Demons, Demigods and Hunters: Return from Hell

Chapter 44

Dean 

Anna gently pressed an ice pack against the side of his face, where a fairly spectacularly black eye was blooming. He bites back a hiss, doing his best to ignore yet another haunted scream.

"PLEASE!"

It had taken them eight hours, and an extremely timely intervention from Cas's Grace to get them to Bobby's house, with his secure, solid, cold-iron panic room. Not that Dean would ever admit to being grateful for any kind of angel whammy touching his car.

Bobby, who had not been home when they'd first arrived, had not been particularly happy to see them. He'd been even less pleased to hear how Sam and Dean had been hiding Anna from him for months. Anna on the other hand, who despite her hard expression and squared shoulders still looked deeply fragile where she'd stood, framed in the stairwell. Bobby rolled forward, one wheel "accidentally" grinding over Dean's toes, and swept Anna into a tight hug. Chick-flick or not, Anna's wide, glossy gunmetal grey eyes had pulled at him too, tension and anxiety that had become unfortunately familiar to them over the last few months increasingly prevalent with every second Bobby had clung to her.

"HELP ME!" Dean winced, closing his eyes. Anna smoothed arnica cream over his hands, steady and careful.

Her hands had shook, even though she hadn't hesitated to hug Bobby back. If Dean hadn't seen the emotionless slate her face had turned into over Bobby's hat, he might have dismissed the slight hesitation in the movement as imagination. But he's spent weeks taking care of her. So while Cas had hauled an insensate Sam downstairs, Dean had gently extracted Anna from her incredulous godfather's grip. By the time Anna had slipped from Bobby's grasp, she'd plastered a warm, if tired, smile back onto her face.

"Hi, Uncle Singer." She'd whispered while stepping away. "I'm home."

Bobby's hands had shaken where they gripped the sides of his wheelchair, silent tears tracking down his tired weathered face.

After her death, he'd never really been right.

In some ways, he'd remained the same old Bobby. Tough. Grumpy. Reliable. But in many other ways, he'd become unrecognizable. The gruff but loving uncle he'd grown up with all but vanished. He'd gotten colder. Quieter. And not in the irritated monosyllabic way most older hunters end up becoming, one way or another. Instead, it was more like Bobby had just stopped ticking. No quips. No scathing sarcasm to set them on the right track. Unless he had to speak to send them information or assign them a case, Bobby didn't talk. He'd started spending a lot more of his time sitting silently in dark rooms. The amount of beer in the house decreased. The whiskey increased. Even the loss of his legs hadn't phased him much. He'd just quietly absorbed the blow like it was just another thing the world had stolen from him. Except, instead of getting back up to spit in the world's eye for taking it, Bobby had sunk into a resigned stupor. He hadn't quite given up, Dean's seen hunters who've given up and it's never pretty, but it was pretty damn close.

"HELP ME! DEAN!"

Which, fair, Dean probably shouldn't be throwing stones in glass houses. But Bobby isn't getting any younger, and old hunters are rare. He's entitled to the occasional indulgence in hypocrisy if he's looking out for family.

Regardless, Bobby was humming to himself upstairs, and Sammy is screaming in the cold damp basement. Dean is sitting somewhere in the middle, Anna a warm line pressed up against his side. Cas is looming in his fucking trenchcoat, arms folded across his chest. Freezing water trickled down his cheek as the ice pack slowly began to melt. Anna shivers beside him, her eyes carefully fixed anywhere but the panic room door.

Another scream pierces the air.

"DEAN!" He grits his teeth, jerking away from Anna. "PLEASE. ANNA! CAS! HELP ME!"