Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Supernatural.
Author's Note: Okay, don't hate me for dropping this on you when I already have two other stories open right now. Not my fault, I swear! This plot bunny was hiding in my washing machine this morning… I beat it with a clothes hanger and then trapped it under a laundry basket. Somehow it got loose….Damn bunny!
It was the little things that got to him.
There was the first and only time he had ever seen those green eyes turn red from crying; not to be outshined or overshadowed by the first word uttered by the younger boy, a mere toddler when it had finally happened, the name of his brother understandably the first thing he would say.
Then there were the two junked Impala's he had driven cross-country to get, tucking them away in the garage to strip for parts; knowing the day would come when she'd be torn up again.
There were those times back in the day when he had been forced to explain why the universe was a cold, heartless bitch; and why their father wasn't back yet, five days after he had promised to be.
The numerous times he had towed the Impala back to the junkyard; sometimes the car had been in pieces, other times it had been one or both of the boys.
There were the first seven times he had broken out the Wild Turkey, just so he could hold one of them down as the other reset a dislocated joint or stitched an arm back together. After number seven, he had learned to just grab the Johnnie Walker Blue and be done with it. Let 'em sleep it off while they worked above them.
Then there was the hundred times he had jolted awake at the sound of his phone ringing, that damned cold pit forming in his stomach as he hoped it wasn't them calling with bad news, again.
There were the thousand nights of sleep he had passed by just so he could stay by their beds all night, keeping their nightmares away by his own sheer determination.
Those hadn't been easy things by any means, but they had nothing on the little stuff.
He stared at the stacks of linen before him, the old wooden wardrobe organized and stuffed to the very top. The brightness of the stark white fabrics made his stomach turn, bringing up the memory of the dozen or so times he had been forced to run off to some faraway hospital room and wait until the time came when they decided to come around from whatever horrible scare they had given him.
He hadn't realized he had been staring until he felt someone standing at his side.
He glanced up; Sam giving him a small smile that looked utterly exhausted and worn out.
"You alright, Bobby," Sam asked.
"I used to have blue sheets," Bobby said with a tired grimace he gestured to the inside of the wooden wardrobe. "Seems like I had a set of green ones too."
Sam looked at the dozen or so sets of sheets, all white. Not a color to be seen.
"What happened to them," Sam asked curiously.
"You boys happened to them," Bobby said as he reached for a set of sheets, all folded into a nice neat bundle. Easy and quick to grab when the need was there.
Sam glanced back at the white sheet assortment as he followed Bobby back down the hallway to the room he and Dean always shared. They stepped into the room and paused, the sight before them not that unusual for Bobby's guest room.
Sam immediately realized what Bobby had been talking about.
No matter how many times they had used the couch as a cot, or the kitchen table as an operating table, there was always blood on the sheets.
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