Thanks to Red Hardy for the beta - you are awesome girl!

As ever I don't own them, and this oneshot has spoilers for 'Long Distance Call'

Disconnected

A tag for 'Long Distance Call'

When the phone rang, Bobby Singer sighed and looked at the time. Two in the morning? It had to be a Winchester.

Not even bothering to look at the call display, the wizened hunter answered gruffly, "What?"

For a moment he thought he'd been hung up on and then he heard a soft sigh and an even softer voice.

'Bobby?'

Sam.

Immediately Bobby was wide awake and sitting up in bed. "Sam? What's wrong?" Middle of the night calls never meant anything good.

'Ah… Nothing?'

The man frowned. "You asking or telling, kid?" he asked gruffly, Sam's reticence notching up his concern. "Where's Dean? You boys okay?" He knew they'd come up against a crocetta but, from what Dean had told him hours earlier, the hunt was just another notch in the Winchester belt.

'Dean's, ah, sleeping. We're- we're okay.'

Something was off in Sam's voice.

"Okay, so you're calling me then…?"

The young man didn't answer right away. Bobby waited a moment but patience was thin stretched at this ungodly hour.

"Sam?"

"'M sorry, Bobby, I should'na call-"

"Don't you dare hang up on me, boy." The hunter barked out cutting the younger man off mid-word, not missing the slur as Sam spoke. "You drunk?" He knew Dean's impending deal due date was tearing his younger brother apart and wouldn't have been too surprised if Sam were, however out of character that would normally be.

Normal? The man mentally snorted, now there's a word not in the Winchester family dictionary.

'No.'

Bobby could easily picture the disconsolate look that went with the tone. So no drinks, it was the deal then. "Sam?" he pressured, gently, "talk to me, son."

The gasp was too wet and the words too near a sob.

'D-dad… called.'

Bobby froze. His skin crawled. What?

'S'not me… Dean. Dad called Dean.'

"Sam?" he reminded, his tone wary. "That's not possible." Dean had somehow neglected to tell Bobby about this part of the hunt.

'I know! 'kay? I know… but Dean? Man, Bobby… he wanted it – w-wanted it to be Dad so baaaddd…'

Bobby winced, internally cursing as he stood up and slowly moved to the darkened window at the foot of his bed. He pushed open the curtains and stared through his reflection into the darkness of the night. "I'm sure he did, Sam," he admitted sadly, "he knows the difference though, right? Dean knows it wasn't your Daddy?"

Sam didn't answer. Only the sound of heavy breathing told Bobby the younger man hadn't hung up. "Sam?"

'He was so sure Dad could save'im, that Dad had a plan… Damnit Bobby, I-I can't… I'm not…'

Bobby let the curtain drop into place, his full focus back on the phone. He waited a moment to see if Sam would continue and then prodded, "Why are you calling me, kid?" Bobby loved both boys like his own however his relationship with Sam was very different than Dean's, and while Dean did call Bobby on occasion when he needed to let some air out, Bobby wasn't the one Sam usually turned to. That was Dean.

Mind you in a few weeks time, Bobby would be all Sam had left. The hunter chopped that thought off.

'I just…'

"Sam?"

'I just wondered… if maybe you knew…'

Bobby waited. His patience was rewarded as Sam suddenly just rushed out –

'D'you think my Dad knew I loved'im?'

And Bobby was sucker punched.

For one long moment the man didn't say anything. His heart ached fiercely for the hurting youngster on the other end of the phone and, not for the first time, Bobby cursed the man John Winchester was. John loved his boys, any one who knew the man knew that… except maybe his boys. "Sam," he started as he numbly sat down on the edge of the bed and scratched the back of his neck. "I'm sure he did." What else was he supposed to say?

'Then how come he never called me? He d-doesn't want to talk to m-me -'

"Sam," Bobby interrupted, a new frown marking his face. "That wasn't your Daddy. You know that." His concern skyrocketed. Something definitely was not right here. Sam had sounded off the entire conversation, what with the slurring and slight stutter, but this rawness and open vulnerability? This was not the man, the young hunter usually projected. Empathetic? Yes. Self-deprecating? No. Bobby quickly ran through the list of possible culprits and then scowled. His eyes narrowed. Damn Winchesters and their 'nothing can hurt me' complexes. "Did you get knocked about the head or something?"

'A bat.'

"Huh?" The openness of the response confirmed his suspicions. Concussion. And he was willing to bet Dean didn't know about that. That boy was overprotective in the best of situations so it wasn't likely he'd be sleeping while his apparently concussed sibling was verbally bleeding out.

'At least... I think – I think it was a bat… '

Bobby felt nauseas. A baseball bat? Great. "Sam, get Dean."

'Dean's, ah, sleepin'.'

"I know. Wake him up, Sam. I need to talk to him. Now." Cracked skull, brain bleed…

A loud huff in his ear was followed by the sound of muted grumbling and then a moment later a loud yawn preceded a very sleepy and disgruntled sounding Dean.

'Yeah, Bobby, what's up?'

"Did you know about the bat?"

'Bat?'

"The baseball bat the crocetta used on your brother's skull tonight?"

Silence spoke volumes and it was easy to imagine Dean's glare as he turned towards his little brother, and Sam's sheepish shrug as he turned away from the scrutiny.

Sorry kid, he mentally apologized, but your brother had to know.

'I do now. Thanks, Bobby.'

