I'd been watching those two boys for as long as I could remember, and I know a thing or two about haunting that most folks don't know, so when I made the choice to remain on the earth as a ghost I didn't think it would be all that difficult to get the boy's attention and to go on doing as I'd been doing for as long as I could remember.

It ain't that easy though. Those boys are more jaded than most and were able to justify most of the little stuff I was able to do virtually right off the bat. And no matter how much knowledge I had on the subject, the practical application of haunting was a bit more difficult than I anticipated.

The worst part of this new life of mine is watching my boys and not be able to offer them help. I was now a spectator in their lives, every single aspect of their lives, and it was sad. Sadder than I'd ever imagined and sadder than my worst nighmare.

The first two weeks, after I'd died, after they'd burned by body, hey didn't say much. Sam wanted to say all kinds of things, and I could tell he wanted to talk things out, because that was how Sam, the real Sam, souled Sam, sweet Sam, handled the sad that came with the life. And Dean, as per his usual, couldn't even handle the idea of talking. This was usually when Sam came to me, and talked to me, and got his head straight so he could be okay for Dean, so he could help put his brother, who never asked nor wanted anyone's help, back together. But I couldn't talk to him, and Sam clearly didn't know what to do.

I sat on the coffee table in between the both of 'em watching them, each in their own grief, each trying to find a way to move on.

So, when the silence was broken, by Sam, on the fourth day after my death, it startled both me and Dean. "Dean." Sam began.

"I don't want to talk about it Sam."

"We can't hole up here forever Dean."

"He's only been gone four days Sam, you just want to move on like he hasn't been a part of our lives for years?"

"No." Sam started a little flustered, he hadn't meant to incur his brother's wrath, and I knew it, but Dean wasn't in any sort of state of mine to understand that. "I just think we…."

"We what? Carry on like nothing happened, like we did after Ellen, or Jo, or Rufus, or anyone else we've gotten killed?"

"That's not what I'm saying…"

"Then what are you saying Sam? Didn't he mean anything to you?"

"Dean! That's not fair."

"I need air." Dean said abruptly and slammed the door in his wake. Sam leaned forward and put his face in his hands, and I reached out to touch his shaggy hair, and my hand just went clean through and I felt useless as ever.

"Bobby, I miss you." Sam said through his hands. "I miss you." He said and stood up, tears running down his face.

"I'm right here boy." I said wishing that he could hear me. He turned away from me and pushed his too long hair out of his eyes.

" I need to talk to you. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to fix Dean. What do I do?" he went to the refrigerator and opened a bottle of water, set it down on the counter and went back into the living area, and started to pick up the mess all over the room.

"I just want to talk about what happened. I want to talk about you." Sam continued. "I want to talk about all of the things I wished I had said to you before it was too late." Sam briskly wiped a hand down his face. Tears had begun to fall somewhere between picking up the pizza box and picking up the three empty beer bottles. "The things I said to you when my soul was MIA."

"Oh Sam. Don't go there." I whispered. "Don't torture yourself boy."

"I wanted to tell you that I remember why you were so leery of me when I got my soul back. I 'member going after you, trying to kill you so I wouldn't have to have my soul put back." He threw away the bottles and the pizza box, and started to tackle more of the mess all the while talking to me.

"It's like we lost dad again." He finally said. "It's like I've been orphaned and I don't know who to turn to." He wiped his face again, I reached out to touch his arm and again, my hand went clean through the boy's bicep. I clenched my fists and my teeth, trying to calm myself, trying to tell myself that I knew this was how it was supposed to go, but wishing that I could be the exception in this case and not prove the rule.

"I mean, if I feel abandoned, then Dean must be…" Sam thought and couldn't come up with a word. "Dean has to feel worse. Dean doesn't handle this well, you know that, I know that, hell everyone in the friggin' world knows that." And that was the Sam Winchester I loved like a son, the one who worried about everyone else, but especially worried about his big brother.

"You have to wait him out Sam. You know that. You just have to wait him out and he'll eventually talk, and it'll hurt like hell when he does—for both you and him."

Sam laughed a little and wiped his eyes again. "I bet you'd say, 'Come on Sam, you know how he is, he ain't going to talk unless he's damn good and ready.' Sam smiled and sat down on the couch again; touched the book that was on the table in front of him. "And I know you'd be right Bobby, I know you would. Because that's Dean, he needs time. But I can usually ride the wave because I've talked to you, been able to get all of it off of my chest, and be able to breathe again. But you aren't here Bobby!"

"I'm right here Sam." I said, tears in my own eyes.

"You're not here! You aren't here because of some ass hat who wants to take everything away from us, strip us bare and kill us. I wish they would have just killed us." Sam grabbed the book in front of him and threw it as hard as he could "JUST FRIGGIN KILL US YOU SONS OF BITCHES!" Sam stood and screamed at the top of his lungs. "COME ON! TAKE US!" The vein in his forehead and neck bulged and his fists were clenched so tight that you could see the chorded muscles in his arms and he didn't stop until his voice quit. And then he just looked like the saddest ten year old boy with floppy hair, sad green eyes, and head full of things he knew about but couldn't change. I wanted to hug him. I wanted to tell him that I was right there, that I would make it better, that I hadn't left him, but I couldn't. I simply had to stand there and watch as one of my boys broke apart. Watching is the worst thing, I now know why ghosts go crazy.