Had the intruding man not been carrying a sick kid, Bobby would have smacked John Winchester right where he stood on his doorstep.

The sight itself made Bobby go sheet-white with worry. Dean, an all-mighty age of twelve, never submitted himself to hugs, much less being held close by his father. His head was buried meekly into the crook of John's neck, and he appeared as if he were fighting the grips of sleep, shifting his weight every so often and making small, pained noises.

"Gotta case that can't be put off, Bobby," John said as he walked inside, Dean hanging on to his neck limply and Sam tailing listlessly behind the both of them. All three Winchesters were soaked through their shirts from the downpour outside, and both boys were shivering. John was taking deep, calculated breaths in attempt to warm himself up while rubbing Dean's back to generate heat. Little Sam had a damp blanket around his shoulders. "Should only take a few days."

Bobby saw the order, even though John didn't flat-out say it. "'Course I'll take them in," he grumbled. Grabbing a thick, woolen afghan from his davenport, he handed it to Sam and added, "Here, go take your things upstairs and change outta those clothes. I'll grab Dean."

The eight-year-old nodded his head sleepily, obviously exhausted as he dragged their duffel up the creaking steps. It was nearly midnight, therefore a miracle that both boys were still awake, though that could have been the cold keeping them aware. Dean moaned slightly as John transferred him into Bobby's arms. Dean's face rested on his shoulder, and he could feel the heat radiating from him despite the severe chill both he and Sam were suffering from.

He's got a cold," John shortly supplied. "Nasty cough, raging fever, the works. Take care of him." And then he took off.

Bobby sighed. "Of course," he muttered disdainfully to the empty room, looking to the boy in his arms. Every instinct in his very being was telling him to chase after John and shoot him full of rock salt for allowing his son to get this ill then proceed to expose him to the harsh weather without so much as a blanket to help warm him up, but he restrained himself on the grounds that he had a sick child in his hands and it still looked as if a hurricane was raging outside.

"Did…Dad leave, Uncle B'bby?" Dean murmured lethargically, eyes screwed up shut against what was inevitably a headache brought on by fever. He began coughing explosively, the sound resembling that of a barking Rottweiler. Bobby rubbed his back patiently as the fit subsided.

"'Fraid so, kid," he responded. Bobby squeezed the boy lightly, placating him through the shivers that were overtaking his body. "Let's get you to bed, yeah?"

Dean's head bobbed in a nod. "We have med'cine in our bag," he wound up saying in a rough voice as Bobby started ascending the stairs. "Should probably take it."

"Has it been helping at all?"

Dean shrugged languidly as he stifled a choked cough. "Dunno, a bit."

Well, we'll take it and see if your fever's gone down by morning, then if not I'll go out and buy something that might just kick this bug out, got it?" Bobby prompted.

"'Kay."

Dean must have dozed off during the short climb, because his dead weight started sagging more and more as Bobby proceeded. When he entered the boys' room, he gently shook the elder boy awake, whispering, "Hey kiddo, we need to getcha into some dry clothes, the you can sleep."

Dean groaned in response.

Bobby helped the boy, despite his constant shaking, to don his pajamas, then buried him under the vacated twin bed's blankets. Soon enough, it appeared that Dean had fallen asleep again. Sparing a glance at an already-asleep Sam, Bobby smiled sadly. It was a shame their father had to abandon them at a time like this. If he could, Bobby would adopt them as his own sons. They deserved a better life than what they were currently going through, especially Dean. Bobby had no doubts that the sickness had come on from lack of proper diet, no sleep, and stress like bricks piled up on his shoulders. He was susceptible to illness if he was like that, which he often was. He ran a hand through Dean's sweat-matted hair and listened disdainfully to his horribly congested chest. "G'night, boys," he whispered.

He didn't necessarily remember falling asleep hours later, but he was awoken by a small hand shaking his shoulder.

What?" he grumbled, slowly peeling his eyes open. Standing before him was Dean, shaking where he stood and body slumped wearily.

"I…" He broke off, coughs wracking his small frame. Bobby immediately rose from his bed, wrapping his arms around Dean and holding him close throughout the ordeal. He tried not to pay attention to the trembling that had nothing to do with the cough and the tears spilling from the boy's eyes. Finally, when the coughs had receded to mere wheezes, he finished his statement: "I don't feel good, Uncle Bobby."

Bobby chuckled lightly. "I can tell, kiddo. Did you sleep at all?"

Dean shook his head. He heaved a pained sigh, and Bobby could see a few more stray tears find their ways down his too-warm cheeks. "I just…" He sniffed. "I just want to feel better."

Bobby's heart clenched. Dean was admitting weakness and begging for relieve. He was never one to complain, always stoically pushing through the storm. He was the strong brother, the fierce protector. However, now he was a sniveling mess in Bobby's arms. "I know, Dean," he murmured.

Dean coughed in response. He whimpered, "My throat hurts."

"Let's get you some tea," Bobby decided. "Should help that cough subside and soothe your throat."

Dean nodded fervently. Bobby scooped the boy into his arms and headed downstairs, hoping that he did indeed still have a few tea bags in his pantry, along with honey.

However, as he entered the dim kitchen, he noticed that Dean had fallen asleep once more in his arms. Sighing, Bobby postponed the thought of tea until a further time and headed to the living room and settled down on the couch. Dean was burning up, but he was relaxed, latched lazily onto Bobby's neck. The rumbling in his chest was concerning and Bobby knew that something should be done about it, but right now the boy deserved a peaceful rest. If Bobby had to take a guess, he'd say that Dean felt more protected when falling asleep in someone's arms than if he were sleeping by himself. Especially now, since he was particularly vulnerable. The clock read nearly three am; Bobby would be happy to sit here and hold his boy until the morning hours if it meant he could take care of him.

Sometime around five—Bobby wasn't necessarily keeping track—Sam padded down from the room. He spotted his brother out cold in Bobby's arms and whispered, "Will he be okay?"

Bobby glanced down at Dean, whose fists were curled into Bobby's shirt as a thin string of drool dripped from his half-open mouth. The boy looked at peace for once, only the slightest moans letting Bobby know that he was sick and not one-hundred percent healthy. "I think he'll be all right," he said, smiling to Sam.

He'd make sure his boys were all right.

Just some shameless Bobby and Dean fluff :)

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