Bobby and Castiel staggered backwards, staring open mouthed at the two dishevelled figures that materialised on the kitchen floor in front of them; Sam crouched, clutching his shivering brother; his hand, fingers taut with concern, splayed across Dean's rigid, distended abdomen.
Bobby shook his head in an attempt to regain his power of speech; "what the hell?" was all that he managed to blurt out.
Castiel knelt down beside the brothers and studied the two men intently. He took in Sam's frantic, wide-eyed panic and Dean's sickly grey pallor, the sheen of sweat glistening across his pain-tightened face. Placing a hand on Dean's heaving chest he could feel his racing heartbeat, and the harsh gasping breaths which he sucked in between each new burning wave of agony.
Letting out a hoarse moan, Dean squirmed against Sam's tight grip, trying once again to pull his knees up towards his chest in a vain effort to find some relief. Castiel nodded confidently, and stood, turning to Bobby with a grim expression.
"I believe he is unwell," he stated in complete earnestness.
Bobby's horror-stricken face reddened in anger; "I can see that, yer friggin halfwit," he barked.
Dropping to his knees beside the brothers, Bobby winced as aging joints crackled in protest and shucked his overshirt, laying it gently across Dean's body. He tenderly patted the suffering hunter's shoulder, pulling in a deep breath as he felt the heat radiating through the sweat-dampened T shirt.
Finding his tongue, Sam pleaded with Bobby; "please Bobby - we need to get him to hospital now, I think he's got appendicitis."
Castiel leaned over Bobby's shoulder, "should I call for assistance?"
Bobby shook his head as he threaded calloused fingers through Dean's damp hair, fingertips grazing his burning scalp; "no, don't bother with an ambulance; it'll be quicker for us to take him there ourselves."
"Shall I make him a coffee?"
The angel withered under Bobby's exasperated glare.
"Make yourself useful and unlock the friggin' truck." Bobby pointed to the keys hanging on the wall. He turned back to the brothers as Dean let out a breathless cry, still trying to curl in on himself.
"Oh, God Sammy … hur's …" he croaked miserably.
Bobby stood, scowling again as his knees once again voiced their disapproval, and spoke urgently; "Sam, get him up and out to the truck."
Nodding, Sam slipped his hand under Dean's back and legs, hoisting him as gently as possible against his chest, cringing as Dean let out another choking cry at the shift in position. Burying his face into Sam's neck, Dean panted nauseously as the taller man strode across the kitchen toward the waiting truck with it's impatient driver, already in situ.
"C'mon dude, it's gonna be alright - gonna get you help right now," Sam mumbled frantically as he climbed into the back seat of the truck with his precious burden.
Three hours later …
Bobby looked up as Sam wandered back along the billious green hospital hall, hands in his pockets.
"Doctor couldn't tell me much except that they've taken him straight into surgery," Sam sighed; "they started asking awkward questions about why we were both so dirty, so I told them he was taken ill on a wilderness hunting trip;" he shrugged; "I think they bought it."
They both hesitated, distracted by Castiel who, in the absence of anything contructive to do, was sitting in the corner intently examining a potted aspidistra.
Bobby rolled his eyes, shaking his head; "you were saying?"
"Uh yeah; they can't say how bad it is, but they're working on the assumption that the appendix has ruptured given the level of pain and the severity of his fever," Sam muttered with a heavy sigh, scraping a hand through his hair.
Bobby's eyes widened; "ruptured? B-but that's bad ain't it?"
"Yeah;" Sam muttered, slumping down into the uncomfortable plastic chair next to Bobby, his head dropping onto his hand; "it's real bad."
Castiel looked up from the plant as the two men settled into a despondent silence.
"Shall I fetch coffee?" He asked hopefully.
Sam, Bobby and Castiel sipped their vending-machine regulation gnats-pee masquerading as coffee which was improved greatly by a generous measure of whisky from Bobby's hip flask.
Bobby took a deep breath as he relished the soothing burn. "So what happened, boy; how'd you get yourself home?"
Sam turned to Bobby; "no idea," he replied, "I was kinda thinking you'd managed to work something."
Bobby shook his head, "son, I wish I had;" he sighed, "I tried, God knows, we both did." He gestured with his head towards the angel who had turned his attentions back to the aspidistra; "he tried to get you back – poor bastard nearly gutted himself doing it."
Sam took a deep breath; "we were screwed Bobby – totally screwed;" he shuddered as if the memory was too painful to recollect.
