Chapter Text
April 10, 2009.
Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
"Dean!”
Bobby heard Sam’s scream all the way from the library. His voice was distant, an echo from deep within a pool of dark water. He opened his eyes to find himself sitting at his desk, a pile of books resting underneath him. As he lifted his head, a yellowed page stuck to his face.
“Bobby!” Sam screamed again. It cut through the fog, loud and panicked.
Bobby jumped to his feet, knocking the chair over as he rose. He darted up the stairs. When he pushed the bathroom door open; the sickeningly sweet aroma of roses he had come to associate with fear flooded his nose.
His gaze locked on the sight in front of him. Sam was crouched on the bathroom floor, holding Dean’s limp and bloody body in his hands by his shoulders, the front of his plaid button down and jeans stained with blood.
Sam glanced at him. “Bobby,” Sam’s voice was shaking. “ Is—Is he—”
Thick, oily blood mixed with water ran down Dean’s side, pooling on the sleeping bag beneath his body. He was quiet and still. Motionless. Breathless. His head slumped against his chest.
Gently, so gently, grief flashing cold through his entire body, Bobby placed two fingers to Dean’s neck. There was no pulse.
“He’s gone, son.” Slowly, he pried Dean’s shoulders from Sam’s blistered hands and laid his body back down on the sleeping bag. “Come on.” Bobby picked Sam up and walked him out of the bathroom.
Bobby helped Sam lean against the wall.
Sam slumped against it, his eyes vacant and fixed on the bathroom door opposite him. “He just passed out and then there was all this blood—”
A lump grew in Bobby’s throat. He put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be okay, son.”
Sam looked down at his hands before looking back at Bobby. He glared, his eyes glossed with tears. “No. It's not gonna be okay.”
Bobby didn't say anything. He squeezed Sam’s shoulder before he turned and walked back into the bathroom, closing the door behind him with a deep breath.
Leaning against the door, Bobby stared at the task in front of him. He had to wash the blood off of Dean’s body. With the sheer amount of blood on him the easier thing to do would have been to put Dean in the bathtub and bathe him. Dean weighed a good fifty pounds lighter than he normally did and it would be far from Bobby’s first time moving a corpse, but a dry corpse was different from a water-soaked corpse and too much moisture would only speed up decay.
Rubbing his eyes, Bobby grabbed a bucket and a sponge brought into the base of the bathtub. and turned the faucet on. Once the bucket was full he shut the water off and walked over to Dean’s body. Kneeling on the floor, he began to wash Dean’s forehead, still warm with body heat and flushed with color, wiping away the blood.
To Bobby's shock, the gashes had turned into scars. They were no longer open wounds, jagged crevasses of torn and punctured skin, but raised purple bumps. The same was true of the wounds on Dean's wrists, ankles, and back. Even the gash on Dean's side had scarred over.
The scars were a sign to Bobby of something he and Dean had already known. That the wounds were a part of him. They always had been. Tears streamed down Bobby’s face, and he wiped them away gruffly with the sleeve of his forearm.
When he was done, Bobby dumped the red tinted water down the bathtub drain, throwing the bucket and sponge into the base as sat down on the edge, wiping his brow. He glanced around the bathroom. The grout was caked with drying with blood. Strips of pink gauze hung from the bathtub curtain rod like cobwebs. A half-drunk bottle of consecrated wine lay tipped over in the corner, the wine dripping on to the floor.
The whole room reeked with the smell of roses. Bobby wondered how long it would take to get the smell and the blood out. Another part of him wondered if the smell even could be scrubbed away. Another part of him didn’t want to think about it.
Slowly, Bobby turned his gaze back over to Dean, staring at him. Were it not for the scars and the stillness of his body, he almost looked as though he was sleeping.
This corpse was a far cry from the one Bobby had cleaned a year earlier when Dean had gone to Hell. That corpse had been a mauled mess of eviscerated organs and vicious hellhound bites. Bobby had to suture his torso back together to get him ready for burial. The smell had been awful.
And yet, somehow, this was worse.
Bobby turned away, wiping his eyes again. He reached into his back pocket and pulled his flask, taking a deep pull. Bobby stood up and put the flask back in his pocket and walked over to the door, he opened it slowly.
“Sam,” Bobby cleared his throat. “Can you...help me move him?”
Sam didn’t look up at Bobby. “Where are you gonna.....put him?” Sam asked, ice in the edge of his voice.
“The panic room,” Bobby said.
