into the junkyard.
Dean considered for a moment, Bobby's truck was gone, a sign he was not at home; but, Rumsfeld was still here, a sign that Bobby was as well.
Dean shrugged and headed inside, but the kitchen was empty.
"Guess he's gone out…" he muttered to himself.
He turned into the front room and froze.
Sammy.
Sam lay stretched out on Bobby's worn couch, long legs spread across the cushions, head tilted back and a book lay half open on his chest, where Sam had dropped it when he was too tired to keep his eyes open.
Dean's heart warred within his chest. Sammy, his baby brother. He looked tired, but other than that healthy. Good. Stanford had clearly been good for him, as loath as Dean was to admit it. The joy of seeing Sammy doing well sunk as a bitter well of anguish rose up. Sam. Sam, who didn't need Dean. Sam, who had ignored every text sent. Sam, who had blocked Dean's calls two months into his first semester. Sam, who had told Dean to his face before he walked out the door that Dean was nothing but a grunt in their father's vendetta as Dean begged him to talk to him. Sam, who had returned every letter unopened to… Bobby. Bobby, who had passed those letters back to Dean with a shrug and an apology. Bobby, who had to have let Sam come and stay with him since the Winter Semester ended two months ago. Bobby, who had called Dean, to check on Dean without saying a damn word about Sam being there.
Dean took a shaky step back, unsure in a way he had never been before. Bobby, who had clearly taken Sam's side. John, on one side. Sam, and apparently Bobby, on the other. Dean, the tentative bridge between the two. The bridge cast down on both sides, leaving Dean floundering in the ever widening gulf.
Firm ground. That's what Dean needed. What Dean had been needing for months. And he had thought Bobby could be that firm ground. That space where Dean was accepted without the need to prove himself or try to explain his grief, even if only for a while.
Baby. He had to get to Baby. Dean made his way back out to the Impala, silent as the grave. He slumped in the front seat, head in hands. Seeing Sammy, Sam , had turned him into such a girl. "60 seconds," he told himself, "60 seconds to be overwhelmed and then a plan was needed."
Too quickly, the time passed and Dean threw on a game face. He was here to drop off a box of books to Bobby from Rufus, nothing more. Nothing less. The deed didn't require anything more than that. He had originally planned to kip here for a few days and research a supposed haunting in Wichita, but he could do the research in Wichita. He didn't need to impose on Bobby … or Sam. His mind flashed to the stack of cash in trunk, in an envelope marked Sammy. Several thousand easy. Made from jobs, real jobs, Dean worked while he was stuck in an area or researching a case. Most mechanics were open to an extra hand, especially when Dean pulled up in Baby.
Three steps, then. And he could hit the road. A blip on Bobby and Sam's radar, easily seen and dismissed, before it vanished into the ether.
1) Note for Bobby
2) Envelope for Sam
3) Drop off on Bobby's desk without waking Sam
And then he could be gone.
The first two steps were easy. Motel stationary from the back with a scrawled note. "From Rufus. Sorry I missed you, off to a haunting. - Dean"
The envelope, snagged and sealed. He had hesitated for a moment, trying to decide if he should cross out the Sammy and just put Sam, before he finally shrugged and left it. Sam would bitch about it, but Bobby would never say. And Dean would probably never hear.
The third step was what was causing him grief. He hovered in the door, guiltily drinking in the sight of his younger brother. Sure, he had seen him when Dean drove by Stanford to check in every few months (okay, twice a month, but no one but Dean knew that and it would stay that way), but those glances were drops of water to a thirsty man in the desert. And this, this was Dean able to drink his fill.
What finally spurred his movement, was Sam starting to shift. An uneasy dream. A noise, maybe the house settling.
Dean slid the box onto the desk. The envelope set neatly on top.
He shouldn't.
He did.
A sure hand cupped Sam's head, guiding it back to comfort. Sam, despite not having Dean around for the last year, knew Dean, and accepted him subliminally, allowing Dean this intrusion without a thought. Finally, Dean unfolded the blanket Bobby had on the arm of the couch and tucked it around Sammy.
Dean bowed his head, foreheads almost touching, before gruffly, "Goodbye Sammy."
And stole out the door.