*This is another one-shot with my OC, Aria Redford. Check out my other stories with her if you like this one! This is centered around 7x10. I hope you enjoy it. Reviews are greatly appreciated!*

Sick.

I physically feel sick. My hands shake so terribly I'm surprised I manage to keep the steering wheel straight.

Not him. This isn't happening.

I park the shitty Accord I stole in a handicapped spot, not caring one bit. My legs are unsteady as I race up the stone steps, bursting through the glass emergency doors. My head swivels left and right before I see two familiar figures. The automatic door slides open and I've got both brothers pinned to the front desk before they can even react.

"Where is he?"

Sam's hand grips my arm tenderly pulling it from his chest, "They won't-"

I tear away from him, grabbing the first nurse I see. "Where is Robert Singer?" I question anxiously.

"Right over there," she says pointing to a closed off section of curtains. "Ma'am, wait! You can't go in there!" the nurse calls after me.

I rip the curtain open, startling the nurses and doctor inside. My eyes land on Bobby, legs nearly giving out. A thick tube sticks out of his mouth, taped around his head pumping oxygen into his lungs. His skin is pale, wires and tubes connected to his head and chest, and fluffy white gauze is wrapped around his head, tinged in red in one spot.

"You're not supposed to be in here," a blonde nurse yells furiously. Someone grabs me, pulling me out of the room. I shove them back.

"I'm not leaving!" I snarl, reeling on the person.

"Aria," Sam's hand grips my shoulders and he pulls me away, but I tear out of his grasp,

"Fuck you!"

My lungs are starving for air, heaving. The tears fall and I don't care.

This isn't happening. Please, not him too.

Those strong, reassuring arms pull me to their chest and I don't fight this time. My hands bunch up in Sam's coat, letting the floodgates crumble and the wave of pain wash over me freely.

"Here." I look up from the speckled tiled floor. A steaming Styrofoam cup is held out to me.

"Thanks," I murmur, taking the cup as Dean takes the spot next to me. Sam's up checking with one of the nurses for the hundredth time.

Dean and I don't speak. I sip my coffee not even tasting the bitter flavor I love. My gaze travels back down to the same tile I've been staring at for the last hour. I've memorized where each dot is, the shape, and color too.

Sam's shadow falls over us as he sits on the other side of me, making me a Winchester sandwich. He lets out a long defeated sigh.

"They still won't say anything" he comments.

Neither Dean nor I react. It's been the same answer each time he's gotten up. I rub my aching eyes.

This is all wrong. Bobby shouldn't be lying in a hospital bed with a bullet lodged in his brain. He's supposed to be at Rufus's cabin surrounded by a bunch of old, smelly books trying to figure out this whole Leviathan mess. He's supposed to be awake, telling us that nothing can touch Bobby Singer, and bitching about how he's going to put a bullet in Roman's skull.

I stretch my hand out in front of me, watching as it steadily quakes before my eyes. Sam's hand comes to rest on my knee. The reassuring gesture isn't helpful.

That man has been a part of my life for the past thirteen years. How am I suddenly supposed to live without him? He raised me into the person I am now. Without his help, I would be dead because of some bar fight or liver failure. He is every part of a father to me that Mark and Steve were and I can't lose another one.

I set the coffee on the floor between my feet and press the heel of my hands to my eyes, white dots dancing in the blackness.

"Here."

I peak my head up from where I've kept it buried in my arms, finding a black mug of steam. The bitter, medium roast smell of the caffeinated drink wafts up my nose and I draw in a long breath, soaking up the scent.

Bobby settles down in the wooden chair across from me, arms crossed over his chest. His beard is scruffy, the bags under his eyes hidden by the shadow of his worn baseball cap.

It's been two days since Steve dropped me off here. Two days of silence for me and the old man. We know nothing about each other, bits and pieces that outside parties shared with us. I know he's a hunter, but he mostly spends his days here at his salvage yard working on cars and helping other hunters out.

It's not hard to guess what Steve said about me; watch out for violent outbursts, a list of medications that she refuses to take, keep an eye on her at all times, and make sure she eats and showers. Exactly what every sixteen-year-old girl needs after watching a demon prance around as her stepfather and slaughter her entire family.

Bobby picks up one of the dozen books cluttering the table and starts reading. I look at him and the coffee a couple of times, making sure he's not watching. Two days and all I've had are half a grilled cheese that came up minutes later, toast, and water.

I'm hungry, but nothing in this house is appetizing. Not to mention, I don't know if I can keep it down, but that's what the medication is for and I'm not taking that. The doctors have threatened to force feed me if I don't start eating. I've lost more weight than I know, my bones poking through the skin where they really shouldn't.

