The about Sam and Bobby was somber and quiet. The trunk of the Impala was open and Sam was slowly picking through the things. Dean's clothing had been removed, packed in a bag and placed inside the house. Now it was the weapons. "You sure you want to do this, Sam?" Bobby spoke as he lifted up a machete, looking it over. They kept there tool in good form even if they were carried around since their father had them.
Sam felt his lips twitch, the pain of loosing his brother still heavy upon his face. He was holding Dean's Colt 1911 with it's pearl handle. "Yeah," he finally answered. "This thing eats a lot of gas as it is. Extra weight ..."
Bobby placed his hand upon Sam's shoulder. It had only been a few weeks since they buried Dean. Sam insisted on not burning his body like they did their father. Instead, going through more complicated ways of burying his brother. His body taken care of, carefully buried, Sam was no on another mission. And he relied upon that mission to take up the pain he was feeling. Now he knew how Dean felt when he died.
Empty.
Alone.
So very alone.
Bobby paused as he through he heard a noise then turned his head.