Over the past few years, he had certainly woken to find himself in a number of strange situations and awkward places. It was not strictly uncommon, either, to find himself sprawled haphazardly on some floor or another, covered in who knew what with only a vague recollection of recent events and a splitting headache. He felt sore all over, his mind hazy – though that could simply be on account of the opiates, or perhaps the absinthe. It all sort of blurred at the edges after a while.
What made this particular situation curiously unique, however, was the mobile form of one Bobby Singer looming over his aching, blood spattered self as he became intimate with the threadbare faux-persian rug. The muzzle of the old hunter's shotgun in his ear was also something to contemplate.
"You got about ten seconds to explain who you are and what the hell you're doin' on my living room floor before I turn your melon into a fruit bowl," the gruff and ever lovable Bobby Singer growled through his rust coloured beard.
"Bobby," the bemused man laying face down on the floor greeted. "I didn't know you felt that way. I'm touched. Did you redecorate?"
There was a long moment in which Bobby felt as though he'd been swallowed up into the Twilight Zone. The voice was familiar, even if the tone was a little off, and the face that turned toward him was recognizable if a bit more gaunt and pale than he remembered. The figure laying prone in the middle of the floor was covered in mud and blood and an insurmountable amount of crap Bobby didn't want to think about. He was dressed like he'd just dropped out of the middle of some post-Apocalyptic resistance movement in a ratty jacket , right down to the M-16 rifle slung across his back by a well worn strap.
Against his better judgement, Bobby took a step back from the intruder.
"Keep your hands in plain sight and get on your knees," he ordered, keeping the gun trained on the intruder's head.
The rumpled figure on the floor smirked, then pushed himself up with a groan, one arm slung across his bloodied chest as he sank back onto his heels, breath slightly labored in pain, face pallid aside from where a nasty looking bruise covered the entirety of the left side, cherry red over his cheekbone and the white of his left eye bloodstained. There was a gash across the front of his faded blue button down that caught the right lapel of his ratty green jacket and the skin beneath it likely matched, given all the blood.
The most unsettling thing to Bobby Singer was that yes, he did recognize this wreck of a man. The unruly dark hair that could be black or dark brown depending on the lighting, now longish and hanging limp in his blue eyes, matted to his brow with sweat and blood, the square, stubbled jaw; there was no mistaking the son of a bitch. No matter how messed up he looked, shoulders slumped and stoned, shit-eating grin splitting over his teeth, eyebrows raised sardonically above narcotic-glazed eyes, Bobby couldn't dismiss what he was looking at.
A low chuckle bubbled out of the other man's chest as he staggered to his feet, stumbling to one side and threatening to fall over. Damn he was out of it. He wondered, briefly, if he might not have overshot his usual dosage – it had been a long, distressing night, after the strategy Dean had presented. He would do it, though. There wasn't much he wouldn't do for Dean.
Bobby watched, baffled as the angel teetered and shuffled in a slow circle, seeming amused by his surroundings. The old hunter didn't see much funny about this, though; the last he'd seen featherbrain, the idjit had just released thousands of souls back into Purgatory before being possessed by goddamn Leviathan and exploding in the reservoir, leaving just a dirty, goo and bloodstained trench coat behind.
That had been months ago.
And now here he was again, real as life in Bobby's own house as though he'd just returned from a hillbilly rainbow gathering, stoned out of his mind and tore the hell up, collapsing halfway to the front door in a heap of limbs and gun metal and tattered cloth and blood.
"Balls," Bobby sighed, propping the shotgun against the wall and picking up the phone on his tome-littered desk.
"Hey, Bobby," the voice on the other end of the line answered on the second ring, much to Bobby's relief.
"Sam," the elder man greeted in return. "I got a bit of a situation here. You boys better get over here quick."
There was a long moment in which Bobby could hear the murmured conversation between the two Winchesters before Sam was in his ear again.
"We're about nine hours out if we drive straight through. Bobby," Sam paused, the concern heavy in his tone. "What's going on?"
"Beats the hell outta me," Bobby admitted with no small measure of exasperation. "But I've someone's supposed to be dead passed out on the floor ten feet from me."
Bobby sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I don't wanna get anyone's hopes up," he rumbled, casting a glance back at the disheveled heap on the threshold, "I still gotta run the usual gauntlet, but he's got about as much of a track record for stayin' dead as you two idjits."
"...We'll be there as soon as we can."
The line went dead and Bobby placed the handset back in its cradle on the desk, raising his hat enough to brush the sparse hair back on his head before replacing it. He cautiously ambled over to the 'fallen' angel and, yep. Feathers was down for the count in a puddle of drool and blood on the floor.
"Figures I get stuck with the shitty jobs," he muttered as he braced himself, knees bent, and hauled the unconscious angel to the sunk-in couch a few feet away, removing the assault rifle and setting it on the desk.
Once arranged in a more or less comfortable position, Bobby took a look over him. The wound in the man's chest was ragged and angry looking, three parallel gashes that ran from his right collar bone to his left pectoral- oozing, but not bleeding too profusely. He did what he could to clean it with a healthy wash of holy water and covered the wound loosely in gauze, then ran the usual tests of silver, iron, salt and borax to be certain it wasn't some ooglie doppelgänger.
The next nine hours were going to be some of the longest Bobby Singer had ever had to endure as he waited for Sam and Dean to get their asses up here.
Sam flipped the phone shut and stared at his brother from the passenger seat. The tension in the conversation with Bobby had set Dean on edge from the one side he heard of it, and Sam's sudden silence wasn't helping.
"Well," Dean demanded, glancing at his brother across the seat. "What did he say?"
Sam sighed, jaw squared as he pointedly did not look at Dean, keeping his eyes forward out the rain-spattered windshield onto the dark road ahead.
Dean tightened his grip at the reticence, prepared to repeat himself when Sam finally spoke up.
"I think it's Cas," Sam ventured cautiously. "I think Cas is at Bobby's. He's..."
Dean turned to stare for a moment at his brother, eyes wide and incredulous, almost forgetting he was behind the wheel of a vehicle travelling in excess of seventy miles per hour down a dark, wet highway. "No," he eschewed, disbelieving. "No fuckin' way. Sam, you... Just no."
"We have to go, Dean," Sam insisted. "Whoever it is, Bobby wants us back at his place. This is big, whatever it is."
Dean returned his glare to the road, catching the turn around up ahead and hitting the brakes as he jerked the wheel, the Impala jack-knifing on the patch of dirt connecting North and South and earning a yelp of surprise from the younger Winchester.
Dean ignored the objurgation from his co-pilot, gunning the engine up just a little closer to eighty.