At somewhere around quarter past going on lunchtime, a thunder of footsteps overhead told me that the Winchester brothers were alive and awake and coming downstairs.

"And Uncle Bobby maded pancakes and I feededed Dean and Dean feedededed me an' – an' – " John was apparently back among the living, too, and Sammy was filling him in on every last thing as they came down my stairs. " – an' Uncle Bobby puts a whole chockit bar in 'em an' – an' – "

They came into view as they reached the last few steps. Sammy was hanging on with both hands to the banister, walking practically backwards down the stairs, telling his Daddy everything a little bit louder than he needed to. Dean was walking down straight, trying to get a word in with his little brother, "Sammy, walk normal. Turn around. Don't walk backwards down the stairs." John had his eyes on Sam and a hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Did he? Chocolate in pancakes? That can't be any good. You didn't eat any, did you?"

"We ates all of 'em, Daddy!"

"You did? Chocolate pancakes? Nobody likes chocolate pancakes." John was smiling but the joke I guess was lost on Sammy.

"We likes 'em, Daddy! Din we, Dean? We likes all of them."

"We didn't eat them all, we saved some for you," Dean said. He was looking better even from just that morning.

"Thanks, Tiger. Why don't you and Sam go get that ready for me, I just have to talk with Bobby. Okay?"

Dean said, "Okay," and Sammy called "Hi, Uncle Bobby!" but turned when Dean did to the kitchen and John came into the library.

"How's Dean doing?" I asked him.

"Better. We'll be getting out of your hair soon as I try the pancakes Sammy's been telling me about since before I woke up."

"You're welcome to stay longer, you know. Long as you need."

"We're good. Thanks for putting us up. And for keeping an eye on Sammy. He's a hard one to keep still sometimes."

"Naah, we had ourselves some fun. He's a good kid. They both are."

I gave a look out to the kitchen. Sammy, dressed and out of the pajamas he'd been wearing under his clothes before, had a handful of grip on Dean's shirt and was on his heels every step around the kitchen. He was talking a mile a minute and beaming a smile up at Dean like he was the whole world.

And I got the feeling I was back on the other side of that wall of Big Brother.

Sure enough, as John ate his breakfast and then as they packed up to leave, Sammy stayed on Dean's shirt tails like he was sprouted there, and Dean kept on doing whatever he was doing without a single hitch like he was so used to it he didn't even notice.

The Winchester world was back in focus.

Then they were all packed up and ready to head out. John shook my hand, "Thanks again," and I told him "anytime," then Dean strolled by. He stopped in front of me, put an arm around Sammy's shoulders and pulled him in close before saying, "So, thanks. I guess."

"You're welcome. I guess."

Sammy turned his smile from Dean to me, "Bye!" then back to Dean and they were out the door.

A couple seconds later though, Sammy ran back into the house, gave me a squeeze and said, "I miss you, Uncle Bobby!"

Then he was gone again, out the door and in the car and down the driveway. And just like that my house and my world was just that much emptier.

"I'm gonna miss you, too, Sammy."

* SPN *

I woke up to a quiet house, too quiet considering I had two Winchesters staying with me. I supposed they were still in bed, even though it was after seven. Battling dragons then driving half the night to get back here finally at three a.m. can have that effect on a person. Even a Winchester.

To be honest, I was glad to have the quiet, for as long as I could have it. I still got a twist in my gut every time I looked at Sam. I got a chill every time I even thought about him being in the same house with me. The sooner I didn't have to see him, the happier I figured I was gonna be.

I wanted to get started researching that book they'd brought back with them, but maybe if I got breakfast started first, Dean would wake up and be the buffer I wanted between Sam and me.

I turned to the counter to start the coffee and saw the table, my kitchen table. I see it all the time, sure, so much that I don't even really see it anymore, but this time I stopped and looked at it.

That table sits over the spot where my father died. Where I killed him. In all the years since that day, I'd managed to keep that memory pushed way to the back of my mind. But since Sam nearly exsanguinated me not two weeks before, that memory kept charging at me.

I killed my father.

In his own house.

Like Sam tried to kill me.

We hadn't talked about it, unless Dean telling me basically to keep my yap shut could be considered 'talking,' and Sam didn't remember that he'd done it. Sure, it'd been Sam without his soul, but it was still Sam, and that still meant that somewhere in there, some part of Sam hated me enough to want me dead.

Sam, that kid I'd known since he was three, that kid I'd fed and patched up and given a bed to and worried about more times than I could count, hated me enough to want to kill me in my own house and I wasn't supposed to talk to him about it.

I pushed that aside, again, and put on the coffee and opened my cupboards looking to get breakfast started. I found a couple cans of hash and set them on the countertop and a squeaking floorboard behind me shot a cold spike up my spine. Sam. Dean would already be talking about something or complaining about something. But there was no talking, so it was Sam.

I turned fast to see what he was doing there behind me and knocked a can of hash onto the floor where it rolled over to Sam's feet like it was motorized. It bumped against his boot and he stooped to pick it up.

"Hey, here, um, I'll just -" he took a couple of steps but only enough to set the can on the table. The very edge of the table. And just like that, I knew that he knew. He knew what he'd done or he remembered it, I didn't know which, but he knew. He set the can on the table and pulled back like he might be stepping into quicksand.

