Bobby Singer considered himself a competent hunter.

Like the majority of those who dealt with the supernatural, he'd joined the ranks after a traumatic personal experience.

Luckily enough he hadn't had any kids of his own to worry about, but the two children currently inhabiting his ratty old couch seemed to belay that statement.

He sighed as he perused the sleeping brothers, wondering what the future held for them.

John was near to obsessed in seeking out his wife's killer, and that left him piss-poor time for his sons.

:

Even with the stove blazing, the sitting-room was cold and Bobby draped the blanket he'd gone upstairs to get, over the the kids.

Eight-year old Dean was curled around his baby brother, Sam's chubby fists bunched in Dean's faded shirt, his head cushioned against the older boy's skinny chest.

You'd have to have a heart of stone, Bobby mused, to not be moved by the sight.

Their love for each other was stamped on their little faces.

Sam trotted after his sibling in absolute hero-worship, imitating him in everything he did, while Dean took his big brother duties seriously, herding Sam around like an attentive sheep-dog, away from any danger, and fussing over him worse than any mom.

:

Tucking the blanket around them, he was about to turn away when Dean's sleepy voice whispered. "Thanks dad."

It took a lot to cause a tear to well up in Bobby's eye, but he wiped away the one that had formed. Something told him it wasn't gonna be the only time it happened.