But for the first time since that night, my stomach is rumbling, saliva pooling in my mouth because it's not some bullshit coffee. It's my coffee. The type I've been drinking since I stole my first sip of my mom's glass when I was twelve. It's a french vanilla, medium roast bean that is slightly sweeter than the other roasts and is like heaven to my taste buds

. I steal one last glance at Bobby before I pull the mug to me, taking a small sip. The steam fills the space covered by my hoodie, warming my skin and basking me in the delicious smell as my taste buds dance in delight. A small moan escapes me and my eyes spring to Bobby, but the old man ignores me, nose still stuck in the dusty book. I control the swell of excitement in my belly and drink the rest of the brew in silence. My body hums in appreciation and I lean back in my chair, licking my lips.

Wordlessly, Bobby gets up, grabbing my mug and refills it. He sets it on the table and goes back to his book. I watch him closely, the wheels in my head turning. Did he buy this special for me? And if so, what does he know that I don't?

"Stop thinking so much about it and drink the coffee," his gravelly voice mumbles as he flips a page. A tiny smirk cracks my lips, the feeling unnatural but welcomed as I grab the mug and drink my fill.

I get up from the plastic chair, grabbing my coffee from the ground and tossing it into the nearest garbage can. Neither brother makes a comment, although I know if the situation was different Dean would be all over my ass wondering why I would waste a perfectly good cup of joe.

The ER bustles with people, white coats slipping behind white curtains, baby blue scrubbed nurses filing paperwork with soft smiles for their patients. I stare across the room to the trauma one room, willing that damn stubborn, ornery man to wake up so that I don't have to go through this heart-wrenching agony again.

Coma. Severe brain trauma.

My stomach rolls, a sick concoction of fear and anxiety making me worry if whatever I ate last is going to make an appearance. The curtains of E.R. are shut, streams of sunlight straining through the blinds. I lean back against the vending machines, finding Dean's heavy green eyes on me.

They are both hurting just as bad as me. Bobby is the only father figure we have left. All three of us have lost everyone else. That old man has cared for us, shit practically raised us. We can't fucking lose him.

I cross my arms, letting my eyes slip shut as a rock gets lodged in my throat. This room is suffocating and I want to leave so bad. I want to run and run until I can't anymore. There's a scream trapped inside me that is begging to be released and, god, do I want to let it out.

We can't do anything else but wait and hope that the doctors can save him. God doesn't fucking exist and if he does, he could give two shits about us. Cas is dead and Leviathans are planning something big and want us to be their entree. All our faith has to be with Bobby.

"Aria."

My eyes snap open, Sam and Dean jumping from their seats as the Doctor approaches. He's middle aged, mid-thirties maybe even late thirties with dark brown hair that is spiked at the front and glasses. His white coat covers the blue scrubs and I look at his name tag, not yet having a chance to meet the man like the brothers. Dr. Schultz is in bold faced letters beneath a picture that was taken a couple of years back on his ID card hanging on his coat.

I stand between Sam and Dean, my heart slamming against my ribs. A heavy sigh leaves the doctor, hands coming to his hips, "He's still stable. The swelling has gone down any and we've done all that we can for him."

My hand fists into Sam's jacket sleeve as I try to swallow down the wave of nausea crashing through me.

"So, there's nothing else we can do?" The younger brother questions roughly, words strained with wavering emotion.

"I'm sorry we just have to wait. We'll see if the swelling goes down."

"How long?" Dean questions, the anxiety barely concealed in his voice.

"It's hard to say in cases like this."

"Well, he's lasted this long. That's something, right?"

"Well, yes," the doctor starts, sighing. "Listen, the bullet didn't shatter. Only one hemisphere of his brain was injured. These are all positive things. But…" The rushing of blood fills my ears, panic taking hold as my legs tremble. "I don't want to give you false hope here. He's far from out of the woods. Most of the time cases like these..."

"They die."

Part of me doesn't even realize that those words left me. The other part, though, the one who admitted what I've been denying since I heard Dean's solemn voice sound clear over the phone, is preparing for the worst.

A hefty sigh leaves the man, "Right now it comes down to him. I'll keep you updated."

With that the doctor turns away with a sympathetic look, going to work on his other patients. I stand frozen, my grip tight on Sam's jacket. My heart is hammering and I can feel a panic attack on the horizon.

He can't die. He can't.

That stubborn son of a bitch doesn't get to check out on me, not after he made me fight to stay when I wanted to go.

"Excuse me."

All three of us turn, coming face to face with a middle-aged, Latino male. He's dressed in a beige suit, a clipboard in his hands, apologizing for interrupting us. I stare at the man in confusion, the doctor's words forgotten for a moment.

"Is one of you Robert Singer's next of kin?"

"Yeah," Dean answers, glancing at Sam and me. "We're his niece and nephews."

The man nods, glancing around at the busy room, "Perhaps we could speak in private?"

