I knew Bobby was as good as dead as soon as the moonlight revealed the bloody hole in his hat.
Dean denies this, insisting we've been through enough.
I'm confused by his logic, life has never been fair to us, but don't argue.
Now watching the rise and fall of Bobby's chest, I relish these likely last precious moments.
The chest of the man who quickly and willingly filled our father's shoes.
Who has never waivered in support of us "igits."
I take his hand.
Thanks, Bobby, I whisper before my voice breaks.