Here's the next chapter - a little homage to Bobby

Saving you – Chapter 4

Throughout the long night they monitored Dean carefully until slowly but surely his temperature began to fall. Hours later Bobby ushered an exhausted Sam to his bed. "I'll sit with him," he reassured. "You need to rest."

Certain that his brother was in good hands he acquiesced, collapsing onto the adjacent bed. Within minutes he was asleep.

Although Dean's temperature was still high, mercifully it had fallen below the danger point. Bobby pulled away the melted ice packs and used a warmed towel to dry his friend. And then pulling a blanket over the still shivering body he sat close by, flicking through a day old newspaper; drinking cold, black coffee.

Half an hour later Dean stirred.

"Sammy ... no ... Rather ... die," he mumbled, head tossing from side to side.

Hand stroking sweat-damp hair Bobby whispered words of comfort.

"S'okay son ... its okay." And then, in a frustrated tone, he continued. "Dammit Dean ... you goaddamned idjit – why didn't you tell me you were hurt? Why d'ya have to be so god-damned pig headed."

Dean turned towards him then, but didn't open his eyes. Bobby rechecked his temperature; readjusted the IV; ran a damp cloth across his parched lips.

"Always the big brother ain't ya ... always gotta look after Sammy, look after everyone ... no matter what the cost to yourself."

He hated seeing his "so-full-of-life" friend like this – it was unnatural. Dean never got sick; was always the strong one, the one everybody relied on. And that's why he'd always been Bobby's favourite. That didn't mean he loved Sam less, on the contrary; as far as heart strings were concerned both tugged equally on his. It was just that he'd watched Dean grow up, the whole world on his shoulders – no time to be a kid; too many responsibilities. His baby brother needed looking after; his Dad needed "looking" after as well, especially after one of John's benders. And it didn't end there – ammo to load, guns to clean; dishes to wash; a whole plethora of responsibilities way too big for such young shoulders. It was why he'd fallen out so badly with John Winchester; why he'd pulled that shotgun on him; why they'd not spoken for so many years.

He still remembered it clearly, how he'd taken Dean on a fishing trip, tried to let him experience what it was like to be a kid – just for a little while. John had gone ballistic; had driven like hell fire to take the boys away; had slammed into him about minding his own business. And then there was the pointless diatribe about him not being a father himself, not being able to understand. But he understood alright, knew first-hand the difference between a good Dad and a "God-awful" one. And so he'd snapped – kicked John off his property and paid the too high a price of not seeing his Winchester boys for years after.

"Get better, boy," Bobby whispered, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "Sam needs ya ... I need ya." He settled back in his chair, eyes focussed on the still-sleeping Winchester and waited.