Sam nodded. With Sam holding his torso and Bobby holding his feet, they carried Dean down into the basement. They dressed him in some old clothes Bobby had laying around and placed him on top of the cot.
“What do we do now?” Sam asked, crossing Dean’s hands over his lap.
“We wait.”
“For what?”
Bobby put his hand against Sam’s back, walking him out of the panic room. He closed the door behind them. At the stairs, he stopped at the house’s old thermostat and turned the temperature down as low as it would go.
He shrugged, taking a deep breath. “For whatever happens Easter morning.”
April 12, 2009.
Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
The sun hadn’t even risen when Bobby made his way down into the basement and over to the panic room. He opened the slot on the door, peering into it.
Dean’s body was on the cot. Lifeless and still.
Sighing, Bobby closed the slot and walked back upstairs. He went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee, adding a healthy dash of Bailey's.
He only got to his second sip when Sam walked into the kitchen, heavy bags under his eyes and his hair a rats nest of grease. He was wearing a slept-in pair of wrinkled jeans and a gray hoodie. The same clothes he had worn for the last two days.
“Did you check on Dean?”
“I did.” Bobby nodded.
“And?” Sam asked leadingly.
Bobby shook his head.
Sam bit his lip. “Maybe,” his chest heaved, “we gotta wait until tomorrow afternoon. When it’s exactly three days.”
“Maybe,” Bobby said. “The Bible got everything else wrong about him, it’s probably wrong about the resurrection too.”
Part of Bobby was sure there wouldn't be a resurrection. After all, there was no resurrection for Jesus. Dean was the resurrection. Jesus’ soul reborn. Dean had told Bobby that much during their fishing trip. The same was likely true of Dean.
Another part of Bobby needed to hope for a resurrection anyway, if not for Sam's sake, then for his own. He knew how far off the reservation Sam had gone the last time Dean had died. He knew well Sam wouldn't be able to deal with it again.
But despite his hope, Bobby knew the truth: Dean either wasn’t coming back at all or, if he was, he would be coming back as something else. Someone else.
Bobby took another sip of his coffee.
April 13, 2009.
Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
“What time did Dean—?” Bobby asked, walking down the basement stairs.
Sam followed behind him. “About Three-Fifteen,” he said.
Bobby glanced at his watch. 3:22.
They made their way over to the panic room. When they reach it, Sam stopped.
Bobby nodded. He walked over to the door and once again opened the slot.
Dean lay on the cot. Still and lifeless.
Bobby closed the slot. He didn’t say anything.
Then he heard the sound of a table screeching across the concrete followed by the breaking of glass. He turned quickly to find Sam standing next to an upended table, broken mason jars and old paint cans were strewn around it and him, his puffy eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“What was the Goddamn point of this!?” Sam yelled, spit spewing from his mouth. “How the fuck is he supposed to fight Lucifer as a fucking corpse you winged assholes?!”
Bobby walked over to Sam slowly, putting his hand out to his shoulder. “Sam…”
Sam jerked his body away from him. He shook his head, sobbing while he sank on to the table. “I can’t do this again, Bobby! I can’t!”
Bobby paused, he took a deep breath. “I know you can’t. I can’t either.” He blinked tears away from his eyes. “So maybe don’t bury him this time. We build a pyre, give Dean a proper send off. Like we shoulda done before. Like he woulda wanted.”
“No.” Sam shook his head. “I can’t do that either, Bobby.”
“We gotta, Sam. We gotta do something with his body,” Bobby pleaded “It’s been three days. "If—" Bobby paused. "If Dean's not coming back we can’t wait any longer.”
Sam didn't say anything. After a long while his chest heaved.
"Fine.” Sam nodded, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I’ll build the pyre. You wrap him.”
Bobby walked over to the panic room door. He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before he opened the door.
The first thing Bobby noticed was the smell. The lack of a smell. There was no stench of decay, only the lingering smell of roses.
Bobby paused for a second, staring at the body. There was no bloat in the stomach, no bruising or discoloration where the body met the cot. There was no blood dripping from Dean’s mouth or nose as there should have been. In fact, the body hadn’t even paled.
“What the hell?”
Bobby walked over to the body. Gently, he picked up one of Dean’s hands, finding it warm. He jerked it back and forth, moving it at the wrist.
The hand wasn’t stiff or cold. The body wasn’t stiff or cold.
Dean was as fresh as the moment he died.
“Balls,” Bobby whispered. “Sam!” This time he yelled.