Dean agrees before either Sam or I could speak up, following the man out of the room.

"Probably some insurance guy. Dean will take care of it," the younger brother reassures, watching his brother disappear with the stranger.

I don't really care, though. If he's not a doctor then he means nothing to me. The only people I'm concerned about are the ones who are working on Bobby. Anybody else can go fuck off.

"Aria," Sam's hand comes to rest on my shoulder and I realize that I still have a hold of his jacket. Letting go, I look up at those hazel eyes that are drowning in grief. A long sigh flutters from him and I know what's coming.

My spine goes rigid, muscles coiling tight, "Don't give me that speech, Sam."

With that, I tear out of his reassuring grip and move towards Bobby's room. Two nurses are hovering, messing with different wires and checking vitals.

I clear my throat, catching the blonde nurse's attention. Her hair is cropped short, a sleek pixie cut look. Her soft features twist in confusion when she sees me. I think she may have been the nurse who shoved me out of here initially.

"Can I help you?" she asks gently, the other nurse continuing with her work. My gaze stays on her, not ready to really look at Bobby yet.

"Uh, yeah, I was, um… I was wondering if it would be possible to have a couple of minutes with him?"

There's hesitation in her features as she looks over at the other nurse. The older woman nods her head, "Yes, dear, we can give you some time alone."

"Thank you," I murmur, letting the two ladies finish their job before leaving. They leave the white curtains open wide so they can see everything going on.

Drawing in a deep breath, my feet carry me into the small room, finally looking at the old man who has been my support. His usually gruff expression is soft, the worry lines in his aging face smoothed out. I try to ignore the thick tube taped to his mouth and the bloody head wrap. Bobby's pulse beeps steadily, filling the silence of the room. The ventilator is quiet, the whoosh of air being forced into his lungs the only sound out of the machine.

"Hey, old man," I greet in an airy whisper, tears pricking my eyes as I grip his limp hand. "You know, this isn't how this goes. I'm supposed to be the one hooked up to wires and fighting for my life."

The memories crash over me, suffocating as they steal my breath. Gasping, I clench his hand tighter, willing this ornery man to open his damn eyes, but he's not going to, not yet at least. I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at his lifeless face.

"Remember when I came home from Afghanistan? God, I was a wreck," a choked laugh escapes me, thinking of how broken I was after everything. "That first night back at your place, I just kept thinking that maybe the world would be better off without a monster like me. It kept me up all night; drove me outside to sit in the back of that damn pick-up truck when it was only thirty degrees out. I remember wanting to curl up in a ball and just freeze to death, close my eyes and never wake up."

My evergreen eyes trace over the blank face of the older hunter, trying to conjure up the different expressions that would paint his face in this moment. Part of me thinks he would have a hidden smirk on his bearded lips or maybe his forehead would be all scrunched up. His bright blue eyes would be soft, though, his love right there in plain sight for all to see even if his gruffness hid it.

A tiny grin pulls at my lips, "Must have been out there for an hour before you showed up. I thought you would come and talk me into coming inside, but instead, you came out with my quilt, a thermos of coffee, and coffee cake. You sat with me all night in silence until the sun came up. Not one word out of you and I realized after the first hour that it wasn't because you had nothing to say, but because you knew I just needed someone to be there."

Tears spill down my cheeks, dripping off my chin to my shirt. "You always knew what I needed, Bobby," I gasp, fighting the sob that is trying to bubble out of me. "Which is why I'm telling you that you have to wake up. It's my turn to tell you what you need and you need to open your eyes, old man. You can't leave us, can't leave me. Not yet." My teeth sink into my bottom lip, clutching Bobby's hand as if it was a lifeline.

Burying my head into his chest, I let the sob out, "Please, Bobby, not you too."

There's no air, my life crashing down around me in a catastrophic disaster where I don't survive. I need this man. Sam, Dean, and Bobby are all I have left and I can't lose anybody else, not without losing another piece of myself.

At first, I don't feel Bobby's fingers twitch in my grip, but then his hand is gone from mine, arms flailing and I bolt upright, stunned. His pulse picks up as he tugs at the tube stuck down his throat. I move quick, calling the nurses and they all rush in, pushing me back out into the waiting room. Disbelief keeps me frozen until hands are shaking me, Sam staring down at me wide eyed.

"Aria, what happened?" he barks, hazel eyes wild with fear. Relief floods my system, the crushing weight of grief lifted,

"He started fighting his breathing tube."

Surprise sparks in Sam's face as a relieved grin finds its way to his lips, "It's Bobby. He's not going anywhere without a fight."

I nod, watching the nurses and doctor flutter around him, feeling hope spark in my chest for the first time all day.

