A/N: Spoilers up to 5.15.

We saw in The End that Bobby kept a journal. Here's my idea of what he might have written after Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid.

Today I killed my wife…..again.

Yeah, I know. Anyone just randomly picking up this journal and reading it after I'm gone (don't you have anything better to do anyway?) is going to think: "what the hell? This guy must have been nine kinds of crazy." Yeah, well, I wish that was the case but for once it's not. And trust me when I say, the second time around doesn't make things a damn bit easier.

Years ago, when Karen got possessed by a demon, I wasn't a hunter. I hadn't known jack squat about demons, spirits and all the other crazy crap we have to deal with. All I'd known was my wife kept trying to kill me. It was kill or be killed but when I stabbed her and black smoke poured from her mouth, I knew something wasn't right. As she died, she looked at me in confusion and whispered one word: why?

So I began asking questions. Most people thought I was nuts (and I almost got locked up a couple of times) but I did strike up acquaintances with a few strange characters who helped me find out the truth.

I lived with the guilt for years before I was finally able to tuck it away. Not forgotten, but manageable. I had a purpose in life again. John Winchester kept bringing them damn boys around to my place and they needed looking after. And now years later, here they are, looking after me.

I couldn't have blamed them if they never spoke to me again. After all, I did threaten to shoot their asses if they didn't get off my property less than 24 hours ago (talk about irony…I remember saying those same words to their daddy). But when the pyre burned down, I came back in the house to find Dean parked on my couch and Sam hunched over behind the desk, nose stuck in one of my dusty old books. God, that kid always did love to read.

They're blaming themselves for what happened, I know they are. I can see it in those damn puppy dog eyes of Sam's whenever he looks up at me from underneath that mop of hair or in the awkward way Dean fumbles around, trying to find a way to ease my pain when he knows he can't. He knows because he's seen me try to do the same for him and it never works.

Damn it all! How much suffering can a person take? Aw, I ain't talking about me. I'm talking about them. The things they've had to go through….it just ain't right. Who the hell decided two sweet little boys would grow up and have the weight of the world riding on their shoulders? If it was God, well, I'd like to have a little word with him. And if it's the angels just dicking around with them, well, I'm more than ready to find out exactly what that damn Colt will work on.

Ah, well, I guess I can sit here and bitch about it all day but that doesn't change a thing. The fact is, I put that guilty look on their face by telling them Death had it out for me because I had been helping them. Old man, when are you going to learn that some things need to be kept to yourself?

The way Sam asked me if I was going to be alright sounded exactly the way he did when he was five years old, needing reassurance there weren't any monsters in the closet. I was able to chase away his fears back then but not now. I don't know the answers anymore. I don't know if we're going to be alright and after these last few days I'm not sure I care anymore. Okay, forget I said that. I do care. Just not about me.

I'm not going to get out of this chair. I already told them I was old and broke down….useless. Dean tried to explain to me that ain't so and I went along with it but it doesn't change the way I feel. All my life I've been able to do for others and now I'm just supposed to sit here and let people die, maybe let the world end? Not gonna happen because I think I've figured something out.

If Death is trying to get to me, then somehow I must still be important. Yeah, yeah, I know I just said I was useless. If you're actually still reading this just shut up and go with it. I may not be important like Sam and Dean but Lucifer is afraid of something. Otherwise, why would he bother trying to get an old man like me out of the way? What can I possibly do that would threaten his plan?

If it's the last thing I ever do, I'm going to figure it out. Maybe I can make a difference in whether those boys live or die and that would make a lifetime of hurt not seem so pointless.

In the meantime, I think I'd better go see what's going on in my kitchen. I think it's in danger of being burned down before the world actually comes to an end.


Thanks for reading!