Hi! Man, it's been awhile since I started posted an SPN story. I actually write SPN recaps/reviews for StarPulse(dot)com, which is a huge undertaking! But don't worry, I'm sticking with the show til to the end. And I was thoroughly inspired by the winter finale, "Death's Door." These will just be a series of shorts posted out of order about Bobby's connection with Sam and Dean. Please let me know what you think!

October 3, 1984

Bobby Singer sat on his porch with a steaming cup of coffee, a weary body and a troubled heart.

The fog slithered along drying fields of his property like some of the nefarious and seductive things he'd hunted. After fifteen years of exorcising real demons, while ignoring his metaphorical ones and skirting the law, Bobby was done. He had a knee that ached from three dislocations and two surgeries, a right lung missing an entire lobe, and one heart attack. But he'd saved more than 400 lives and mentored a half-dozen hunters. He'd probably work in the sidelines, away from the adrenaline and horror. As terrifying as hunting could be, Bobby was more scared of what the unplanned, wife-less years ahead, of fading away from the adrenaline and the danger into a quiet, little life of coffee in the mornings, gin the rest of the day and no one to talk to.

He was afraid of being forgotten and alone.

A flock of birds rose from the field with a startled scream and flew out of sight in a knot of speckled black. Bobby watched as the familiar black car crept up his driveway, and grappled for his trusty revolver that was never out of reach.

John Winchester emerged, stature bowed. He'd run into the novice hunter on several jobs, and decided to show him the ropes before he'd gotten himself killed.

"Hey, Bobby…"

He looked awful, road-weary and battered from the job.

"Just made a fresh pot; you can take whatever room you want."

John offered the barest of smiles. He'd crashed at Bobby's before as he made his way from one hunt to the next, but this time, the kid shook his head, and clutched the door of his prized Impala like some skittish schoolgirl. "I need a huge favor. I hate to ask, but…"

A pained cry from inside the car interrupted him, and he cursed, ducking inside. Bobby stood and squinted against the morning sun to catch a glimpse of two children—a rousing tow-headed child and a small, dark-haired baby strapped in a car seat and swaddled in a blanket.

In the year he'd known him, John had never mentioned having children, but now it made his ever-present grief and hunger for vengeance all the more reckless.

John emerged with his youngest cradled in his arms, the older one climbing out to stand obediently at his side. "If it's not too much trouble, can my boys and I stay with you for a few days. Sammy," he gestured to the baby, "got a nasty ear infection and Dean needs a real bed. I wouldn't ask if…"

Bobby uncocked his pistol and tucked it out of sight. Children, not guns or monsters, made him uneasy. He didn't understand them or even like them that much. But John swayed where he stood, and the youngin's forehead was pressed against his father's leg as he shivered in his too small sweatshirt and jeans. "Just for a few days though," Bobby groused as John ushered them. "I ain't runnin' no daycare."

-SPN-

Bobby eased his old bones into bed, and yawned, scratched his stomach and closed his eyes, drifting to sleep faster than he had in months. A sharp wail destroyed the quiet. Bobby jerked violently out of sleep, groping for a gun before he remembered John and his boys were sleeping down the hall. He flopped on his back, waiting for the father to comfort the child. But ten minutes later, Sam was still shrieking like a harpy in death throes. Cursing John Winchester, Bobby threw the covers back, tossed his trucker cap on and shuffled down the hall. John was passed out on the bed, still in his clothes, the lilt of whisky in the air and a half-charred green scarf clutched in his fist. "You wanna quiet down that kid?"

John snored on.

Judging by the size of the empty bottle on the floor, John wouldn't be hearing anything for quite some time. On the other side of the bed, Dean sat with a red-faced, teary-eyed Sammy on his lap, still screaming. "It's okay, Sammy…you have to be quiet so Mr. Singer doesn't get mad."

"I don't bite, kid. Promise." Bobby said.

Dean, a beautiful kid with piercing green eyes, looked at him warily, clutching Sammy even tighter. Bobby was suddenly struck with how much the kid must have been dealing with and how much he loved his baby brother. "Sammy's ear hurts…'s why he's cryin'. I can't make 'im stop when he's sick."

"It's okay, Dean. I know he's feelin' lousy. You wanna go downstairs, see if we can get the TV to work?"

Dean's entire face lit up like Vegas at night. "Sammy can't walk yet. You have to carry him…and..." Dean scrambled over to the duffle bag that was bigger than him, pulling out John's loaded 9 millimeter, checking the safety and setting it on the bureau. He grabbed the bright blue handmade blanket, "he won't sleep without this."

Bobby took Sammy into his arms, noting how tiny the toddler was, and sure enough, Sammy took the crocheted blanket, hugging it like a dear friend. John had said he was almost eighteen months old, but he looked barely one with a small stature and waves of ribs he could feel through his too-big sleeper. Sammy's lurching cries settled into distraught hiccups as he stared the stranger with big, blue eyes. He poked an index finger into Bobby's beard. "Cut it out," he gruffed.

Strangely, Sammy smiled around the thumb in his mouth and fisted Bobby's nightshirt with his free hand. He was pretty sure his heart, warped from old traumas and a lifetime of violence, glimmered with something soft and good and warm.

Bobby Singer spent his first night of retirement with a feverish toddler tucked in his lap and a five-year-old devouring his favorite snacks and reciting the dialogue to "I Love Lucy" on the staticky television.

And he wouldn't have changed a thing.