"Whad'ya mean?" Bobby asked, concern etched across his haggard face.
"We ended up in jail," Sam began, "long story, but this psycho of a sheriff couldn't wait to get us strung up." He paused, "Dean was already getting sick by then. At first we thought it was something we ate but it got worse really quickly."
He swallowed, closing his eyes as he silently composed himself
"Sonofabitch wouldn't even let me sit with Dean, to give him a bit of reassurance."
Bobby remained silent, knowing that Sam had more to say.
"Dean was going to die Bobby," Sam looked up at Bobby tearfully; "he wasn't even going to make it to the gallows; he was going to die alone and in agony and there was nothing I could do to help."
Bobby visibly paled at the thought.
"So what happened, son?" he asked quietly.
Sam smiled, shaking his head; "I honestly don't know, Bobby," he replied, "but I think it was something to do with spiders."
There was a lengthy silence.
"Yeah, Bobby; spiders."
"Spiders?" Bobby repeated as if he was trying to convince himself that he was hearing correctly.
Castiel leaned round towards Bobby; "spiders are arachnids; there are many different species found all over the world. They hunt by means of a web spun out of adhesive gossamer which they produce within their bodies. They have an exoskeleton, bodies segmented into two sections, a head and abdomen, and eight le …"
The angel's words trickled away into silence as he shrunk under Bobby's glare.
"I will fetch more coffee," he murmured meekly.
As Castiel disappeared toward the vending machine, Sam continued his story.
"We saw spiders everywhere," he explained, "then while we were in the jail, and Dean was getting real bad, an old Indian lady just appeared in front of me; she was wearing a spider necklace."
Sam paused, studying Bobby's face to see if this was ringing any bells; the blank look on Bobby's face said that it didn't.
"She said some stuff about being her people and then her people being her," Sam said with a shrug; "and then she said she was their grandmother."
Sam looked at the older man; "mean anything to you?" he asked.
"Exactly squat" replied Bobby blankly, rubbing tired eyes, "then what?"
"Then she told me to touch Dean, and she touched me and here we are," answered Sam.
Bobby shrugged; "that's it?"
Sam nodded, "that's it - except I asked her why she was helping us."
"and?" Bobby prompted.
" and she said something about looking to our past as well as our future to find out who we really are." Sam responded with a shrug. "What'dya reckon?" he asked.
Bobby huffed dramatically; "beats me, kid; I got nothin'!"
Both men fell into a distracted silence again. Stomach churning with queasy concern, Sam looked at his watch and back along the hall with a sigh.
They stayed like that until Castiel appeared beside them, covered in coffee.
"I have had a mishap," he announced solemnly.
Sam sat beside the ICU bed containing his brother. Night had fallen and only a dim night light illuminated his sleeping brother's pallid face.
Having imparted the wonderful news to Sam, Bobby and the coffee stained Angel that Dean's fractious appendix hadn't ruptured; the doctor went on to add that he was sure it had been on the verge of doing so, and spent so long enthusiastically explaining how nasty and gruesome and inflamed it was that even Castiel started to look a little green.
But it was gone and Dean would recover. He would be unspeakably sore, infuriatingly grouchy and as pissed as hell when he discovered the shaved patch, but he would recover.
Rejoicing in the good news, Bobby had whisked Sam home to freshen up and then driven him back to the hospital, discreetly withdrawing to give the brothers some privacy.
Sam sat beside the bed and dozed, jolting awake as Dean shifted in his sleep with a grunt.
Sam leaned over, 'y'ok bro'?'
Dean took a deep breath; his brow furrowing briefly as he shifted, then he settled, murmuring quietly. Sam smiled when he heard the words.
"Head'm up, S'mmy Move'm ou' …"
Sam's fingertips brushed some stray strands of damp hair from his brother's forehead; "Ride 'em cowboy" he whispered.
The boys begin to put their nightmare behind them, and start to discover a few answers.
Sam slipped an arm behind his brother's shoulders helping him sit up in the hospital bed, busily plumping and rearranging the pillows behind him. Dean winced, sucking in a tight breath as his newly stitched wound protested sharply at the change in position.
Overnight, and much to Sam's incalculable relief, Dean had drifted awake a few hours after his emergency appendectomy, and promptly wished he hadn't.
