At first, Bobby’d figured his mind was playin’ tricks on him. It was a habit, see, to ride by the old ruins of the Roadhouse whenever he was out this way, but to date, he’d never run across this: the old bar fully in tact, exactly as he’d remembered it.
His car slid to a stop on the old dirt road outside and he didn’t hesitate to throw her into park and hurry inside as fast as his old legs would carry him.
He didn’t know what he was lookin’ for; answers, maybe, but seein’ Jo behind the bar was more’n Bobby coulda ever hoped for.
He stood, stock still, as the blonde made his way ‘round the bar and enveloped Bobby in a hug that on a better day woulda probably embarrassed the man. Today, however, he simply gripped Jo back, patting his back in a fatherly way.
“Things got… complicated. Good t’see ya, son.”
Jo patted the man’s back a few times before pulling away, one hand still on Bobby’s shoulder. “Man, it’s good to see you, too.” he replied, bright goofy smile plastered on his face. Bobby Singer was the mentor, the distant, grumpy father figure that could tell the young man to do anything and Jo’d do it. He was one of the few good hunters out there, and seeing him still alive, kicking and screaming, it was a sigh of relief.
Letting his hands fall back to his side, Jo cocked his head just slightly. “Complicated?” he asked as his brow furrowed. “What happened?”