The way I was feeling, maybe he was. "Yeah, uh, thanks."

He nodded and cleared his throat and jerked a thumb to the front door and cleared his throat again. "I'm just gonna – umm – just get outta your way."

That sounded like a fine idea to me. I nodded and kept my eye on him, waiting for him to go. But he took a step and stopped again.

"I – uh – just – I'm sorry. You know? Cas told me what happened, what I did to you, what I did to – everybody. And – I'm sorry."

Well, if this was going to be my only chance to talk to Sam about it without Dean around I was going to take it. I needed to know.

"Cas happen to mention why you did it?"

He looked confused and sad. "No. No, but I found this – " he had a book in his hand, he pulled it open and held the pages out to me. "I think that I was trying to scar my vessel so bad Dean couldn't have put my soul back in my body."

"Scar your vessel? How the hell was killing me going to scar your vessel?"

"Well – because – according to this – it had to be my father or – or someone – someone – I consider a father."

He said it quiet and careful, like it might be something I didn't want to hear, then he gave me that tiny flash of a smile that meant he was sad and he was sorry and he was so blasted unsure of himself, and all of a sudden I was looking at the memory of a little boy with a death grip around my knees, brokenhearted 'cause he thought I wanted him to get away from me.

That was another memory I hadn't thought of in years. Twenty years before or more. Dean was sick and crabby, Sam was bewildered and lonely and he'd latched onto me physically and emotionally and changed forever the way I looked at those two boys.

The way I looked at myself.

In the space of a few hours one night and one morning, a little boy who didn't know enough to know what a crotchety old cuss I was managed to touch the heart I would've bet everything was nothing but an old, pointless relic. But somehow that tiny little kid managed to get it alive and beating again.

"You were up all night trying to find that?" I asked.

"I needed to know how I could do that to you. To you."

I gave another glance to my kitchen table. Since the moment it happened, I'd been thinking that Sam tried to kill me because he hated me. Worse – that I'd done something sometime to deserve hate that horrible. But it turned out – here it was turning out that I was a father to him. To Sam. Not a crap father either like my old man had been. If Sam thought of me as a father I knew that it meant everything to him, every meal, bed, bandage and bit of advice. And since the moment he woke up from hell I'd done nothing but push him away. Even now I'd been willing and ready to shove him out my door just so I didn't have to look at him.

Well, maybe it wasn't Sam I was having trouble looking at. Maybe I was trying hard not to have to look at myself.

"You eat?" I asked.

"I – uh – uh – " He looked confused. Suppose I couldn't blame him. "No. I was going to – you know – when Dean, maybe – uh – no."

"What d'you say to some pancakes? I gotta few chocolate bars stashed in my freezer."

"Chocolate bars?"

I gave him a shrug. "Anybody can put chocolate chips in their pancakes. I put in a chocolate bar."

"A whole chocolate bar?"

"Sure, why not?"

"I don't remember you ever making chocolate – anything – before."

"It's been a long time, but I made 'em before."

He nodded and made a gesture over his shoulder with the book. "I'll just – Dean's already up and outside and I'll just – "

"You helped me make them, way back when. You don't remember that? I suppose not, you were three, four maybe."

"I was four years old, helping you make pancakes?"

"Well..." I thought back and remembered that little boy falling asleep at my shoulder while I cooked. "It was more of a supervisory position. Dean was sick and your Dad was taking care of him, so we got to spend some time together."

"Oh. Huh." He chuckled but it had no humor in it. "Sorry."

"For what? We read a story together, had some cookies and milk, made some pancakes. We had ourselves a nice time."

"Sorry for – everything since then, then. Sorry for – Bobby, I attacked you. I tried to kill you. I can't – how can you even look at me, much less –" and he made a gesture to the stove. " – offer me pancakes?"

"Kid, you think you're the only one was ever so desperate to survive?"

"I – no. No. I mean – I wouldn't – I don't – " No, he wouldn't think anything bad about anybody but himself, would he? He never did.

"We all got skeletons, and some of 'em ain't buried in our closets."

"Oh." The look on his face, kinda shocked, kinda sorry, kinda resolved, told me that he was getting an idea what I was talking about. Maybe not all the details, but enough of the idea. "Still, I'm sorry."

"You got nothing to be sorry for. I'm sorry how I been treating you."

"Bobby – no. I don't blame you for being uncomfortable around me. I can't imagine how you must've felt."

"Does Dean know you know?"

"No. I was going to go out now and –" he chuckled another humorless chuckle. " – break his heart."

"Dean'll be fine. He's gonna be more upset that you know than what you did."

"I know. Dean always forgives me. Even when I don't deserve it. Especially when I don't deserve it. I just hate having to tell him."

"I'll tell him for you, if you like." It was a genuine offer and it made Sam give me a genuine smile.

"Thanks, but I have to do it. But – thanks." Then he kinda nodded, kinda shrugged, and kind turned away. "I just – I just – thanks for everything." Then he put the book in the library and was gone out my door.

"Yeah. I love you too, kid."

The End.