Sam and Dean aren't talking. At least they haven't said anything to each other in the last couple of hours. I know it's because of what the doctor said. There's dead brain tissue that needs to be cut out to get to the bullet. The doc said it wasn't something we should hope for because it's not a guarantee that he would wake up.

He's going to wake up.

I keep telling myself that, but I don't believe it nearly as much as Dean does. Part of me knows that he's not going to because nothing good happens when it comes to people in my life. Everyone dies around me, why would Bobby be special when my parents and siblings weren't?

The three of us are standing at the windows in direct sight of Bobby's room. They don't want any visitors in the room after the last time. It's not a punishment, but because his condition is changing constantly they want to be able to run in and do whatever to save him.

I'm run down, exhausted to the bone. My eyes are swollen from lack of sleep and the tears didn't help. Hunger roars inside me, my stomach grumbling. Eating isn't something I can handle yet. I glance at the brothers to see them just as worn as me.

He has to make it.

We can't make it without Bobby. He's the king of lore, the glue when we three are falling apart. If he goes, how the hell are we supposed to beat the Leviathans, deal with him being dead? I press the heel of my hands into my eyes, forcing the thoughts from my mind. A heavy breath slips past my lips and I watch the E.R. bustling with the night patients.

The blonde nurse, who's been with Bobby all day, walks past, talking hurriedly with another nurse. Medical jargon spills from her lips as she passes the brothers and me, and Sam hurries to grab her attention. I follow, confused with the sudden eagerness in Bobby's care. Nothing has changed since I was in the room.

"Wait, wait. What's happening?" the younger brother questions, Dean and I flanking him.

"He's showing signs of responsiveness. We're taking him up for surgery," she answers and the words make my knees weak with relief. "If you want to see him, I'd squeeze in there quick."

With that the three of us follow her into the room, standing vigil at his bedside.

There's no more breathing tube, only a clear breathing mask. It is incredible how one piece of equipment can make someone look like they're already dead. The monitor beeps and beeps, steady spikes of green on the screen. I stand between the brothers, unsure like them as to what to say.

The nurse is waiting in the corner, watching us with urgency because they need to get him moved before his condition worsens possibly. Another lady is working with a bunch of different wires, switching him to small portable machines.

"I'm sorry. We need to get moving," the blonde interrupts after another minute of silence from us.

That snaps the brothers out of their stupor, Sam clutching Bobby's hand. It's instinct, a need for some support as I reach back and grip Dean's hand tight in mine. He squeezes back as Sam struggles for the right words for this incredible man,

"Hey, Bobby, um...just...um...thanks...for everything."

I grin, water pooling in my green eyes once again, "Yeah, thanks, old man."

He deserves so much more than simple words. But when he makes it through this, I promise to tell him day in and day out how thankful I am to have him in my life. I'll find a way to make it all up to him, to show him just what he means to me. We are Bobby's legacy, his children not through blood but bond. Like the old man said himself, "Family doesn't end with blood."

"All right, please step back," the nurse cuts in and we start to move away so they can get this ornery man better.

"Wait, wait, wait, stop. His eyes are open," Sam snaps, Bobby gripping the younger brother's hand tight. My throat closes up, a thousand emotions crashing through me when those bright blue eyes flutter open.

"Bobby?" Dean calls, stupid smiles framing our faces as the old man struggles to say something.

"Dean, a pen," I manage, noticing the urgency in Bobby's barely coherent eyes.

He tugs the breathing mask off, gasping to try and make words but I shush him as Dean passes a pen to him. We watch as Bobby turns Sam's hand over, black sharpie scribbling out a bunch of numbers. He collapses back against his pillow, the three of us watching in deep uncertainty and awe. I meet those bright hues, a grin pulling at his lips with every labored breath.

"Idgits," he gasps and the tears spill down my cheeks.

The beeping picks up, rapid, sending my heart a flight in panic as Bobby's eyes roll back into his head and fall shut. And then that dreaded fucking sound, the one that haunts your fucking dreams, one that is so fucking distinct it makes your stomach drop. The green line is flat, the buzzing scream echoing in my head.

"No, no, no." I lurch forward, fingers lacing together as I press down on his chest, forcing his heart to work. "Come on, come on," I mutter and there's a flurry of bodies around me, their voices a white noise.

Not you too, old man. Please, not you too.

A choked sob bubbles out of me as I pound on his chest, forgetting about everything except for making this damn man open his eyes again. But I don't get that chance because there's yelling, hands yanking me back as gloved ones replace mine.

There's screaming, the kind that wounded animals make when they are hurt and it's mine. It tears from me as I watch doctors and nurses flood the room. My legs give out, my blurred vision glued to Bobby's still body. They work and work, I plead and plead, but the doctor stops the nurses, calling out time of death.

I sit frozen on the hospital floor, a silent scream on my lips, wondering why God ever made a world that was so cruel.