The air felt heavier than usual, the silence in Bobby’s house almost suffocating. His gruff voice, his steady presence—it was all gone, leaving behind an ache that settled deep in your chest. Just a few days had passed since Bobby was taken from you, but the wound still felt raw, the emptiness impossible to ignore. He wasn’t just a mentor or a friend—he was family. The man who taught you how to survive in a world that took more than it ever gave. And now, he was gone, leaving a void no one could ever fill.

You sat in the living room of the salvage yard, staring blankly at the cluttered shelves of worn books and relics of a life that once felt unshakable. Grief pressed against your chest, heavy and unrelenting, making it hard to draw a full breath. Every memory of Bobby played on a loop in your mind—the smirk he’d give when calling someone an idjit, the way he’d ruffle your hair despite your protests, the pride in his eyes when you proved yourself on a hunt. Now, those moments were just echoes, slipping further away with every passing second.

Dean stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. His grief was written in the tight lines around his eyes and the set of his jaw, but true to form, he kept it buried deep. Bobby’s death had hit him hard—harder than he let on. He’d lost a father figure too, but in typical Dean fashion, he pushed his own pain aside to be there for everyone else.

“Hey,” Dean’s voice cut through the stillness, low and careful, as if he didn’t want to startle you. He stepped further into the room, his boots heavy against the wooden floor. “You’ve been sittin’ here for hours, sweetheart.”