His pained moans had so concerned Sam that, as much as he wanted his brother awake, he felt compelled to press the button to deliver a welcome shot of morphine into Dean's IV, watching in relief as he stilled and quietened, slipping back into a pain-free slumber.
This afternoon, however, Dean's wakefulness was for real; he was alert - and vocal.
"Jeez Sam; feels like someone's taken a knife and fork to my friggin' belly," he groaned, chewing his lip against the stinging bite of the incision and trying wearily to position himself in a manner that didn't hurt.
"Well, I suppose, in a way, they kinda did…" Sam grinned down at his brother and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. Dean's face, wearing his patented 'trapped in hospital' scowl, still hovered somewhere between queasily grey and bloodlessly white, even his smattering of freckles looked pale.
Sam had to stifle a smile; Dean's hospital gown swamped him, looking at least three sizes too big as he gradually sunk down into the mound of pillows behind him.
Dean did this every time and it amused Sam no end; he seemed somehow to physically shrink when he was in hospital. Sam never understood how he managed it, how could his six foot, 180 pound brother be lying there looking for all the world like a pissed-off sixth grader?
Sam decided to break the moody silence; "the doctor says you've got to try to get up and walk around," he explained.
"s'at mean I can leave?" Dean's eyes brightened.
Sam rolled his eyes; "No, it means you can get up and walk around."
Dean sighed melodramatically; wincing again, he reached under the bedclothes.
"Dude," Sam scolded, "knock it off with the scratchin' will you?"
"Can' help it, I friggin' itch," Dean responded sourly, "they nearly gave me the full freakin' Brazilian."
Sam grimaced, swallowing back a momentary queasiness as he desperately tried without success to unhear what Dean had just said. "Too much information, man." He groaned, his nose wrinkling in disgust at the thought.
Dean ignored him and carried on scratching enthusiastically.
They both turned as the door opened and Bobby marched through followed by a solemn Castiel.
"Hey kid;" Bobby's grizzled face lit up into a beaming smile at the sight of the elder Winchester sitting propped up in the bed.
"Ya look like crap, boy but it's good to see ya up an' awake."
Dean looked up Bobby with a droopy smile as the older man's calloused fingers squeezed the back of his neck.
"I might look like crap but at least I'm not an ol' relic," Dean snorted gruffly in response, his smile warming at the older man.
Castiel watched the exchange, his head canted in curiosity; "Good morning Dean," he smiled awkwardly, "I am very pleased to see that you are not dead."
Dean choked out a barking laugh, gasping as his tender undercarriage protested violently at the action.
"Ahhh, isn't that nice Dean," Sam grinned as he patted Dean's shoulder, but going no further; he was quite happy to allow Dean to take care of rubbing the painful bit.
Castiel gazed down at his friend through mournful blue eyes; "I am sorry that I was not able to retrieve you," he sighed.
Smiling back at the despondent angel, Dean replied, "s'okay Cas', Sam tol' me what happened; Bobby explained it all while I was being sliced up an' you were wrestlin' with the coffee machine."
He regarded the sorrowful face that stared down at it's feet, unable to meet his gaze.
"Hey Cas', I can't believe Bobby's soul was so old and decrepit, it couldn't heal you properly." Dean couldn't hide his grin as his eyes flickered up towards the older man standing, arms folded indignantly across his chest, beside him.
"It did not have enough energy and vigour to be able to ..." Castiel withered beneath the weight of Bobby's glare; "I will be quiet now."
Bobby yawned, scratching his head under his cap; "how ya doin' boy?" he asked with genuine concern in his tired eyes.
"Good, I guess; not hurtin' like I was before; just real sore where freakin' Doctor Crippen carved me up."
Sam rolled his eyes again; "yeah, he's all slashed up real bad, Bobby, it was complete and utter butchery; must be, ooh, two inches long." He turned to grin at his sulking brother, then turned back to look at the older man; "Y'ok Bobby? You look beat."
"Bin doin' some research;" Bobby's heavy, reddened eyes and slumped shoulders were plain for all to see. It was the demeanour of a man who hadn't slept all night.
"So I see." Sam smiled.
"I've bin takin' a look into spider lore, and I came up with something interesting;" Bobby began, dropping heavily into the seat beside the bed. "What did you say the old lady's name was?" he looked up at Sam as he spoke.
Sam thought hard; he hadn't remembered too much of the conversation with the mysterious old lady; being out of your mind with grief-stricken fear will do that for you.
Eventually, he spoke; "she said she was their grandmother."
