Title: Take Care of My Brother

Disclaimer: Characters from the WB series "Supernatural" are respectfully and without personal profit borrowed as bathtub toys.

Author: FraidyCat

A/N: Oneshot

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Sam was barely visible, in the middle of the junkyard, but Dean was watching him anyway. The younger man stood in a dejected pose, head down, his back to the porch where Dean lounged on the steps next to Bobby. The oldest Winchester took a drag off his beer and growled slightly, leaning back into the step behind him. "What's he doin', anyway?"

Bobby sighed and drained his own beer, placing it on the wood beside him. His eyes followed Dean's and his heart constricted. "Broodin', I think," he answered, and Dean huffed in response. "The boy's upset," Bobby went on, somewhat unnecessarily.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "No shit. Look, it's not like I'm exactly happy about this myself, Bobby. But you guys did the best you could. I've only got five days left and we came here so I could spend it with my brother."

Bobby turned slightly and reached into the cooler on the porch for another beer. He grabbed two, swiveling back around and nudging Dean's elbow, offering him one. Dean obliged, jerking back the bottle he held for one last swallow before tossing it into the yard and grabbing the cold one. "You're just gonna have to go pick that up," Bobby reprimanded lightly.

Dean sniggered, the sound full of sarcasm. "Sammy'll take care of it." He watched his brother toe the dirt. "I told him not to trust Ruby."

Bobby tilted his head. "I don't know, Dean; maybe it's a good thing that he did. At least he had hope, for most of the year." He moved his attention from one brother to the other, and gentled his voice. "Do you honestly think he could have made it through without hope? He has to be able to know he tried -- and tried everything."

Tears suddenly welled in Dean's eyes and he fought to keep them at bay. He leaned forward over his knees for a moment, then carefully set the beer by his feet and turned to face Bobby. He didn't even wipe his eyes, first, for he wanted the man to know how much this request meant to him. "Bobby, when it hap...if I go..." He swallowed thickly before he continued. "If I go," he finally repeated, "promise me that you'll take care of my brother." He reached out and gripped Bobby's forearm, hard. "Take care of him like he's your own brother."

Bobby set his bottle down, and placed his free hand over Dean's. "I can't do that son," he said softly, and Dean's eyes widened in disbelief. Before he could protest, Bobby continued, his voice soft, and warm, and full of both pride -- and regret. "I can't treat either of you boys like my brothers, because you're both sons to me." Suspicious moisture shone in Dean's green eyes, and Bobby patted the hand on his arm. "I promise you, boy. I'll take care of Sammy."

Sam only took the few minutes for himself that he absolutely had to have. Five minutes after his brother came as close to breaking down as Bobby had ever seen, the boy lifted his head, squared his shoulders and came marching back to the house. He stopped to pick up the beer bottle, just as Dean had predicted, and then strolled the last few feet to stand in front of the porch. He counted the empties. "I'm driving," he smiled at Dean.

Dean laughed and stretched out a hand, letting Sam pull him to his feet. "Where we goin', dude?" He looked his brother in the eye; he could do that because he was standing on the first step, but Dean made it a point not to think about things like that.

"I thought we could go into town and play a little pool," Sam offered. "You know, with each other -- for fun, not profit."

Dean smirked. "I don't know, Sammy. I'm pretty sure I'm gonna want you to pay up when you lose."

Sam rolled his eyes and dipped his head to Bobby. "You coming, old man?"

Bobby responded by kicking out a foot and shoving Dean off the step, so that Sam had to catch him. "Ya'll go on. Needs to be somebody left on the outside to bail you out."

Both Winchesters laughed, playing their assigned parts well. A wave and a wink later, they were striding toward the Impala, and Bobby was watching them leave, and remembering. Earlier that week he had been clearing some space in the south corner of the yard, and was carrying a load to the dumpster when he was distracted by some activity by the black beauty. He had gazed across the yard to see Sam changing the oil, Dean lounging on an old truck tire, watching. Bobby had been glad he was so far away when he actually thought he might start to cry. Sam working on the Impala; Dean watching? That was just wrong.

Now, he sipped his beer and unabashedly stared at the boys as they roughoused a little, finally settling into the car. Sam was indeed driving, and the Impala moved slowly and safely down the gravel drive, turning onto the highway at the end. Bobby used the handrail to hoist himself into a standing position, bending to gather up dead soldiers as he made his way into the house.

He had him some thinking to do.

He had five days.

And he had an idea.

By midnight, he had a plan. It was a desperate, last-measure plan, and he decided to sleep on it. When he awoke in the morning, and thought about it again, he was only surprised that it had taken him so long to come up with the solution.

He vaguely remembered hearing the boys come in sometime during the night. He paused outside the room they were sharing -- there was plenty of space for them each to take a room, but Bobby knew they wouldn't want to, and didn't even ask -- and decided to let them sleep as long as they could. Dean was already a sheet-and-a-half to the wind before they went to the bar, so it was a pretty good bet at least one of them would wake up with a hangover. Deciding to take his own breakfast at the diner in town, Bobby stopped in the kitchen long enough to start a pot of coffee, and left.

