Bobby's eye strayed to Dean, twelve years old, still waiting for his growth spurt, and on the threshold of adolescence.
He should have been out tossing a ball with his friends; he should have been starting to discover girls; or more importantly, starting to discover Dean Winchester.
Instead he was aged before his years; blindly idolising an absent and misguided father, and haunted by responsibilities that no shoulders so green and so narrow should ever be asked to bear.
Bobby's anger for his young charges simmered over as he heard the Impala pull up outside, three days late.
He reached for his shotgun.