Bobby seemed to ponder for a moment before looking back up at Sam; "whose grandmother?"
Shaking his head, Sam looked across at Dean who shrugged. "She looked like a native Indian; so I guess she was talkin' about her tribe or something'."
"Did she have a name?"
He looked at Sam then across at Dean.
"Dunno;" Dean sighed, "I was too busy concentrating on the fact my guts were on fire. Don' remember much after throwin' up over that sonofabitch sherriff's boots."
Sam gestured with his hand to silence him, and a spark of memory lit in his mind; "yeah," he replied hesitantly, "yeah, she did say her name, something beginning with S … supper? … submarine? … shuffle? …"
"Subbeka'she?" Bobby suggested.
Sam's eyes widened; "That's it!; Subbeka'she; that's what she said; I'm sure of it!"
Dean's brow furrowed; "sub-a-what?"
"Subbeka'she;" Sam repeated.
Bobby nodded. "Well, it would fit; the spider is the totem of the subbeka'she Indians who originated centuries ago," he explained.
"They hold spiders sacred, their ancient legends say that the founders of their tribe were spun from spider silk."
Ice blue, soft green, and liquid hazel regarded him unblinking as he continued the story.
"They refer to the spider as the grandmother of their tribe; and their lore says that she spun the web of time, and that she is still spinning it, constantly winding outward and outward as time goes on. They say that she can move across that web, back and forth, moving through time, so she can always be there to protect her family until the end of time."
Sam squinted, pinching his furrowed brows; "But …"
"'Course, nothing's ever been proved;" Bobby added, "but there are ancient cave paintings and wood carvings within the tribe that point to a knowledge of the future; stuff that looks like rocket ships and twentieth century buildings."
Dean tried to rationalise what he was hearing; "So she …"
"She was a spider," Sam interjected; "she was a spider and she turned into this old lady."
"What you met wasn't a woman." Bobby concluded; " she was a benign spirit; the spirit totem of her tribe."
Sam looked down at his brother who was still trying to process what he was hearing. "So … that butt-fugly creepy-crawly thing we kept seeing … that's what saved us?"
"Looks like you two got yourself a guardian angel;" smiled Bobby.
Dean glanced up at the angel standing over him; "looks like you got yourself some competition;" he teased.
"But, Bobby, I don't get it;" asked Sam, a thoughtful look on his face; "why would she help us? We're not her people."
Bobby shrugged. "Sorry son, that's where I run out of ideas." he flopped back against the chair.
The Winchesters' guests left after a few hours, leaving the brothers to a peaceful evening.
In between increasingly brief waking periods during which Dean snarked and complained; demanding coffee, chocolate and anything remotely alcoholic, and frustrated Sam by examining, prodding and scratching his sore spot; he drowsed peacefully, leaving Sam quietly watching over him in his restful, healing sleep as he pondered what Bobby had told them.
Sam had no idea what had gone on back there in that jail cell, but one thing he did know.
He'd make damn sure he never stomped on a spider again.
The brothers begin to recover after their ordeal and discover a long buried family secret.
The early evening sun filtered through the grimy windows around Bobby's house as Sam wandered wearily but happily into the lounge munching on a slice of toast and honey.
He wore his relief like a comfortable old shirt; finally discharged from hospital, Dean was well on the way to recovery. A little colour was returning to his cheeks, brightening his queasily grey countenance. He was improving every day in spirit, attitude and (unfortunately) volume.
Right now, having spent a long and fruitful day resting on the couch tormenting his brother for want of anything more constructive to do, Dean had finally drifted into a deep sleep. Curled up on the couch, he lay almost buried in a blanket Sam had placed over him, face pressed into a pillow, soft snuffling snores melting into the white cotton.
Sam smiled, the peaceful sight almost making him forget the nagging pain of his broken hand; worry over his brother's desperate condition had proved a powerful anaesthetic for him, and it was only in recent days that he had really began to feel the damage he had done to himself.
It was then he noticed the other figure in the room.
Castiel sat in a faded armchair opposite the couch. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, he was staring intently at the sleeping man.
"Hey Cas, what you doin'?" Sam asked curiously, licking the last morsels of honey off of his fingers.
"I am watching him sleep," replied the angel as if it were the most normal thing in the world, without taking his unblinking blue eyes from the horizontal figure opposite him.
"Uh, I can see that," responded Sam hesitantly; "why?"