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked, running over to the door.
“Dean. He’s not-” Bobby took a deep breath. “He’s not decomposing.”
Sam scrunched his eyebrows. “What do you mean ‘he’s not decomposing?’”
“I mean the boy’s skin should be black and blue and his stomach should look like a damn water balloon and he’s not even cold,” Bobby's words were blunt.
Slowly Sam stepped into the room. He stared at Dean for a moment before turning his gaze to Bobby. “But...how?”
Bobby thought for a moment, focusing on the smell of roses that still lingered in the room. “Maybe.” He took a deep breath. “Maybe Dean’s an Incorruptible.”
Sam blinked. "A what?”
“It’s a thing in Roman Catholic lore. Sometimes saints when they die their bodies don’t decompose. It’s a sign of their sainthood and it’s used to canonize them, like miracles or apparitions. There’s a ton of examples: Bernadette of Lourdes, Clare of Assisi, Padre Pio. ”
Instantly Sam scoffed. “Dean’s a saint now?”
“He already was one, Sam.” Bobby deadpanned. “ In case you forgot who he is.”
“So what...You're saying we should leave Dean in here? And do what? Turn this into a chapel? A shrine?” Sam glared. “Dean would hate that!”
“What I’m saying is the last thing we should do right now is burn him.”
“No.” Sam shook his head. “Either Dean burns or we find a way to bring him back. Old Dean.”
“Sam...we can’t bring ‘old’ Dean back.”
“Yeah? How do you know?”
“Because there is no ‘old Dean’. He was born that way, Sam,” Bobby said bluntly. “I mean, come on, he’s the fucking messiah for Christ’s sake. That’s not something Heaven hands out like ice cream after a little league win. The stigmata— this whole fuckin’ thing—is way beyond our pay grade. How many damn times do you gotta be told this!?”
Sam grew quiet, narrowing his eyes. “I need some air.” He turned and walked out of the panic room.
Bobby stood there and listened while Sam trudged up the basement stairs and out of the house, the front door slamming behind him.
A few moments later Bobby followed him out to the front porch. A few yards away, he could see Sam walking down the driveway of the salvage yard, with a flask in hand, picking up hubcaps and throwing them as he went.
Taking a deep breath, Bobby made his way down the steps and over to Sam.
“Sam.”
Sam stopped dead in his tracks. He shoved the flask quickly into his pocket.
“Sam I know this ain’t easy for you, but this is just how it is. There’s nothing we can do about it.”
“Maybe you can’t. ” Sam’s grip tightened on the hubcap. “But I can.”
In an instant, Sam raised his hand holding the hubcap, whacking it against Bobby’s temple. The sound of metal and cracking plastic filled Bobby’s ears. His vision quickly blurred as he fell, striking the pavement with a thud.
Everything went black.
Bobby awoke to a throbbing head and water dripping on his face. He opened his eyes to a twilight sky covered in black clouds, thunder booming in the distance.
“Sam?” He rasped out. There was no answer.
Slowly he stood up, his dizzy eyes glancing around the salvage hard. The Impala was still parked in the driveway, but Sam was nowhere to be found.
“Sam!” he called out again.
Again, there was no answer.
Groaning, Bobby limped his way back into the house and into the kitchen, grabbing an ice pack from the freezer and putting it to his head. He took out his cell phone and dialed Sam’s number.
The phone had been disconnected.
April 19, 2009.
Sioux Falls, South Dakota.
After the fourth day of searching, it became clear to Bobby that Sam didn’t want to be found, so he went back home.
He went back down into the basement and went over to the panic room, once again opening the slot, his eyes locking on Dean’s body. It was the exact same way he had left it. No discoloration. No bloat. Nothing. Dean could almost be sleeping.
Bobby stared at the body for a long time before he narrowed his eyes at it. “Fuck it,” he rasped. He made his way over to the basement door, grabbing an axe as he made his way upstairs.
He stacked a few wooden pallets and grabbed some scrap wood, and took it to a clearing in the salvage yard. Bobby began building a pyre, building it up with the remainder of the dead leaves from the previous fall.
Half an hour later, Bobby poured gasoline on to the pyre. Tears filled his eyes.
Tossing the empty gas canister down on the ground with a groan, Bobby made his way back down into the basement.
As soon as his feet hit the cement floor, he saw it. The door to the panic room was open.
He ran over, tripping over the threshold.
The cot was empty.
The smell of roses had dissipated.
Dean’s body was gone.
“Balls.”