When Bobby unexpectedly landed his solid right hook, Dean fell back against the kitchen table. That's when the broken slat from the wooden chair caught and ripped the lining of Dean's leather jacket, and the hex bag fell out.

Time suddenly stopped as they both stared at the offensive object lying there on the faded floorboards of Bobby's kitchen – a small black pouch filled with an evil combination of herbs and sundries – odorless, weightless, and completely undetectable until now. Suddenly, Dean's odd behavior made sense.

For Bobby, it was an epiphany that brought instant relief – finally there was a reason why Dean had been such a dick these last few months.

For Dean, the feeling was far less comforting. As soon as the innocuous-looking little pouch left his jacket, the spell was instantly broken. A feeling of immense dread and loss rolled over him in a crushing wave, making it hard to breathe and forcing tears to his eyes. He looked up at Bobby from where he knelt on his knees in the kitchen and uttered a single, agonized sentence, disbelievingly.

"Bobby, what have I done?"

The wounded tone in his voice was all it took for Bobby's anger to leave him like helium exiting a popped balloon. It took a lot for the jaded hunter to break down, but the thought of the torment that awaited the 20-year-old man that Bobby had come to think of as family was enough.

"Dean …"

"Oh, my God, Bobby." Dean stared up at him in agony. "Sammy."

Bobby reached a hand down to help Dean to his feet, "We'll find him." He told the man who stood, shaking and unsteady, before him. He pulled him into a rough hug and offered what comfort he could, "We'll find him, I promise."

As Bobby released him, Dean sank bonelessly into the one unbroken chair left in the room. Bobby knelt down and scooped up the hateful hex bag and, with an angry grunt, tossed it into the fireplace. There was a soft, "whoosh" as the thing burst into flames. Bobby turned to look at his adopted nephew. Dean's face was the color of chalk, his expression resembling that of an accident victim who had just been through more than his injured body could assimilate, and Bobby was suddenly sure he was going into shock. He grabbed the blanket from the couch and draped it gently over Dean's shoulders. He poured a glass of whiskey and set it in front of the younger man.

"Drink up, Dean."

Uncomprehending green eyes drifted upward, "What?"

Bobby tapped the glass on the table, "Drink." He said. "It'll help."

Dean wordlessly lifted the glass and tossed it back, following directions. He set the glass back down as his eyes welled up. He looked up at the older man pleadingly, "How long has it been?" He asked as if dreading the answer.

"Dean …"

"How long, Bobby?" He pleaded.

"About eight months, I think."

The tears overflowed then, and drifted unnoticed down Dean's face.

"Eight months," he repeated.

"He's a smart kid, Dean. He's fine, I'm sure of it."

"He's 16, Bobby. He's 16, and I just left him alone in that shithole motel in Pennsylvania. I didn't even make sure he had money. I just bolted."

Bobby looked away then, trying not to imagine what that must have been like for Sam.

"I … I told him I was sick of playing big brother. That I wanted a life of my own now. I told him he was on his own."

"Dean …"

The younger man pleaded with Bobby, "Why did I do that?"

"It was the spell, Dean."

"I remember … I remember Sammy panicking … begging me to take him along. He thought I was kidding at first, but then … he realized … Oh, God, Bobby ... trash can!"

Bobby was swift in grabbing the small trash can that sat next to the sink and scooting it toward Dean, who began heaving instantly.

The older man looked away, the grief he was feeling written all over his face. Sam was the sensitive Winchester – the one everyone looked after. He didn't have Dean's killer instinct or his father's hardened ways. Sam was just … Sam … quiet, unassuming, and with that instant ability to comfort anyone who was hurting. Thinking about him alone, abandoned by the one person who meant everything to him, who had looked after him all his life, was a tough realization to have. Suddenly Bobby wasn't so sure that Sam was okay after all. He was so young, and still too trusting – even after being raised by hunters. There was just something about Sam that attracted people who wanted to take advantage. Dean had always been there to protect his younger brother, but without that … Bobby wasn't so sure at all that Sam would make it on his own. But he'd be damned if he'd share his worries with Dean. The boy was beating himself up enough already.

"Tell me what happened, boy." Bobby said.

"What?"

"What happened that last night? Walk me through it."

Dean shuddered as he thought back to the last time he had seen his baby brother …