"I am sharing his dreams."
Sam stared at the mesmerised angel. "Sharing his dreams? Why?"
"I am healing swiftly," Castiel glanced up to smile briefly at Sam; "As my powers return I can feel his thoughts - or his dreams." Castiel looked both joyful and fascinated at the same time; "he is happy."
Sam's head swivelled between angel and brother; "uh Cas; is that right? You know, should you really be rootin' around in his dreams?" He scratched his head, "isn't that kinda private?"
"I can gauge my recovery by how vivid the images are, soon I will be strong enough to rejoin the battle in Heaven. " Castiel explained with a smile; "I can see his dream very clearly; he is dreaming of the Impala, the sun is shining and you are with him."
Sam's face softened from curious concern to a warm smile as saw the sheer contentment on Dean's face as he dreamed about his baby and his brother. Dean huffed out a long sigh and wrinkled his nose, shifting in his sleep with a soft grunt; "it's windows are open and the music is loud," Castiel continued.
Sam sat down next to the angel, feeling slightly guilty at hearing the intimate details of his brother's dreams. However, he couldn't hide his joy that they were pleasant after Dean's recent ordeal.
Castiel canted his head, pursing his lips as his brow furrowed in thought. "Now it is different," he hesitated, glancing at Sam; "There is a bed covered in black silk, and there is a girl. She is removing her clo …"
"Uh, okay, I get the picture;" Sam leapt to his feet, and covered his ears, glancing in wide eyed panic from the angel to his brother, as a slowly broadening smirk crept across the sleeping man's face.
Sam composed himself and glanced down at Castiel; "you know it would freak Dean out if he knew we were here watching him sleep?"
Dean cracked open an eye, "yeah, an' I'm gonna kick both your asses when I can bend in the middle."
The three figures looked up on hearing the door creak open to see Bobby stumbling through, laden down with library books.
"Hey Bobby," Sam stood up smartly, offering to help Bobby with the books, then thought better of it as his injured hand protested at the movement.
"Hey Sam, Cas … aah, Princess Fairycakes; so nice to see you finally awake," Bobby smiled.
"Hey leave me alone," Dean pouted gruffly, rocking awkwardly as he tried to sit up; "You should be nice to me. I've been suffering in pain," he groaned theatrically, "an' I've been under the knife; I was sliced open and gutted." He made a point of grimacing and rubbing his stomach to reinforce the point.
Sam rolled his eyes, and gestured something tiny between his thumb and forefinger; "two inches dude; two inches," he grinned at his sulking brother.
"Where you been all day, Bobby?" asked Dean, making a point of ignoring Sam.
"I bin down the library doin' some research, trying to find out why your little eight legged friend decided to help you," Bobby replied, dropping down into a seat at the table.
"What did you find?" asked Sam, slowly walking towards Bobby and his book.
"A great big pile of nothing with a side of squat," sighed Bobby, taking off his cap and mopping his brow with a grubby handkerchief.
The brothers sighed.
"But," Bobby dragged a big, sorry looking tome onto the table, "I did find this; a 'Complete History of Wyoming'."
Dean leaned forward to see round his brother's broad back, stifling a groan as the movement pinched his wound.
Bobby leafed through the book; then sat back in his chair leaving the book open at a page showing an ink portrait of a coldly familiar man. "This your friend, Walton?"
Sam leaned over and stared intently at the picture.
"That's him," he nodded, turning to show the picture to Dean.
"Yep, that's him, the sour douchebag," Dean indicated his agreement.
Sam read the caption that accompanied the picture; "Obadiah Walton - Sherriff of Possum Creek 1854 – 1861. Born 3rd February 1804; died 9th March …" Sam's voice tailed off; he looked up at Bobby and across at Dean who, having now worked himself upright, stood staring at him wide-eyed.
…died 9th March 1861," Sam whispered. "The day we were rescued."
Bobby nodded again; "carry on readin' son."
Sam continued to scan the page; and visibly paled; "died of …" he looked up at Dean, "... venomous spider bite."
Putting the book down, he stared at his stunned brother.
"That's why he was so quiet," Sam spoke to himself trying to rationalise the situation, "when it was real bad, when I thought it was the end of the road. There was no sign or sound of him."
He turned back to Bobby.
"I thought he'd gone out and left us, but he was already dead. She killed him before she rescued us."
Bobby smiled, "So not only did she rescue you, she made sure your persecutor got his just desserts."