It took less time to complete his business than he thought, and that depressed him a little. Seemed like 55 years should amount to more, somehow. He made an appointment to come in and sign everything in two days, and by 4:00 o'clock he was headed back for the yard, a steaming pepperoni pizza and an entire blueberry pie on the seat next to him.

He felt better, once he knew what he was going to do, and Bobby Singer thoroughly enjoyed the next two days with his boys. Hell, the three of them even went to a movie, like normal people. They drank to excess, smoked cigars one night, played strip poker until 3 in the morning once. On Saturday, he and Sam baked a cake. They used those fancy cans of frosting, and Sam bought two; he wanted to lay it on thick. Dean ate cake until he made himself sick, and then Sam felt terrible. Bobby's only regret was that he wouldn't get to see Sam's buzz cut. Maudlin and teary after Dean presented his cake as a sacrifice to the porcelain God, Sam had promised to do whatever Dean wanted. Anything. Dean had waggled an eyebrow, exchanged a look with Bobby, and dimpled up in that trademark Winchester grin. "What would make me happy, Sammy," he teased, "is to see you get one last haircut before I die." Sam, bless his broken heart, was gonna do it, too. He was ready to march into that walk-in place in town first thing Monday morning.

Bobby wondered how far Dean would make him go. Maybe he would even make his little brother go through with it. He wished he could go along, but he told them he was expecting a parts dealer and was counting on a big sale. The boys weren't even embarrassed when he hugged them both good-bye at the Impala. It was the day before Dean died, and the three of them had been touching each other more every day of the last week.

He didn't watch them drive away, this time. Instead he turned and went back into the house, where he had spent half the night writing a letter. He placed the letter, a small box he used to store IDs and cash, and a stack of paper in the center of the kitchen table. He stood there for a while before he walked through the house one last time. Occasionally he would straighten a picture on the wall, or run his hand over a piece of furniture. It should have been sad, but it felt too right. Bobby even smiled, knowing it was right.

Then he walked out the front door, and didn't look back, all the way to the truck. He slid behind the wheel, started the engine, and headed for the nearest crossroads.

She came right away; must have been in the neighborhood. "Bobby Singer. To what do I owe the honor?"

"I'm here to make a deal."

She looked interested, even though her words denied that she was. "Why would we deal with you, Bobby Singer?"

He was ready for that. "You know how many of you I've killed, in the last 30 years? I expect there might be a price you'd like me to pay for that. Plus, if you don't deal, I'll just keep killing." He withdrew the Colt from his jacket and aimed it at her head. "Starting with you, bitch."

She crossed her arms over her ample chest -- why did these Crossroads Demons always pick gorgeous women? -- and lifted a perfectly-shaped brow. "Talk."

He didn't lower the gun. "Me. For Dean Winchester."

She threw her head back and laughed, then snapped it forward again. "You must be kidding. Do you people think this is some sort of international barter system, or something?" She snorted. "And how long do you want?"

"I'm ready now," he answered, voice steady. "I just want a body left behind that can be found, and I want it to look natural. Like a heart attack."

She stared at him silently for a long time before she finally spoke. "As long as I demonize, I will never understand humans. Look, I can't help you. The contract is held by my boss."

He smiled. "And how impressed would his boss be, if you marched me into hell right now? The great Bobby Singer; and his Colt for a bonus. You wouldn't have to give up that much. Just let Dean out of his contract. You don't even have to make any promises about how long he'll live after that -- or Sam either." He could tell she was thinking about his proposal. "As long as it's a fair fight," he abridged. "No more deals. We let nature take its course."

She considered. "You realize that the two of them are already targets; that will only increase in intensity." She smiled. "We all want to mount their heads in our dens."

He was slightly sickened, but went for the kill anyway. "You don't know who you're creating. Sam without Dean...your own kind has been helping him develop into the coldest son-of-a-bitch this side of evil. You take Dean away from him, you're signing your own death warrant."

She seemed a little disturbed by the notion, and tossed her long honey-blond hair. "Then why sacrifice yourself?" she countered. "Why not let him kill us all?"

Bobby wouldn't give her the satisfaction. "I have my reasons," he said. "Do you have the authority to do this?"

Her eyes narrowed. "The contract must be released by the one who holds it. I will go now to present your offer. If I come back tonight, it will be for you. If the answer is 'No', I will come tomorrow – for Dean."

She vanished, and Bobby lowered himself to the dirt to wait.

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"You are such a jerk," Sam mumbled as he followed Dean into the house. "How could you put me through that if you weren't even serious?"

Dean laughed, remembering how tightly Sam squeezed his eyes shut when the lady at Supercuts turned on the electric razor. "I didn't think you'd pass out, bitch! I slipped her a $20 just to freak you out a little. While you were in the bathroom I told her to stick with a trim."

Sam blushed and ran his hand awkwardly through hair shorter than it had been in years – but thankfully, not buzzed. "You're lucky I didn't break my nose," he accused. "You owe me so much more than a measly lunch," and Dean laughed again.

"Crap, Sammy, I wish Bobby had been there. The way you went all pale, and slid out that chair like a spineless…"

"Where is he?", Sam interrupted. "I thought he had to stay here to meet some dealer."

