The Demon sure can pick 'em, thinks Bobby, as he trudges back through the miles of muddy undergrowth. Deep and thick woods plus the cover of night, for a US Marine fueled by adrenaline and survival training? He won't be found 'till he wants to be found.
Finally, the edge of Cold Oak's clearing appears to his view. Practical things, as they usually do, pop up to occupy his mind. Gotta find some shelter, probably stuck in this hellhole for a while, too, he think, since Dean will have already headed towards…
It's the car he spots first. The car, still there, silent, black. Something's wrong. Her lights are still on, like eyes, big mournful eyes.
Eyes shining on two tiny figures, curled up in the mud together.
Bobby was never a fast runner, but he would swear he runs the hundred yards between them in about a minute. Mostly 'cause his mind was too occupied to tell him otherwise.
At first it's not even clear there's two. They're melded together like those Siamese…wait, no, it's conjoined… twins. Bobby can only see Sam's bloody back, his head bowed, his legs splayed out under him, unnaturally. Mary Winchester's beautiful baby boy is cold and muddy and motionless and dead.
Bobby moves carefully closer. Edges, circles; he would tiptoe if he did that sort of thing.
He crouches next to Sam, next to Sam's…no, he can't, he won't say it.
Not there's anyone to hear it, anyway.
Dean won't hear. Dean won't hear anything, for a while, at least.
As short as Dean ever seemed standing next to his "little" brother, he seems ten times smaller now. Curled up, holding on to Sam for dear life. Never had that expression seemed so inadequate. His arms in an unshakeable vise grip, his head burrowed into Sam's shoulder. Dean's not sobbing. He's not sobbing any more. But he's shaking, shaking and trembling so hard it makes Bobby's own muscles ache just to look at him.
He fears to say it. He has to say it?
"Dean. Please, look at me?"
Dean does. And Bobby wishes he hadn't said anything at all.
Because there's no Dean there. No Dean, but sadness. Those green eyes which, even at the worst of times, spark with the spirit of this indomitable man…there's no green, but grief.
Bobby remembers, unwillingly, the little boy that John Winchester brought to him 20 years ago. The boy who the expression "little man" seemed to be made for. Who was never a child. No time for childish things, only time for Daddy and Sam.
Daddy and Sam are gone now.
And Dean is consumed. Consumed by tears and grief and pain.
Bobby, timidly, reaches for the body. For Sam's body. And immediately regrets it, as pain shoots through his arm, as whatever's left of Dean just barely restrains itself from breaking Bobby's wrist.
The word is deep, the word is hoarse, the word is painful, the word grabs at Bobby's head and makes him wince.
"I have to."
"Don't you fucking touch him."
"No way in hell."
"Dean. Please. It's me. It's Bobby. And this….this is not Sam. Not anymore."
He looks into those green eyes again, hoping against hope that something is still there to reach.
And for a brief moment, he does. For one second, he sees the sweet little boy who took care of everybody but himself. The man who lived for his family, even when it killed him. And it gives Bobby hope that that Demonic son of a bitch hasn't claimed two lives tonight.
Dean carefully releases his grip; maybe even more out of exhaustion than true volition. Bobby cradles Sam in his arms. That 6 foot frame seems weirdly light, as he carries it to the car. The car, who he almost would swear, plaintively whines as he gives one of her boys into her loving arms.
Bobby looks back. And Dean is still sitting there. Hasn't moved an inch.
He gently tries to pull the boy from the ground. Dean does not, cannot resist.
He slings Dean's arm over his shoulder. Sneaks a look at his face. But Dean's gone again. Staring off in the distance at something Bobby can't see.
Bobby, as gently as he can, places Dean in the front passenger seat, and as he does, the last spark of resistance is gone. Dean curls up, arms close to his body, knees pulled up to his chest, face buried in the denim of his jeans.
He stays there, through the drive back to Bobby's place. Bobby knows better than to hope he's fallen asleep. What Dean would dream would give anybody pause.
They reach the house. But before he can even make a move, Dean has opened the door, and lifted Sam from the back seat. He heads towards the old worker's cabin. The one Dean insisted on sleeping in during the weeks after John's death.
Bobby follows slowly after. He opens the door, and sees Sam…Sam's body?…Sam, on the old and rusty cot. Dean sits next to him, just watching.
Bobby shuts the door, and grabs a stool. To stand guard? He doesn't really know. There are things to be done, things that are coming. But not now. Not now.