Dean huffed, rubbing the back of his neck; "that's one seriously impressive creepy-crawly;" he looked at the assembled figures around the room, "friggin' glad she's on our side."
Awakening slowly the following morning, Sam tiptoed past the unmoving lump under the blankets in the other bed; he paused briefly to satisfy himself that all was well. The only visible signs of life were a tousled knot of dark blond hair sticking out of one end of the bedclothes and a bare foot hanging off the other end of the bed.
The blanket swelled around a long sigh and Sam smiled, reassured that all was well. He turned to walk out of the room and heard a muffled voice behind him.
"Make the coffee, bitch."
Dean wandered uncomfortably into the kitchen clutching his sore belly, scratching his head and stifling a yawn all at the same time. He stopped, mid yawn, when Sam dashed out from the lounge, and grabbed him by the hand.
"Dude, you need to see this."
Still not quite awake, and in dire need of caffeine, Dean followed his agitated brother into the other room where Bobby and Castiel both stood side by side silently and intently studying the wall.
Dean joined them, peering at the wall between the two men's shoulders and immediately saw the source of their fascination. A big spider slowly working it's way along the junction between the ceiling and the wall.
"That looks like …" Dean began.
"What's it doing?" Bobby asked, without taking his eyes off the wall. All four stood and watched as the spider changed tack and scuttled down the wall, coming to rest on the top of a picture frame.
The picture was one of Bobby's favourites; a battered wooden frame containing a faded photograph of a rare moment of leisure. Featuring a much younger Bobby with his arms across the shoulders of a shy, timid looking ten-year-old, standing together with his old friend John Winchester, the picture was completed by a grinning, gap toothed six year old. All four figures stood in front of a tumbling creek clutching fishing rods.
The spider scuttled along the top of the picture frame then stopped halfway across.
Watched by the three fascinated men and one fascinated angel it clambered over the top edge of the frame, clinging to the glass, and stopped; it's front legs resting on John Winchester's forehead.
"What's it doing?" Sam whispered to no-one in particular.
There was a long pause which was eventually broken by a loud gasp.
"Holy crap," Bobby turned, wide-eyed, to the brothers.
"She said she wanted to help her family?"
"yeah," came the response.
"What if you were her family?"
Dean shrugged, "but we're not - we ain't indian - d'y see us wearin' feathers and dancing' roun' a totem pole?" He looked at the older man as if he'd gone mad.
Giving a long sigh, Bobby tried a different approach; "you know everything about ya momma's family, but how much do ya know about ya daddy's family?"
Sam looked at his brother, then back to the older man; "not a lot Bobby, He never spoke about them much, but I know he wasn't native American."
Bobby continued, "he wasn't, nor were his parents; but what if it was in the blood somewhere; somewhere back from before 1861?"
They fell silent, watching the spider as it scuttled back up along the wall and disappeared into a crack in the masonry, seemingly happy that it had made it's point.
The brothers looked at each other in silent disbelief.
"Remember" Bobby continued, "we're talking seven or eight generations back. Those were hard times, people weren't as broad minded or as tolerant as they are now.'
He looked at the brothers.
"I'm guessing, the child of such a pairing might well have been rejected by both societies; perhaps it ended up raised in some mission or orphanage or something like that but whatever happened, doubtless they wouldn't have wanted to advertise their origins - if they ever even knew about them."
He hesitated; "I'm guessin' ya daddy wouldn't have even known."
He looked at the brothers with a smile.
"… and here she is, a hundred and fifty years on still looking after her boys."
The brothers stood staring at the picture for the longest time; eventually it was Dean that broke the silence. Slapping Sam on the back he grinned, "well then Kimosabe, there's a nice research job to keep you busy while I'm out of action."
"What?" Sam's brow furrowed in confusion.
"You can look back an' see if you can find our Uncle Hiawatha."
Bobby shook his head with a smile, and walked back toward the kitchen, dragging the smiling angel with him.
"An' what are you gonna do while I'm huntin' out our family history?" asked Sam, folding his arms irritably across his chest.
Dean gripped his sore belly and settled down on the couch with a wince, pulling the blanket up over his knees.
Glancing up as his brother loomed over him he grinned; "I'm gonna wait for the coffee that Bobby's gonna make me ..."
He flicked the remote and the theme tune to Bonanza blared across the room.
"… an' then I'm gonna do my own research an go' back to my roots!"