Dean led the way into the kitchen, shrugging. "Maybe he went to get more beer. We'd better drink up what's left so he doesn't feel like he wasted his time."

He stopped at the refrigerator, but Sam continued on to the table. He began to get a bad feeling when he saw the scrawled legal pad. "Dear Sam and Dean," he read from a distance, and his heart fell to his feet. A Dear Sam and Dean letter. This couldn't be good. He reached out with shaking hands and picked up the yellow notebook, barely noticing when Dean strolled up beside him and leaned over to look, himself.

Dear Sam and Dean,

I ain't the type to get mushy. You and me got that in common, Dean. What is it you say all the time? "No chick-flick moments." I can get behind that.

I got some stuff to say. First thing is, I been damn proud of you boys for most of your lives. I enjoyed watching you grow up whenever John brought you around, and I know he was proud as punch to see the sort of men you've both become. John didn't admit to that sort of thing, but I could tell. I was his friend for years, and I could tell.

Next thing is, I meant what I said to you the other night, Dean. You and your brother are the closest things to sons that I got, and I love you. There. I said it, and it felt good enough I'm gonna say it again. I love you both.

I went into town the other day and made some arrangements. In the box you'll find about five grand, and some IDs I made up special for you. You're 'Sam' and 'Dean Singer' now, for as long as you want to be. I told that lawyer fella that you're my cousins; my uncle's been gone a good long time, but anybody who remembers him knows he was a player, so they wouldn't be surprised to find out he left a few young'uns behind. I left the business to you, in one of them fancy trusts. You can lease it long-term, if you want, and the income will be invested for you. There's a man in town been buggin' me for a long time; he says he'd be interested in leasing. I've put his contact information in the file I've left for you.

I think this could be perfect for the both of you. Sam, you could have some 'normal'. There'll be a little legitimate money. You can actually pay for motels, and gas; maybe even buy medical insurance! You can be one person for longer than a week, and the house is yours free and clear. There's one of them codicils on the mortgage; it's paid in full when I pass. You'll always have a place to call your own. And Dean, you can bring the Impala back and do a tune-up on her whenever you want – it's your yard, now, and the man who wants to lease it says he always has a job for you. When you boys need a break, or a little more cash flow, you can come home for a spell. You know there's a lot in this ol' house that'll help you with the hunt, too. You'll have all the journals, and books. I made up a few extra rounds of silver bullets for you, and some Holy water. I'm sorry I had to take the Colt. I think I might need it.

Besides the business, the house and its contents and these few dollars, I don't have much else to leave you. I want you to know if I had it, I would. But I figured the most important thing I could give you boys was each other. The two of you together are the strongest force I have ever known, and without each other you ain't nuthin' but targets.

I'm getting' you out of the deal, Dean. I really think I can do it.

I don't want neither of you idjits feelin' bad about this. I'm old, I've lived a full life, and I'm tired. I've made some God-awful mistakes in my time; you have to let me make amends.

You boys keep up the fight. Win the war. Above all, take care of each other. Always take care of each other. Remember, you're all I've got that matters.

Bobby

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Sam sagged, and Dean caught him before he hit the floor for the second time that day. His jaw was clenched tight in anger and his words seethed. "That sunuvabitch," he began. "He's gone to make a deal. Sam, we have to stop him."

Sam turned his face to his brother, and a single tear rolled down his cheek. "God help me, Dean," he whispered. "I don't want to."

Dean's shocked "Sammy!" was interrupted by the shrill of the cell phone on his belt. He recognized Bobby's ring tone and nearly wilted with relief. "Thank God," he breathed, plucking the phone from his belt and flipping it open. "Bobby, get back here," he ordered. "Just come home and we'll figure things out."

There was silence on the other end, and then a voice he did not recognize. "I'm sorry, I'm trying to reach a 'Dean Singer'. This is the Sheriff of Jensen County, and we retrieved this cell phone from the pocket of an apparent heart attack victim." Dean clutched the phone harder and drew in a breath, and the voice gentled. "I'm sorry, but is this 'Dean Singer'?"

"Yeah. Yeah." Later, Dean would always wonder how he had been able to answer.

"Are you anywhere close to Jensen County? We need to I.D. the vi…." The sheriff heard Dean sniffling into the phone and tried again. "Look, son, if you're in the state I can send an officer to pick you up and bring you here. If this 'Bobby' you were expecting is an older man with a beard, known to wear a baseball cap… I really think you need to come."

Dean still gripped Sam's elbow and now he closed his eyes and listened to his brother breathe. "I'm with my brother," he said. "Sam Singer. Our… cousin, Bobby, is missing and his doc said his ticker ain't too good. We're a little worried."

The sheriff sighed, and spoke sadly, looking at the pale, stiff form on the slab before him. "Tell me where you are, son."

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End

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A/N: This little story was inspired by a real-life scene on "The Biggest Loser", of all things. The "losers" came to the ranch as teams, and recently one brother had to leave the other. Certain that he would be voted off, he went to another team member and cried. "If I go," he begged, "take care of my brother." It was a Supernatural moment if I ever saw one.