"Dean," Bobby interrupted before the younger man could hang up, knowing Dean was going to be pissed that Sam hadn't told him about getting hit. "Go easy on him, son. You aren't the only one hurting when your Daddy called you."

'It wasn't my Dad.'

Bobby didn't take the frostbite personally. "Just call me in the morning, okay?"

'Okay.'

Dean hung up and Bobby was left sitting on the edge of his bed staring at the phone. Sighing in exasperation, he grumbled under his breath about 'getting soft in his old age' and 'being too old for this shit' even as he reached for his trousers.

Ten minutes later, he was a set of tail lights disappearing in the dark.

ooooooOOOOOOoooooo

"So," Dean eyed his little brother, suspiciously, "when were you planning on telling me about getting conked on the head?" He moved to check Sam over but the other man deftly maneuvered out of his reach and almost toppled over the end of the bed.

"'M fine, Dean," Sam managed and Dean might have actually believed him if the kid didn't sway where he stood. And then with a rather sick looking smile, Sam flumped down on the bed, almost missing the edge.

Dean rolled his eyes, ready to grab something gangly to keep his brother from taking a nose dive on the carpet. How he'd missed this earlier was beyond him –

Dad called. And he'd been busy trying to fix things with Sam.

Oh yeah. He remembered now.

And actually it wasn't his Dad who called, but some identity thieving demon; a demon that had also apparently walloped his kid brother over the head with a baseball bat. Talk about making it personal.

Scrubbing the sleep from his face, Dean sat down on the bed next to Sam and sighed. "If this is you 'fine', I'd hate to see you after someone whacked you with a bat. Oh wait. That happened." He glared at his brother. "And you didn't tell me about that, why?"

Sam shrugged and then started to topple back. Dean grabbed his arm and controlled the collapse. "'Cause," his brother supplied.

"'Cause?" the older man scowled even as he took the opportunity to run triaging hands along his brother's scalp. A big bump, no blood. He checked his sibling's pupils – not dilated or fixed – and let out a sigh of relief. Okay, mild concussion then, he could deal with this. "That the best you can come up with, Einstein? Shit, Sam, you can't keep this stuff to yourself. What if your head was cracked open-"

"S'not."

"Or you dropped into a coma-"

"Won't."

"Or – you know what? I don't even want to talk to you about this right now." Bobby's warning rang in his ears. "I'll wait until you're feeling better… and then kick your ass. How about that?"

"I'll be okay," Sam countered even as he closed his eyes and turned onto his side.

Dean huffed. "Damn straight you will be." He pulled a spare blanket from the end of Sam's bed and draped it over his barely conscious brother. "I ain't done with you yet." Sighing tiredly, he stared at Sam for a moment and then asked, "Do you want to tell me what you were calling Bobby about at-" he looked at the clock and then did a double take when he saw the time, "at two-fifteen in the morning? God, Sam, Bobby must have loved hearing from you."

Sam's voice was drowsy but still managed petulance. That took skill. "Dad called you-" Ah, okay, Dean thought not completely surprised, but Sam wasn't finished. "You, Dean. Thought Bobby'd know if…"

"If?" Dean pressed after a moment, not really sure he wanted to know but needing to know, nevertheless. "If what, Sammy?"

"If Dad knew," Sam was fading fast. "Knew I loved'im…"

Suddenly Dean couldn't breathe –

"Didnna wanna talk to me…"

Reeling, Dean sat back on the edge of his bed. Hard. His heart pounded in his chest and his vision blurred as he fought to get air back into his stunned lungs. This wasn't new to him… Sam had said pretty much the same thing almost two years ago, after their father had died; Sam had worried that John might have died without knowing how Sam felt about him.

And Dean hadn't said anything then. He'd been floundering in his own anger, guilt and grief, unable to offer any pardons. But as the misery of his brother's admission threatened to overwhelm Dean, he knew he couldn't just let this go this time.

"Sammy," he shook his brother's arm gently. "Sam?"

"S'what?" The kid was mostly asleep.

"It wasn't Dad who called, remember? It was that sonnovabitch crocetta? It wasn't Dad."

"I know, Dean." Sam sounded surprisingly lucid. "But even if it had been, he still wouldn't have called me."

Dean couldn't deny it because he knew it was true, just not for the reasons Sam was harboring. Dean was second in command. John always called him. That was just the way it was and had always been. It was now though, in their new skewed perspective of things, that that reasoning wasn't what his brother needed to hear. It wouldn't help him. So instead Dean leaned over and spoke quietly. "He still knew you loved him Sam. He always knew." He waited a beat and then added. "And he loved you too."

Sam twisted enough to look up at Dean. His gaze searched Dean's face, penetrating and assessing the truth behind the words, and then after a few moments, the younger man nodded tiredly and gave him a weak smile. "Go to bed, Dean. You look like shit."

Message received.

Dean squeezed Sam's arm gently even as he snorted loudly and proclaimed. "I dunno, dude. The Rocky Balboa look is in this year. Chicks dig a guy with bruises." Straightening up, the older hunter looked at his bed with longing and then back at his brother. He sighed. "Fine. But I'm waking your ass up every couple of hours."

"I know you will," came a mostly asleep mumble. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it," Dean groused, already setting the alarm on his cell phone and then gingerly stretching out on the other bed. He had his own aches and pains from the hunt but the worst of the damage was unseen – he glanced across at Sam – in both of them.

"Well," he exhaled out loudly as he closed his eyes, "this whole hunt just plain sucked."

…

And Bobby Singer pretty much agreed when he showed up on the doorstep six hours later.

The End