Rewrite Of Supernatural Series: Season 1.

Something Wicked - Part 2.

Research fell on you while Sam was at the hospital. You parked near the local library. You had called Dean before you left the motel, but he hadn't answered. Neither did B/F. You had thought you could let it go, but you needed to talk to him. So, you called the only other person at that household. He picked up on the fifth ring.

'Hello?' he asked in a sleep-raved voice.

'Did I wake you?' you asked meekly.

There was some shuffling, and grumbling in the background before he spoke again. 'No,' he clearly lied. 'What's going on?'

'Dean and B/F are not picking up-'

'Oh, they're holed up in the guest suite since-' he paused to check the time. 'Huh. Afternoon yesterday. Sometime after you left.'

'Oh.'

'Didn't come out for food. That I know of.'

'Is something wrong?' you wondered worriedly.

'Dean hit a lead; same old tune he's been dancing this last week. I couldn't pull them away from the books if I wanted to.'

'Are we talking about the same Dean?' you said, if only with a bit of dripping scorn.

The old man sighed, 'I don't know why you'd be surprised.'

'You shouldn't even go there,' you found yourself snapping.

You'd been back and forth about forgiving him plenty of times. But there was a resistance in you that you just couldn't get over.

Bobby, of all people, who took care of you, sometimes more than your own father could. Who gave you a roof to live under, who was the only tether to your American life even when you left the freaking continent. That Bobby betrayed you.

He may not have been close to you, but he was there for you longer than even Dean, or B/F - anyone in your life really. And to be hurt like you were . . .

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'You know what I mean. You do realise that I can't trust Dean because of you and John.'

'You have a talent,' he scoffed.

'Excuse me?' Plenty of offense taken.

'Of dragging past where it don't belong. I don't even know why you're fighting with me right now,' he clarified.

You blew out a breath, 'Just give him the damn phone.'

He inhaled as he got up. The few minutes it took him, you took deep breaths. Soon, you heard a creak of the door. 'They're sleeping,' he told you. 'Should I wake him?'

I'm sleeping, Y/N! Go away!

No, you're pretending to be asleep.

That's because I don't want to talk.

. . . Are you mad at me?

You guessed you could wait. 'No,' you sighed. 'Just ask him to call me later.'

'Okay.'

'Bye.'

'I never told you why,' he stopped you.

You put the ear back on your phone. 'What?'

'If you ever get that stick out, and wonder why I lied . . . I haven't told you.'

You'd never reached to a position where you could look beyond the anger. Come to think of it, you'd been going back and forth because there were honestly two emotional reactions you'd given to this situation: anger because you didn't deserve it, and helplessness because you did deserve it.