Song Remains the Same

Chapter 90: Carry On

"You taught me the courage of stars, before you left.

How light carries on endlessly—even after death.
How rare and beautiful it is, to even exist."
- Sleeping At Last

Dean pinned another printout to the wall of Rufus Turner's cabin and stood back to scowl at his work. Newspaper articles, magazine clippings, internet printouts, and maps marked up with sharpies littered the entire wall almost floor to ceiling. The main theme of the intel tacked to the wall was Dick Roman—Dean's number one target and one of the only things he could think about these days. Dick had to go. Pronto. And Dean was starting to get his drive back, his determination. That meant bad news for Dick.

It had been something over three weeks since Bobby died. Three weeks of the brothers holing themselves up and doing pretty much nothing except languishing in a lot of silence and booze and bad TV. Time had evaporated without Dean even really noticing—it was all a blur of whiskey, fury directed at Dick Roman, and anguish about what had happened. Despite their mutual sorrow and general feeling of apathy as they grieved Bobby's loss, the brothers had tried to figure out what those damn numbers were. The ones Bobby wrote down in his last moment. But they couldn't figure it out—the number remained a mystery. Sam had suggested once or twice that maybe the numbers weren't important or didn't mean anything. But Dean knew they were something important. And he'd be damned if Bobby Singer's last act on this planet went in vain. Dean looked down at the yellow lined notepad he was holding.

45489.

45489.

45489.

Five scrawled numbers that plagued Dean's every waking moment. They weren't a zip code, a password, a bank number, a lock combination. They were a complete and total mystery that was really starting to really piss Dean off. He searched the wall in front of him, just knowing the answer was staring him in the face. Come on, come on. What do you stupid sons-of-bitches numbers mean? Why did you leave these numbers, Bobby? What's the connection? Am I just blind or what? What—do—these—mean?

Behind Dean, Sam was moving something around and then opening the refrigerator... basically getting on Dean's nerves simply by being in the same room. He tried not to pay attention, but with his frayed patience and mental exhaustion, it was hard not to let every single little thing get to him. Dean heard the familiar sound of a beer bottle hissing and popping as Sam cracked one open for himself. Shuffling footsteps came a little closer and Dean made a face at the wall. Here we go. He could sense it. Sam was about to say something. Dean wasn't in the mood.

Sure enough, sounding reluctant and a little meek, Sam spoke up. "Dean, you know, um... I wonder if—if we... I mean, should we be telling people?" Dean stiffened. "I mean, people he knew."

Dean turned around and completely ignored the question, pretending he hadn't heard—he had other more important things to worry about, anyway. "How long ago did I give Frank these numbers?" he asked imperatively, wracking his brain. Frank Devereaux, some whack job who was good at computers and more paranoid about government conspiracy than anyone Dean had ever met before. They had met him around when the Leviathan crap started and he'd proven to be an asset so far. But he was kind of hard to pin down or get a response from. "It's been a few weeks, right?" Dean was frustrated and close to throwing his notepad. "What is he nuts, or is he just being rude?" He turned back to look at the wall of papers yet again, hoping Sam would take the hint and shut up point blank.

"Probably both," Sam supplied hesitantly. "Dean, I—I asked you a question."

Ignoring his brother's prompts because he didn't want to talk about that—he didn't want the death to be real, he didn't want to have to call people and console them about it—Dean turned back around and kept talking about Frank. "Unless of course something happened to him..." he said, his tone cynical and short. "He can't get to the phone because a Leviathan ate his face."